Die Laughing

by Carola Dunn

  “She’s a good girl, Gwen. She never forgets Christmas or birthday cards, and she often gives Jennifer clothes, some of them almost new.”

  Have you seen her or heard from her at all this week?

  “I have not, but Jennifer might have had a letter without showing it to me. Don’t tell me Gwen has disappeared, Mr. Fletcher?” the old lady asked anxiously. A passing train forced Alec to concentrate to catch her next words. “One hears such dreadful stories, and her husband the major is quite an irascible gentleman, Jennifer tells me.”

  Mrs. Walker is alive and well. You’ve known her a long time. Tell me a bit about her background.

  Delighted by the opportunity to talk without needing to hear, Mrs. Crouch became garrulous. Gwen Walker’s father, James Garrity, was a barrister, she said, a junior partner in her own husband’s chambers. They had flourished as acknowledged experts in a certain obscure branch of the law.

  Garrity married and his wife was soon expecting a child. Mrs. Crouch, considerably younger than her husband and married for over ten years, had given up hoping for a child but to her joyful surprise found herself in the same condition. The two girls were born within a few weeks of each other.

  Then that obscure law, dating from mediaeval times, was unexpectedly repealed. The practice gradually dwindled away. Mr. Crouch died, leaving his wife and daughter in difficult circumstances.

  Garrity, in no better case, quit the law and retired to his family’s farm in Ireland, where he still eked out a livelihood of sorts. When the War came, Gwen returned to London to work in a ministry, where she met Francis Walker. Mrs. Crouch did not presume to say whether it had been a love match, on either side. The fact was that Gwen was beautiful and Major Walker had enough money to whisk her back to the sort of life she had grown up enjoying.

  “And good luck to her,” said Mrs. Crouch. “I only wish Jennifer … but never mind that. After all I’ve told you, do you still need to talk to her?”

  Alec nodded.

  “I wonder where she has got to? Would you care for a cup of tea while you wait?”

  He didn’t want to put her to the trouble, nor to diminish whatever meagre store of tea lurked in the Crouches’ larder. But he was thirsty and didn’t want to offend her by rejecting her hospitality. Before he had quite made up his mind, he heard the sound of a key turning in the front door.

  The woman who came in looked ten years older than Gwen Walker’s thirty years, and had probably never been pretty. She appeared in the sitting-room doorway with a little wave to attract her mother’s attention, then noticed Alec as he stood.

  “Oh, I beg your pardon. Who … ?”

  “This is Detective Chief Inspector Fletcher, dear, from Scotland Yard. He’s come to ask you one or two questions.”

  Miss Crouch looked at him in astonishment. “What on earth about?”

  Mrs. Crouch continued placidly, “I’ll go and put on the kettle and put away the shopping while you talk to him.”

  “Allow me.” Alec took the heavy basket from Miss Crouch’s arm and followed the old lady back to the kitchen. It appeared to be the only other room on the ground floor, no doubt matched by two bedrooms above.

  Returning to the hall, he found Jennifer Crouch hanging up her once expensive, now shabby Burberry on a hook behind the front door. She preceded him into the front room, where she sat down in the chair opposite her mother’s, on the other side of the window, and picked up a piece of needlework. An automatic action, Alec thought. He wondered whether they supplemented an inadequate income by selling their work.

  “I can’t imagine how I can possibly help you, Mr. Fletcher,” she said. “Do sit down.”

  But he remained standing, asking without further ado, “Have you seen Gwen Walker this week?”

  She looked taken aback, then, after a momentary hesitation, she said warily, “Yes.”

  “Yesterday?”

  “Y-yes. You told Mother you’re from Scotland Yard!”

  “I am.” He held out his papers, which she gave a cursory glance.

  “But—”

  “What time was she here?”

  “Midday, for lunch. The train arrives at about half past twelve, and I suppose she was here for about an hour and a half.”

  “Your mother says she hasn’t seen Mrs. Walker this week, and that she never comes to lunch.”

  “Oh dear.” She bowed her head over her embroidery. “I’m afraid Mother is confused. She is … getting on in years.”

  “Mrs. Crouch strikes me as perfectly compos mentis. Was Mrs. Walker here for lunch the day before yesterday also?”

  “The day before … No. Yes. I mean …”

  “What exactly do you mean, Miss Crouch?”

  “I suppose I may have confused the days. Are you sure you’re not a private investigator?”

  “Ah!” His guess as good as confirmed, Alec sat down on the sofa. “I begin to see the light. I’m quite sure I’m not a private investigator. I’m from the Criminal Investigation Department of the Metropolitan Police, and this matter is a good deal more important than protecting your friend from her husband’s suspicions. Was she here at midday the day before yesterday?”

  Miss Crouch moistened her lips. “What’s happened?”

  “Was she here the day before yesterday?”

  “N-no.”

  “Thank you. Has she explained to you why she wanted you to lie for her?”

  “She said she was seeing a man. I know it’s dreadfully wrong of her, but she’s like a sister to me, you see. And the major is … is not a sympathetic person.”

  “Did she tell you whom she was seeing?”

  “No. Only that he had a very unromantic profession, but she’d had her fill of romance when she married the gallant major. What’s happened? Is the major … He isn’t dead, is he?”

  Alec shook his head. “No, alive and kicking at last sight. How long had this been going on? Her liaison?”

  “A little over a year. She’s never asked such a thing before. You needn’t think she only kept in with us because of that.”

  Mrs. Crouch came in, a tea tray in her precarious grasp, from which Alec hastened to deliver it. He had no more questions to ask, and in her mother’s presence Miss Crouch swallowed those he saw on the tip of her tongue, though the old lady would not have heard.

  “I’m afraid we finished the tin of biscuits Gwen brought last month,” Mrs. Crouch apologized.

  Alec had just time for a cup of tea before the next train back to town. In fact, he left in a bit of a rush, glad of an excuse not to face Miss Crouch’s questions as she showed him out. She was obviously deeply unhappy at having betrayed her friend. Alec wished he had brought Daisy with him. She would have known how to comfort the poor woman.

  Daisy expected to have quite enough on her hands with the morning coffee gathering. The day was cloudy but mild and dry, and she quite enjoyed her walk through the tree-lined streets. When she arrived, she was happy to find both Sakari and Melanie among the guests. Between the two of them, they managed to shield her from the worst of the interrogation. The rumour about Gwen Walker dining with Raymond Talmadge in Soho surfaced again, this time quite openly.

  Daisy finished off a Banbury tart, followed it with a sip of coffee, and asked bluntly, “Who saw them?”

  Everyone looked at each other. No one knew.

  “My dear Daisy,” said Sakari, a wicked twinkle in her eye, “none of the respectable ladies here would visit a Soho nightclub. I am driven to the conclusion that someone has a less-than-respectable acquaintance whom, naturally, she does not care to acknowledge.”

  The respectable ladies looked at each other askance. Each protested that she had heard the story at third or fourth hand, and some even named their informants, all equally respectable ladies.

  Daisy dug out her notebook from her handbag and wrote down these names and those who had given them, who watched in dismay. “Of course, I’ll have to tell my husband,” she said. The subject of the dead dentist
died a swifter death than he had.

  The party ended soon after. Sakari was whirled away in the red Sunbeam to a diplomatic luncheon. Daisy and Mel walked homeward together.

  “Vultures!” said Daisy.

  “It’s only natural to be interested when someone you know is murdered,” Mel protested. “Don’t tell me people haven’t wanted to know the details in the other cases you’ve been mixed up in.”

  Thinking back over past cases, Daisy was startled by how many there had been. She had always dealt with them as they happened and tried to forget the horrid details as soon as they were over. No wonder Superintendent Crane and the AC (Crime) were aghast at her propensity for stumbling across bodies!

  But she shook her head. “I’ve never before been besieged with questions by so many people who are not themselves personally involved. And if they think they have evidence, they should take it to Alec, not filter it through me.”

  “You’re so much easier to talk to, Daisy. I can imagine Alec being rather fierce.”

  “He can be a bit intimidating,” she admitted, remembering times when he had fixed her with the icy grey gaze which made erring subordinates shiver, suspects shudder, and malefactors think they’d be better off at the North Pole. Not that it bothered Daisy. She looked at her friend, who was nervously nibbling her lower lip. “Mel, is there something you want to tell me?”

  “You just said …”

  “That doesn’t apply to my friends, darling. What’s up?”

  “It’s something Robert told me, in complete confidence, of course. Is Alec quite certain that Mrs. Walker was seeing Talmadge?”

  “He hasn’t any real evidence, if that’s what you mean. He’s … I suppose I’d have to say he’s fairly sure. Do you know something definite?”

  “Not about that, Daisy. I’d have told you, or him. No, on the whole I think I’d better not mention what Robert said. It’s probably nothing to do with the murder at all.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “It’s nothing to do with Talmadge, at any rate. Just … just something which made Robert suggest that I shouldn’t become too friendly with Gwen Walker. I promise I’ll tell you if Alec finds out she really was his mistress. Oh, here’s where we go our different ways. Cheerio, Daisy.” Melanie turned the corner and dashed off at a fast walk.

  Dying of curiosity, Daisy stared after her, then turned in the opposite direction towards Gardenia Grove. If Robert had told Melanie something confidential, it was probably something to do with his bank. Were the Walkers desperately in debt and vastly overdrawn? Doubtless it would reflect badly on the bank manager if his wife was intimate friends with a customer who went bankrupt.

  Could the Walkers’ impending bankruptcy have any bearing on Talmadge’s death? Suppose Gwen had counted on him to rescue her from prospective destitution, and instead he bade her farewell forever?

  That would certainly add fuel to the flames of the notorious fury of a woman scorned!

  Alec came home to lunch, a rare occurrence. “I was at Marylebone,” he explained, “so it seemed silly to go back to the Yard and suffer canteen food.”

  Mrs. Dobson was equal to the challenge. She stretched the chicken consommé with top of the milk, added bread and butter and cheese to the cold ham and salad, and dressed up the stewed rhubarb with a quickly browned crumbly topping.

  “This soup is delicious,” Alec said.

  “I’ll tell Mrs. Dobson.”

  “Mrs.?”

  “From now on,” Daisy said firmly. “Calling a woman by her surname just because she’s a servant is frightfully Victorian.” Not wanting to get involved in a discussion which must inevitably lead to his mother, she asked, “What were you doing at Marylebone?”

  He told her about his interview with Gwen Walker’s indigent friend Miss Crouch and her mother.

  “I’m told Mrs. Walker never forgets Christmas or birthday cards, and she often passes on bundles of clothes, some of them almost new.”

  Daisy shuddered. “I’d absolutely loathe wearing a friend’s castoffs. I’d rather go to the Salvation Army. But I suppose she’s being kind.”

  “I can’t believe the frock Mrs. Walker was wearing when I saw her would be much use to a woman in Miss Crouch’s circumstances.”

  “Why, what was it like?”

  “Oh, one of those floaty tea-gown things, all green and gold. Chiffon, I think.” Alec, as a trained observer, was remarkably good at women’s clothes, for a man.

  “I expect she gives Miss Crouch her more practical stuff. Skirts and blouses and woollies.”

  “Yes, there was a Burberry coat. I suppose it’s to Mrs. Walker’s credit that she didn’t altogether abandon old friends when she moved back up in the world and they stayed behind.”

  “You liked the Crouches, didn’t you, darling?”

  “They’re pleasant, straightforward people, making the best of what life has dealt them, without complaint.”

  “I’d like to meet them.”

  “Daisy, you are not to go calling on them!”

  “I don’t know their address,” she said regretfully. “Why? Because Miss Crouch lied to you? You’re not going to charge her, are you?”

  “Great Scott, no! She did it so badly she obviously doesn’t make a practice of it. Besides, if we charged everyone who lies to the police, half the population would be in gaol.”

  Daisy was annoyed to feel herself blushing, though she couldn’t at present recall any downright thundering lies she’d told the police, at least not recently. A little prevarication or suppression of probably irrelevant facts, long ago, was quite another matter. “Are you going to see Mrs. Walker this afternoon?” she asked quickly.

  “Yes, later on. The fact that she gave a false alibi doesn’t prove her a murderer, alas. Nor are the rest of the suspects by any means in the clear. I’m meeting Tom and the others at the Yard and it’s always possible one of them will have come across some real evidence.” He pushed back his chair. “I must run.”

  “No coffee?”

  “No time, love.” He stooped to kiss her good-bye and was gone.

  Daisy sat on at the table for a few minutes, pondering. She was awfully tempted to call on Gwen Walker, but couldn’t think of any excuse. On the other hand, she really must drop in to see how Daphne Talmadge was doing. She could work for a couple of hours, then pop round at about four, as Belinda had a music lesson after school, so would be late home.

  Bel was quite old enough to manage without Daisy for a while, especially as the housekeeper was always there. But Mrs. Fletcher had always made a point of being at home when her granddaughter got back from school, and in her absence Daisy could do no less.

  Sighing, she started to stack the dishes for Mrs. Dobson.

  18

  “Mrs. Walker’s alibi is exploded,” Alec told the two sergeants and Ernie Piper. He explained how he had trapped Miss Crouch into contradicting herself.

  “Cor, that was neat, Chief.”

  “Listen and learn, lad,” said Tom. He was wearing the sober dark suit he had donned to impress the Army and Navy Club. It made him look less bulky and more formidable than his usual loud checks. He always swore villains were so stunned by the latter they didn’t realize who was wearing them until he’d clapped on the darbies. “Listen and learn,” he repeated sententiously.

  “I do, Sarge. Even to you.”

  “Tom, did you get anywhere at the Army and Navy?”

  “The major ate lunch there all right, Chief. The club secretary showed me his signed chit. It’s dated, but there’s no time on it, as you’d expect. They serve lunch till half two.”

  “So he could easily have followed his wife to the house at one o’clock, done Talmadge in, and turned up in the club dining room in plenty of time to eat. Anyone remember him?”

  “Not a soul, not to swear to. I spoke to the porter and the waiters but they have five Major Walkers and hordes of members who look just like my description of our Major Walker. They were e
xtra busy that day, too, because there was some sort of reunion in the evening and a lot of members came up from the country.”

  “Damn!”

  “No better luck with the errand boy, neither. I sent DC Ross to ask him about the astrakhan coat Mrs. Fletcher described. The lad thought he might’ve noticed, but then again he might not.”

  “Your veiled lady could still be either Mrs. Walker or Mrs. Talmadge, then.”

  “Or someone else entirely, Chief.”

  “Or someone else entirely,” Alec agreed gloomily. “What about you, Mackinnon?”

  “I went to the Dixons’ flat, Chief, but the charwoman wasna there. I couldna think of any way to trace her wi‘out getting in touch with the Dixons, so I telephoned the Henley police to send someone out to their cottage. But it seems it’s on the wrong side o’ the river so they had to ring up the Berkshire police—”

  “Ah yes, I remember, three counties meet there.”

  “Well, after a deal o’ havering, I ended up wi’ Mrs. Simpkins’s address in Islington. I took the Tube there, but she wasna at home. Her neighbour said she was at work, but she didn’t know where.” Mackinnon apparently wanted to prove himself by describing all his difficulties and how he had overcome them.

  “I take it you found her?” Alec said.

  “Aye, Chief, in the end. She only does for the Dixons two mornings a week. When she left their flat that day, at one o’clock, she opened the door of the sitting room to say she was going. She saw the gentleman sitting with the lady in his lap, crying on his shoulder. She backed out in a hurry without speaking, so they might not have seen her.”

  “Even if they’d jumped up the moment she left,” said Alec, “they’d have had to rush to get to St. John’s Wood and back. Ernie?”

  “No sign of a taxi taking one or both of ’em there or back, Chief, or there and back. I covered pretty well all the possibles. I talked to the other two cabbies, too. It was our two for sure that was taken from Bond Street to Oxford and Cambridge Mansions, and his lordship that was taken to the theatre.”

  “And the Bentley?”

  “I found the garridge where his lordship keeps it. There’s a group of toffs keep their motors there and they pay a bloke to keep ’em filled up, and polish ‘em and do minor repairs and gen’rally keep an eye on things. He checks the oil and water and petrol whenever someone brings one back, and keeps a log to bill ’em.”