by Carola Dunn
“No, they don’t have one down there. They don’t know we were at the flat yesterday. I’ve got a key, you see.”
“I’ll just take charge of that for now, sir. Sergeant, write out a receipt. So no one saw you at the flat?”
“Oh yes, their cleaning woman was there. Mrs … uh … Mrs. Simpkins. She can tell you when we arrived.”
“And when you left?”
“No. She goes home at one. We were there till nearly two o’clock. It …” The breeziness dropped away. “It isn’t easy to say good-bye forever after eighteen years.”
“No doubt the doorkeeper or lift boy will be able to confirm the time.”
“No doorkeeper, no lift,” Creighton said uneasily.
Very convenient for an illicit rendezvous; less so if you wanted to prove an alibi. “What did you do when you reached the street?”
“We walked round the corner to the taxi rank in the Edgware Road. Mrs. Talmadge took a cab home. I went to the New Theatre, as I told you before.”
“In St. Martin’s Lane?”
“Yes. I just wanted to be somewhere where I didn’t have to talk to people. Look here, Chief Inspector, can’t you trace the taxi drivers?”
“We’ll do our best, sir. Did you see anyone you know at the theatre?”
“The girl in the box office. She’ll tell you I arrived just in time for the first act. Mrs. Talmadge probably reached home a bit earlier than … Oh, Lord, when did he die?”
Alec decided there was no harm now in letting him know. “The body was found at about quarter past two.”
“Aahh!” Creighton looked as if he’d just been given the crown worn by Edmund Kean in his celebrated Richard III.
“By Mrs. Talmadge.”
“Yes, horrible! Shattering!” Relief forgotten, his lordship started up. “I must go to her.”
Alec stood. “Just another minute or two, sir. If you’ll wait here, I’ll go and check with the nurse.” Though an inch or two shorter, he dominated the other by force of will and authority. Lord Henry sat down.
A slight motion of Alec’s head brought Mackinnon from the room in his train. “Sergeant, I want enquiries started right away to try and trace those taxicabs. It’s a bit late in the day but we might catch some cabbies who don’t work mornings.”
“You don’t reckon they had time after the char left to pop over here and do Talmadge in?”
“At a pinch. It would take planning and very precise timing, and that’s not how I see this crime. For one thing, they couldn’t expect Talmadge to carefully arrange himself in the chair at just the right time, and take enough gas to prevent his resisting. And for another, the nurse was due back at two o‘clock, remember, which would cut the timing even closer.”
“And you canna count on getting a taxi just when you want it, not in these parts anyway, to get back to Marylebone Road after.”
“Nor ask a driver to wait. He’d be sure to report it as soon as he read about the murder. Those fellows are always up on the latest news, gossiping and reading the papers while they wait for fares.”
“Maybe one of the two left before the charwoman, without her knowledge. If she saw the other, she’d assume both were still there.”
“Might be possible. We’ll get Tom Tring onto the woman. For the rest, DC Piper can help you track down the cabmen. It’s the sort of exercise in logistics he’s good at. If you have time before our meeting this evening, go to Oxford and Cambridge Mansions and have a word with the neighbours. Someone might have seen something. Here’s the key to Six-J. Should you get caught popping in to take a look around, I don’t know you. It’s not worth taking risks for, mind. We’ll get the Dixons’ permission tomorrow if necessary. I’ll leave the job to you.”
“Right, Chief,” Mackinnon said with a grin. “I mean, yes, sir!”
“Chief will do, while we’re on this job. As long as no one else is around except Tring and Piper. Or my wife.”
Struggling to keep a straight face, Mackinnon repeated, “Right, Chief,” and headed for the study.
Alec went upstairs and found Miss Hensted sitting on a chair at Daphne Talmadge’s bedroom door.
“She won’t have me in there,” the nurse said resentfully. “Who’s that just arrived, then? Her fancy man?”
“Lord Henry Creighton. He wants a word with her, if she’s fit enough.”
“I don’t suppose it’ll hurt her, as long as I’m in there to see he don’t get her worked up.”
“That won’t be necessary, Miss Hensted. I shall be present.”
“I ought to be there. I’m her nurse, after all. I can tell when she’s had enough.”
“I shan’t let him stay long, and you will be just outside the door.”
She subsided, looking vexed. Alec had the impression that she was less interested in her patient’s welfare than in hearing what was said. She disliked Mrs. Talmadge, he recalled, her allegiance being given to her late employer. Perhaps she hoped Mrs. Talmadge and Lord Henry would accuse each other of killing the dentist, or still better, one would incriminate the other. Death was no horror to a nurse, and witnessing an arrest would no doubt crown the ghoulish tale of her employer’s murder.
“Will you warn her, please, that we’ll be up in a couple of minutes?”
“I’ll tell her you’re coming. Best if she doesn’t have time to get too excited about him.”
Alec didn’t argue. It suited him quite well that the confrontation should be unexpected on one side at least. He went back down.
Creighton was coming out of the dining room. “Well?” he demanded.
“Nurse Hensted says it’s all right for you to see Mrs. Talmadge for a few minutes. I’ll take you up.” He turned and led the way.
Nurse Hensted met them at the top of the stairs. “She’s to stay flat on her back,” she commanded his lordship, “and don’t you go getting her wrought up or she’ll lose that baby yet.”
“Righty-oh, Nurse,” he said meekly.
“Just a few minutes, mind!”
Creighton looked disconcerted when Alec went first into the room but he didn’t protest.
“I’ve brought Lord Henry to see you, Mrs. Talmadge.”
“Harry!” Her pale cheeks flushed and she started to sit up.
“Lie down, or he’ll have to leave.”
Obeying, she reached out both her hands. Creighton loped across the pink carpet to take them.
“Oh, Harry!”
“My poor dear!”
They gazed at each other, bemused. Less and less satisfied with either or both of them as murderers, Alec was now impatient to interview Mrs. Walker. A wife and her lover were usually the prime suspects in the death of a husband, but as Congreve so nearly said, Hell has no fury like a woman scorned. Perhaps Gwen Walker had not accepted her dismissal gracefully—if, in fact, she had been Talmadge’s mistress. Alec wished he had more definite information in that regard.
At the window, he leaned half seated on the sill. Creighton and Daphne Talmadge seemed to have forgotten his presence. She was telling him about the miscarriage she hadn’t quite had. Neither mentioned nor even apparently gave a thought to the death of Raymond Talmadge and her discovery of his lifeless corpse in the dentist’s chair.
“Daisy Fletcher was so very kind,” said Mrs. Talmadge. “I don’t know what I’d have done without her.”
“Fletcher?” Creighton looked a startled query at Alec, who looked back with his blandest expression, the one Daisy accused him of practising in the looking-glass.
“Yes, the Chief Inspector’s wife. She had an appointment with poor Raymond and she was with me when I … when …”
“Don’t talk about it, dearest. Don’t even think about it. We’ll be married as soon as you are well enough and then you can forget all about the unhappy past. I’ll see about getting a licence right away.”
“Oh, Harry!”
Alec averted his eyes. A loud knocking came to his relief, followed by Miss Hensted’s neatly capped head appe
aring around the door.
“Time’s up!” she cried with a jollity ill suited to her piquant features. “Now, now, my lord, that’s enough of that or we’ll be having a relapse.” She chivvied Creighton and Alec out and closed the door on them.
Creighton turned to Alec. “No startling revelations for you, Chief Inspector,” he said sardonically.
“Not startling, no.” Alec matched his tone. “But your obvious fondness for one another and your desire to marry can only be regarded as confirmation of your motive for disposing of Talmadge.”
“‘A hit, a very palpable hit!’ I can only assure you that neither of us did so, and I’m sure I’m wasting my breath.”
“Afraid so, sir.” He looked around as Hilda Kidd came along the passage from the stairs to the second floor. “Good evening, Miss Kidd.”
“Have you been bothering Mrs. Talmadge?” the sourfaced maid demanded, then she saw Creighton, and bobbed a curtsy. “Oh, it’s you, my lord! I hope you’ve come to stop them police h’rassing my mistress.”
“I’m doing my best … Hilda, isn’t it? I’m sure you’re taking good care of her.”
“I do what I can, my lord, but that nurse, she’s been interfering something awful. It’s my turn to take over now. You see, there’ll be a great argument over it.”
“I believe Miss Hensted is leaving tonight, for good,” said Alec.
“Does Daphne not need a nurse any longer?” Creighton asked anxiously.
“I understand there’s an agency nurse coming in the morning. Miss Hensted is taking pay in lieu of notice.”
“Then I’ll make so bold, my lord, as to ask will you pay her off right now?” the maid implored. “I don’t want Mrs. Talmadge being troubled for money, she’s got enough troubles in her dish already.”
“Of course.” Creighton took out his wallet. “How much?”
“That I don’t know, being none of my business. And you don’t want to take her word for it, neither.” Hilda disappeared into the bedroom.
Creighton looked at Alec, who shrugged. “I expect the records of her pay are down in the study. We’ll take her down there and have a look.”
The sound of raised voices filtered through the door. A moment later Nurse Hensted flounced out. She turned for a Parthian shot: “You’ll be bloody lucky if the new nurse’ll put up with your squabblesome ways! Pardon my language, my lord, I’m sure,” she added primly.
Creighton explained that he was going to give her a cheque for wages due, since Mrs. Talmadge was out of commission. As they went down to the study, Miss Hensted pointed out that she needed a recommendation, too.
“How long did you work for Talmadge?” his lordship enquired. “Three years? Then I believe I can truthfully assume you gave entire satisfaction. I’ll write you a reference. No one will wonder, in the sad event of the death of your employer.”
Alec, reading over his shoulder, was filled with admiration at the way he managed to write nothing but the truth while giving the impression he was personally acquainted with Nurse Hensted’s admirable qualities. It reminded him of Creighton’s attempt to imply that Mrs. Talmadge had gone with him to the theatre. A slippery customer!
As for Nurse Hensted, she went off more than satisfied. A reference from a lord was not to be sneezed at, she said.
“Shall I ring up for a taxi for you or did you keep yours waiting?” Alec asked Creighton.
“Taxi? No, I brought the Bentley. But I was going to stay here.”
“I don’t think that would be a very good idea, sir. After all the pain caused by Mrs. Talmadge’s determination to avoid scandal …”
“You’re right, of course. I wasn’t thinking. She’ll be all right, won’t she, with the maid to take care of her?”
“I’m sure she will.”
They went out together. His lordship’s Bentley sports car stood in the drive, its hood up against the persistent rain, which had spotted the royal blue paint. A neat and fast machine, of whose existence Alec had been unaware. In that, Creighton could easily have dashed over from Marylebone Road, quarrelled with Talmadge, killed him, and returned to Oxford and Cambridge Mansions in time to put his lady-love in a cab for home.
15
The spring evening was drawing towards dusk when Alec stopped the Baby Austin outside the Walkers’ house. Major and Mrs. Francis Walker lived in a street not far from and very similar to Gardenia Grove. The semi-detached houses were slightly smaller and newer, with smaller gardens, but attractive enough. A military pension would hardly stretch to so desirable a residence, so the major must have a private source of income, unless it was his wife’s money.
In that case, if rumour spoke true, the Walkers matched the Talmadges as an advertisement against men marrying for money.
But that was jumping the gun. Alec had no real evidence that the Walkers’ marriage was less than perfect, and none at all that the money came from the distaff side of the family.
He had met them socially, quite a few times over the past few years, he supposed, but he could not say he knew them. The major, an irascible man, played bridge and golf. Gwen Walker was a fashionable beauty some fifteen years younger than her husband. Goodness only knew what her interests and pastimes were if they did not include Raymond Talmadge.
Very likely Alec’s mother could tell him a good deal about the couple, but she wouldn’t appreciate being asked, not for such a reason. No doubt she was already furious because Daisy had got herself involved in the present case.
Cravenly, Alec prayed he would not have to intervene between the two Mrs. Fletchers. He’d far rather face the major, even with such a thin excuse for questioning him.
He rang the doorbell and was not surprised to be left standing on the step for a few minutes. Like the Fletchers, the Walkers probably had just one live-in servant, who would be busy in the kitchen at this hour. In fact, the elderly cook-housekeeper came to the door wiping her hands on her apron, looking harassed. In case he didn’t cotton on, she glowered at him to remind him that this was neither a conventional nor a convenient hour for an unexpected visitor.
“I’m sorry to call at such an awkward time,” he said. “I was hoping for a word with Mrs. Walker. Detective Chief Inspector Fletcher.”
“I’ll see.”
The door shut in his face. A couple of minutes later, Mrs. Walker herself reopened it.
“So sorry, Mr. Fletcher.” Her scarlet smile was bright but her blue eyes were wary. “Very naughty of Bates to shut you out, and in the rain, too! She’s a frightful grouch but her cooking is divine, and it’s terribly hard to find good servants these days, isn’t it? Do come in.”
Only one possible reason for such a warm welcome sprang to mind: Gwen Walker had some more than ordinary cause for interest in Talmadge’s death.
“Thank you.” Alec hung his damp hat on the hat rack and followed her into the front room. Her black hair was unbobbed, pinned up behind in a complicated chignon. She was wearing a chiffon tea gown, green and gold, which made the most of her fashionably boyish figure. The wide sash around her hips swayed enticingly as she moved, but not, he thought, with deliberate provocation. It was her natural walk.
The sitting room they entered was furnished in post-War modernist style, with a good deal of glass, tubular steel, and black leather. The starkness of the decor was offset by the room’s untidiness. Tea things, for three people, had not been cleared and a half-empty cocktail glass had joined them on the glass-topped table. Beside one chair, a stack of fashion magazines sprawled across the white carpet while a copy of Vogue, open and facedown, crowned the chair’s arm. A partly smoked cigar, cold and dead, balanced on the rim of an ashtray heaped with ash and cigarette ends, most of them lipstick-stained.
She turned to face him. “I assume this is a business, not a social visit, Mr. Fletcher? I’ve heard about … what happened, of course. But I hardly knew poor Mr. Talmadge.” The slightest of tremors shook her cool voice as she pronounced the name. “Just the usual dinner parties and
so on. He wasn’t even my dentist.”
“We often glean useful details from the merest acquaintances, Mrs. Walker. You don’t mind if I ask a few questions?”
“No, of course not. Do you care for a cocktail?”
“Thanks, not on duty.”
She picked up the half-full glass. “Won’t you sit down?”
The awkward-looking chair of woven leather strips slung between bent pipes was surprisingly comfortable. So comfortable, in fact, that Alec found it impossible to sit straight with the formality proper to an interview. He doubted it mattered. Mrs. Walker’s tension was clear in the way her fingers turned the glass around and around. No stiffness on his part was necessary to establish the gravity of the situation, though she might not acknowledge it openly.
“I expect you want to know where I was at the crucial time?” She managed to laugh. “I’ve read a few detective novels.”
“That’s the first question we have to ask everyone. Where were you between, say, noon and two-thirty yesterday?”
“I went to lunch with a friend in Denham, an old schoolfriend.”
“Is she on the telephone?”
“No, she lives with her aged mother in rather poor circumstances, I’m afraid. I try to get down to see her as often as I can.”
“I’ll have to have her name and address, but we shan’t bother her unnecessarily.”
“Jennifer Crouch, Five Station Row. I arrived about half past twelve. I can’t remember the exact time of the train. What …” She moistened her lips. “What time did he die?”
“The medical evidence is never precise. How long have you known Raymond Talmadge, Mrs. Walker?”
“Four or five years, I suppose. Francis and I came to live here when we were married, in 1919, after he was demobbed. I can’t recall whether I met Daphne Talmadge at some hen party or Francis met … him, at the golf club, perhaps. Francis might remember. That must be him now.”
From the hall came sounds of the arrival of the master of the house. Alec cursed silently as the sitting-room door swung open.
“Hello, darling!”
“What the devil’s going on here?” Major Walker was the very pattern of a retired army officer, ramrod straight, brusque, his greying toothbrush moustache as bushy as his en-brosse hair. He wore damp plus fours in a greenish herringbone tweed, and a matching Norfolk jacket open over a Fair Isle pullover. His face, ruddy from hours on the golf links rain or shine, tended to empurple under the stress of annoyance. “Oh, it’s you, Fletcher. What d’ye want?”