Superfluous Women (32 page)

Alec took a steel paper knife from the inkstand on the desk, slit open the envelope, and scanned the enclosed form. “Damn! Er, drat.”

He gave it to Underwood, who read it and said, “Pity. We've lost one of our suspects. I suppose the Foreign Office couldn't be mistaken?”

“They could, of course, but I for one am not about to challenge them without a good deal of other evidence.”

“Which we haven't got. Nothing but motive. All right, Mrs. Fletcher, what's that?”

Daisy held out the French envelope. The foreign stamp made both Alec and Underwood sit up and brought Pennicuik to his feet for a closer look.

Underwood reached for it. “From France, and addressed to Mrs. Gray!” He picked up the paper knife.

“How did you get hold of it, Daisy?” Alec's tone was ominous.

The inspector looked up with a glance of mild, slightly amused enquiry.

“I was about to tell you. It's addressed to Cherry Trees. The bobby at the gate wouldn't let the postman deliver there on Monday, so he left the post at the post office, and they kept this morning's delivery, too. I was with Isabel—Miss Sutcliffe—when she went in to fetch it. Of course she showed it to me. She didn't know when she'd see you, Alec, or DI Underwood, and she assumed I'd see you sooner, so she asked me to pass it on. I gave her a receipt. And she gave me a note saying she'd given it to me on the understanding I'd hand it over to the police.” Daisy found the bit of paper and laid it on the desk.

“Very thoughtful,” Underwood approved. He slid the knife under the flap, trying with a delicate touch to open the envelope undamaged.

“Daisy, you'd better go,” said Alec.

“Oh, but I've got more to tell you.”

“What on earth—”

“‘Where on earth are you, Judith darling?'” Underwood interrupted, reading. “‘We've been expecting you for
weeks.
Geegee is biting his nails, sure you've had an accident. I told him you're just enjoying the fleshpots of Paris, which only makes him bite his nails the more. Darling, you didn't say which hotel you're staying at so I hope the horrid people who bought your house will forward this. Love from all of us. Do hurry.' I can't read the signature. Here, take a look.” He passed it to Alec.

“Could well be Liz, don't you think?”

“Let me see,” Daisy requested. “Yes, I'd say it was Liz, then either a K or an X, an initial or a kiss.”

“Elizabeth Knox,” said Alec.

Daisy handed the letter back to the inspector. “The address is quite legible.”

“An address in Sang Tro-pay—”

“And I know the hotel in Paris,” Daisy said triumphantly.

All three men stared at her.

“You do?” Underwood was incredulous.

“How the deuce—?”

“Darling, Isabel was naturally anxious about not being able to forward the letter to Mrs. Gray, and—”

“This was before the two of you realised she ought to give it to us, I suppose,” Alec said ironically.

“It must have been, mustn't it? Anyhow, it seemed to me it might be worth asking at the station—the railway station—whether she'd sent on any trunks by train, and if so, where to. The stationmaster said the records will be at the railway company offices in London, but he remembered two going to St. Tropez, and a third was shipped to Paris, to the Majestic Hotel.”

For a moment, silence reigned. Then Underwood said, “I can't believe I didn't think of asking the railway.”

“We've been pursuing other leads,” said Alec, “and it's been only two days … but you're right. We should have thought of it. Well done, Daisy, though it would have been better to mention your brilliant idea to us and leave it to us to follow up.”

Daisy decided to accept the praise and ignore the second part of this. “There's something else…” She paused, waiting for exclamations of astonishment, dismay, congratulation, or disapproval. Apparently she had exhausted Alec and Underwood's capacity for such emotions. They just looked at her, so she continued. “All I need is a scrap of information from Willie—Miss Chandler. She wasn't home yet.”

Alec frowned. “If you're expecting her to discuss her work with you—”

“Nothing to do with her work. She's silent as the grave about that. She has no reason to keep quiet about what I want to find out.”

“What might that be, Mrs. Fletcher?” The inspector sounded resigned.

“A date. It should narrow down the date of death.” Both men opened their mouths. Daisy hurried on. “I was thinking about it, thinking that Mrs. Hedger's in the best position to say when Judith Gray was last seen alive. Assuming she's dead.”

“You may be sure we'll be questioning her again.”

“And will you get any answers? I gather she was no more willing to talk to Alec than to me and Isabel. It struck me that she very likely wanted to be paid for the work she did while the house was unoccupied, and that Isabel probably keeps the household accounts and so would know how long that was.”

“What strikes me,” said Underwood, “is we could do with a few women on the force. A different point of view, they have. How long did she work without pay?”

“They decided they weren't responsible for what they hadn't asked for, so it's not in the account book. However, both Isabel and Vera are sure Willie must remember the last date Mrs. Hedger said she had been paid. It's a number, you see.”

“Miss Chandler never forgets numbers.”

“Exactly. That's everything I had to tell you, so if you'll excuse me, I'm going back to the hotel.”

Alec walked her out to the street door. “I have to say well done, love, and I'm trying not to say don't meddle. But you must realise that the more helpful to us you are, the more likely the killer will put two and two together and do his utmost to stop you.”

Daisy reckoned a grudging compliment was better than a stinging rebuke. “I can't see how he'd ever find out. I don't go round interrogating people—except the stationmaster, and that was really Isabel, who had a good reason for asking.”

“If he has his wits about him, he'll have noticed or heard that you're spending more time here than being a copper's wife can explain.”

“Oh no, darling, I'm the clingy kind of wife that just can't let her adored husband alone.” She reached up to put her arms round his neck and kiss him, and he obligingly responded in kind. Anyone observing them through the glass of the door might well have believed her words.

*   *   *

Alec watched Daisy go off towards the Saracen's Head, wondering whether she'd heed his parting warning, “Stay out of it, and be careful,” or had even heard it. She'd do what she considered right, no matter what he said.

He returned to the others.

“I'm sorry,” he said to Underwood.

The inspector shook his head, grinning. “The unstoppable Mrs. Fletcher. Well, she's done all right by us. Mrs. Knox being British, I take it I can just send her a wire. Are we required to go through the Yard and the S
û
ret
é
for the Majestic Hotel?”

“In the ordinary way, I'd get in touch directly with one of the French officers I've dealt with before. But given my officially unofficial status, we'd better do it by the book. You'll want Superintendent Parry's permission, I imagine.”

“I rang him while you were outside, to report the latest news. He's not available. We'll go ahead on my own authority and if he doesn't like it, he can lump it. Will you deal with the Yard?” He pushed the telephone across the desk.

Alec asked the operator for the superintendent on duty at New Scotland Yard. As a police call, it had priority, but even so ten minutes passed before she rang back and connected him.

To his relief, Superintendent Rossiter had the night watch. Rossiter was a friend of Crane and already knew about Alec's peculiar unofficial mission. In fact, he was easier to deal with than Crane would have been. He simply authorised the contact with a foreign force without asking any of the awkward questions about Daisy that Crane would surely have posed.

Ringing off, Alec said, “We've got the go-ahead. You'd like me to compose the telegram?”

“I would. You speak French, I take it.”

“Speak, read, and write reasonably well, but I've never mastered French telegramese. You're right that it would be polite and politic to use French, if you think your county budget can hold up at tuppence ha'penny per superfluous word.”

“Hang the budget.”

“Very well, hang the county budget. Let me get straight exactly what you want to find out.”

“Is Judith Gray there. If not, has she been there. If so, has she left a forwarding address, and what is it.”

“Admirably succinct.”

“Have I left anything out?”

“I'd say you've covered it. Let me get on with it.”

Alec wrestled with turning the message into an abbreviated yet clear and comprehensible French version. He left off the accents, as he suspected an English telegraphist wouldn't be able to transmit them. The result looked unfinished; he was engaged in adding them—acute, grave, circumflex, and cedilla—when a constable came in with a note for him.

“The Boots from the Saracen brought it, sir.”

“Mrs. Fletcher doing our job for us again?” Underwood asked as Alec unfolded it. His tone was not altogether pleased.

“No, it's anonymous.” Tom, of course. “About Mrs. Gray's servants. Our informant met the gardener who used to work for the Grays, in a pub. In Seer Green?”

“Next stop up the line. Just a couple of miles.”

“The pub is the Jolly Cricketers, according to Mr. Anon, our informant. The gardener's name's White. Half the patrons were talking about the murder, of course, so White spoke up. He said he wasn't surprised someone did for Mrs. Gray. She was quick to complain when something wasn't to her liking, but never gave a word of praise or thanks. Anon asked whether all the servants disliked her. It seems the housekeeper, Mrs. Clark, had already registered with a London agency before she was given notice.”

“Mrs. Clark, eh? Doesn't sound too easy to trace.”

“No, a lamentably common name. We might have to try, though. According to Anon, she told White there were ‘goings-on' in the house she disapproved of, but she wouldn't name names.”

“Does Anon mention the lady's maid?”

Alec consulted Tom's note. “There was a high turnover of lady's maids. The last was a Miss Lewis. High and mighty, didn't consort with gardeners. According to Mrs. Clark, though, she was furious when told she was to be turned off because Mrs. Gray wanted a French maid. She departed the next day without serving out her notice.”

“Lewis,” Underwood said gloomily. “Be a job tracing her, too, and nothing to be done till the servants' agencies open tomorrow. It's all very second and third hand,” he added with dissatisfaction.

“Anonymous letters commonly are. This last bit is equally unverified. All the same, it could be more immediately useful. Anon says—”

A knock on the door. Not waiting for a response, Isabel Sutcliffe opened it, stopping on the threshold. “The officer at the desk said to go straight in. I hope I'm not interrupting.”

The inspector smiled at her as he rose. “Not at all. You're very welcome.” He hurried round the desk to hold a chair for her. Catching Alec's amused eye, he quickly added, “I expect you have information for us?”

“Daisy explained about the significance of the date Mrs. Hedger was last paid?”

“Yes,” said Alec. “We ought to have thought of it ourselves.”

Isabel absolved them. “It's only natural. It's usually women who pay the cleaner.”

“I have no excuse,” Underwood admitted. “As a widower, I'm the one who pays the charwoman.”

Eyes brightening, she consoled him, “You've been busy. Well, Willie came home soon after Daisy left. She remembered right away. Mrs. Hedger claimed the last day's work she was paid for was the seventeenth of September.”

“Thank you, Miss Sutcliffe. That may prove extremely useful. And thank you for coming out so late to tell us.”

“Does Miss Chandler usually work so late?” Alec asked.

“She's usually home by half past six. She finished the job she's been working on today and Mr. Davis asked her to stay on and go over the figures with him.”

“What figures were those?”

“She was auditing some company's accounts, she wouldn't say whose. Frankly, neither Vera nor I was particularly interested.”

Alec laughed. “And who can blame you. Would you like me to run you back to Cherry Trees in the car? If the inspector can spare me for ten minutes…”

“Of course.” Underwood looked a bit wistful, as if he'd prefer to escort Isabel himself. Knowing nothing of his driving skills, Alec didn't offer to let him. “Good idea. Take fifteen and see if Miss Chandler will open up to you about the audit. Sergeant Piper isn't likely to ring for at least a couple of hours.”

“Will do. You can send off this cable right away. And I suggest another to the Yard to get them moving on querying the domestic service agencies first thing in the morning. Put my name to it.”

In the car, Isabel asked, “We're still suspects, aren't we?”

“Strictly speaking, yes. Don't let it worry you. None of you is under serious consideration.”

“Because of Daisy?”

“Good heavens no! We're not allowed to take that sort of thing into account.” A certain amount of bias was inevitable, however. Perhaps they ought to have subjected the three women to closer scrutiny? Perhaps they would have to, if they eliminated both Cartwright and Vaughn. Alec changed the subject. “Were the cleaners you found for the cellar satisfactory?”

“Excellent. It looks clean as a whistle and the smell is barely perceptible. I'm so sorry for them. They both fought in the war and haven't been able to find steady employment since. Their wives both work to make ends meet. The men feel inadequate, not being able to provide for their families. I'm going to have them back to build shelves in the cellar for storing apples, as soon as I've worked out just what I want.”