Superfluous Women

by Carola Dunn

  “Any time. And give my best to Miss Belinda when Mrs. Fletcher writes to her at school.”

  “I write to Bel, too!”

  “But not as often, I bet. I know who writes most letters in my family, and it isn’t the men. What are you working on these days?”

  “A murder in Bucks. I found the body, which has complicated matters. I’m sort of officially unofficial on the case.”

  “Ah. Mrs. Fletcher involved, by any chance?”

  “Well, yes.”

  Tom grinned. “Ah!”

  “You know, I was thinking about you last night. What we needed was someone not obviously a cop to mingle in the public bar. Come to that,” he added thoughtfully, “we still do. Also someone to chat with servants in hope of tracing a gardener and a maid. But no, that wouldn’t be at all according to Cocker.”

  “Come on, Chief, you can’t dangle the carrot and then whip it away! Unofficial, you said. What could be more unofficial than me and the missus taking a little holiday in the country? Wouldn’t it be a coincidence if we ended up in the same place as you and Mrs. Fletcher?”

  Alec’s turn to grin: “I can’t stop you, Tom. We’re at Beaconsfield—pretty country. Come on up to the office—no, better not.”

  “Too official-looking?”

  “Much too. It’s just on opening time; let’s go over to the Feathers. I’ll buy you a pint and explain the situation.”

  * * *

  When Alec and Ernie Piper reached the Saracen’s Head, Sally Hedger was at the reception desk.

  “Mrs. Fletcher isn’t back from London yet, sir,” she said to Alec. “You’re staying on?”

  “For the present. I’m not sure how long.”

  “I’ll see if you’re still in the book.” She opened the big ledger. “No, Mr. Whitford wrote you down as checked out. Here’s your key. And Mr…?”

  “Piper,” said Ernie. “Ernest Piper, Detective Sergeant, miss. I don’t know how long I’ll be staying neither, sorry. Likely as long as Mr. Fletcher.”

  “I’ll put you in Twelve, Mr. Piper, next to the Fletchers.” Sally smiled at him. “Stay as long as you want. You’re from London, too?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’ll see the Boots takes up your bags, gentlemen. By the way, Mr. Fletcher, Inspector Underwood has set up at the police station today. It’s just down the road. Turn left outside the door and go on round the corner into Windsor End.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Miss Sutcliffe spent half the morning there. Mr. Underwood asked her not to see Auntie May about cleaning the cellar till after he’s talked to her.”

  “Miss Hedger, I know you sometimes help your aunt. Please don’t offer to do so on this occasion.”

  “Is it as nasty as they’re saying, then?”

  “Who’s saying?”

  “Everyone, but it was Sergeant Harris as started it.”

  “Today?”

  “No, sir, last night, like I told the inspector. I haven’t seen hide nor hair of him today.”

  “Good,” Alec said grimly, hoping Underwood had put the sergeant firmly in his place. “It’s quite as nasty as anything I’ve ever seen. Stay away. If my wife comes in before I return, please tell her I’ll be at the police station.” He almost added, “and she’s not to join me,” but decided that was carrying familiarity a bit too far.

  As he and Ernie turned left into Windsor End, Ernie said, “That young woman seems to know a lot about our business.”

  “Rumours have been flying, as you heard, but more to the point, Daisy has taken a liking to her.”

  “I see.”

  “Sally was very good to Daisy when she was ill.” Alec tried not to sound defensive.

  “Well, that’s different then, isn’t it.” Ernie had always been a staunch admirer and defender of Daisy, even after he at last realised that she wasn’t always right. “A nice young woman. Miss Sutcliffe is not the lady Mrs. Fletcher was at school with, right?”

  “Right. She’s the one who runs the household. But they’re all Daisy’s friends now.”

  “If that isn’t Mrs. Fletcher all over! This is an odd position we’re in, and no mistake, being unofficial. What are you going to do if this DI Underwood starts ordering you about, Chief, and telling you to do things you don’t agree with?”

  Alec had told Ernie all the facts of the case, but hadn’t attempted to explain his tenuously amicable relationship with the local man. “Let’s not borrow trouble,” he temporised. “Here we are.”

  Beaconsfield’s police station was an ugly brick building that also housed the magistrate’s court. DI Underwood had appropriated a good-sized room with a couple of desks. He was the sole occupant, seated at one of the desks, gloomily reading the top page of a neat pile. When Alec and Ernie entered, he sprang up.

  “Chief Inspector, glad to have you back, sir.” He looked enquiringly at Ernie.

  “DS Piper, my right-hand man. Superintendent Crane suggested he might be of assistance.”

  “Happy to meet you, Sergeant.”

  “Likewise, sir.” They shook hands. “I hope I can help.”

  Underwood waved them to a couple of rather battered wooden chairs and sat down on a similar one behind the desk. “The two of you have doubled my detective force, though I have a few PCs and a uniform sergeant at my disposal.”

  “Not Sergeant Harris, I hope,” said Alec.

  “Lord, no! My super gave him what-for for gossiping and he’s lying low. Sergeant Levin and his men are talking to neighbours who weren’t at home when they called yesterday or this morning. They’ll try the shops on Station Road, too. You never know, someone may have seen her with an identifiable companion, or been given an address to forward a final account.”

  “Delivery people may even be able to put a date to her demise—or departure. Any luck with the neighbours?”

  “So far, nothing. With those damned high hedges all along the street, nosy neighbours are scarce! Not one of the residents of Orchard Road admits to having been better acquainted with Mrs. Gray than to say good morning.”

  “Too soon to give up,” Ernie observed cheerfully. “You never know what they’ll remember with a bit of digging.”

  “True, Sergeant. Maybe I’ll set you onto them. Two or three did say they think she’s spent a good deal of time in London since her husband died. So far we haven’t found a local doctor or dentist. They’re cagy about giving information about their patients on the telephone, so DC Pennicuik called on all the Beaconsfield practitioners—both, rather, one of each. Dr. Barnes was her husband’s practitioner, but not hers. I sent Pennicuik to High Wycombe to make the rounds there. If she went to a London doctor or dentist, though…” Underwood looked thoroughly discouraged.

  “Her dentist could be all-important,” said Alec. “Dental records may be the only way to get a positive identification of the victim. Have you seen her lawyer yet? He’s in Beaconsfield, isn’t he?”

  “Mr. Ainsley, yes.” The inspector glanced at the wall clock. Standing, he took his hat from the knob of his chair. “I’ve got an appointment with him in fifteen minutes. He was away for the weekend, his secretary told me, and wasn’t expected back till after lunch. You’ll come with me, won’t you, Mr. Fletcher? Solicitors are always tricky to deal with and he might be a bit more forthcoming to a high-ranking Scotland Yard man.”

  “I’ll come. In the meantime, I suggest Piper go through those reports you have there. He’s a demon for spotting easy-to-overlook details.”

  “Go right ahead, Sergeant. I wish you better luck than I’ve had.”

  A chilly breeze from the north had arisen. As Alec and Underwood passed the Saracen’s Head, Alec was tempted to drop in to find out whether Daisy had returned already. But Underwood was walking briskly, so he resisted temptation. They crossed the main road, and continued down Aylesbury End towards Station Road and the new town.

  The thought of Daisy reminded him of her inexplicable errand. “Was Mrs. Gray a churchgoer?�
�� he asked.

  “I don’t think so. The pastor of the Congregational was sure she’d never attended his services. The rector of St. Mary’s wasn’t at home when I called, but his wife was pretty sure Mrs. Gray wasn’t a member of the congregation, even on an occasional basis.”

  “The rector is the Reverend Mr. Turnbull? I … uh … I ought to tell you that he was picked up at Marylebone station this morning by my wife. Don’t ask me why. I haven’t the slightest idea.”

  “She wouldn’t tell you why?” Underwood asked, disbelieving.

  “She told me on the phone, said she was in a hurry, and hung up before I could ask.”

  “You wouldn’t have mentioned it if you didn’t think it’s something to do with the case.”

  “Nothing so clear-cut. It just occurs to me that the school Cartwright and Miss Leighton teach at is a church school. The rector, one may assume, is one of the governors. Miss Leighton lives in the house where the woman died; she was evasive and emotional when questioned. Cartwright’s behaviour last night needs to be investigated: Who does he think told us lies about him, and why?”

  “And today the reverend gentleman enlists Mrs. Fletcher to escort him about London? Hmm.”

  “There may be absolutely no connection with the case.”

  “But it’s fishy, if you’ll pardon me saying such a thing about your wife.”

  “You won’t be the first, Inspector. No doubt we’ll find out in due course what it’s all about.”

  “We’ve got Miss Chandler hiding something, too, something about this Vaughn chappy who keeps asking after Mrs. Gray, not to mention Miss Sutcliffe claiming he fancied her—Vaughn fancied Mrs. Gray—maybe was even her lover. Here we are.”

  He stopped at a newish brick building separated from the pavement by just a couple of steps. Beside the green door, a brass plate, worn by much polishing as if it had been transferred from an older building, announced the presence within of Ainsley & Barrett, Solicitors and Commissioners for Oaths. Underwood reached for the electric doorbell.

  Alec put a restraining hand on his arm. “If he isn’t aware that we haven’t yet identified the body,” he advised, “don’t be in a hurry to tell him. He’d probably refuse to talk about a living client.”

  “It wasn’t in this morning’s papers. Local rumours all assume the body is Mrs. Gray’s.” He pressed the bell.

  “I expect they’re right.”

  “The surgeon’s doing the autopsy this afternoon. If nothing else, her rings will help.”

  They were ushered straight into the lawyer’s office. Mr. Ainsley was a small, dried-up man, dwarfed by a large room furnished with a huge Victorian desk and heavy glassed bookcases. He didn’t stand when they came in or offer to shake hands.

  Underwood introduced himself, “Detective Inspector Underwood, sir, of the Buckinghamshire Constabulary. And this is my colleague from Scotland Yard, Detective Chief Inspector Fletcher.”

  Ainsley bowed his head in acknowledgement and invited them to be seated. “How may I be of assistance, gentlemen?”

  “I daresay you’ve heard, sir—”

  “My secretary informed me that Mrs. Albert Gray’s lifeless body has been found. Is it true that she was murdered?”

  “The circumstances indicate a case of murder, yes, sir. You’ll appreciate that the more information we have about a victim the better, and nobody we’ve spoken to hereabouts seems to have been more than barely acquainted with Mrs. Gray.”

  Neatly worded, Alec thought; Underwood had avoided stating outright that the body was Mrs. Gray’s, though the solicitor still might raise a stink if he found out it hadn’t yet been officially identified.

  The lawyer nodded. “I was given to understand that her friends are, or were, I should say, mostly in London.”

  “And her family?” Underwood asked. “We have to get in touch with her family.”

  “I fear I cannot help you there. Neither she nor her late husband, when he was alive, ever mentioned her family to me.”

  “She left them nothing in her will?”

  Ainsley steepled his fingers and studied the two detectives over this barricade, not inconsiderable for one of his stature. “Strictly speaking, I am not at liberty to discuss Judith Gray’s will until it is probated. I can tell you this: When I drew it up after Gray’s death, I asked her if she wanted to leave any little remembrances to family members and she refused without explanation. She has … had little enough to leave.”

  “Really? Everyone says Albert Gray was wealthy!”

  “He was.”

  “How long were they married?”

  “About five years. Judith Gray was certainly entitled to provision for life. However, acting on my advice, Albert left most of his property in trust to her, as long as she remained unmarried, with reversion to his son by his first wife, and his son’s descendents per stirpes.”

  Underwood looked baffled.

  “You mean,” Alec intervened, “she enjoyed the income for her lifetime but couldn’t touch the capital?”

  “Precisely.”

  “But she was able to sell the house?”

  “Oh yes. Gray foresaw that she’d want to move to a flat in London.”

  “Or to an unknown address in France?”

  “That neither of us foresaw, I regret to say. Nothing in Gray’s will disallows such a move, so I was obliged to authorise a letter of credit to a French bank, for almost the entire proceeds of the sale.”

  “Drawn on what bank, sir?” Alec put in.

  “The local branch of the County and Midlands. Retrieving the sum from France is going to be complicated, to say the least,” Ainsley added peevishly. “And I have several personal letters waiting for her to send her address. I suppose I’ll have to open them.”

  Underwood’s eyes gleamed. “They’ll probably give us the addresses of some of her friends.”

  “I shall need legal proof of her demise, first.”

  One of those frustrating vicious circles, Alec thought. They needed a close friend to confirm identification of the body but they couldn’t find a friend until … “Does the estate include Mrs. Gray’s ruby ring?”

  “It does, though not her pearls, which she left to a friend.”

  “To a friend!” Underwood exclaimed. “Then you must have that friend’s particulars?”

  “I’ll have my clerk look out the name and address for you.”

  “Thank you, sir. Also Albert Gray’s son…?”

  “Of course, of course. Robert’s the name. Though you may not find him at his London flat. He’s in the Foreign Service, a diplomat. He’s often abroad.”

  “Does he know the provisions of the will?”

  “Yes indeed. You mustn’t think he’s been unprovided for. His father bought the flat for him and set up a small trust so that he will never starve. However, Albert felt a young man should make his own way in the world, as he himself had.” The lawyer took out his pocket watch and opened it.

  Underwood looked at Alec, who said, “Just one more question, sir. You would recognise the ruby ring? Beyond a doubt?”

  “Certainly. Why?”

  “Not having any family members to identify the body, we can do with as many confirmations as possible.”

  “Her stepson will recognise her.” Ainsley let out an unexpected chortle. “With pleasure.”

  The inspector opened his mouth. Alec shook his head. They took their leave, with proper expressions of gratitude, and stopped on the way out to tell the secretary someone would be sent later that afternoon to fetch the promised names and addresses.

  Out on the pavement, Underwood said, “Why…?”

  “He was more helpful than he should have been, than he intended to be, but he would never have explained what he meant by ‘with pleasure.’ We can assume the son didn’t care for his stepmother.”

  “Not to mention, he stands to inherit a lot of money! I’d say he’s suspect number one.”

  “I won’t argue with that.”

/>   “He has a huge motive. The means are right there on the spot. Opportunity is all we need.”

  “And evidence,” Alec said dryly.

  “We didn’t ask about keys.”

  “An excuse to go back. What’s next on the agenda?”

  “What would you suggest?”

  “The bank, don’t you think?”

  “We’d better step on it. It’s nearly closing time, if the Beaconsfield branch is the same as High Wycombe.” Underwood took a plan of the town from his pocket and consulted it.

  The bank was just a couple of minutes’ walk along Station Road. It was a small branch, with just two clerks. Underwood asked to see the manager.

  Over his half spectacles, the clerk frowned at them. “We close in ten minutes,” he pointed out. “The manager won’t be seeing any further customers today.”

  “Police.” Underwood showed his warrant card. Though he spoke quietly, the second clerk and the three customers present turned to stare.

  The frown became a scowl. “No need to announce—” Catching sight of Alec’s raised eyebrows, an expression known to stop even Daisy in her tracks, the clerk pursed his lips. “Very well, I shall ask Mr. Torrance whether he is able to assist you.” He took his time closing down his station, then disappeared into a backroom, from which he quickly reappeared. “Please come this way.”

  Mr. Torrance was stout and red-faced, with bulging eyes. “What do you want?” he demanded aggressively.

  Alec placed his warrant card on the desk in front of the man. “To ask just one question, sir.”

  He picked it up and studied it for a moment. “Scotland Yard. Well?”

  “Mr. Ainsley, the sol—”

  “Yes, yes, I know who Ainsley is. Get to the point.”

  “Mr. Ainsley, as trustee of the estate of the late Albert Gray, provided his widow with a letter of credit for a large sum, drawn on this bank. Has it been presented at a bank, here or abroad, and if so where?”

  “That’s two questions. And now I’ve one of my own. What business is it of yours?”

  “Murder is our business,” Alec said bluntly. “Your evidence could prove that the victim is not Mrs. Gray.”

  Torrance’s eyes popped more than ever. “Mrs. Gray murdered?”