Superfluous Women

by Carola Dunn

  “Mr. Fletcher was visiting friends, sir, with his wife.” The super kept his tone even, but the AC winced perceptibly at the mention of Daisy. “He discovered a body hidden on the premises, so he is a vital witness. Nonetheless, the detective inspector in charge has been treating him more like a colleague than a witness, let alone a suspect.”

  “You confirm that, Fletcher?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And has the inspector good reason not to regard you as a suspect?”

  “I’ve never in my life been near the house before, sir, nor met the ladies.”

  “Ladies?”

  The super fielded that one. “Three spinsters sharing lodgings, I gather, sir.”

  “These surplus females turn up under every stone,” the AC commented.

  Alec held his peace, with a mental apology to the ladies in question.

  “In the circumstances,” said Crane, “Buckinghamshire hesitates to put in an official request for DCI Fletcher specifically. But as he’s already familiar with the case, they won’t have to waste time briefing him.”

  “True.” The AC thought for a moment. “Mrs. Fletcher is also a witness, I take it?”

  “Yes, sir,” Alec admitted reluctantly. “I doubt she’ll be called at the inquest, though.”

  “And does the local chap consider her a suspect?”

  “Not seriously, sir, I’m pretty sure. He can’t disregard her altogether. She was in Beaconsfield for a week, and had previously called on her friends. I can’t see how she could be suspected of the murder itself, but accessory after…”

  Simultaneously, Crane and the AC sighed.

  “You’ll have to go,” said the AC. “As unofficially as I can manage it, which means the local man remains in charge and you are helping him, not running the investigation. Understood?”

  “Understood, sir.”

  “See to it, please, Mr. Crane.” The AC nodded dismissal.

  Alec felt he’d got off lightly. At least they hadn’t openly blamed him for Daisy’s involvement, though, in spite of the evidence of the past, they appeared to harbour a lingering feeling that he was able to control her.

  Walking at his side, the super said, “I didn’t think he’d go for it. You’re going to have to watch your step, Fletcher. This Bucks DI may think he wants you holding his hand or looking over his shoulder, but don’t count on it lasting. Good luck.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Recalling Underwood’s blushing baby-faced detective constable, he ventured: “I’d like to take my sergeant if I may. He’s good at the sort of detail work provincial forces often can’t cope with, and the sooner I get this business cleared up, the happier we’ll all be.”

  “Piper? I suppose so, as the villains seem to be quiescent for a change. Mind, if anything blows up I might recall him. Might recall you, too, come to that. If they want it unofficial, they shall have it unofficial. Mrs. Fletcher all right, is she?”

  “Yes, thanks.” Or so he assumed. He should have wakened her and asked her plans. He didn’t even know whether she was staying in Beaconsfield or had come home.

  First things first: he went to tell DS Ernie Piper to prepare for an out-of-town assignment.

  “Train or car, Chief?”

  “I’m not sure yet. It’s an easy journey by train, but the local inspector doesn’t have a motor assigned to him at present, so it might be useful. Get me my house on the phone, would you? Daisy, if she’s there.”

  In his brief absence, another stack of papers had appeared on his desk. He started looking through them while Ernie put the call through.

  “It’s DS Piper, miss. The Chief would like to speak to Mrs. Fletcher if she’s at home.” He listened a moment, then covered the mouthpiece with his hand. “Mrs. Fletcher’s just leaving, Chief. Halfway down the front steps.”

  Alec picked up his receiver. “Elsie?” he said to the parlourmaid. “Ask Mrs. Fletcher to come back, please.”

  “She’s in a bit of a hurry, sir, but I’ll tell her.”

  A moment later, Daisy was on the line. “Darling? I can’t stop to chat. I promised Mr. Turnbull I’d meet him at Marylebone.”

  “Who?”

  “The rector.”

  “What? Why?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to find out. Are you being sent back to Beaconsfield?”

  “Yes. I hope you’re staying here.”

  Daisy laughed. “I got a day return.”

  “You don’t have to use the return half.”

  “They’re expecting me. I can’t let them down. Nor Mr. Turnbull. Oh, by the way, did you know Mr. Gray had a son?”

  “Daisy, how the—”

  “I must run, darling. I’ll see you at the Saracen. Toodle-oo!”

  SEVENTEEN

  Miranda had greeted Daisy with, “Is Mama all better now?”

  “Kiss Mama better.” Oliver had suited action to his words and they both smothered Daisy with kisses.

  Nurse Gilpin grudgingly admitted that they had missed her while she was ill, but they didn’t seem to realise how long she’d been missing from their lives. It was nearer three weeks than a fortnight since the doctor had forbidden any contact.

  She read to Miranda, who absorbed books like a sponge, helped Oliver put together his wooden train tracks, and played hide and seek with both of them. Then she took them and the dog for a walk on Hampstead Heath. On the way back, they stopped at the garage in the alley to get her Gwynne Eight.

  The twins were thrilled to ride in the car for the twenty yards back to the house. Daisy turned them over to Mrs. Gilpin and made ready to depart, only to be called back to speak to Alec on the phone.

  After talking to him, Daisy drove down the hill to Marylebone, the smallest of the great London terminals. The rector came out just as she pulled up in front. Spotting her, he waved away a hopeful cabbie and hurried over.

  “My dear Mrs. Fletcher, this is very kind.”

  “Hop in, Mr. Turnbull. We mustn’t dawdle if we’re going to catch both our targets during their lunch hour. Miss Perry in Surbiton first, I think, and then Miss Mason in Croydon. They’re quite close to each other.”

  They crossed the river by the Hammersmith Bridge and soon reached Surbiton, so quintessentially suburban that it was sometimes referred to as Suburbiton. Daisy stopped at a newsagent’s to get directions to the school. They arrived at ten to one, perfect timing.

  The building was much larger than the Beaconsfield school. With more people about, Miss Perry ran little risk of finding herself alone and cornered in her classroom by an objectionable superior.

  The clergyman went in search of the head teacher, leaving Daisy to wait on a chair in the entrance hall. She hoped she’d be sent for but doubted it. Miss Perry was unlikely to desire the presence of a complete stranger at what must be at best an awkward interview, even a stranger who was young, female, and sympathetic, as Mr. Turnbull would surely inform her.

  A couple of minutes passed, then the din of feet and childish voices came from somewhere beyond the hall. Gradually the noise faded. A couple more minutes passed. Evidently Miss Perry didn’t need Daisy. She got up and went to study the row of portraits on the other side of the hall. The local dignitaries hanging there were notable only in their fondness for a wide variety of beards and whiskers, and the lack of any trait other than worthiness in their expressions.

  At last the rector returned. He, too, looked worthy. He also looked worried, yet with a touch of complacency.

  “You were right? Miss Perry had the same experience?”

  “Yes. I wish I’d been wrong. How could I be so blind?”

  “How could you guess, if she didn’t tell anyone?” Daisy consoled him. She took his arm, and gently steered him towards the front door. “I presume, like Vera, she didn’t think she’d be believed?”

  “She left us at the end of the spring term. Even now, she’s very upset and was reluctant to speak out. I had to tell her about Miss Leighton, in strict confidence of course, and point o
ut that she might save future victims from the same … unpleasantness.” He stood by the car, lost in thought.

  “Do get in, Mr. Turnbull, or we’ll be late.”

  Climbing in, he observed, “The two are rather alike, Miss Perry and Miss Leighton, both diffident. Timid, even, though they cope well enough with children.”

  Daisy pressed the starter. The Gwynne obligingly started on the first try. Engaging first gear, she wondered aloud, “Was either of them timid before being cornered by Mr. Cartwright?”

  The rector turned his head to stare at her. “You think not?”

  “I haven’t the foggiest. Do you remember interviewing them?” She glanced at him.

  His brow wrinkled in an effort to recall. “Not clearly, I’m afraid. Just that they both had excellent references.”

  “They were probably a bit nervous about the interview, anyway. What is Miss Mason like?”

  “Rather different, as I recall. More … more poised, and determined. When she left, I concluded that she was moving on to a better position, not fleeing in distressing circumstances.”

  “What a pity!” Daisy was disappointed. One statement confirming Cartwright’s actions wouldn’t be half as convincing as two.

  “However,” the clergyman added humbly, “I failed to observe any signs of distress in Miss Perry when she tendered her resignation, so my ability to judge is unreliable, at best.”

  Daisy made soothing sounds. Being the sort of person people confided in, though often interesting, was sometimes exceedingly embarrassing.

  She drove on through the Surrey suburbs and the short, shrinking stretches of countryside between what had once been villages. Croydon now sprawled in all directions, in part because of the aerodrome. When they reached the outskirts, Daisy again stopped at a newsagent’s.

  “What’s the name of the school, Mr. Turnbull?”

  “The Old Palace school.”

  “I’ve heard of it. It has an excellent reputation. In fact, we thought of sending my stepdaughter there. After teaching infants in a village school, Miss Mason does seem to have moved onward and upward.”

  “So this part of our journey may be in vain.” He went into the shop and returned with directions.

  The school was in the ancient summer palace of the Archbishops of Canterbury. Though the buildings had been through hard times in the nineteenth century, much remained as it had stood for centuries. The medieval great hall, through which Daisy and the clergyman were escorted, was a marvel.

  However, the room they were shown into was nothing out of the ordinary. Daisy had offered to stay outside, but Mr. Turnbull, demoralised by his encounter with Miss Perry, begged her to stay with him. “Unless Miss Mason specifically asks you to leave.”

  Miss Mason came in. She was younger than Daisy, tall and svelte, not exactly beautiful, but striking. Even without makeup, doubtless forbidden by the school, she looked well groomed, something Daisy struggled to attain.

  “Hello, Mr. Turnbull.” Her voice was self-confident and warmly welcoming. “How very pleasant—and unexpected—to see you again.” Eyebrows raised, she turned towards Daisy. “And…?”

  “Mrs. Fletcher, who has kindly acted as my chauffeur.”

  The ladies exchanged polite greetings.

  “And what brings you to Croydon, sir?”

  “Er … hm…” Mr. Turnbull sent Daisy a pleading glance. He appeared to regret having embarked on his voyage of discovery.

  Daisy was sure forthrightness was the way to approach Miss Mason. “The rector finds himself obliged to ask a rather personal question. If you’d rather I wasn’t present, I’ll take myself off, but…”

  The schoolmistress’s eyebrows rose again, almost as expressive as Alec’s. “But? How intriguing. Do ask, Mrs. Fletcher, and then I’ll decide—whether to answer the question and whether to answer in your presence.”

  “Fair enough. We—Mr. Turnbull, that is—has just found out that both the infant teachers who succeeded you at St. Mary’s suffered harassment—” Daisy glanced at the rector to make sure he approved of the word; he nodded. “By a certain person.”

  “That snake, Cartwright,” Miss Mason said calmly. “I should have known if I didn’t report him, he’d try it again. I rapped his knuckles for him, you can be sure. And that’s another thing I dislike about him: He’s too free with the ruler and the cane for my taste.”

  “It was because of him you left?” the rector ventured.

  “Partly. I could handle him. But the young man I was seeing at the time was insanely jealous. I shouldn’t have mentioned it to him. He took to following Cartwright. The old goat started making up to a young—youngish woman married to a rich old man, I gather, so my young man stopped worrying about him.”

  Daisy wanted to pursue the subject of the youngish woman, but Mr. Turnbull was so appalled, she didn’t like to.

  “Scandalous!” He gasped. “I can hardly believe my ears.”

  “She sent him packing, apparently. As I did my young man. I didn’t like his possessiveness. Another reason to move on. I always intended to end up here eventually. My aunt is the headmistress and she promised me a place once I had some experience. When she heard what had happened, she hurried things along.”

  “My dear Miss Mason, I’m so very sorry—”

  “Don’t be, Mr. Turnbull. I’m quite happy here. Is there anything else? My children will be returning to the classroom any moment.”

  “We won’t keep you. Allow me to thank you most sincerely for your frankness.”

  “I regret not having spoken at the time.” In a low voice, for Daisy’s ears alone, she added dryly, “I hope I shan’t regret having changed my mind at this late date.”

  Daisy felt guilty. Some, at least, of what she had heard she must pass on to Alec, and once in the hands of the police, one could never be sure where information would lead. Miss Mason hadn’t been warned that she was on the periphery of a case of murder.

  Warning her, Daisy was sure, would have constituted interference from the police point of view. Already it was going to be touchy deciding what she had to tell them and what could be decently suppressed.

  Mr. Turnbull preceded the ladies to open the door for them. Behind his back, Daisy whispered, “I don’t suppose you’d like to tell me the name of the youngish woman?”

  “Oh, something very ordinary. Grove? Or Green, or—Gray, that’s it.”

  Daisy hoped she didn’t look too obviously triumphant. “And your friend who saw Cartwright visiting her?”

  Miss Mason shook her head. “No, we may have parted brass rags, but that wouldn’t be fair. Sorry.”

  All the same, Daisy mused as she and the rector returned to the car, she had news for Alec. She could explain why Vera had been evasive when questioned and whom Cartwright had in mind when he asserted that “she” was lying about him. She could also offer a motive for Cartwright to have killed Mrs. Gray.

  If necessary, the police should be able to trace Miss Mason’s jealous boyfriend and get his evidence that the widow had rejected the schoolmaster. Cartwright was apparently a singularly unsuccessful would-be philanderer.

  He had a propensity for violence. Both Vera and Miss Mason had remarked on his penchant for beating the children in his class. He was impulsive. He hadn’t waited to find out what the police were investigating before he rushed to try to exculpate himself. If Daisy had a list of suspects, he’d be at the top.

  “What’s Mrs. Cartwright like, Mr. Turnbull?” Daisy asked, starting the car and turning left into the street.

  “I was just thinking about her. A difficult woman, I’m afraid. But I mustn’t speak ill of her; no doubt she has her reasons. And besides, it’s no excuse for Cartwright’s shocking behaviour.”

  “Very true. Oh dear, I think we’re going the wrong way. I’d better concentrate on driving.”

  They had to circle around to get onto the right road. From that point it was fairly straightforward. Daisy’s thoughts wandered again.

&n
bsp; Her whole edifice, she realised, was based on the premise that the body was Mrs. Gray’s. Surely she must be? After a fortnight or more, anyone else would have been reported missing.

  Unless—Could Mrs. Gray have had a prospective travelling companion? Suppose they had planned to set out from Cherry Trees for the Continent, had quarrelled, and Mrs. Gray had pushed her friend down the cellar steps. In that case, the victim would not be missed for who could guess how long?

  But that line of speculation was equally fruitless until the corpse had been identified. Daisy was going round in mental circles, and if she didn’t watch where she was driving, she’d be going round in literal circles again.

  EIGHTEEN

  As Alec was leaving the Yard, he heard Tom Tring’s voice and glanced into the room he was passing.

  “Tom!”

  “Hello, Chief. I just popped in for a chat.”

  The officer with whom he was chatting developed a sudden diligent interest in the papers on his desk. DS Tom Tring, retired, came out into the passage, closing the door behind him. His huge bulk was clad in one of his more subdued suits, a dark grey and forest green check. The bald dome of his head was as shiny as ever and his face no longer had the greyish tinge of permanent tiredness it had worn his last few weeks in the force.

  “It’s good to see you, Tom. Can’t stay away from the old place?”

  “Retiring’s harder than you’d think, for both me and the missus. She’s got her ways, and I try to stay out from under her feet.”

  “I expect it will grow easier with time. Most things do.”

  “I haven’t got enough to do, that’s the beginning and end of it. You know how it is on the job, Chief. You can’t start an allotment garden or join a bowling team or suchlike because you may be called away any moment. How are my godson and Miss Miranda?”

  “Flourishing. You and Mrs. Tring must come and see them one of these days.”