The Missing Wife

by Roger Silverwood

  ‘I don’t see why not. You’ll need to clear it with the Coroner’s office, Mr Grey. If he’ll release the body, it’ll be all right with me.’

  ‘Thank you very much, Inspector. Thank you for your cooperation. I will contact the Coroner and inform the bereaved directly.’

  ‘The Police always wish to cooperate. By the way, Mr Grey, when you have the date and time of the funeral, would you be certain to let me know? We are not friends of the family, but we must send some flowers, mustn’t we?’

  ‘Most charming, Mr Angel. Most delightful. Of course I will, personally.’

  ‘Thank you. Goodbye.’

  He replaced the receiver.

  ‘He’s as smarmy as an MP at election time.’

  He turned to Ahmed still seated quietly by the wall, and, sticking out his chin said, portentously, ‘That’s a funeral we won’t miss!’

  Ahmed’s big eyes opened wider. ‘Yes, sir. Er, I mean, no, sir.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  Angel was becoming rapidly aware that he was making slow progress with the Millhouse case. Time was not on his side. Although he was happy that definite advancement with the Pakistani off-licence robbery and assault had been made, he was far behind with the investigation of the murder of Lady Yvette Millhouse. Prompt action was to be taken.

  At nine o’clock the following morning, he was seated in the plush drawing room at Millhouse Hall with Sir Charles. The large imitation log gas-fired fire roared in front of them and Mrs Moore had placed a large pot of coffee on the table between them.

  ‘Will there be anything else, sir?’ She called to Sir Charles Millhouse from the door.

  ‘No. That’s fine,’ he replied, forcing a smile.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Moore,’ Angel called with a wave.

  She nodded and closed the door.

  Sir Charles was fully dressed and had a red, silk dressing-gown over his shirt and slacks. He looked relaxed and more at ease than he had been at the police station the week previously.

  ‘Now then, Inspector, I’m all yours.’ He said with a big wave of his arm. ‘You know my housekeeper then?’

  ‘I interviewed her at the station on Wednesday.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  The inspector turned over the pages in his small leather-bound notebook and said dourly, ‘I have to tell you, Sir Charles, that, as yet, I have not been able to discover a single motive for the murder of your wife. I can find no reason why she should have been murdered. It is very unusual to find someone as universally well liked as your wife was. Are you able to tell me who would have wanted to do away with her?’

  Sir Charles stretched his long legs out in front him. His hands were clasped together. He shook his bowed head. ‘I cannot, Inspector. I have racked my brain over and over again, but no explanation comes to mind. Everybody loved her. You can’t find anyone who has one word to say against her. It’s a tragedy, a great tragedy. It’s a great personal loss as well.’

  ‘Of course. Of course.’ There was a short pause, then Angel said, ‘I suppose your son, Duncan, inherits all of your estate now?’

  ‘Well, yes. As a matter of fact, he does,’ Sir Charles said, as if he had only just thought of it. Then his jaw tightened. He shook his head. ‘There’s no point in looking in that direction for a murderer, Inspector. Duncan hasn’t got it in him, and besides that, he and Yvette got on extremely well.’

  ‘We have to consider all possibilities, sir.’ Angel spoke gently. ‘As a matter of record, where were you a week last Saturday and Sunday?’

  Sir Charles looked up with raised eyebrows. ‘Here. I had some constituents to see in town on Saturday morning. But, I was here, in the house all day Sunday until about six o’clock when I left for London. I have a flat there.’

  ‘Can anyone verify that, sir?’

  ‘Look here, Inspector,’ Sir Charles began to protest.

  ‘I know it may seem unnecessary, but for the record ... ?’

  Sir Charles ran his hand through his hair. ‘I am sure my chauffeur can verify that, Inspector,’ he replied with a grunt. Then he added, ‘You’ve already seen her. She was here the night you came for that photograph.’

  ‘I’ll need to interview her.’

  ‘Of course. I’ll tell her to get in touch.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. It will save time.’

  ‘Have you found out how my wife died yet, Inspector?’

  ‘Yes, sir. She was asphyxiated. Strangled almost certainly by a man,’ Angel said quietly.

  There was a pause.

  ‘How do you know it was a man?’

  ‘We don’t. The bruises on the throat are consistent with the size of a man’s hands.’

  Sir Charles did not reply. He shook his head slowly. ‘She didn’t drown then?’

  ‘No, sir. Her lungs had no water in them. In fact, we know that a few hours elapsed between her death and her body being dumped in Western Beck.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  Angel hesitated. ‘Are you sure you want to hear this, sir?’

  After a second’s hesitation, Sir Charles said, ‘yes’.

  Angel pursed his lips and pressed on. ‘At death, the heart stops pumping. Circulation of the blood stops, and the simple laws of gravity take over. Blood falls to the lowest part of the body. If left over a certain time in one position, the blood will begin to coagulate. The post mortem indicates that your wife was on her stomach for some time before she reached the reservoir. When in the water, your wife was found floating on her back. It is usual for women in such circumstances to float on their backs.’

  Sir Charles said nothing. He remained seated with his long legs outstretched towards the fire. His hands clasped and his head bowed.

  ‘And we have not found any trace of your wife’s clothes,’ Angel added after a short pause.

  Angel noticed the long cased clock for the first time, ticking in the far corner of the room.

  Sir Charles sighed and anticipating his next question said, ‘No, Inspector. I do not know what she was wearing.’

  Angel decided not to pursue the question. He would ask Mrs Moore who (except for the murderer) appeared to have been the last person to have seen Yvette Millhouse alive.

  ‘I have a few other questions I would like to ask you,’ Angel ventured.

  ‘Very well. Let’s get them out of the way.’

  ‘About your first wife, I’ve had a word with the doctor who was looking after her, and he confirms that she died from natural causes. I understand that she was not ill for long?’

  Sir Charles sighed and replaced his coffee cup on the table. ‘She had not complained of any illness. She died in the garden. It was very sudden. I’m assured that she didn’t suffer in the slightest, which was a comfort.’

  ‘And I wondered what effect it had had on your son, Duncan?’

  He put his hand to his forehead. ‘Of course, Duncan and I were very badly hit. The boy was twenty and away at university. It could have been worse. He could have found her. His mother and he were close. Indeed the three of us were very close. We were a very happy family.’

  Sir Charles poured the coffee into the two cups. ‘But that was five years ago, Inspector. What relevance has that to the death of Yvette?’

  Angel gave the slightest shrug, pursed his lips and then said, ‘Sometimes one death relates to another. I just want to get the overall picture.’

  Sir Charles eased himself forward in his chintz covered armchair and said, ‘I don’t see any comparison between the two deaths. Surely, one was natural and one was murder?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Angel was satisfied to let the observation go as evident, at least, for the time being.

  Sir Charles shook his head.

  The inspector went on. ‘And did you know your late wife long before you married her?’

  Sir Charles’s jaw dropped. ‘Not long. No.’ He leaned forward and looked the policeman square in the eye. ‘Look here, Inspector, are you wanting a complete run down of my private life?
’

  Angel returned the stare. ‘I’m investigating a very serious and unpleasant murder. I’m not at all interested in your private life, sir; only inasmuch as it concerns your wife’s death.’

  Sir Charles eased back in his chair. He ran his hand across his mouth as he considered the policeman’s attitude and his reaction to it.

  Angel eased back a little. ‘I need to know something of your wife’s background. Where she comes from. Who may have been interested in seeing her murdered. I am sorry if my questions upset you, but the information may be vital. I’m sure you see that.’

  ‘I too would like to know who murdered her, and why,’ Sir Charles said grimly. ‘It doesn’t make sense.’ He hesitated and then nodded. ‘Well, Inspector, Yvette was from a French family. From her photograph you will have seen how beautiful she was. She had been a model, and had worked for a French women’s magazine. She spoke perfect English. She came to live in London last year. When I met her she was an interpreter. In my work in the House, from time to time, I needed an interpreter. The agency sent her along. I invited her for a meal. I was very lonely. I’d lived like a monk for five years. After a few weeks, I proposed to her. We were married in August.’ He shrugged. ‘The rest, as they say, is history.’

  ‘I shall need to speak with her relatives. Where can they be contacted?’

  ‘Both her parents were dead. She had no brothers or sisters. She used to get the occasional letter from Paris ... a woman friend ... of long-standing, I think. I can’t remember the name.’

  ‘Definitely a woman?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you have never met her?’

  ‘No. I don’t even know who it is.’

  Angel scribbled something in his notebook. ‘We must find her. Perhaps we could look through her correspondence?’

  ‘Of course.’ Sir Charles waved a hand towards a big writing bureau positioned against the wall between two huge windows facing the long drive. ‘My wife’s correspondence was all in there. Help yourself, Inspector.’

  Angel put down his coffee cup and went over to the piece of furniture and pulled down the front. He quickly searched the pigeon holes and drawers. There were no letters and no address book. Sir Charles remained seated by the fire.

  ‘There’s nothing useful here, sir. Is there any other place she may have kept her letters or addresses?’

  Sir Charles looked mystified. ‘No, Inspector. That is strange.’

  Angel shook his head. ‘Well, if you come across the information, please let me know.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  The inspector returned to the armchair and picked up his leather-bound notebook.

  Sir Charles recrossed his long legs, ran a hand through his hair, looked at his wristwatch and said, ‘Is this going to take much longer, Inspector? I am a Member of Parliament, you know. I am expected in London. I shall have to leave soon.’

  Angel sighed. ‘Well, sir, I suppose we can leave matters there for the time being.’ He closed his notebook and slipped it into his inside pocket.

  ‘Good.’

  ‘I mustn’t put any unnecessary strain on you. By the way, how are you? Are you keeping well?’

  ‘Very kind of you to ask, Inspector. I am, naturally enough, missing my wife, but I am coping. I had an ulcer recently but I am glad to say that I do believe it’s all cleared up now.’

  Angel smiled. ‘Good. I’m very glad to hear it,’ he said and stood up.

  Sir Charles reached behind the settee to the telephone on the sofa table and picked up the handset. ‘Will you see yourself out? Do you mind?’

  ‘Not at all, sir.’ The policeman nodded, crossed the room and opened the drawing room door.

  ‘Thank you, Inspector. And believe me, I appreciate all you’re doing,’ he added as he dialled a number.

  ‘Only doing my job, sir,’ Angel said as he closed the door quietly.

  Then, still holding the doorknob on the outside, he overheard Sir Charles speak into the phone, ‘Melanie, it’s me ... Right. We’re leaving for London. Pick me up straight away.’

  Angel nodded, and turned away from the door.

  *

  The detective inspector drove his car into the only vacant space in the private car park at the side of a block of shops and offices located in a commercial area on the outskirts of Leeds. It was a pseudo Elizabethan building with black painted wooden beams and whitewashed stucco plasterwork decorating the upper half, with nineteen thirties red brick forming the ground floor.

  He parked next to a black Mercedes, the car he had last seen outside Millhouse Hall three nights earlier. Its owner was Duncan Millhouse.

  He walked briskly round the front of the building and only then noticed that, sharing the ground floor of the building there were three other antique shops, a cafe, an office supplies retailer and a tobacconists. The smell of tobacco wafted briefly to his nostrils as he passed the open shop door. He glanced to the side and saw the shop hadn’t any customers. His instinct was to stop, turn back and call in for some cigarettes, but he swiftly turned to his front, tightened his mouth and accelerated towards the door of ‘Northern Antiques’.

  The shop only had a small frontage, located at the end corner site furthest from the car park. At the side of the door was the only window. Above it was painted in white on a black background, ‘Northern Antiques.’ He noticed that metal grilles were fitted and padlocked across all the glass. A few colourful Victorian vases, dishes, a barometer, a shapely three-piece silver tea service and a print of a painting of a man in a boat were displayed on the bare wood window bottom. Grubby cardboard poster cards printed black on white that read, ‘We pay cash for all genuine antiques,’ ‘Best prices paid,’ and ‘Cash waiting,’ were placed conspicuously around the window and the door. Beyond the uncovered back of the window he could see furniture stacked tightly, piece upon piece, some with intricately made curved chair legs sticking up in the air and handsome cabinet door handles showing through bits of carpet and drapes used to protect the furniture surfaces that occupied most of the floor of the shop. A profusion of animals’ heads on wooden plinths, pictures, barometers and mirrors were hanging haphazardly almost covering the whitewashed walls. A glass topped illuminated counter, a rolled top desk, a swivel chair and a tall stool almost filled the remaining floor space. There was a doorway partly covered with a tatty bead curtain at the back of the shop. A man reading a newspaper was leaning against the arch. He was wearing a trilby hat and had a dead cigarette end hanging from his lips.

  Angel could see the back of the head of Duncan Millhouse seated at the roll-top desk, and Susan Millhouse perched on the tall stool. She was wearing a tight red knitted figure hugging dress and her long legs were entwined round the cross supports and legs of the stool which was behind the illuminated glass topped counter. She took a long suck at the cigarette she held at the end of her fingers and blew a big cloud of smoke into the air.

  Angel put his hand on the door handle and walked in. He heard the delicate eastern sound of chimes tinkle over his head.

  The faces of the three occupants looked up. The chimes fell silent as he closed the door.

  Duncan Millhouse swivelled round in his chair and looked across at the big policeman. He didn’t recognize him. He turned back to the desk and carried on writing.

  The man reading the newspaper lifted his eyelids briefly in the direction of the inspector and then returned to reading the paper.

  Susan Millhouse was the only one of the three who acknowledged his arrival. She switched on her best smile and said, ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘Detective Inspector Angel,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Of course it is,’ she replied with a glossy, carmine smile and, putting the lipstick marked cigarette she was smoking on the ashtray on top of the showcase, untangled herself from the high stool and turned to her husband.

  ‘Duncan.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ the man said, standing up and turning round to face the policeman as he pulled
on his suit coat that had been draped on the back of the chair. ‘To what do we owe the pleasure?’

  From his expressionless tone, Angel didn’t think that Duncan Millhouse really thought his visit was a pleasure at all.

  The man, who had been leaning against the arch reading the newspaper, rolled round the archway through the bead curtain and disappeared into the back area of the shop.

  Duncan straightened his suit coat and pulled his tie into position.

  Angel looked down at him. He was one of those men who would always look unkempt even after climbing out of a bath and into expensive, bespoke clothes.

  Angel looked around the little shop. His eyes alighted on the glass topped showcase counter so closely attended by Susan Millhouse. It was sparsely filled with old jewellery in old jewellery boxes. He saw a pair of emerald and diamond earrings and a large emerald and diamond ring similar to those he had seen on the photograph of Lady Yvette Millhouse.

  ‘Mmm. Are those earrings and that ring emeralds and diamonds?’

  Susan Millhouse looked at her husband and then at Angel and said, ‘Yes, Inspector.’

  He looked straight at her. ‘They look familiar.’

  ‘Oh?’ she replied.

  Duncan stepped in quickly. ‘They were my stepmother’s. Yvette wanted us to sell them for her.’

  Angel nodded. ‘I see.’

  Then he looked down at Duncan. ‘Is there anywhere we can talk?’

  ‘Yes. Sure.’ Millhouse replied hesitantly. ‘We can go in the back, I suppose. It’s not very comfortable.’

  He pushed through the scruffy curtain and called. ‘Tom!’

  The man who had been reading the newspaper appeared from behind a high stack of big dark stained and varnished chairs and tables. He nodded and shuffled through the curtain into the shop, carrying the newspaper and still bearing the finished cigarette end between his lips. He coughed a few times, turned away from Angel and put his hand to his mouth as he passed by. He took up a position on the high stool by the glass topped showcase.

  Millhouse held the curtain back. ‘If you would come on through, Inspector? Tom’ll be all right. Susie you’d better come, too.’