Death at the WI

by Oster, C. G.

  “So he spent some time here, then?”

  “Yes.” Everyone in the village knew that Wilton Park was strongly aligned with military intelligence during the war, but few people liked to talk about it even now. Any talk related to military topics was strictly frowned upon during the war. Whatever one knew about anything, one kept to oneself. ‘Loose lips sink ships’ had been drummed into every British citizen, because there were spies and they could be anywhere. “I think a large part of why we live here now is because he adored the village.”

  “That is sweet. I find that many of the people who have moved into the village have no association with it whatsoever. Where did you say you were from?”

  “Swanley.”

  “I’m not familiar with it.”

  “It’s known for its nearby hospitals.”

  “That’s a claim to fame, I suppose.” As they’d talked, they’d reached the village. “Where did you say you were going?”

  “The butcher.”

  “Well, there he is. Good day, Mrs. Ridley,” Marjorie said with a determined tone and kept walking.

  Standing there staring at the woman walking away, Dory wondered if she was actually less liked by her now than she had been. It seemed she couldn’t get some of the women to warm up. In the group, she was tolerated, but not exactly welcomed. The younger women were more accepting of her, but she struggled to be liked by some of the older women in the group.

  With an exhale, Dory continued to watch her go. There seemed to be some discrepancies between what Marjorie said and what she’d heard from others. It could be that Marjorie had trouble believing Mr. Stubbs’ violence if she’d never seen it herself, but it was interesting her saying that he had burned a few bridges in the village. Dory wasn’t convinced that something hadn’t happened that had prompted the man to leave. Then again, it would make sense that he leave to follow one of the young mothers if he was enamored, but then Eleanor had said he’d taken up with a foreign woman. There just didn't seem to be a consistent story other than him leaving.

  Something about all this felt off. There was something here she wasn’t seeing—she felt it in her gut, mostly because they hadn’t identified what had resulted in Edith Wallis’ low mood that had started just before her son had died. If they could only find out where Ruben Stubbs was, perhaps he could answer some questions—or was even the person responsible for Edith’s death. Had he gone to France as Marjorie had suggested? There had to be some list of the people who served in auxiliary services on the Continent. She would ask Michael.

  Chapter 26

  MICHAEL WASN’T LATE, WHICH was nice. Dory had prepared Shepherd's Pie and it came out of the oven looking nicely browned on the potato top. With gloved hands, she put it on the kitchen table.

  “Honestly, some wine would be lovely with this,” he said, “but we will have to make do with an ale.” Getting up from table, he collected a bottle opener from the cupboard, then poured the liquid into two glasses. “How was your meeting today?”

  It pleased her that he remembered she had a meeting on, suggesting he did think about her and what she was doing when he was at work.

  “It was good. We talked about dyes and their uses. Obviously there is still much talk in the village about what happened,” she said, knowing there was a white lie in there somewhere, because she was purposefully going out and eliciting the talk. Perhaps on some level, he already knew that. It just wasn’t in her to ignore it completely.

  Michael took his seat again. “And what are the ladies saying about Edith Wallis?”

  “I chatted with some of the ladies. As time goes by, there seems to be a conjunction with the absence of Ruben Stubbs from the village. Edith’s humor went very low and most people assumed it was related to the news of her son’s death, which is understandable as this all happened relatively at the same time, but it seems her withdrawal also preceded the news arriving, coinciding more with the absence of Mr. Stubbs.”

  “You think there was a relationship between them of some fashion?” he asked, which had been her initial reaction too.

  “Well, not so anyone knows about. The view in the village was that he left to follow one of the evacuated young mothers who returned to London. Many of the evacuated children returned at the same time. His wife is convinced he’s taken up with some foreign woman.”

  “And how is this relevant to Edith Wallis’ murder?”

  Dory shrugged. “I think the theory is that perhaps she threatened his new life, in some way, particularly if he has committed bigamy. If she was in love with him, or hated him, as others have inferred, she could seek to do him damage and he chose to deal with her once and for all. Largely in the absence of there being any other motive. There is still the Hartmans and their anger about their son’s death, which they saw, part or wholly, as the responsibility of Tommy Wallis.”

  “It is more likely than some elusive figure who disappeared some time back.”

  “I know. There is nothing concrete. It’s just that Mr. Stubbs is known to be a violent man.”

  Michael ate for a while, keeping his own thoughts. “How do you know he left?” he asked after a while.

  “He was observed leaving,” she said.

  “Right,” Michael said and returned his attention to his meal.

  “Constable Worthing is interviewing people where he can,” Dory continued, “but nothing concrete has emerged. The best thing to do would be to find Mr. Stubbs. Some people, unfortunately, believe that he made his way over to the continent during the war to serve with one of the auxiliary services, and being that he is with a foreign woman, perhaps he stayed on the continent. Surely there must be record of the people who went to France, and also when they came back? It could be a way of tracking down his whereabouts.”

  “The records would be with the individual services. If he is on the continent, it would be much harder to track him,” Michael said.

  “But then we would perhaps know that him being responsible for Edith’s murder would be a stretch. It is one thing to sneak into the village and murder someone, quite another if he snuck into the country.”

  “Not really if no one is actually looking for him. How was he observed leaving the village?”

  “He was seen taking a bus to London in Aylesbury.”

  “Why would someone take the bus when the train would be much faster?”

  The question stumped her. “Perhaps he was going to one of the villages on the bus route?” Dory said because she couldn’t think of a better answer.

  “Constable Worthing should chase that up. All stories people tell should be backed up with corroboration. Who witnessed him in Aylesbury?”

  Dory had no answer, but many people had said to her that he’d been seen. It was common knowledge, but that didn’t make it a fact. Investigations dealt with fact. So much of what she’d learnt had been what people had told her. There was little corroboration for any of it, and one of the people could be lying to hide themselves and the crime they’d done.

  Michael continued. “There is a murderer in the village, and someone disappeared some time earlier, one has to wonder. Did he leave? Where did that account come from?”

  “I suppose finding a record for him with one of the services would be corroboration. If he didn’t leave, then Mrs. Stubbs would have to be involved, because she is the only one who says there has been communications with him.”

  “And maybe she’s right. Something in that needs to be corroborated.”

  At that moment, Dory wished she could get on the telephone and speak to Constable Worthing. They had to find some way of establishing the validity of the account that Mr. Stubbs left the village. Because Mr. Mortimer could not confirm any communication, but then it had been by telephone. Could it be that someone from the telephone switch recalled the connection? Unlikely, as the switch was in Aylesbury and the people there wouldn’t know the people in Beaconsfield enough to take note of a wayward husband calling home. But perhaps they had if the call had c
ome from the Continent—if he indeed was living there.

  It would lay to rest a whole line of investigation, but then as Michael said, it could be that he had come to England for the purpose of this misdeed and then left, but there would definitely be a record of that because his entrance and departure would be recorded at Dover. It would be tantamount to proof if his coming and going coincided with the murder of Edith Wallis.

  Unfortunately, Worthing was probably drunk right now.

  “I take it you have seen young Constable Worthing,” Michael said, almost as if reading her thoughts.

  “I did go and see him to convey some of the things the postmaster had mentioned.”

  “Such as?”

  “That there was not a great deal of letter writing by any of the parties involved. Certainly not Edith Wallis. Also that the Hartman telegram did not come before the Wallis telegram.”

  “How would that be relevant?”

  “In case accusations from the Hartmans that the Wallis boy was responsible for their son’s death. They believe so, quite adamantly. However, news about the Hartman boy’s death hadn’t come before the telegram of Tommy Wallis’ death. So it seemed Edith’s low mood and withdrawal was unrelated to that. So far, nothing concrete can be established, hence the assumption was that she was upset at Mr. Stubbs leaving.”

  “Or perhaps her reaction was fear because she knew something about his absence from the village.”

  “You are very wise,” Dory said with a smile. “Constable Worthing should establish some corroboration that he did leave beyond what people are saying.”

  Now that she thought about it, she wondered how he’d gotten to Aylesbury to take the bus? He would have to have taken the bus there, because the automobile was still on the farm. Why hadn’t he taken it?

  It could be that he knew an automobile was utterly crucial for a farm’s operation. On the other hand, if he didn’t care about the farm, or Eleanor, then why wouldn’t he take it? Had he taken anything? Was there corroboration of it? Eleanor’s word couldn’t be depended on, because she was in the thick of it, whether innocent or not.

  Perhaps the general understanding of it was a mistake. Was it true that he’d been seen on the bus to Aylesbury? But why go to Aylesbury in the first place? Michael was right, why not just take the train which was more convenient? There had to have been a reason he’d gone to Aylesbury.

  “Are you finished?” Michael asked and Dory noticed she’d been picking at her food.

  “Yes,” she replied.

  “Then let’s retire to the salon, shall we?” he suggested.

  “Of course,” Dory said and rose. She took a few moments to place the plates in the sink, while Michael went to smoke in the salon. It felt as though there were so many things they had to do—well, Worthing had to do, but the man was a bit lost without her prodding him. They had to establish if Mr. Stubbs actually left the village, because the investigation would go in a completely different direction if he had. And if he had, they need to find evidence of him. That might prove difficult, particularly as he might well have assumed another identity.

  The actual witness of him had to be tracked down, and perhaps they could say if he’d been carrying a suitcase or not. He seemed to have left with very little. Maybe he truly didn’t want anything from his old life—it was possible, but surely he’d taken some money. Now that was something Worthing could check. Had any money been withdrawn from the bank? And how long prior? Had he been planning this, or had it been sudden? Could there be something that had made him run?

  There were so many questions and they didn’t have answers to any of them.

  The plates rinsed and stacked, she hung up her apron and left the kitchen to go join Michael. The wireless was already on and she heard its gentle murmur as she approached.

  Chapter 27

  SURPRISINGLY, THE DOOR TO the police station was unlocked when Dory arrived the next day. Constable Worthing still looked worse for wear, but at least he’d made it to work at a reasonable time. It was an improvement.

  “Mrs. Ridley,” he said as he sat at his desk.

  “I was speaking to my husband last night about all that’s happened around here.” A worried look crossed his face for a moment. “About the developments of the case,” she filled in. “And he asked a curious question.”

  “And what is that?”

  “How do we know that Ruben Stubbs actually left?”

  He blinked and stared at her. “Because he was seen leaving. Because he called his wife.”

  “Who saw him leave? It’s common knowledge that he was seen leaving, but who actually saw him leave? We can’t trust anything anyone tells us—we must be able to corroborate what they say, or it could simply be a lie, even one that everyone accepts as truth.”

  “If, as you say, he never left, that would mean Mrs. Stubbs lied.”

  “Yes. And if he didn’t leave, something terrible happened to him—perhaps even by the same person who did something terrible to Edith Wallis.”

  “There is nothing to say that is true,” he said.

  “And right now, there is nothing to say it isn’t true. We need to gather evidence on the stories people tell us, because someone is lying to us, to you, and we don’t know who it is. But if we catch them in a lie, that would tell us a great deal.”

  “So how do we do that?”

  “Find out if he actually left. Who saw him leave and what were the circumstances? Apparently, he left with nothing, including the automobile on the farm. Did that include leaving without a penny? Did he make a withdrawal from the bank before leaving? Was this telephone call Mrs. Stubbs mentioned real? That would be harder to corroborate, but the question must be posed.”

  “It was quite some time ago.”

  Now it was Dory’s time to shrug. “I don’t know. How can we check on the things people tell us? There must be ways. There has to be records that we can refer to. For example, some people, including you, say Mr. Stubbs was a violent man, while others said he was a coward. Why did you say he was a violent man?”

  “A lot of people have seen the evidence of it, including myself. Although some people we haven’t spoken to in all this, are the women that were here, the ones evacuated from London, one of which he’d supposedly run off with.”

  That was true, Dory realized. They could know things that people here didn’t. If he was sniffing around any of them, perhaps they would know. It stood to reason that these young London women stuck together in a group. City girls all stuck in the country with people who were blasé about having them there. In a village like this, they all had to hear about what was going on. And there was a record of who they were, and where they lived. If he left to go chase one of them, they might know that too. “Can you get their names and addresses?”

  “Should be able to,” Worthing said. “And I can go check with the bank manager on the activities for the Stubbs’ account around the time of his departure.”

  “Good,” Dory said and leaned back in her chair. That should tell them something. “And track down the witness who saw him in Aylesbury. If it’s a reliable witness, it might prove this theory completely wrong, but may also indicate that Mr. Stubbs is still a possible suspect. The coincidence between his absence and Edith’s low mood is the only thing that seems to correlate.”

  “Perhaps she simply had a feeling that something was wrong with her son. Some people have feelings like that.”

  Dory wouldn’t have taken him for the kind who believed such things. “Would she have tried to act if she believed something like that?”

  “It could still be her husband that had upset her,” he said.

  “Such change in behavior suggested it was more than a mere passed insult. Something had happened, but you’re right, we cannot rule it out that it was within the marriage, but we have no corroboration either way.”

  “Does this mean we have to go chase these women down in London?” By the look of his face, he didn’t cherish the thought, and p
robably wasn’t convinced it was a good use of his time.

  “I’m happy to do that if you can find me their addresses. I’m quite familiar with the area. I assume they were from the East End.”

  “I believe so.” Rising from his chair, he walked toward the door. “It shouldn’t take me long,” he said and left. Through the window, she could see him walk across to the town hall. Clearly he knew of some records that were kept there. It only took him a few minutes before he appeared again, carrying a box. As he walked in the door, he went straight to his desk and put the box down. “Rations transfer forms.”

  “Right, good thinking,” Dory said and shifted closer. She’d had to fill in one of these forms too, and gotten it approved by the municipal authorities. They clearly showed the old addresses of the women. It didn’t mean they’d moved back into the same addresses, but most of them would. It may not even prove necessary to talk to all of them.

  One by one, he pulled out forms into a pile and Dory took down their names and addresses. It showed their ages too and even the specific store their rations had been aligned to back in London. Hackney, Shoreditch and Whitehall. These women clearly hadn’t known each other beforehand. They came from all over the East End.

  “I’ll go today,” Dory said and closed her notebook once they’d gone through all the forms and she had about a dozen names on her list.

  Worthing checked his watch. “The train leaves in about ten minutes. If you hurry, you can make it. I’ll run you over, if you’d like.”

  Well, there was no time to waste and they left immediately. Worthing drove her to the station, and she said goodbye quickly and he drove off. There was just enough time to buy her ticket. Maybe she should have brought her umbrella, but she hadn’t thought about it. Traveling to London today had been a gut reaction that had come about quicker than she’d had time to think about it, but then traveling to London wasn’t a palaver. People did it every day—Michael did it every day. It shouldn’t be something that required planning.