Superfluous Women

by Carola Dunn

  Goggling at Alec, Vaughn started up from the depths of an easy chair, spilling the drink in his hand on his dress trousers. “You!” he yelped. “You’re a policeman?”

  “I am. I’ve got a few questions I’d like to put to you. Is there somewhere we can go?”

  “Stay here,” commanded Mrs. Vaughn. She was a formidable figure of a woman, large, well-corseted in her plum-coloured velvet evening frock, well-coiffed and discreetly made-up, and wearing what appeared to be good jewellery. A few years older than her husband, Alec guessed. “Donald has nothing to say that cannot be said in my presence.” Her voice had no trace of the local accent.

  “The front room,” Vaughn gabbled. “It’ll be better, Myra. We won’t disturb you. This way, Mr.… Inspector.” He scurried towards the four policemen, who parted to let him through the door.

  Alec followed, with Pennicuik bringing up the rear, as arranged earlier. Ernie Piper stayed with Underwood and Mrs. Vaughn. Alec hoped they could cope with her.

  The “front room” had probably been the sitting room of the old house. Now it was furnished as an office, rather feminine in style, with an inlaid escritoire, a couple of dusky-rose plush armchairs, and some near-Hepplewhite side chairs, including one at the desk. Alec glanced into the glass-fronted bookcase and saw fashionable novels where one might expect calfskin-bound editions of venerable classics—Michael Arlen, Charles Morgan, Woolf, Waugh, and Rosamond Lehmann’s succès de scandale, Dusty Answer.

  Alec sat down on the desk chair. It wasn’t quite the position of power offered by a seat behind a good solid kneehole desk, but it would do. Vaughn looked round vaguely before sinking into an armchair. He remembered the drink still in his hand, what was left of it, and emptied the glass at one gulp. Pennicuik took his stance by the door, slightly to Vaughn’s rear.

  With a gesture at the bookcase, Alec asked, “Yours?”

  “No, I’m not a reader. Besides, I don’t have time. I often have to work in the evenings, and when I’m free, as often as not she drags me up to town to rotten highbrow plays, or concerts. And she doesn’t like me going to the pub.” Once begun, his grievances poured out. “She has pots of money, but she’s so stingy I have to work if I want any sort of life. I’m a good salesman. I’d do much better as a commercial traveller, but no, she wants me right here under her bloody thumb. I tell you, I’m sick of it!”

  If the victim were Myra Vaughn, the chief suspect would not be far to seek. A motive for killing Judith Gray was less clear-cut.

  “You hate your wife, so you had an affair with Mrs. Gray.”

  “I don’t hate her. I just want to get away from her. Judith was beautiful, gay, fun to be with, and she’d been in the same position as me, with a penny-pinching husband. We were in love.”

  “You use the past tense, Mr. Vaughn.”

  “She’s dead.” He sounded defeated. Then the implication of Alec’s words sank in. His eyes blazed with hope. “Isn’t she?”

  “Almost certainly. But not quite. We should know by tomorrow.”

  “She might be alive? Somewhere in France? How can I find her?” His shoulders slumped. “No, she wouldn’t have gone without me.”

  He was very convincing. Could he be acting? Not inconceivable. All salesmen were essentially actors, putting on a persuasive show of enthusiasm for whatever they were touting.

  “You intended to go to France with her?”

  “She was going to buy a house. We were going to live together as man and wife. She was a modern woman. She didn’t care about outdated conventions, and she didn’t want ever to marry again. If Myra wanted a divorce, I wouldn’t contest it. What am I going to do?”

  Spend a good long stretch in clink for fraud, Alec suspected. “She was more willing to support you in idleness than Mrs. Vaughn is?”

  “I wasn’t going empty-handed.” Injured innocence played less well than the previous changeable emotions. “I’ve managed to save a bit.”

  Alec didn’t ask about the provenance of the “savings.” No hurry: This was a preliminary interview, and there would be more, whether Vaughn was still at liberty or not. They still had no firm evidence implicating him in the homicide.

  “Either Mrs. Gray deserted you, or she’s dead. Did your wife know about the affair?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “According to information received—”

  “Well, she might have. All right, she did. I don’t know how the deuce she found out. We were bloody careful not to be seen together, and you wouldn’t think gossip would travel this far, anyway. Myra knows people in High Wycombe, not Beaconsfield, but she heard somehow. She drove over to Cherry Trees and had an almighty row with Judith.”

  “You were present?”

  “Good lord no! It wasn’t that easy to get over there, actually. We don’t do a lot of business in Beaconsfield. Judith goes—went—to London almost every weekend, unless prospective buyers had an appointment to view her house. Of course, if Myra hadn’t made plans for an evening, I could always say I had to show a house and dash over for a couple of hours. The evening bus service is rotten but not impossible. Sometimes I could even talk Myra into letting me use the car to get to a country property.” He snickered, amused at having used his wife’s car to deceive her.

  “The presence of the Jowett was noted.”

  “Nosy neighbours? I can’t imagine why they should care. Judith certainly doesn’t—didn’t—care for them.” Suddenly, embarrassingly, he broke down in sobs, his face hidden in his hands. “Oh, God, leave me alone, can’t you?”

  “Just one more question. What was Mrs. Gray’s reaction to your wife’s incursion?”

  “She was bloody furious! What do you think? After that she wouldn’t … do anything. She said it would have to wait till we reached France. She didn’t abandon me. Oh, God, she’s dead!”

  Alec slipped out of the room, on the way signalling to Pennicuik to stay. The behaviour of someone in that sort of semihysterical state could not be predicted.

  The old exterior door between the house and the new wing was too solid to let him hear what was going on beyond. He pictured the position of the chair Mrs. Vaughn had been sitting in when he left. It was turned slightly away from the door. He was less certain whether the hinges had creaked when the door closed behind him. He had been concentrating on Vaughn, ahead of him.

  Standing there wasn’t getting him anywhere. Cautiously he turned the handle and pulled the door towards him till there was a gap of a couple of inches. Now he heard Mrs. Gray’s indignant voice.

  “… May have remonstrated with the woman. We did not have a vulgar row. If one speaks firmly and does not back down, people realise one means what one says. I forced her—by force of character—to acknowledge that she ought not to have led a married man astray. I exacted a promise that relations between them would cease. Except on a business level, naturally. I wouldn’t want to deprive poor Donald of his little job.”

  “And did ‘relations’ cease?” Underwood asked. Alec guessed from his slightly raised voice that he was aware of the listener at the door.

  “Yes. Whenever he went out on business in the evening, I watched her house. He never came.”

  “You never spoke to her again?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “And what did your husband think of your interference?”

  “I never spoke to him about it. I saw no need. The matter was settled.”

  “When did you settle it? On what date did you call on Mrs. Gray?”

  “I don’t recall the date. It’s not the sort of appointment one puts in one’s diary.”

  “Roughly.”

  “Really, Officer, I’ve told you I don’t recall. I will not be badgered!”

  Alec decided his time had come. He went in. Neither Underwood nor Ernie Piper was taken by surprise. Myra Vaughn reacted with outrage. She rose to her feet with a majestic surge and declaimed, “Three of you! You may bully me, but you can’t—”

  “Madam, I h
ave no intention of bullying anyone. Inspector, may I have a quick word with you?”

  They stepped into the old house and shut the door. “You heard the fairy-tale version of the quarrel?” said Underwood. “That’s the first she’s said to the purpose. We had a diatribe about how her family lived in the manor forever and always been respected and respectable, with a family tree back to her great-great-grandfather, and the respected professions of every respectable male. If any were less than respectable she didn’t mention them. I couldn’t shut her up! I hope you had better luck?”

  “Vaughn was dying to talk. About Judith Gray, not his putative peculations. I’m steering clear of that subject for the present, as we agreed.”

  “Don’t want to throw a spanner in the works of the fraud people.”

  “I’ll tell you the rest later. Just one point you ought to know right away: He saw her after her quarrel with his wife, so she was still alive at that point. You may want to concentrate on whether there was a second encounter.”

  “Right. Are you done with him?”

  “He’s had an apparent emotional breakdown. If he’s pulled himself together, I’ll keep going. If not, there’s always tomorrow. I doubt he’ll be arrested on the other charge before late afternoon.” Langridge had to talk to Davis, then they had to prove their case to the fraud division of the Bucks police, if such existed, or their outside experts. Doubtless Davis’s partner, Mrs. Vaughn’s brother, would also have to be consulted, or at least warned.

  Alec returned to Vaughn. He had dried his eyes—now red, whether from weeping or rubbing—and looked defiant.

  “I don’t believe she’s dead! Something has prevented her writing to me. Perhaps she lost the accommodation address I gave her in all the upheaval of packing and travelling, don’t you think?” he appealed to Alec. “Or her letter could have been lost in the post.”

  “Quite possible.”

  “She might have written to Cherry Trees ‘to be called for,’ and those women who bought her house threw it away. If she addressed it to the office—everything is so disorganised it could be anywhere. She knows better than to send it here.…”

  His almost feverish cataloguing of the ways Judith Gray’s letter might have gone astray was damnably persuasive.

  Alec suppressed a yawn. He was too tired to judge. “Did Mrs. Vaughn call on Mrs. Gray a second time?”

  “No. Judith would have told me.”

  If she had survived the encounter. “When did you last see Mrs. Gray? The date, or even just the day of the week could help us trace her.”

  “Saturday. It was a Saturday morning. She was about to leave for London. I told you she spent most weekends in town. She usually went up on a Friday and came back Monday or Tuesday but she said she was going to return on Sunday because she had so much to do.”

  “Had she much luggage with her?”

  “Just an overnight bag. She kept some clothes at her friend’s flat. Mrs. Knox, not a man, in case you were wondering. I offered to carry the bag to the station for her, but she still didn’t want us to be seen together, even though we were very soon going away together. I’ll find her somehow. Mrs. Knox—Elizabeth—will know where she is.”

  “You have Mrs. Knox’s address?”

  “No. Do you?” Vaughn asked eagerly.

  “Sorry, it’s my business to ask questions, not answer them.” In any case, Mrs. Knox wasn’t at her London address.

  “It’s in Belgravia. I know that much. And her husband’s name is Freddie—Frederick. I’ll get hold of a directory. How many Frederick Knoxes can there be in Belgravia?” It was a rhetorical question.

  Alec said sharply, “You’re not to leave the area without providing an address to the police.” He decided to call it a day. “One more question for now: Do you or did you ever have in your possession a key to the cellar?”

  “Never. I never had any keys. She wouldn’t let me show the house when she wasn’t at home.”

  “Very well. We’ll want to talk to you again tomorrow, and have you sign a statement. What time would suit you to come into the police station, in either Beaconsfield or High Wycombe?”

  “Beaconsfield! If Mr. Langridge heard I’d been seen going into the police station in Wycombe … I’m showing a house in Penn tomorrow so I’ll have the car in the morning. Noon. I’ll be there at noon. Not that I have anything else to tell you. But you said you’ll know by tomorrow if … if Judith is still alive?”

  “I said we ought to know. Good night, Mr. Vaughn.”

  Underwood was also ready to leave. Alec let Ernie Piper take the wheel to drive the inspector and Pennicuik to their homes in High Wycombe. On the way, they discussed the interviews. Underwood hadn’t learned anything more from Mrs. Vaughn than what Alec had overheard.

  “If you ask me, she didn’t do it,” Underwood said ironically. “Murder isn’t respectable.”

  “By accident?”

  “Getting into a pushing-shoving match isn’t respectable, either.”

  “Neither is a shouting match,” Ernie pointed out.

  “Which she doesn’t admit to,” said Underwood. “I don’t think she’s exactly lying. It’s more a matter of editing the facts in her own mind and persuading herself her own behaviour was irreproachably … well, respectable.”

  “Editing out raised voices is one thing,” Alec said. “Convincing herself she didn’t kill Judith Gray—if she did—would be a bit of a stretch. Her husband, on the other hand, is either a plausible liar or genuinely grief-stricken, or both.”

  “You’ve known more murderers than I have, I imagine. Don’t they sometimes bitterly regret the deed and mourn for the victim?”

  “Yes indeed, and that could be the explanation. But I confess I can’t make him out.”

  “We’ll have another go at them tomorrow.” Underwood sighed. “I suppose it’s about time I tried my wiles on Mrs. Hedger. Tomorrow’s Wednesday. She’ll be at Cherry Trees and maybe less impregnable than on her own ground.”

  “Good luck.”

  “Sergeant, once we find the gardener’s whereabouts, you can go and talk to him, if that’s all right, Mr. Fletcher? We can’t wait till we turn up the housekeeper and the maid.”

  “Though they’re the ones most likely to provide us with new names,” said Alec. “The Vaughns and the Cartwrights are all very well, but there must be dozens of people who knew Judith Gray of whom we have no inkling.”

  THIRTY-ONE

  Daisy was already awake when Sally tapped on the door and came in with the early morning tea tray. Alec was sound asleep at her side. She hadn’t roused when he came in last night.

  She was inclined to let him sleep, but Sally said, “Mr. Piper left a message at the desk, Mrs. Fletcher, to wake him and Mr. Fletcher at half past seven.”

  “I’ll take care of Alec, Sally. You can deal with Ernie.”

  “I already did.” She grinned. “He groaned a bit, but he thanked me ever so politely.” She went out.

  Daisy sat up, leaned over, and kissed Alec. He didn’t stir. She shook his shoulder. He grunted, rolled over, and put his arms about her waist.

  “Darling, it’s time to wake up.”

  “Noooo.”

  “According to Ernie, via Sally.”

  “I only just got to bed.” Alec sat up.

  She poured and passed him his cup of tea. “Did you find out anything worth staying up late for?”

  “Not really. The Vaughns and the Cartwrights are still in the picture. Besides them, the note Tom gave you is our best lead, though it could take a few days to lead anywhere.”

  “How much longer will the super let you stay on the case?”

  He shrugged. “Anyone’s guess. Until he needs me for something more important. I still think you should go home after the inquest.”

  “Perhaps.” Daisy sighed. “I’ll go and see Isabel this morning.”

  “Not too early. Underwood’s going to have a chat—try to have a chat, I should say—with Mrs. Hedger at about h
alf past nine.”

  “I’ll aim for half past ten. What are you doing this morning?”

  “It depends on what information comes in from various feelers.”

  “The Hotel Majestic? And the woman in St. Tropez?”

  “Among others.” Dressing-gowned and sponge bag in hand, he went off to take a bath.

  The sun shone in through the east-facing window. Daisy decided to go for a walk in the country after breakfast. In the latter days of October, fine days were not to be wasted.

  Alec and Ernie were long gone when she went down. Only two couples remained in the dining room, so Sally was at leisure to chat. She brought Daisy’s scrambled eggs and toast, then stood leaning on the back of the other chair at the table.

  “Mr. Piper wouldn’t tell me: Do they know yet who did it?”

  “No.” Daisy was sure of that after what Alec had said. “They’re having a difficult time finding out about Mrs. Gray’s friends and acquaintances, because she didn’t really have any in Beaconsfield. I’m sorry to speak ill of a relative of yours, but your aunt isn’t at all helpful.”

  “I doubt she knows much. She’s always been one to mind her own business. Whenever I gave her a hand at Cherry Trees, she’d keep telling me not to poke my nose in where I shouldn’t. As if I would! But I’d notice and remember visitors if I’d seen any. There wasn’t none came while I was there,” Sally said regretfully. “I wish I could help Mr. Piper. And Mr. Fletcher, of course.”

  She departed to answer a call for fresh coffee.

  Daisy took a pleasant walk through fields and woods. The predominant beeches still enhanced the golden sunlight, though many leaves had fallen to crackle underfoot. Silvery old man’s beard and the yellow and red berries of bryony wreathed the field hedges, with here and there a spindle tree flaunting its pink and orange fruit.

  Rabbits popped out of their burrows to watch Daisy’s approach and disappeared underground as she came closer. Squirrels chittered at her from the safety of high branches. She wished she had Nana with her to have fun chasing them.