Superfluous Women

by Carola Dunn

  Having provided the last, Willie begged, “Please don’t talk to the partners before I’ve had a chance to tell them what’s happened!”

  “We may not have to see them at all, certainly not before you go to work tomorrow. I’ll have more questions for you at a later date. We’ll wrap it up for now, though. Thank you.”

  “Not at all, it’s been interesting. By the way, I really must have my business suit for tomorrow.”

  “If you and the other ladies each write a list of necessities, I’ll see what I can do. Pennicuik, fetch Miss Sutcliffe now, with apologies for keeping her waiting.”

  Daisy was half eager to see whether any new information would emerge, half dying to go and have a drink with Alec. She doubted Isabel would need support any more than Willie had; on the other hand, her chair was much more comfortable than anything in the bar. She had sunk into its embrace to the point where getting out would be quite a struggle. “Would you like me to stay again?” she asked,

  “Why not?” said the inspector sardonically.

  From the doorway, Willie waved to Daisy. Pennicuik followed her out.

  Underwood cocked an eyebrow at Daisy.

  “Nothing,” she said regretfully. “I hope Alec doesn’t hit the roof when he finds out I’m attending your interviews, especially as he isn’t.”

  “It’s highly irregular. Please blame it on your friends, not on me!”

  “Don’t worry, I will. I just wish I was being more helpful. I’m glad you didn’t ask Vera about identifying the body.”

  “It’s a nasty job to ask anyone to do, even when the person is strong-minded and the body’s in reasonably good shape. Failing a belated ‘missing person’ alert that fits, I expect we’ll have to rely on the cleaning woman. Not the most desirable kind of identification, always supposing she agrees to do it and doesn’t go off into a fit of hysterics. Which,” he added, his thin face gloomy, “she probably will.”

  Isabel arrived. She had no objection to Daisy’s presence. “Vera asked me to thank you for staying with her, Daisy. She was too shattered to remember when she was allowed to leave the room.” She glared at Underwood.

  Daisy jumped to his defence. “Not the inspector’s fault,” she said.

  “Perhaps you can tell me, Miss Sutcliffe, why Miss Leighton was upset when I asked whether she had heard any gossip at school?”

  “Well, she disapproves of gossip on principle. But she really was pretty upset when she came back, and I’ve never known her react so strongly before.”

  “Talking about murder and finding decayed bodies isn’t exactly soothing to start with,” Daisy pointed out. “Besides, she’s afraid gossip about it will result in her losing her job.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Fletcher. She told you that?”

  “She told all of us,” said Isabel, while Daisy was examining Underwood’s gratitude for sarcasm. In her experience, detectives were sparing of thanks, especially directed to her. He seemed sincere. She decided she rather liked him.

  All the same, she kept quiet as he went on questioning Isabel.

  After the formalities of name, past addresses, dates, and so forth, and her description of the afternoon’s events, the inspector said, “You’ve spent a good deal of time in the house for the past two weeks. You never noticed a smell in the passage by the cellar door?”

  “Yes, but it wasn’t the smell of death and decay. Mrs. Hedger, our char, scrubs it with carbolic every time she comes. I’ve told her she’s overdoing it. She insists that what with the drains and my coming in from the garden with manure on my boots, it’s necessary. She’s one of those people it’s a waste of time to argue with. Stubborn and set in her ways as they come. I wouldn’t have chosen her, but she did for Mrs. Gray before so it was easiest just to keep her on.”

  “Not so easy to find cleaning women these days,” Underwood sympathised. “Mr. Fletcher also smelled carbolic. Which days does Mrs. Hedger oblige?”

  “Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.”

  “Today’s Sunday, and the carbolic smell was still evident. No wonder none of you noticed any odour that escaped from the cellar. You have no other servants?”

  “No. That reminds me, though. The Grays had a live-in cook-housekeeper and lady’s maid, and a full-time gardener. I can’t recall their names, but the gardener recommended a jobbing gardener to me. Chap called Lassiter. Presumably Lassiter would know the name of the man who sent me to him, if not where to find him.”

  “This Lassiter’s a local man?”

  “I don’t know his address. I’ve only needed him once. I left a message at the newsagents in Station Road, as the other man advised, and Lassiter turned up next morning to do some digging for me.”

  “We’ll find him.” Underwood made a note. “Miss Sutcliffe, as well as spending more time in the house than either of your friends do, I gather you saw more of Mrs. Gray in the course of buying the house. Tell me about her.”

  “Medium height, good figure, dark hair, bobbed but longer than mine and expensively waved,” Isabel said promptly. “Thirty-five or so at a guess, but looked younger. She dressed well, expensively: nothing fancy that I saw, just a bit too smart for a country town, in my opinion. So was her makeup. I don’t use the stuff. Not much jewellery, but what she wore looked good. Not that I’m much of a judge. Usually pearls, both necklace and earrings, and a largish ruby on her ring finger.”

  “You have an observant eye, Miss Sutcliffe.”

  “Running a boarding house—or private hotel if you want to doll it up—teaches you to notice people.”

  “I daresay. Have you heard any gossip about her from the neighbours? I take it you’re not as unalterably opposed to gossip as Miss Leighton.”

  Isabel grinned. “Heavens no. As the neighbours have yet to call, they’re no help. I did find out a bit from Mrs. Gray herself and from the house agent.”

  “Oh? What did they have to say?”

  “The agent told me she was much younger than her husband, and his second wife. Albert Gray had plenty of brass.” She pronounced the word with the short Yorkshire vowel. “He was tight-fisted, though. His only extravagance was his wine cellar. He’d pay for her fancies to a point and then shut the spigot. She wasn’t at all happy. Mr. Vaughn had no qualms over gossiping about his client.”

  “You didn’t like him,” Underwood stated.

  “Not much, I admit. I wouldn’t have chosen him to deal with, but as it happens he’s a relative of one of Willie’s bosses, who recommended him.”

  “Ah. Nor you didn’t like Mrs. Gray?”

  “Discontent sours people, don’t you think? Even though he’d died—last April, I think it was—and she’d inherited a fortune, she stayed sour. That was my impression. She told me herself she’d been married to a miser and couldn’t wait to get out of the place. A long holiday abroad was her immediate aim, before deciding where to live.”

  “Did she mention where exactly? ‘Abroad’ is a big place.”

  “Paris to start with—Albert Gray had refused to spring for a holiday in Gay Paree. Then she was going to stay with friends on the Riviera, possibly followed by Italy.”

  “No names for the friends?” he asked unhopefully. “Or which Paris hotel?”

  “She had no reason to mention them as there wasn’t the slightest chance I’d know them.”

  “Cannes? Monte Carlo?”

  Isabel shook her head. “Just ‘the Riviera.’ Boasting.”

  “That sort.” Underwood nodded his understanding. “If you remember anything else about her destination…”

  “I’ll let you know, of course. Not likely, though.”

  “Did she have any relatives?”

  “Not that she mentioned, but why should she?”

  “All right. Can you tell me any more about Vaughn?”

  “Not about his relatives, other than the one I mentioned, who’s in Willie’s firm. He’s Donald Vaughn’s brother-in-law, I think she said. Vaughn married his sister. Vaughn’s pushy, but I suppo
se house agents have to be. Flashy and full of himself. A bit of a bounder, perhaps. I don’t want to traduce him. You’ll talk to him yourself, Inspector?”

  “Most certainly.”

  “You may decide I’m talking through my hat.” She hesitated. “It seemed to me there was something between them, Vaughn and Mrs. Gray. Something more … personal than his finding a buyer for her house.”

  “Indeed!”

  “Nothing definite. Nothing I could swear to.”

  “A place for me to start. You’re a detective’s dream, Miss Sutcliffe.” They smiled at each other.

  At once, Daisy wondered if there was a possibility of “something between them” in the future. Not much chance. At Underwood’s age, he was probably married, and Isabel would remain a surplus woman.

  Had Mrs. Gray been a member of the superfluous ranks? Had she, like Daisy, beaten the odds to find a husband? Unlike Daisy, though, it didn’t sound as though she had found love, or even contentment, far less happiness.

  More to the immediate point, had she found death in a dark cellar?

  ELEVEN

  Alec had taken a seat in the corner of the saloon bar most distant from the bar itself. Two wooden settles against the walls met in the corner, and two spindle-back chairs occupied the other two sides of the small table, its top marred by countless rings in spite of a scattering of coasters. Like most police officers, Alec preferred to sit where he could see the whole room, especially the entrance, whether or not he was expecting someone—or trouble.

  He had opted for a pint of home-brewed bitter rather than whisky. He might be glad of a clear head later. DI Underwood was sure to want to talk to him again. After a gulp of the excellent brew, he nursed his beer and sat back to watch and listen.

  His fellow imbibers looked to be a moderately prosperous lot, from various walks of life: tradesmen, clerks, farmers, commercial travellers, a professional or two. There were two women, staid matrons obviously out with their husbands.

  Nowhere appeared the excitement inevitable if any were aware of the murder.

  Sergeant Harris had struck Alec as a man not to be trusted to hold his tongue, but these were not the sort of people to whom he’d chatter. His friends would be in the public bar, where Alec would stick out like a sore thumb. Tom Tring, his sergeant of many years, would be the perfect man to find out what was being talked about there, but Tom had retired just a month ago. Not to mention that this was Underwood’s job. Alec was finding it deuced difficult to keep the fact in mind.

  The saloon bar drinkers were not likely to be the sergeant’s confidants, but they were the sort the Grays might have consorted with. Alec, in his oft-assumed guise as a civil servant, was more one of them than DI Underwood was likely to be. Chatting to them, he might learn something useful about the Grays.

  So Alec was welcoming when a newly arrived couple, after greeting two or three people and glancing round the room for seats, came over to his table.

  “D’you mind if we sit here?” the man said. “Quite a crowd tonight.”

  “My pleasure.”

  “Thanks. The usual, Alice? What’s yours?” he asked Alec as he pulled out a chair to seat his companion.

  “Bitter, thanks. But I’m not in need.” He hoisted his half-full tankard.

  “Get it while you can. A few more crammed in here and you won’t be able to catch Mickey’s eye for love nor money. Well, money might work.…” He went off to battle the swarm at the bar, shaking hands here and there as he went.

  “I’m Alice Barnes,” the woman introduced herself. She was fiftyish, round faced with smile lines, dressed in good but well-worn clothes. “That’s my husband, Brian, that was. He won’t be back for at least twenty minutes.”

  “Fletcher. It’s obvious Mr. Barnes is on good terms with everyone here.”

  “It’s Doctor. Most of them are Brian’s patients, or their wives and children are,” Mrs. Barnes said dryly.

  Alec wanted to ask whether the Grays had been Barnes’s patients. However, if he gave in to temptation, the inspector would have every right to be incensed.

  The doctor’s wife continued, “You’re not from these parts, Mr. Fletcher?”

  “London. Just visiting. An old friend of my wife’s moved here recently, from the North.”

  “Ah, so you’ve escaped the reunion. Sensible man. I don’t believe I’ve met anyone who’s recently moved here from the North.…” She paused invitingly.

  Alec saw no reason not to oblige. “Miss Chandler. She and two friends have bought Cherry Trees, in Orchard Road.”

  “Oh, yes, someone did mention that three ladies had moved in. About a fortnight ago, wasn’t it? You’ll think it disgraceful, Mr. Fletcher, that I haven’t called on them yet. I’m afraid I’m very bad about introducing myself to newcomers. I tend to wait until I meet them at someone else’s house. I’m a nurse, you see, and though I don’t work full-time, I’m kept pretty busy in Brian’s practice.”

  “Two of them are working women, so they’ll quite understand.”

  “Now I remember. Teachers, aren’t they?”

  “One is. Miss Chandler is an accountant, duly chartered.”

  “Is she! How enterprising. One is reminded that until the Crimean War, nursing was not considered a suitable occupation for a respectable female. It seems a pity that it takes war to persuade men of our capabilities. I really must make Miss Chandler’s acquaintance.”

  Hoping he’d been helpful in breaking the ice for Daisy’s friends, Alec was afraid he was merely meddlesome. As a policeman he ought to know better, when they might yet prove to be involved in the murder. But he’d taken a liking to the three women, bravely making their own way in what was still a man’s world. It was one of Daisy’s attributes that had first drawn him to her.

  The doctor returned, two tankards in one hand and a sherry glass in the other. He set them down as his wife introduced Alec, and they shook hands.

  “From London,” Mrs. Barnes added.

  “Then you won’t be interested in the latest local rumour.”

  “Brian, you can’t say that and just stop there,” she protested. “Mr. Fletcher won’t mind.” She cast a questioning glance at Alec.

  “Not at all,” Alec said, hoping he looked politely resigned, not all agog. The subject of the rumour was not difficult to guess.

  “Apparently the police have taken over Whitford’s snug.”

  “That bumptious Sergeant Harris? What’s wrong with the police station?”

  “It’s an inspector from High Wycombe, dear. He’s interviewing witnesses.”

  “Witnesses to what?”

  The doctor shrugged. “No one seems to know.”

  “A decent rumour should have more meat to it,” Mrs. Barnes complained, laughing. “Don’t you agree, Mr. Fletcher?”

  “Some rumours are best fleshed out,” he said cautiously, thinking of those that aid the police. “Others are better left to die.”

  “Unmourned,” Dr. Barnes agreed. “This one, I suspect, is true, and when the details are revealed in the fullness of time, we may well wish it wasn’t.”

  “A police investigation is bound to bring bad news to someone.” His wife firmly changed the subject. “Now that’s enough of that. Mr. Fletcher has been telling me about his wife’s friend who recently moved here. Miss Chandler. She sounds like an interesting—”

  “And here she comes,” Alec interrupted, standing and waving as Willie entered the bar and looked round.

  “Oh, good!” Mrs. Barnes exclaimed. “You will introduce us, won’t you?”

  Willie’s face lit up as she saw Alec. She started to come over, but hesitated as she realised he was not alone.

  It was not the best time for her to meet the Barneses, but once she had appeared it was inevitable. Alec waved again, wondering where Daisy was and what she was up to. He couldn’t ask Willie in the presence of the others.

  The doctor stood up as she arrived. Alec made the introductions, and Barnes asked, “
What are you drinking, Miss Chandler?”

  “My turn,” said Alec, seating Willie, though he didn’t really want to leave her alone with them.

  “Not at all, it’s still my round.”

  Willie looked as if she was in need of a brandy, but she glanced at Mrs. Barnes’s glass and opted for sherry. The doctor went off. He wouldn’t be gone long: The crowd was thinning as dinnertime approached. With luck, the Barneses would soon join the exodus.

  The ladies were making small talk, Willie careful of what she said, Mrs. Barnes with apparently genuine friendliness.

  “I hope you’ll enjoy living here,” said the latter, “you and your friends. I’m looking forward to meeting them. And to making your wife’s acquaintance, Mr. Fletcher.” She turned back to Willie. “Mrs. Fletcher will be joining us, I imagine?”

  “I … I’m not sure. She’s … rather tired. Thank you,” she added as Dr. Barnes returned with her drink, saving her from further explanation. Or further evasion, Alec thought, trying not to show his misgivings.

  “What a pity. Some other time, perhaps. London’s not far, and we have excellent train service. It’s very easy to get up to town for concerts and the theatre.”

  “Not to mention shopping,” the doctor teased.

  “Well, the choice here is very limited,” Mrs. Barnes said indignantly, “and not much better in High Wycombe. I don’t go shopping in London very often. Have you had a chance to look round our shops here, Miss Chandler?”

  “Not much. I’d be glad to know which you recommend.”

  They chatted for a few more minutes, then Mrs. Barnes told her husband to finish off his beer, as they had to go. “I left jacket potatoes in the oven,” she explained, searching through her handbag. “Bother, I’ve left my diary at home, but I’ll be in touch when I have it beside me.”

  The Barneses left. As soon as they were out of earshot, Alec turned to Willie.

  She spoke first, gloomily. “Not a chance, when news gets about. It’s a pity; I liked them.”