The Woman Who Was Not There

by Jennie Melville

  So now Dolly was putting her career first. She was a clever young woman with a thoughtful, interesting face that lit up into beauty when she smiled. She knew that she was a good and valued officer but in summing herself up she thought that she lacked Charmian’s instinct for survival, for coming out on top.

  Her colleague Rewley did not even need an instinct for survival: the gods protected him. Or so she had thought until he had lost his wife in childbirth. Dolly too mourned Kate, who had been her closest, dearest friend. The two, Dolly and Rewley, worked together in harmony with occasional moments of rivalry. Competition between them was watched with some amusement by Charmian, who occasionally made use of it to spur them on to get results. She had been that way herself.

  ‘If you talk to Rewley,’ said Charmian – and you will, she added silently – ‘tell him there are ramifications in London, and I want him to find out what they are.’

  When George Rewley came into the office, rather than telephoning, Charmian said much the same, except in his case he was to go off to interview the coach driver. ‘ South London, New Cross, I believe, is the address.’

  ‘Don’t know the district.’

  ‘I’m sure you have a contact in the Met who does.’ Or if not find one was the underlying message.

  ‘Might know one or two,’ admitted Rewley. ‘One chap I was in college with. We went through a course or two together. But I think the Met trains them not to be too friendly. Even to each other, let alone outsiders. It’s their superiority complex.’

  He was calm, unperturbed by being thrown into an investigation that had, as Dolly had managed to inform him by phone just a minute or two ago, ‘ ramifications’.

  ‘What’s the nature of the complications you think there might be?’ he asked cautiously.

  ‘Dolly told you? I wish I knew, it’s one of the things I am sending you in for. But if it is in any way being covered up by the Met it must be murder plus and among their own. I don’t think they blink at much else.’

  Rewley looked at her to see if she was joking and decided she was not. ‘The missing woman is thought to be dead?’

  ‘She’s lost a foot,’ said Charmian. ‘I don’t suppose she gave it up willingly. I expect that the pathologists will be able to tell us if the foot was taken off a dead person or not.’

  Rewley frowned. Not a nice picture. He stood up, revealing his long, thin height. But he was less thin now; he was recovering, physically at least, from Kate’s death.

  ‘How’s the child?’ asked Charmian.

  ‘Very well, still under her grandparents’ roof.’

  Charmian nodded. It was going to be hard to prise the child away from Anny Cooper. ‘ It’s quite a set-up Anny has got there.’

  ‘But she’s agreed I shall take over. What she doesn’t agree to is when.’ He grinned at Charmian. ‘But I’ll get there in the end; I’m beginning to know how to manage Anny. And Jack’s no trouble.’

  ‘Jack never is. Is he still drinking?’

  ‘On and off. Been more off lately.’

  ‘Good.’ They looked at each other. Although Charmian was Rewley’s commanding officer and senior too in years, they never quite overlooked that they were man and woman. If they clashed (and this could happen), then Charmian used her sex as a weapon. Discreetly, politely and with good manners. Politically incorrect, she knew, but it worked.

  ‘You are covering London and the coach driver, Dolly and I are going to see Frank Felyx tomorrow, early. I expect him to be awkward. Refuse to let us in, he’s tried that already.’

  ‘What will you do if he won’t let you in?’

  Charmian gave a short laugh. ‘ I won’t kick the door down. I’m hoping that Dolly can persuade him, he’s said to like her.’

  ‘Probably likes you, ma’am.’

  ‘I’m not counting on it.’

  As he was leaving, she said: ‘How well do you know Fanny Fanfairly?’

  ‘Know of her more, know what she looks like. I say good morning and how are you when we meet. Not much more than that. See her around with that trio of friends. I’ve seen them in the theatre.’ Rewley had started going to the local theatre regularly, sometimes taking Dolly, sometimes sitting alone in a front stall. ‘They don’t seem to mind what they see: Ibsen, Coward, Pinter. They turn up for the lot, even for the pantomime.’

  Charmian stood up. ‘I’m surprised you went to a show like that yourself.’

  ‘I took my nephew and niece.’ He grinned. ‘Getting in training for when I take my kid …’

  ‘I think Fanny is a friend of Frank.’

  Rewley nodded. ‘ Bound to know her, at least. Thirty years a copper, he knows almost everyone local. Everyone of interest, and Fanny is certainly interesting.’

  ‘She hasn’t lived here for ever, though, has she? Only since she retired.’

  ‘I think she was born here, so it’s coming back.’

  Charmian laughed. ‘I knew that. She claims she’s a royal bastard, but she’s never been open about who her dad was. Or her mother, for that matter. Princesses can slip too. Didn’t one of George III’s daughters have an illegitimate child?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve heard that story,’ said Rewley from the door. ‘ Did you believe her?’

  ‘I’m not sure, probably not. She’s a bit of an old romancer.’

  ‘The story about Waxy House, I mean.’

  ‘How much do you know about that? Has Fanny spoken to you about it?’ To Charmian’s mind that made her accounts of what she had seen at Waxy House more suspect. A storyteller likes to go on telling the story.

  ‘Dorie Devon told me a bit. In confidence, of course. She’s a pal of mine. Good actress, she still does a bit. I like women who work.’

  ‘Dorie,’ said Charmian with a frown. ‘I hope she hasn’t told too many people. I think the less said the better.’

  ‘You really are worried about it.’

  ‘I think something unpleasant is brewing in that house. But what, I don’t know. Perhaps it’s just the drains. But I mean to find out. It may have something to do with Fanny or she may be the innocent victim. Fanny may be telling a tale, but she may not. There’s a wrong feel about the house itself.’

  Rewley said slowly: ‘I think it was because Dorie was worried about her old friend that she told me.’

  ‘Let’s leave it there for now. But let me know if you hear anything else.’

  Charmian was ready to leave when her husband, Humphrey, telephoned from London.

  ‘Could you join me in London for dinner? I have to entertain a new arrival from Russia, and he’s bringing his wife … It’s important, or I wouldn’t ask.’

  This was a surprising invitation since the important and secretive government department for which Humphrey worked usually ignored the existence of wives. Charmian accepted this exclusion since the force for which she worked ignored husbands.

  ‘Where?’ she asked, getting down promptly to the key question.

  ‘My club … We can talk there.’

  ‘Ah.’ That was the clue that told her what sort of evening it was going to be. One in which Humphrey and his new arrival withdrew into an alcove (his club was well provided with discreet alcoves where gentlemen could talk) while Charmian and the wife drank coffee. What an exciting day I’m having, she told herself: lunch with Drimwade and now dinner with a husband who only wants me there as cover. ‘Do we stay the night?’

  ‘No. Come up by train and I’ll drive us back.’ He hesitated. ‘I need to come home to pack. The other side to this invitation is that I’ll be off for a few days.’

  ‘Over the hills and far away,’ said Charmian sardonically.

  ‘That’s about it.’

  ‘OK. I have an early start myself, as it happens.’ Her visit to Frank with Dolly. ‘I’ll feed the animals, change into something appropriate and meet you for dinner. I can’t come earlier, you’ll have to manage on your own until then. I’m sure the wife is a pretty lady.’

  ‘I hope she speaks English,�
�� said Humphrey, as he ended the call.

  Charmian was gathering her papers together when her secretary put her head round the door. ‘There’s a lady who wants to see you,’ she said, a note of doubt in her voice.

  She got no further. Fanny loomed up behind her. ‘It’s Fanny here. Fanny Fanfairly. I must speak to you.’

  Charmian stood up. ‘What is it?’ Fanny had pushed into the room. ‘ Fanny, your face!’ A long blue bruise stretched down the side of her cheek.

  ‘I went to see Frank yesterday.’

  ‘He did that?’ Charmian took a closer look: it was a new bruise, still rimmed with red.

  Fanny shook her head dismissively. ‘Oh, no, no, he didn’t touch me, but he pushed me back and slammed the door on me. I slipped on the pavement and hit my face on the rubbish bin outside. I can’t say Frank did it.’

  ‘It happened because of him, though,’ said Charmian. ‘And you think so too or you wouldn’t be here now.’

  ‘It was his expression … He’s changed.’ Fanny shook her head. ‘I fear for him. I begin to see a terrible chain of events, of relationships.’ Charmian thought that Fanny was at her most vibrant, dramatic best. But she couldn’t be dismissed.

  ‘Come on, now.’ Charmian drew Fanny towards a chair. ‘Sit down.’ She could feel the thin old arm trembling. ‘I’ll give you a drink.’ She was feeling for the bottle of brandy that she kept in the cupboard at the foot of her desk. And then you can tell me what you mean.’

  But Fanny would not be stopped.

  ‘It’s Alicia and Frank. There’s a story going round that a boy found a foot and that it’s hers. I knew she was missing. Frank knew Alicia, and Alicia may have known old William Beckinhale left me the house in Leopold Walk.’

  ‘You’re not saying that you think Frank killed Alicia?’ The word must be getting around. Didn’t Superintendent Drimwade in spite of the front he put up think the same thing? Poor old Frank. Thirty years as a respected police officer and this is what you get. Hardly a vote of confidence from your friends. It was that, surely, that was distressing Frank so much, making him odd.

  ‘Not by himself, perhaps. But who knows what he was driven to?’

  ‘I can’t see any reason for you working yourself up, Fanny.’ She eyed her old friend, who was becoming calmer; the brandy was having an effect.

  ‘I think it may have been Alicia I saw on the stairs. I told you on the telephone. I couldn’t see her feet. Perhaps they weren’t there.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Fanny.’

  ‘I’m not saying she was there in person, but her spirit. She wants me to do something for her.’ Fanny crossed herself; she was a regular attender at St Michael’s. ‘ It’s made me face up to what I must do. I’m going to spend the night in that house, to see what happens. Satan may be there.’ She looked Charmian in the face. ‘You don’t believe in Satan the way I do.’

  ‘Not by name, perhaps,’ said Charmian. But in evil, in malignancy. In an alien force, in a dark player. She had seen enough in her work to believe in all of these things. What would her colleagues say if she stood up and said: I believe in the Devil? Take off their hats, or fall about laughing? So she turned the question aside, as she knew she must. ‘Don’t let’s go into that now.’

  Fanny finished her drink and stared hopefully at Charmian like a small dog that wants to be looked after.

  ‘All right,’ said Charmian. ‘ You called on Frank, he shut the door in your face—’ As he had done to the police officer sent to see him, he seemed to be making a habit of it.

  ‘He’s done the same to others,’ interrupted Fanny. ‘Did the same to his grand-daughter; I met Angela on my way there and she told me.’

  ‘All right, you called on him, you then fell on your face, but you don’t blame Frank for that. I won’t go into what you think about Alicia. But you are now intending to spend the night in Waxy House.’

  ‘That’s it,’ said Fanny, standing up and revealing she had a practical side to her and she was not trusting herself entirely to the forces of good and evil, but allowing the police their part. ‘ I’ve got my night case, and I came round here to tell you. Because if anything happens to me I want you to know where I’m going.’

  Charmian picked up her coat and bag. ‘Right. I’m leaving, I’ll take you there.’

  ‘Thank you. I thought you might say that. My bag’s outside. Your girl wouldn’t let me bring it in. I expect she thought I had a bomb in it because it looked heavy.’

  ‘What has it got in it?’

  ‘If I’m going to spend the night there, I want to be comfortable … Rugs, thick dressing gown, pillow, and two Thermos flasks and some bread and cheese. Also candles and a torch.’

  Also a little whisky, Charmian could guess.

  Charmian picked up the case, a service clearly expected of her, since Fanny smiled and nodded as she did so. ‘It’s heavy. Is that all you’ve got in it?’

  ‘A tape recorder and a camera. I shall stay awake and record what happens. I want proof.’

  ‘You don’t sound nervous now.’

  ‘I am, but I mean to do it. There’s a bottle of brandy in there too. And a gun.’

  ‘Fanny! You shouldn’t have told me. I shall have to take it off you.’

  ‘Oh, it’s not real, but it looks it and it makes a bang.’

  ‘Then you think that what is happening there, if anything, has a living person behind it?’

  ‘I’m hedging my bets,’ said Fanny grimly. ‘ Like you, my dear, I know Satan can put on many hats, and can take in the living and the dead.’

  Oh, Fanny, Fanny, thought Charmian. Then she said: ‘Do you know something you’re not telling me? Is it about Frank Felyx and this dead woman Alicia?’ But she knew how obstinate the woman could be.

  ‘I don’t know anything, my dear, and if I choose to make any guesses, then that is my business.’ Fanny got into the car, seated herself in the front and stared ahead. ‘Not a nice night, dear, there’s a wind getting up.’

  As she started the car, Charmian said: ‘I’m not sure if I ought to let you do this.’ And I damn well know I ought to knock some answers out of you, and I will in time.

  ‘I’m going to do it, my dear, and you can’t stop me.’

  It was not very far to Leopold Walk from Charmian’s office. They were soon outside the house. Never any trouble parking here, Charmian noticed.

  She helped Fanny out of the car and handed over her case. ‘Thanks, dear. You go now, I’ll be all right.’

  Charmian watched from the car as the small figure, wearing a feather toque and several chiffon scarves with a long black velvet cloak, marched forward.

  On the last few paces Fanny slowed down. At the door, she paused and turned. ‘Can a house eat you up?’

  ‘No. And if you feel like that you shouldn’t stay there.’

  ‘Oh, I’m staying.’ Her gaze flicked up and down the empty street. ‘All gone home.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Charmian, not knowing whether she believed it or not. ‘ It’s quiet enough.’

  She watched Fanny open the door and bang it shut behind her. The door shivered as it closed.

  ‘You obstinate old woman,’ said Charmian to herself. She sat in the car for a while, waiting to see if Fanny came out. She thought she saw the flicker of a candle light from the downstairs window.

  ‘Well, she’s got company in there,’ she told herself, remembering the figures at the dining table. Perhaps Fanny would share her picnic with them; it must be a long while since they’d eaten.

  The street was not so quiet as Charmian thought.

  That morning, as Angela had left the flat for work (she was always half an hour or so earlier than Edward), a man had stepped forward. He was young, not much older than she was, dressed casually in jeans and a tweed jacket.

  ‘Miss Bishop? I’m from the Thameside News …’ He produced a card. ‘All quite genuine, I promise you. No spoof or anything, I am exactly what I seem.’ He laughed cheerfully. ‘I wondered if I c
ould have a few words from you about your grandfather, Inspector Felyx.’

  Angela, who had been taken by surprise, asked why?

  ‘Well, he’s a subject of interest, Miss Bishop.’ He lowered his voice, drew closer and became confidential. ‘In connection with a certain missing lady and foot found by the river at Runnymede.’

  Angela went white. She had heard about the foot; it had been in the newspapers that morning. She had read of the speculation about the missing woman, but she had no idea that her grandfather came into it in any way.

  Angela felt herself begin to shake, but she was not in close alliance with a sprigling lawyer for nothing. ‘If you want any information, then you must speak to my grandfather.’ She started to walk away.

  ‘Oh, come on, Miss Bishop. I’ve tried Inspector Felyx and you can guess what his reaction was: the door in my face. I’m not the only one, TV have been round, no one can get a word out of him. It doesn’t look good.’

  Angela pressed her lips tightly together. ‘No, no,’ she got out at last. ‘ No, no, no.’

  ‘Well, let me at least get a photograph.’ He looked up hopefully like a dog expecting a biscuit.

  ‘No and no.’ She turned round and ran back into the house.

  Edward was just finishing his morning coffee while he considered the day ahead. He looked up, surprised.

  ‘Forgotten something, love?’ Their relationship had taken a decisive step forward the night before – they had finally become lovers – and the word was used fondly. When he took in the look on her face, he stood up. ‘Whatever is it? What’s up?’

  Angela told him, her voice trembling.

  ‘Oh, I say … Of course, I read about the foot … but I never …’ He put his arms round her. ‘We’ll do something about it. Get an injunction or something. I’ll speak to your grandfather myself … He’ll let me in.’

  Angela wasn’t listening. ‘No, Eddy, you don’t understand, you don’t know my grandfather, you don’t know how he is.’

  Edward tilted her face towards him. ‘Come on, what is this? Tell me.’ He could feel her whole body shaking.

  ‘My mother,’ began Angela. Angela’s mother was dead; she had died while the girl was in her last year at college. Edward had seen her through that misery – it had been the beginning of their deeper relationship. ‘My mother said that although her father was always restrained and controlled because of his work he had a well of violence inside him that he did not let out often. She said she remembered that when she was a child he had an axe, very sharp and shining, that she must not touch, and when something angered him he would go out and attack a tree in the garden. There was one tree he always went to, and she said that by the time she was grown up there was nothing left on that tree but a stump.’ She was crying now.