Yet there was something about the child that worried her. She felt he had something on his mind that he did not wish to share. Perhaps the presence of the father held him back? She wasn’t sure if she would have wanted to unburden herself to Dr Cairns.
And where was the wife and mother? What did he mean by saying she was lost? Lost to death or just to him? None of her business, of course, but she could find out. It was the sort of information you could rely on Dolly Barstow to know, and she wanted to build up her picture of the family.
As she turned the car to drive away, Angus came to the gate and waved to her. ‘ Drowning or waving?’ she asked herself as she waved back. A mixture of both, probably; it usually was. What a lot of applicants for help I have hanging on me, she thought, remembering Fanny and to a lesser extent Rewley. And I think I just picked up another one there.
Dolly Barstow said: ‘Oh yes, the story is his wife just packed her bags and left him. That’s one version. Another is that he packed her bags and threw her out. And yet another story says he packed her in a trunk and left her to be collected at a railway station. Brighton, I think. She hasn’t been found yet.’ Dolly was driving them swiftly down the motorway to London, having insisted that it was her job to do the driving. ‘A fond father, though.’
‘Not a popular man, I gather.’
‘Not so very.’
‘Why?’
Dolly drove some distance in silence. ‘Don’t know. Perhaps some men are born to be disliked.’ Then she turned to Charmian with a grin. ‘Oh, all right, people think he’s too much an I-and-I-and-I man, you know what I mean, and doesn’t give others due credit. But he’s a good doctor, no one disputes that.’
Clever, arrogant and therefore resented by his peers. Low on charm, was Charmian’s assessment. The boy still troubled her, though.
‘So what about Fanny Fanfairly?’ enquired Dolly as she steered them through the traffic. ‘What happened? Tell me.’
Charmian gave her a careful summary of what had gone on in Waxy House, being neither dramatic nor passing over the strangeness of it all.
‘There was a presence, sure of it. If I had been a bit quicker, or possibly a bit slower, I would have caught the person.’
‘But where did he or she go?’
‘I wish I knew. Out of the window, for all I could tell.’
‘And why? What’s it all about?’
‘I wish I knew that too, But it’s aimed at Fanny somehow.’
Then they were both silent with the traffic heavy as Dolly drove along the motorway in her usual concentrated fashion. Charmian was thinking about Fanny and Frank and the woman Alicia, still missing but presumed to be dead.
They drove off the motorway; she let her eyes dwell with pleasure on the terrace of Victorian artists’ studios with their splendid, tall and decorative windows on the way to Kensington. Did artists still live and paint in them? She had heard that a few did.
Then they were speeding past the big spread of the Victoria and Albert Museum, past the Brompton Oratory on their left and then Harrods on the right. Into Piccadilly and turning down the river and Westminster Bridge and out towards the grubby suburbs of South London. Once unfashionable as somewhere to live, this was changing, as Dolly pointed out. They were not yet smart, but with the middle classes desperate to find living space near the city centre that was cheap (or cheaper – nowhere was really cheap any more, unless it had no roof and dry rot in the basement), and which could be converted into something ‘charming’ with not too much trouble, this fate would soon be upon them. And from ‘quaint’ and ‘friendly’ and ‘full of charm when you looked at them with imagination’, they would soon become downright expensive.
Charmian had worked in the capital for a short space but she did not know South London well. However, Dolly had been at university in London and had lived not far from where the coach driver had his home. ‘Nine of us rented a large house in Peckham,’ Dolly said. ‘It had a lot of advantages apart from size because it was on a good bus route and close to a lovely street market where the vegetables and fish were fresh and cheap. You could even buy meat and poultry, but we couldn’t afford that often. One stall sold delicious sausages … I can remember them now. I expect it’s all changed. When we moved out the house was bought by a pop star. That shows you!’
Charmian looked at the address on a card. ‘ Three Draper Street, off Newbank Road. Mean anything to you?’
‘No, but I have a map. I’ll choose a quiet spot and stop to read it. I think I remember where Newbank Road was. The trouble is, if I remember aright, it’s enormously long with a railway station in it. Still, that should make it easier to find. You can’t hide a railway station.’
She studied the road ahead. ‘And in fact, I think I may be getting close. There’s a sign and an arrow pointed right: railway station.’ She swung the car. ‘So we’ll go this way and, yes, this is Newbank Road. Hasn’t changed much.’
Newbank Road looked as though it hadn’t in fact changed since the Victorian builders of the railway had moved out so that the new housing terraces could go up. Gentrification had not yet set in around here.
Dolly drew into the kerb to study her map; a large van that had been following her hooted angrily and swerved out into the centre road. Dolly ignored this sally, except to say: ‘ Rude lot round here.’
Charmian wound down the window to let in a wind heavy with dust, bits of paper, and smelling of frying oil and curry. Somewhere close there had to be an Indian restaurant. ‘You know this district, I don’t.’
‘Like a lot of London: large areas of decent streets with pockets here and there where every vice and every crime can find a home to breathe. You just have to get to learn which is which. The locals point the way.’
‘And Draper Street?’
‘Don’t know yet. Newbank Road is acceptable if you don’t mind living on the top of all the traffic, but after a while you don’t notice the noise and the smell.’
‘Not even the stale curry?’
Dolly shook her head. ‘No, you probably smell like it yourself, you see, and everyone knows you can’t smell your own smell … Just as well, sometimes.’ She started the car and drove on, getting a hoot from another car as she drew out. ‘Palmer Street first, then Draper Street.’
Charmian watched the houses pass: respectable worlds, criminal worlds, easy worlds, difficult worlds. Dolly could live in each and survive. She herself no longer could. It was marriage that did it. It changed your constitution, weakened you. Being part of another person was not a strength as was often supposed: it was a division.
Dolly swung round into Draper Street, a street of modest brick houses, the kerb lined with parked cars. ‘Even numbers this side.’ Dolly turned her head towards the other side of the road. ‘Odd over there, but the numbers are high.’ She had excellent long-distance sight. ‘So number three must be at the end of the road. It’s a dead end, you can’t drive through.’
‘What do you make of Draper Street?’ Charmian looked about her. Plenty of rubbish blowing up and down the street, but the curtains on most windows seemed clean, and the front doors tidy.
Dolly drove slowly up the road, assessing it. ‘Midway to respectable. It’s going up in the world, I think. The houses get grubbier and more unpainted as we come this way, but one or two are for sale. Been down, going up, I’d say.’
‘Would you live here?’
Dolly didn’t answer. She had parked the car in an empty slot and was looking up at number three. ‘Let into flats,’ she pronounced. ‘Furnished, I should guess. Minimally furnished so the landlord can regain possession if need be. And would I live here?’ She shrugged. ‘If I had to, wouldn’t kill me.’ Charmian, she thought to herself, had got soft. Marriage contributing. You couldn’t expect her ladyship to live in a near slum, even one that was rising in the world.
‘I want to think for a minute.’ Then Charmian said: ‘I need to talk about this affair. I think the man we are going to see may have killed Alici
a Ellendale. I think he’s a killer. I don’t know the motive, or where and how she died. Or where she is now. But I believe she is dead and I believe he may have killed her … Evidence is hard to come by, so you could say I’m going on feeling.’
‘What did Rewley think?’
‘Good question. He didn’t like Arthur Doby.’
‘Doesn’t prove he’s a killer.’
‘Of course not.’ Charmian was silent. ‘ There’s something else. An odd fact that must fit in somehow. A sovereign was left in Waxy House. Not there one night, somehow there the next morning.’
‘So?’
‘Rewley says Doby collects coins.’
‘You are tying him in with Waxy House?’ asked Dolly incredulously; she was so surprised that she hit the car horn with her hand and it gave a melancholy little toot.
‘I don’t know what I’m doing,’ admitted Charmian. ‘Hope to get things clearer after I see Doby himself.’
Dolly looked up at the house. ‘ Two flats there, as far as I can see. How do we get in? Are we expected?’
‘Rewley arranged that the local WPC detective who came with him would be here today and that she would set up the meeting.
I believe Doby is there. I spoke to her on the phone before we left: Charmian studied the road. ‘I expected to see her here.’
‘There she is now,’ said Dolly, nodding towards a tall young woman in uniform, who had got out of a car parked ahead of them and was walking towards them. Charmian first and then Dolly Barstow got out of the car.
‘WPC Mary Carter …’ the girl said; she really was not much more, with dark curls and big brown eyes. ‘I was told to expect you, ma’am. I sort of keep an eye on this area, it’s my responsibility, that’s why I was told off for this particular meeting.’
‘You met Inspector Rewley yesterday.’
‘Yes, sure.’ She gave a wide smile. Rewley had clearly made an impact.
‘Doby expecting us?’
‘Sure is. I made it clear you would be here today with me. He said he would be home.’
‘Good. Well done.’ Charmian introduced Dolly Barstow. ‘Inspector Barstow. Working with me on this case.’
Dolly acknowledged the introduction; she thought the girl looked bright and keen. She looked up at the window of number three. ‘Top floor flat, I believe? Is he a man of his word, will he be there?’
‘I don’t know if I would call him that, but I laid it down clear and firm. Yes, I think we’ll find him home.’
‘What sort of a man is he?’
Mary Carter looked cautious. ‘I don’t know him well, just observed him from a distance.’
‘Liked by the neighbours and the people he worked with?’
‘I don’t think he’s loved, exactly.’ Then she gave a wide grin. ‘In fact, I heard one neighbour call him a mean, cruel old sod.’
Charmian looked up and down the street. ‘I suppose we’re being watched?’
‘I expect so,’ said Mary Carter cheerfully. ‘It’s usual. I never know whether the neighbours just like each other so much they have to know what goes on, or whether they can’t bear to miss anything.’
‘Well, let’s get in, shall we, ma’am?’ said Dolly.
Charmian nodded, leading the way to the house. Two door bells, one above the other, with the upper one labelled DOBY. She pressed this bell.
No answer. Silence. No movement inside.
Charmian rang again.
‘Should be there,’ said Mary Carter, her cheerfulness still in place.
The three women waited in silence. ‘I can hear someone coming,’ said Mary Carter.
The front door opened to let out a young woman pushing a small pram in which lay a silent, red-faced baby. The mother was red-faced too, with a fringe of dark hair and a plump little body in jeans and sweater. She seemed surprised to see a reception committee.
‘Oh, hello, you looking for me?’ She took in Mary Carter’s uniform with some alarm. ‘Anything wrong? Not my husband? He’s not had an accident?’
‘No, no, Mrs Darby,’ said Charmian, reading the name from the card above the lower bell. ‘We want the man in the top flat: Mr Doby.’
Mrs Darby rolled her eyes. ‘Might have guessed. Well, good luck to you. I’ll leave you to it.’ She began to push and the baby, sensing his moment, set up a wail. ‘Shut up, you.’
‘Is Mr Doby there?’
‘Couldn’t say. I keep out of his way. But I heard someone on the stairs – going out. I think.’
‘Thank you, we’ll go in. Is there a bell on the upstairs door?’
‘A knocker.’ Mrs Darby was out of the house and on to the pavement. ‘Bang it hard, I would.’
One behind the other, they went up the narrow stair to Doby’s personal and private front door. There was a black knocker with which Charmian gave a loud double knock.
No one came. ‘He’s usually slow,’ said Mary Carter. ‘ Never keen to open the door. I don’t think he likes people.’
Dolly Barstow had leaned back against the narrow banister while she waited.
‘Knock again,’ she advised.
Charmian did so. ‘ He may have gone out, damn him.’
Dolly was staring down at her hand. ‘I rubbed this on the banister …’ A red streak lay across her palm. ‘This is blood.’
Charmian stared down at Dolly’s hand, then turned to Mary Carter. ‘We’ve got to get in there. Get help for us to break in.’
Silently Mary Carter nodded. She went down the stairs and out to the car. Presently, she came back. ‘I phoned through. A support car is on the way.’
But Charmian had been thinking. ‘Wait a minute … People often leave a key under the mat in case they get shut out … She lifted the rubber mat in front of the door. Nothing.
But there was blood seeping through the door and round the mat.
‘We must get in quickly.’ She ran her hand round the lintel at the top of the door. ‘ Something here …’ She drew her hand away, holding out a key. ‘I’m going in.’
The key turned easily in the lock. Charmian pushed. ‘Something’s blocking the door.’ Dolly came up and gave the door a shove, which gave way grudgingly, offering enough room for Charmian to slide through.
Once inside, she looked down at the body that had been partly blocking the door.
A man lay there, on his back at an angle to the door, with blood staining his throat and chest. She knelt down beside him. The body was still warm, but he was not breathing. With that wound in his throat, death would have come soon.
‘It’s Doby, I think. He’s had his throat cut.’
Chapter Seven
Still on Thursday
The man, Arthur Doby, lay on his back. His eyes were open and staring at the ceiling. The ceiling must have been the last thing he saw. Blood had stained his shirt, streamed down on to his jeans and spilled over on the floor.
Mary Carter, who had put in her call to the local CID, was standing at the door staring at what she saw. ‘Sergeant Edwards will be here soon,’ she was saying, ‘on his way now. My goodness.’
Charmian straightened up. ‘He’s not cold.’ Nor had he stiffened; rigor had not set in. Various factors influenced the onset of rigor, but she was sure Doby had not been dead long. ‘I thought he was the killer, and now he’s been murdered himself.’
‘He knew who the killer was, then,’ said Dolly Barstow.
Charmian was walking round the room. It was as squalid as Rewley had described. This had been Doby’s living room, with a large sofa on which he seemed to have deposited a good deal of his wardrobe, dirty shirts, a pair of grey flannel trousers and some underpants. A check jacket was draped over an arm of the sofa. In the middle of the room was a square table on which the remains of several meals could be seen.
‘Frank Felyx accused him and he accused Frank.’
‘You still have your other candidate, then.’
Charmian stared at the blood which was still liquid. ‘ The blood hasn’t congealed
.’
‘No. Not dead many minutes, then.’ Dolly too was staring at Doby’s body. ‘He looks a strong man. How do you cut the throat of a strong man without him fighting you off?’
‘You come up behind him and stick the knife in.’ She added, ‘And then pull it across the throat.’
‘But wouldn’t you get blood on you?’
‘You would indeed … Mrs Darby heard someone on the stairs; it must have been Doby’s killer leaving.’
‘Pity she didn’t look out.’
‘I don’t know about that.… This murderer is ruthless, he might have killed her too.’
‘He must have been fully as tall as Doby, probably taller, in order to get the knife into that position.’
The two women looked at each other. Frank Felyx was strong and tall, taller than Doby. ‘I don’t want to believe the murderer is Frank Felyx,’ Charmian said.
Into the silence that followed, Dolly said: ‘ No weapon. I don’t see a knife anywhere.’
‘I had a quick look, but it could be here. A search might turn it up. We can’t touch anything. The local CID will be here soon with the SOCO, and photographers and the lot. All we can do is stand and watch … And they won’t want us to do that for very long.’ She was well aware that her appearance here would not be welcome.
From her place by the door, Mary Carter said: ‘I hear them, ma’am. Sounds like Sergeant Edwards’ voice.’
They could hear him running up the stairs, talking as he did so with a companion whom he was ordering to stay down at the door and to tell Mrs Darby what was happening but not to let her up.
Before the sergeant reached Doby’s room, Charmian said to Dolly: ‘Notice the coins?’ She pointed to the table. ‘By the loaf of bread on the dirty plate, a plastic envelope with coins. Part of his collection.’
Dolly nodded. ‘Took it in.’
Charmian walked over. ‘They interest me. I want to fit them in somewhere but I don’t see how.’
‘You think Doby was the source of the sovereign left in Waxy House?’
The Woman Who Was Not There Page 11