Chapter Thirteen
THIRTEEN
As soon as she stepped out of the front door, Daisy saw Tom Tring approaching the Jessups’ house. He and Mackinnon must have split the circle between them, she deduced.
What was more, Ernie Piper was at his side. She had forgotten that when she saw Mackinnon, he’d had a DC accompanying him.
She sighed. Tom wasn’t in the least likely to reveal any information he didn’t intend to, but even if he hadn’t been a dear friend, she couldn’t possibly invite Mackinnon to lunch without him, and Piper and the other chap.
That made four detectives for lunch. She hoped Mrs. Dobson had plenty of eggs, cold meat, bread, and cheese on hand.
Then after eating, she thought, cheering up, she would take Tom up to the nursery to see Oliver. Surely he couldn’t be so heartless as to refuse to pass on a tip or two to the mother of his godson.
Piper saw her, waved, and pointed her out to Tom. She gestured to them to come over.
“Tom, Mr. Piper, you must be hungry, and I’m about to sit down to a lonely meal. Won’t you and Sergeant Mackinnon join me? And DC Warren, of course.”
“That’s very kind of you, Mrs. Fletcher.” The twinkle in his eyes told her he was well aware of her ulterior motive. “I was just hoping to catch Mr. Mackinnon and Mr. Warren and suggest we go for a quick bite, rather than disturbing people at their lunches.”
“Perfect! There they are now, just leaving number nine.”
Mrs. Dobson, warned to expect a guest before Daisy went out to find Mackinnon, had refused adamantly to have her kitchen cluttered again with constabulary. “Once in one morning is enough, madam. I’ll never get a thing done today. It’ll have to be the dining room.”
Leading her horde into the house, Daisy was afraid it would be awkward when they found the table set for two.
But Elsie—a veritable paragon of a parlour maid!
—had looked out of the window and seen them all arriving, as she told Daisy later.
Five place settings welcomed them, and Elsie carried in laden platters, as well as several bottles of beer.
Mrs. Dobson had done her proud. Signs of haste might have been apparent to the housewifely eye, but that was something Daisy had never claimed to possess.
As far as she could tell, fussing about whether everything was perfect never caused anything but grief.
Soon the sound of contented munching filled the room. Daisy was careful to ask no questions of more significance than “Another slice of bread, Mr. Mackinnon?”
Her forbearance was rewarded when Warren, the first pangs of hunger assuaged, grumbled, “I hope you had better luck than we did, Mr. Tring.”
“Not much!” said Piper. “Mostly, there was no one home but the servants, and not a one of them heard or saw anything out of the ordinary, nor recognised the photo.”
Photo? No one had shown Daisy a photo. She managed not to voice her outrage, but Tom caught her eye and raised questioning eyebrows. She shook her head very slightly. He answered with an equally infinitesimal nod, perceptible only by the shifting sheen on the reflective dome of his head.
“Same here with the photo,” Warren confirmed. “Leastways, there was a housemaid swore she’d seen him peeping in her bedroom window one night, but seeing she sleeps in the attic—”
The others laughed.
“And it was her mistress,” Warren continued, apparently forgetting Daisy’s presence, “who didn’t sleep a wink all night for the screams and groans.
Sarge asked why she hadn’t reported the disturbance to us, and she said her husband was in such a temper at breakfast because his egg was boiled too long that it put everything else right out of her mind. ”
Daisy knew exactly whom he was talking about.
She ought not to listen to their discussing her neighbours, but it was irresistible.
What was more, Tom, who could have put a stop to it anytime, let them continue.
Perhaps he hoped their talk might spark a useful idea or two in Daisy’s brain.
After all, much as it pained Alec to admit it, she had occasionally been helpful in the past.
However, nothing occurred to her. She simply didn’t know most of the neighbours well enough to have more than the most superficial impressions of them.
Elsie brought in coffee.
“Tom,” said Daisy, “would you like to bring yours up to the nursery to say hello to your godson?”
“I would indeed, Mrs. Fletcher, thank you very much. Mr. Mackinnon, I shan’t be long. I’d appreciate a word with you before you finish up down the road. How is the little fellow?” he continued, following Daisy from the room with the light tread that revealed his mountainous bulk as mostly muscle.
She closed the door. “I’d appreciate a word with you,” she echoed. “‘Word’ first or babies first?”
His grin made his moustache wiggle. “Let’s get the word over with, so that I can enjoy the twins in peace.”
“Come into the office.” She led the way through a door next to the foot of the stairs.
The room had two desks, as she shared it with Alec.
His had little on it besides an inkwell and blotter, since he did most of his paperwork at the Yard.
Hers, a massive rosewood creation inherited from Mr. Walsall, was dominated by her aged, secondhand, but trusty Underwood typewriter.
Around it were piles of paper and reference books.
No one could have called the result tidy, but Daisy could generally find what she needed when she needed it.
More books filled the shelves against the wall backing the stairs.
When Belinda was home and young feet had thundered up and down those stairs, the books had muffled the noise.
Under the window facing north onto the terraced garden stood the Georgian writing table, one of the few objects Daisy still possessed from her childhood home.
She sat there to write personal letters, and sometimes just to think, when she was at the planning stage of future articles.
Beside it, a glass-paned door led out onto the paved lowest terrace, where green-painted wrought-iron chairs awaited the return of summer.
Daisy perched on the corner of her desk and waved Tom to a chair by Alec’s desk, one he had occupied before, talking police business with Alec.
“Well?” she said severely. “Why haven’t I seen the photograph?”
“I understand you were out when Mr. Mackinnon came to speak to your household. And, strictly between ourselves, Mrs. Fletcher, the Chief was most adamant that you shouldn’t be involved any more than absolutely necessary.
It’s possible the lad took his words rather too much to heart.
Or he felt the Chief should cope with you himself! Or both.”
“So you do concede I ought to have a go at identifying the victim? Not that I exactly want to study a picture of a corpse, mind you, but in the interests of—”
“Not to worry. It’s not a picture of a corpse we’re showing around.” Tom reached into the breast pocket of his green-and-maroon check jacket. He was wearing one of his more sober outfits today. “The deceased had a passport in his pocket, so we’re using the photo from that.”
“A passport? British?”
“Ah.” Tom pondered as he handed over the photo. “I don’t see why you shouldn’t know. American.”
“Oh!” Dismayed, Daisy took a moment to focus on the face. Then, instantly, she recognised it. “Oh no!”
“You’ve seen him before. You’re quite sure?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know who he is?”
She shook her head. “I just saw him in passing.”
“Where?”
Slipping down from the desk, she went over to the garden door and stood there staring out at the dank flower beds, tidy now but bleak.
She couldn’t avoid telling Tom she had seen the American at the Jessups’, but need she report that he was dashing away after an acrimonious meeting with Mrs. Jessup?
Did she have to reveal Aidan’s dismay on hearing of his visit?
After all, the former was hearsay, not proper evidence, and the latter just her reading of Aidan’s emotion.
She knew what Alec would say to that rationalisation!
Turning, she found Tom regarding her with a steady gaze, part quizzical, part stern. “Where did you see him, Mrs. Fletcher?”
With a sigh, she admitted, “At the Jessups’ house, number five, next door. Several weeks ago.” She made up her mind. “And I really think that’s all I can tell you, at least until you’ve talked to them yourself.”
He nodded. “Fair enough. They’re next on my list, the last. You didn’t react much to anything the others were saying over lunch. I take it there’s nothing to tell about the rest of the residents?”
“Nothing I know of.” Daisy hesitated. “No one mentioned the Bennetts, at number ten.”
“Number ten was last on Sergeant Mackinnon’s list, so he probably hasn’t got there yet. Why?”
“I can’t help thinking that anyone who had talked to them would have had plenty to say on the subject.”
“As you do?”
“Just that you shouldn’t believe a word they say. They’re the worst kind of gossips, avid for any breath of scandal even if they have to make it up themselves. If they have no meat for outright rumourmongering, they’re expert insinuators.”
“I shall so advise Mr. Mackinnon,” Tom said gravely. “Thank you, Mrs. Fletcher. Now we’d better go on up to the nursery before the others start wondering where we’ve got to.”
At New Scotland Yard, with the Assistant Commissioner and Superintendent Crane pacified at least for the present, Alec returned to his office.
An internal message form lay on his desk.
Dr. Popkin had telephoned to say he’d be delighted to pop round and take a dekko at anything the chief inspector wished to set before him—the message Alec had left for him at the British Museum switchboard had been a model of discreet nonspecificity.
Regarding the piles of paper still awaiting his attention, Alec decided he could, if forced to do so, justify going to the museum, rather than inviting the expert to come to him.