by Granger, Ann
‘You did not think he might have returned to England?’ I insisted.
‘At first, no.’ She shook her head, drawing my eye again to the hat with the lavender rosebuds. ‘Why should I think that? Thomas had always told me he had left England for good. He called it shaking the dust from his feet. Is that not the expression?’
‘Yes,’ Dunn and I chimed in unison. Then we exchanged furtive glances.
‘I was afraid,’ our visitor was saying, ‘that Thomas, in a confused state of mind, was wandering somewhere in France. He might have forgotten his very name. Now I learn that he had not done that. But clearly he had forgotten our home in Montmartre. I am sorry to say that the French police were of no help. I put notices requesting information in provincial newspapers, to no avail. Eventually, in my desperation, I began to wonder if he had returned to England after all; and I must come to this country to seek for him, but . . .’ she spread her hands in a particularly foreign gesture. ‘To follow him here and search for him would cost me much money. I did not then have it. I had to save for a long time and only towards the end of last year, late October, did I have enough to allow me to make the journey and stay here to search for him. But now it is only to learn that I am a widow.’ She cast down her eyes disconsolately.
‘My condolences once more,’ I said. ‘May I ask from whom you learned of his death?’
She raised her dark eyes and stared fully at me. ‘Thomas had spoken to me of a cousin, Jonathan, who lived in London. At first I did not want to approach him because I understood there to have been some disagreement between the two of them. But yesterday I sent him a note, explaining who I was. I had become quite desperate, you see, because I had found no trace of Thomas. This morning I received a note in return, asking that I call at an address in Gray’s Inn Road. It is a legal chambers, as I believe they are called here. Jonathan Tapley is a lawyer – an avocat – and has his office in that building. So I went there earlier today, and he told me the tragic news. Poor Thomas is dead and worse, he has been murdered!’
Now she took out a handkerchief and dabbed her eyes. ‘I cannot speak more of it now, messieurs. I am too shocked.’
‘Indeed, you must be,’ I sympathised. ‘Are you all alone in London, madame?’
‘Yes, quite alone,’ she told me mournfully. She rose to her feet. ‘I beg you will excuse me, gentlemen. You have my address, Superintendent. It is a small hotel, not expensive, you understand. But I shall stay there and you can easily find me – or send a message, and I will come here.’
Before either of us quite knew what was happening, she had risen and was on her way to the door. There was nothing to do but open it for her, and call to a constable in the room beyond to escort the lady downstairs to the street.
‘Well, Ross?’ Dunn asked when we were alone. ‘What do you make of all that?’
‘She’ll return,’ I said, ‘because we have her marriage certificate and I don’t doubt for a minute that, if we ask the French police to check it, we’ll find the marriage properly registered. The certificate is genuine and she’ll want it back.’
‘But is she genuine?’ Dunn squinted at me.
‘Who knows? I fancy we are dealing with a clever woman, sir,’ I said bluntly.
‘Ah, yes, that, of course, and a fine-looking one.’ Dunn turned his shrewd little eyes on me. ‘But is she also, do you think, a murderess?’
I could only grin wryly. ‘It wouldn’t surprise me if she had it in her. She’s as cool as an iceberg. But, if she killed anyone, I can imagine poison might be her method. Will you contact the French police, sir?’
‘Yes, yes . . . you keep after this woman and question her again. See if she admits hiring a detective, this Jenkins. Oh, you had better look at this . . .’ Dunn handed me the marriage certificate.
‘My, my,’ I said, casting my eyes over it. ‘So before her marriage to Thomas Tapley, the lady was Mademoiselle Victorine Guillaume.’ I returned the certificate to Dunn. ‘Let’s not forget the couple by the name of Guillaume who visited Major Griffiths at The Old Hall and showed such interest in The Hall’s absent owners. They were supposedly brother and sister. Surely the surname being the same cannot just be coincidental? So, let us suppose Victorine was the woman. Who played the role of her brother? Where is this “brother” now?’
‘We should expect another visit from Mr Jonathan Tapley, I suppose,’ said Dunn. ‘Now that he finds the young cousin he has brought up as a daughter has, in fact, a stepmamma.’
‘Confound it!’ I muttered. ‘Did Madame Victorine Tapley know that her husband had a daughter here?’
‘You had better ask her,’ said Dunn. ‘Well, Ross, get on with it. Don’t stand here speculating. Get me some facts!’
‘Goodness,’ said Lizzie, when I had told her all this that evening at home. ‘What an extraordinary thing.’
‘That seems to me, if you don’t mind my saying so, the very mildest description of it,’ I replied.
‘Cor . . .’ murmured Bessie, who had been listening from the doorway. ‘Who’d have thought it?’
It was pointless to tell her to return to her kitchen, she’d only have listened through the door panels.
‘Would you say,’ Lizzie began slowly, ‘that as Victorine Guillaume or Tapley has come forward like this, it is a sign of her innocence? But where is the man Miss Poole saw with her in Jenkins’s office?’
‘I am working to find that out. I have to proceed very cautiously. I don’t want our French visitor to fly away back to Montmartre and the respectable lodging house she keeps there! Also,’ I felt I should remind my wife, ‘Miss Poole only saw the back view of both visitors, and that for an instant. Were it not for her description of the hat with the lavender rosebuds or whatever they are, I would have no reason to believe the woman of the pair was Mrs Thomas Tapley. But even so, there must be other hats around with lavender flowers on them? It would be a risky thing to accept Miss Poole’s description of a hat, briefly glimpsed, as solid evidence. Solid evidence is what I have to have to satisfy Dunn. What’s more he seems to expect it to be found, by me, almost at once!’
‘What about Jonathan Tapley?’ asked Lizzie suddenly. ‘What will he do now?’
‘That, Lizzie, I think we shall also find out almost at once,’ I told her.
‘It’s exciting, ain’t it?’ said Bessie.
Chapter Fifteen
* * *
I WAS right about Jonathan Tapley’s imminent appearance at Scotland Yard. He was there first thing in the morning.
‘I am required later today in court, Inspector. I therefore have little time to discuss the situation now, but it is imperative that you understand what a disaster this is! So I have made time to come and ask what you mean to do about it.’ He struck the floor with the metal ferrule of his cane. I had half thought he was going to raise it and point it straight at me.
The thump of the ferrule on the floorboards caused Biddle’s alarmed face to appear round the door. I signalled him away.
‘We are investigating the lady’s claim, Mr Tapley. We are asking the French police to confirm that a marriage between the two parties was properly conducted and registered at the place and on the date given on the certificate. I think Superintendent Dunn also intends to ask someone at the French Embassy to take a look at the marriage certificate today, and give an opinion as to its genuine appearance. I have to tell you, Mr Dunn and I are both pretty sure that it will turn out to be in order. Its authenticity is so easily checked that Mrs Victorine Tapley would be very foolish to come here and produce it otherwise.’
Tapley’s appearance grew alarmingly choleric. ‘Mrs Victorine Tapley . . . It is out of the question that the woman can be genuine!’ The ferrule struck the floorboards again, but Biddle didn’t appear this time.
‘No, sir, it is not,’ I repeated mildly. ‘You told me yourself that your cousin had made a practice of finding good-hearted ladies to take care of him.’
‘I would not,’ snarled Jonathan Tapley
, ‘describe that woman as “good hearted”! In the past the women who took it upon themselves to care for his wellbeing were all utterly respectable! His wife – his first wife, if we are to accept this second marriage – was of very good family. I doubt that is true of the female who appeared yesterday at my chambers.’
‘I’m inclined to agree with you, sir. But you also explained to me that your cousin’s first marriage was the result of necessity, to disguise his true inclinations. I suggest to you that this second marriage was also made from necessity. Not because the law in France disapproves of the activity of which your cousin stood accused, as our law does here; but because your cousin had grown older, his health was no longer so robust, and he needed a settled home and a woman to take care of his day-to-day comforts; nurse him when sick as this lady did. A younger, more dashing fellow might have got that without offering marriage. Your cousin could not. The lady would have insisted on it.’
‘Tom was a fool,’ Jonathan Tapley said bitterly. ‘He was a fool to get into the situation. He was doubly a fool not to make a new will when it was suggested to him by Fred Thorpe that his existing one might need updating. It needed more than that! It needed an entire new will. By his second marriage his first will is revoked. As a result, he died intestate. Do you realise what that means? Victorine Guillaume – I refuse to accept her as a Tapley – is making considerable claims upon the estate! We shall contest that on behalf of Flora. Morally, in my view, Guillaume shouldn’t get a penny. The pair no longer lived together. He was here; she in France. Clearly Tom considered the marriage over . . .’ He snorted. ‘If there was ever such a valid contract, despite what you have said about it!’
‘The certificate produced by the lady appears to be in order,’ I ventured to remind him. ‘Although we have not yet heard from the French police—’
He interrupted me curtly. ‘The document, in itself, may be genuine, as a piece of paper. But was the ceremony a valid one? Were both parties free to make such a contract? Tom, we can assume, was free to take a wife, but was he somehow coerced? As for Victorine Guillaume, what do we really know of her history? There is the question of Tom’s state of mind. Was he even fully aware at the time of what he was doing? That woman has told us that, after they were “married” – I use the word until I can show that it is not the case – Tom fell ill; and on recovery rambled and was forgetful. Had he ever done that before? Was his mind wandering when he went through a marriage ceremony?’
I feared he might be grasping at straws, but at the same time the possibility existed. Thomas Tapley might have been muddled or coerced at the time he signed the register of marriage. Aloud I only said, ‘I am sure the French police will check thoroughly. They have access to the necessary records.’
‘I, also, shall be looking into it all thoroughly!’ Tapley made an irritable gesture as if swatting away a fly. ‘At the moment, of course, she is playing the card of the loyal but deserted wife. She is standing upon her rights! His goods and chattels do not amount to more than his books and she would be welcome to those. But she is making preposterous claims on the estate. There are the two properties in Yorkshire and the income from them, and his investments. She seems well informed about them all.’
He leaned towards me. ‘From where has she her knowledge, eh? I cannot imagine my cousin telling her every financial detail. We speak of a man who, throughout his time abroad, regularly sent home to his solicitors in Harrogate all his business correspondence. He did that because he meant it to be private! A man who made no new will providing for his new wife. A clear enough indication, I think, that he intended her to have nothing. This is not a man who would have taken her into his confidence concerning his personal wealth. So, then, how does she come to know so much about it, eh?’
He sat back again. ‘We shall fight, Ross! We – I shall fight it vigorously, on Flora’s behalf, taking it through any court necessary. Thank goodness there was no prenuptial contract made in France, before Tom embarked on this mad undertaking. My cousin was at least sensible enough to avoid that. He clearly did not intend her to have anything, and I shall make sure that she doesn’t!’
‘Mr Tapley,’ I began cautiously, ‘there are two points I should make. Firstly, neither Mrs Jameson, his landlady in this country, nor my wife, who spoke with your cousin on several occasions, got the impression his mind was wandering. Nor did young Fred Thorpe, in Harrogate, think him confused in mind. He thought him frightened, but that’s something else; and we can’t assume he was frightened of his wife. When Thorpe asked if he wanted to update his will, it was because Thorpe believed your cousin was of sound enough mind to do it.
‘My second point is that I believe your cousin did not take the opportunity he had in Harrogate, to make a new will, because he didn’t want anyone to know about his second marriage. I stress we don’t yet know why. He must have realised his original will had been invalidated. Perhaps, as you say, he did not want to leave anything, or very much, to his second wife. Perhaps he simply did not want her to know where he was. He was not planning on dying just yet. Perhaps he had persuaded himself he had time to think of a way out of the predicament.’
Tapley rested his hands on the ivory skull pommel and raised his eyebrows. ‘And your conclusion from that is?’
‘My speculation, sir, not my conclusion, is that it does look as if your cousin was avoiding his wife. Was that simply because he had tired of the marriage, or was there another reason? We have to find out.’
Tapley gave a dry chuckle. ‘I told you I thought you were in the wrong branch of the law, Ross!’ He leaned forward, a gleam in his eyes, and added quietly, ‘I believe – and you clearly suspect – Tom was in fear of his life when he fled to England from France.’
‘As yet I cannot go so far, Mr Tapley. We should have to prove that. It will be difficult. It is a big step from saying that he’d fallen out of love, or decided the arrangement wasn’t working out as he’d hoped, and so left the marital home, to saying he’d been threatened. We have no evidence of that. The lady may be quite innocent.’
‘I don’t harbour your generous thoughts towards her, Inspector. She has something to do with his death and I expect you to establish her guilt.’ A wolfish gleam came into his eyes. ‘Naturally, if she is guilty in any way, as an accessory to his murder or as the moving force, she cannot benefit from his demise. Her claim upon the estate falls away.’ He rose to his feet. ‘And now I must go. But we’ll speak again, Inspector. Good day to you!’
‘He wants Victorine Guillaume to be guilty,’ I said to Dunn later, when I reported this conversation. ‘Because then she no longer has any claim on the estate. We have to bear in mind that his anxiety to prove her guilt is greater than a desire for justice. This is a murder case, however, and if a list of suspects is to be drawn up, her name must be on it.
‘So is his. I have not ruled him out, sir, or his wife. They were quite ferocious in their desire to protect the interests of Miss Flora, even before they learned of the existence of this Frenchwoman. Thomas Tapley had broken his agreement never to return to this country. He’d become a danger. From the moment they learned from Fred Thorpe that Thomas Tapley was back here, they will have been living in dread he’d turn up on the doorstep.’
‘We must take care, he’s a man of influence,’ observed Dunn. ‘What’s your next move, Ross?’
‘I shall call immediately on Victorine Tapley, née Guillaume, at her hotel, and question her again, sir. I don’t believe, as she would have us believe, that his illness caused her husband to forget he was married! If he was the frightened man who came to see Fred Thorpe in Harrogate, it was because he had something to fear. I agree with Jonathan Tapley that the lady appears to know details of her husband’s fortune, yet he deliberately avoided making a will including her. Something is wrong there, I feel it in my bones.’
‘Good luck,’ said Dunn.
‘Thank you, sir.’
It was a little before noon when I arrived at the small hotel whe
re Victorine Guillaume (to call her that for ease of reference) had established herself. The smell of boiling vegetables permeated the air. A maidservant was sent upstairs to fetch the lady.
I waited in the lobby at the foot of the staircase. Suddenly she appeared at the head of the flight, on the mezzanine. I confess I was so startled I took a step backwards. She was dressed in full mourning of black crêpe. The only item she wore that was not of sombre hue was a white ‘widow’s cap’ with dangling ribbons around her ears. Her hair was as elaborately coiled as before, like a thick nest of shining jet-black serpents about her head. As her dramatic and handsome figure descended the staircase towards me, an idea occurred to me. It was quite equally startling; but it was also quite possible. Did the lady wear a wig? Was she, perhaps, a little older than she would have us believe?
I babbled an apology for coming just before a mealtime and hoped not to keep her long from the table.
She waved a hand in a graceful gesture that swept away either my apology or the smell of boiled greens.
‘It is of no matter. I have little appetite. The hotel has a parlour through there.’ She pointed with a hand encased in a black lace fingerless mitten. ‘It’s seldom occupied and perhaps we could use it.’
The parlour had that slightly musty unaired atmosphere that such places have in hotels. The furniture looked uncomfortable. The only painting on the wall was a gloomy Highland scene of cattle in a mist. Guests would not be encouraged to linger here and probably that, and the stale smell, was why the parlour was generally unused. It did, however, boast a copy of today’s newspaper on the dusty table. The widow subsided on to a chair in a rustle of silk crêpe; and I identified an aroma of Parma Violets. Lizzie has a bottle of that scent.
‘How are you otherwise today, madame?’ I asked politely, as I took the opposite chair.