‘Exactly right. And then, if by some medical muddle, it turned out that Alicia was not dead when the foot was hacked off … roughly, it appears – then she must have needed help. Somewhere there would have to be a hospital or a doctor who treated her.’
‘I guessed we ought to investigate that possibility,’ said Rewley thoughtfully. ‘And I sent out a DC to do it. So far nothing … Do you expect it? I’d be surprised, I think, if anything came back.’
Charmian realized that she liked working with him because he was so intelligent, and often said what she was just thinking. She went on: ‘I don’t believe even hopping and with a stick a woman with a newly severed foot could have got around. You’d need practice for that. You can bet that the London mob have worked all that out and are just waiting to see if we have.’
‘So the woman in black was a phantom?’
‘Not quite that, but not what she seemed to be. It was a fascinating picture, I quite enjoyed it, it was like being in a Wilkie Collins novel, or Dickens – he could have managed it.’
Rewley summed it up. ‘ What you are saying is that the murderer was someone dressed up, acting a part.’ He was frowning. ‘Has to be someone who knows about Alicia and her foot …’
‘As her killer would. And Frank, under suspicion himself, has produced a name: Mrs Caroline Fenwick, and she comes with the strong hint that she is bisexual.’
‘Male – female, it’s a sort of tightrope, anyway, isn’t it?’ said Rewley. ‘ Still, it will be interesting to meet Mrs Fenwick.’
‘Surely her husband will know where she is.’ Charmian stood up. ‘Let’s get down to Leopold Walk. They’ll be waiting for us now.’
Amos Elliot and Jane Gibson were in the outer office as Charmian and Rewley came through. They were standing at Jane’s desk, head bent over a folder of documents and photographs.
Amos turned towards Charmian and Rewley. ‘ Tricky case, this one. Been sent on to us from Addlewade.’
Addlewade was a new estate beyond Merrywick, built about five years previously to provide luxury homes for those rich enough to afford several garages for large cars, a mooring on the river Thames, and an annex for ‘staff’. Unfortunately the estate had been finished just as money had run out. Or at least had been severely depressed. Many of the houses lay empty.
But nature does not love emptiness and the houses became occupied by unexpected residents.
‘There was this chap,’ said Amos, ‘ must have just wandered in, meaning to doss down for the night, but he took too much of his favourite drug mixture, a fairly lethal cocktail by all accounts, and went to sleep for ever. Straight case of death by misadventure … But look at this photograph.’
He held out a photograph of a human arm and hand. The arm was small, thin, and could have been that of a woman; the hand was tiny and well kept, with ring marks on it.
‘He called himself Fraser Markey, but he wasn’t a man but a woman. And look at the hand again … The fingers are all torn; the thumb’s missing. So is it murder?’
‘No,’ said Rewley at once. ‘ I know about this case … Not murder, a fox got in and did the chewing.’
‘Can’t catch you,’ said Amos, ‘ Indeed the fox, unidentified so far, did the chewing, but the woman was dead then. The legal view is that she was shut in the house by the local security guard, who had locked the house after leaving it open for motives of his own. There are signs she-he tried to get out. So where does that leave the security guard, and did he take her in there in the first place? We’re required to do some work on the case.’
‘How did the fox get in and then out?’ asked Charmian.
‘That too requires an answer. A murky case,’ said Amos with satisfaction. ‘I’ll let you know what we come up with. And if you want to know why Jane is in on this, it’s because she thinks she may have been at school with the dead woman.’
Jane said nothing but continued to pick up the photographs to study.
‘I didn’t really enjoy that,’ said Rewley as they drove away. ‘ It’s just a game to those two, like chess.’
‘Not to Jane, I saw her face. But still to Amos.’ Both of them would change, though, toughen, until what they did would become not a game or an intellectual exercise but a job. Whether that was a good thing or a bad thing, Charmian could not decide.
It did not happen to the very best officers, of whom Rewley was one, who never forgot that the dead were human. Whether she too was such a one, Charmian was never sure. Perhaps it was not one of those things you could judge of yourself.
Charmian drove as speedily as she could through the crowded town traffic, and took the turn into Leopold Walk. Two police cars and a plain van lined the kerb.
Angela had been staring down the road as the first of the police cars had arrived about half an hour previously. She was still watching when Charmian drove up.
‘Do come away from that window.’ The senior clerk, Freda Langley, regarded it as her job to keep order in the office. ‘Old Bacon will complain.’
‘It’s the police.’
Angela had been alerted by Edward Underlyne that the delayed search of Waxy House was about to start. He had telephoned earlier that morning, providing another cause for comment by Freda, who pointed out that personal calls were not encouraged in office hours.
‘Any minute now,’ Edward had said. ‘Although I don’t know what they think to find in that empty old house.’
‘The house isn’t empty.’ Angela gave a shudder. ‘Not empty at all … You know we said that this is a Michael Gilbert story? We were wrong: it’s Edgar Allan Poe.’ She began to make soft gulping noises.
‘Come on, old thing,’ Edward said, ‘Don’t go hysterical on me, it’s just a game, I thought you’d be interested.’
In the office Freda took the telephone away from Angela. She did not speak to Edward. Let him sweat. But she had got Angela a drink of water and stood over her until she stopped gasping.
Now the girl was at it again.
Mr Bacon came into the room. ‘What’s that noise?’ He looked at Angela. ‘Is she all right? What’s up?’
‘She’s a mite disturbed at the idea of the police in the house at the end of the road.’ Freda allowed herself this quiet understatement.
‘Oh, ah.’ He went to the window to look out. ‘I can see the police there.’ He stood contemplating the scene: several uniformed officers and a tall man with fair hair whom he recognized as Superintendent Drimwade. ‘Wonder what he’s doing there?’ He watched Charmian getting out of her car. He knew her, did not know the man with her, but if he was with Charmian Daniels then he had to be important. ‘Don’t upset yourself, my dear,’ he said to Angela, although knowing as he did (and most of Windsor too) of the rumours about Frank, he was not surprised she was emotional. And then, you never knew with young women – sex, young men, menstrual problems, they all came into it, he told himself sagely. ‘Take the rest of the day off. Take a walk, have a rest.’ He headed back to his own room, to his telephone which was already ringing and his clients, always fussing. He gave one last look at Angela. Pretty girl, he liked pretty girls. Don’t worry, kid, Frank’s no murderer. Sex, yes. Killing, no. And he toddled off – he had put on weight lately – back to his own personal confusion.
Freda patted Angela’s arm. ‘He means well. You go home if you want to. I can manage.’ A slight tinge of self-pity coloured her words. Old Bacon could afford to be generous; he wouldn’t worry how she would get on, all that paperwork to do and the dodgy WP.
Angela drank some more water. ‘No, I’m better now. It was very silly and emotional of me. I ought to know better. But I’ve been worried over Grandpa.’
‘I know.’ Freda had been given an account of some of Angela’s worries; the girl might be making too much of her grandfather’s behaviour, but perhaps not. There was certainly talk in the town which she had heard but not contributed to; she had her own brand of loyalty. In any case, better perhaps not to say you knew the grandchild of a killer.
‘Let’s have a cup of coffee, and then we can get back to work.’ A cup of something was always her remedy.
Charmian got out of her car to find the tall figure of Drimwade approaching.
‘Thought I’d come round to see how things went.’ He looked at the end of the road where a few onlookers, attracted by the police presence, were already gathering. ‘ Have to put some barriers up or we’ll have the crowds upon us. Not to mention the press.’
Not here yet, thought Charmian with some relief. Drimwade was right, though, they would come.
‘Have to get those cars moved,’ went on Drimwade, nodding towards two cars in residents’ parking bays. ‘ We’ll need that room.’
‘Chris Fenwick and Harry Aden … I want to talk to them anyway.’
In a conversational way, Drimwade said: ‘I sent young Bill Jacaponi round to Frank Felyx this morning to have a few words with him. Seemed a good idea.’
‘I thought someone had been there. Called myself.’
‘Guessed you would do. Was he any help?’
‘No.’
‘Jacaponi didn’t get much out of him either … Here comes one of the men you want to talk to.’
Harry Aden had walked out of his front door and was coming towards them. ‘My car is going to get blocked in. What’s going on?’
Charmian did not answer. ‘If you move your car round the corner it will be clear.’
‘No parking, yellow lines.’
‘I’ll see you don’t get clamped.’
Harry Aden went to his car, muttering that if she could control the traffic warden then she was pretty clever because no one else could.
‘Come back when you’ve done. I want to talk to you,’ Charmian called after him.
While she waited she watched what was going on. Waxy House was being invaded. The door was wide open, as a police team moved in.
Chris Fenwick touched her arm, and she swung round. ‘Ah, you should move your car while you can …’
‘What is all this?’
‘You can see.’ She did not feel inclined to say more. ‘ But I’d like to talk to you.’
Harry Aden stumped back, not pleased. ‘Well, what is it? Here I am, talking.’
‘You can see that Waxy House is being searched. I wondered if you had ever noticed any person going into the house?’
‘No.’ Short and blunt.
She shook her head. ‘Ever heard noises, sounds of people there?’
‘Never noticed a thing,’
‘Would you call yourself someone who doesn’t notice things? Are you an unobservant person, Mr Aden?’
‘When I’m working we could have an earthquake and I wouldn’t notice.’
Charmian considered him: in a blocking mood and better left for the time being. ‘I’ll come back to you later; you may remember something.’
Chris Fenwick came up, car keys jangling in his hand. ‘So?’ He stared back at Waxy House. ‘What’s happening in there?’
‘Just an investigation we’re engaged in,’ said Charmian blandly.
‘A non-answer if ever I heard one.’
Harry Aden said: ‘She’s been asking me if I ever heard anyone in Waxy House … or noises? Funny noises, did you say?’ He put his head on one side. ‘How funny?’ He nodded towards Fenwick. ‘Why don’t you ask him?’
‘I shall do.’ Charmian turned briefly to look at Fenwick, who was showing his teeth in a half-smile, and not an attractive one. ‘But you, Mr Aden, live nearer to the house.’
‘And more chance of noticing anything dubious?’
‘Something like that.’
Chris Fenwick said tartly: ‘ Does Miss Fanfairly know about this?’
Charmian nodded. ‘ Of course she does. This search is at her request.’ Not quite true, but it would do.
‘And is it connected with the attack on her?’
‘I can’t answer that. Have you noticed any activity in Waxy House?’
‘It’s supposed to be empty. Are you saying it’s not?’
Charmian did not answer.
‘Another non-answer,’ said Fenwick. ‘Anyway, I never notice anything when I’m working.’
‘Mr Aden says the same.’
‘It’s called concentration.’
‘What about your wife? Would she have noticed anything? I’d like to talk to her too.’
Fenwick said abruptly: ‘She’s working abroad at the moment.’
‘Do you expect her back soon?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Perhaps I could have her address?’
Fenwick started to move away. ‘She travels around.’
Charmian blocked his way. ‘Come on now, Mr Fenwick. You can do better than that.’
‘I can refuse to answer.’
Charmian stood her ground. ‘You would do better to talk.’
Fenwick’s face changed. ‘All right, all right … She’s left me.’
‘So where is she?’
Fenwick swung towards Harry Aden: ‘Ask him.’
There was a moment of silence, as before a duel. Then Harry Aden said: ‘She didn’t come to me; I wish she had, I love her. But she isn’t with me.’
Before Charmian could speak, she became aware of a small disturbance in Waxy House, a noise, police officers coming out, going up to Drimwade. Other men moving across towards the house from the police van. Then Drimwade coming across to her.
‘Bit of trouble in there.’ He ignored the two men, still squaring up to each other as if direct fight could not be far away, and went on to Charmian: ‘Electricity expert trying to give us a bit more light, put his leg through a floorboard … Rotten, he says, and fungi and God knows what growing thick under the floorboards. Nasty.’ Then he drew Charmian away from Chris Fenwick and Harry Aden. ‘What’s up with them?’
‘They’re quarrelling over Fenwick’s wife,’ said Charmian shortly.
‘I see. Well … this isn’t for their ears. The man who put his leg through the floorboards … He’s found some bones.’
Chapter Eleven
All days are working days
Charmian walked towards Waxy House beside Drimwade. She would have liked to pursue her conversation with the other two men; they were upset, angry, and you always got more out of angry men than they wanted you to know. It might not be important, but you could never tell. As her old university tutor had once said to her, concerning historical evidence: it was all grist to her mill.
She followed Drimwade into the narrow hall of Waxy House where the strange, familiar mixture of smells rose up to greet her. A new element had been added with the arrival of the police team, who smelt of aftershave and tobacco smoke. She frowned, trying to remember and assess the old smell.
The ancient carpet in the hall, probably laid before the Titanic sank, had been pulled up, revealing the wooden planks underneath. These were cleaner than she had expected, but dark with damp in patches.
‘Dangerous house.’ The electricity specialist looked down at his right leg where the white uniform was speckled with blood.
‘It certainly is that,’ agreed Charmian.
‘I had one board up and moved back and my leg went right through.’
‘You should have been more careful.’ Drimwade was not very sympathetic.
‘That’s just it: I am. But this house has its teeth out.’ He looked down at the floor. ‘And you can see that for yourself. One victim.’
In the light of a torch, the electricity being off, they stared down at the small collection of bones. A tiny head, bent over a curving backbone, the legs drawn up.
Tiny as a cat, but not a cat. It was human.
‘A baby,’ said Drimwade. ‘Poor little soul.’ He had seen more than one dead baby, but it always moved him.
‘The child has been here a long while,’ said Charmian.
‘It’ll hold us up, but I don’t think it’ll throw any light on contemporary problems.’ And for that matter, he said to himself, I’m not a hundred per cent clear why yo
u want to go through this house.
Charmian hardly knew herself, but there was an inner conviction that always came back whenever she questioned what she was doing, that Waxy House had its part to play in the disappearance of Alicia Ellendale and the death of Arthur Doby. And probably also of those other missing ladies: Phyllis Adams, Jane Fish, Mary Grey and Kathleen Mace. But the baby, she guessed, had been laid to rest before any one of them was born.
She looked away, sharp memories of the case she had been involved with a year before, when her god-daughter had died. This truly was a horrible house, able to tap into one’s private miseries.
‘I don’t think this discovery has anything to do with what I’m interested in,’ she said.
‘And that is?’ asked Drimwade, gently, quietly.
‘I think you’ve guessed that for yourself: the disappearance of Alicia Ellendale and the murder of Arthur Doby.’
‘We’ve had mixed stories about the Doby murder,’ said Drimwade. ‘Limping ladies dressed in black … I take it you don’t accept that?’
‘Not entirely.’
‘It’s an interesting idea, though.’ Drimwade had an amused alertness at the back of his eyes that made her wonder: what does he know that I don’t?
‘I read in the report that Doby was a coin collector.’
‘There were coins found in his flat,’ said Charmian, wondering what was coming.
‘I expect you know we investigated a coin-collecting society in Hounslow … Several men from Windsor and Merrywick and a few from Cheasey.’ He paused. ‘In fact, it was the Cheasey contingent that first caused suspicion … After all, you don’t expect a Cheaseyite to be a coin collector, except to steal and spend, of course.’
So what’s he going to tell me next? Charmian asked herself.
‘It was investigated because we thought it was a cover for a porn group … Frank Felyx was on the investigating team.’
‘I’d like to see that report,’ Charmian said grimly. She looked towards Rewley, who had come out of the house to join them. ‘Get it for me, please, as soon as possible.’
He nodded. ‘Sure.’ He gave Superintendent Drimwade an interested look. Clever bugger, he thought, he’s been keeping this back.
The Woman Who Was Not There Page 16