Chapter Seventeen #2
Or was Mrs. Jessup’s mention of St. Pancras a bit of “corroborative detail intended to lend verisimilitude to an otherwise bald and unconvincing narrative,” á la Mikado?
The whole exposition was beginning to sound like a well-rehearsed speech, and who better to memorise and deliver it than the ex-actress!
The Jessups couldn’t rely on Audrey to be word-perfect, so Audrey went to her sister’s—assuming that was really where she had fled—as Mrs. Jessup was now relating.
She hadn’t told him anything she had not already told Tom. In this case, perhaps direct questioning was the better way to go.
“What is the sister’s name and address?” he asked, glancing at Mackinnon to make sure he was ready to take down the information in black and white.
“Her name is Vivien … Oh dear, I simply can’t remember her surname.
” She gave a faint smile. “I suppose I’ll have to pronounce those hateful words, ‘I’m not as young as I was.
’ I refuse to believe one’s memory fails.
It just gets so cluttered, one can’t find the needed fact. Enid shall fetch my address book.”
She rang the bell and sent the parlour maid to find the address book in the bureau in her bedroom.
While they waited, Alec asked, “Does your daughter-in-law often visit her sister?”
“Every autumn, when Aidan has to travel on business. Audrey and Vivien are quite close, as their mother died young, but Aidan has nothing in common with Vivien’s husband, so it works out very well.”
The regularity and timing of the visits would be easy to check with the servants, so that was probably true. “Why did Aidan leave so abruptly, when his brother had just returned after a lengthy absence? Did they quarrel?”
For the first time, she looked disconcerted. She hadn’t expected the question. Tom had asked the servants and been satisfied with their answer.
“Patrick and Aidan quarrel with each other?” She frowned. She not only hadn’t expected the question, she didn’t like it one little bit. “No, they’ve been good friends since childhood. Just the occasional squabble. You know how siblings are.”
“I was an only child,” Alec said woodenly, further disconcerting her.
“Oh, I’m sorry. And your two aren’t old enough …
” She remembered Mackinnon’s presence and veered away from a cosy chat about the twins.
“My sons do have the odd disagreement, inevitably. I find it hard to believe they had a … fight in the short time they were both here. But I wasn’t with them every second, of course. ”
Apparently, she had decided on the spur of the moment that it might be advantageous to leave open the possibility that Aidan and Patrick had quarrelled, even come to blows.
The obvious inference was that Aidan had sustained some presumably minor injury in his encounter with Castellano and had fled because the marks could not be hidden.
But in that case, his mother must surely have noticed when she said good-bye, even if she had not witnessed her sons’ putative battle.
Alec wondered how long it would take her to realise that her red herring would not fly, to coin a phrase.
He had to assume Aidan was still in England and track him down before the bruises faded. A hired car and driver might be traceable, with the driver possibly ringing up to report daily. All they had to do was find the car-hire firm.
“Sergeant Tring tells me Aidan has the only list of customers he’s gone to call on, but no doubt he mentioned where he intended to start out, which city he took a railway ticket to.”
A mantle of vagueness settled over her. Like Tom, Alec wished he had seen her on the stage.
“Oh … No, I don’t believe he told me. As he was not going to stay, there wouldn’t have been any point, would there?”
“I dare say not, but I’m sure his father or brother must know. I’ll ask when I see them here this evening.”
There was nothing stagy about her passionate plea. “No, not here! If the Bennetts see you haunting the house, they’ll make up some horrible story, and half the neighbours will believe it!”
“You have a point,” Alec acknowledged wryly. “I’ll make arrangements to see them at their place of business, after hours.”
“Mr. Fletcher, why are you hounding us? Why are you hunting down Aidan? He hasn’t done anything wrong. None of us has.”
“Then you have nothing to worry about. Except the Bennetts. But a man has been murdered, and that man is known to have associated with your family, however briefly or unwillingly on your part. Would you have the police ignore it? I can ask to be relieved of the job, but whoever might take my place will follow the same trail.”
“No. No, I’d rather have you, I suppose.”
“What was Michele Castellano’s business with your husband?”
“I don’t know. I only know that Maurice didn’t want anything to do with him.” She turned with relief to Enid, who came in carrying a small green leather-bound book.
“Sorry I’ve been so long, madam. It wasn’t where you said, in the cubbyhole. I found it in the top drawer.”
“That’s all right, Enid. Thank you.” She took the address book and started to riffle through it as the maid went out.
“The one thing I’m certain of is that Vivien lives in Lincolnshire, in or near some small village.
Funny, I can’t find a single Lincs address.
X Y Z. Nothing.” She turned back to the beginning.
“Allow me.” Alec rose to take the book, and continued to stand, examining each page swiftly but with care.
Most of Mrs. Jessup’s friends and acquaintances lived in London and the Home Counties, with a few, very likely relatives, in Ireland.
Almost all of the latter were in the Six Counties, he noted, rather than the Free State.
Not that Northern Ireland lacked disaffected citizens.
He found no addresses in Lincolnshire, no one named Vivien or listed with the initial V, and no sign of a page torn out. Closing the book, he handed it back. “That’s a pity.”
“I suppose I’ve always been able to ask Audrey for the address if I needed it, though, to tell the truth, I can’t remember ever having written to Vivien, nor can I imagine why I ever should. Sending kind regards via Audrey has always been perfectly adequate.”
Alec felt he was wasting his time with her. “One last question, for the present,” he said. “Where—”
“Not another word!” Mr. Irwin burst into the room. “My dear Moira, I hope you haven’t been answering questions. You cannot be required to do so. Mr. Fletcher, I am shocked to find you questioning Mrs. Jessup without her solicitor present. It’s against all the rules.”
“On the contrary, sir. As I have absolutely no intention of arresting Mrs. Jessup, it’s her duty as a citizen to aid the police in a murder enquiry.”
“In any case, Jonathan, I’m afraid I’ve been most unhelpful to Mr. Fletcher. I don’t seem to know anything he wants to know.”
Irwin regarded Alec with suspicion. “What have you been asking, Chief Inspector? I’m sure it’s most irregular.”
“I was about to ask one last question. May I proceed?”
“I suppose so,” he said grudgingly. “Now that I’m here.”
“Mrs. Jessup, where has your younger son been these past weeks, and on what business?”
The solicitor turned apoplectic red and his mouth opened and closed several times, but no words emerged.
“Patrick’s been in America,” said Mrs. Jessup with the utmost calm.
“Something to do with exporting ‘the demon rum’ to the deprived citizens of that country. I’m assured that no English laws have been broken in the process.
Jonathan, you look as if you’d better sit down at once. Let me get you a whisky.”
“My dear Moira! Law is Law! And these are policemen!”
She guided the horrified man to a chair and went to the drinks cabinet.
“I’m sure you’ll feel better for a whisky, sir,” Alec said soothingly. “In the meantime, I’d be grateful for your daughter Vivien’s surname and address.”
It was Mrs. Jessup’s turn to look appalled. She froze with the decanter in her hand. Her reaction suggested Audrey really had gone to her sister’s, not abroad. Alec breathed a silent sigh of relief.
Irwin looked merely astonished. “What can Vivien possibly have to do with a murder in London? She married a farmer called Bessemer. West Dyke Farm, Butterwick, near Boston.” Noticing Mackinnon writing down the name and address, he clarified: “That’s the Lincolnshire Boston, not the American one.
Vivien has no connection with America whatsoever. Nor does her husband.”
“I’m glad to hear it, sir. Do you happen to remember the telephone number?”
“They’re not on the telephone.”
“Thank you.” Alec glanced at Mrs. Jessup. She had regained her self-possession and was pouring whisky with a steady hand, though Irwin no longer appeared to be in need of fortification. Perhaps she intended to drink it herself. “May I ask what brought you here?”
“An impertinent telephone call from one of the neighbours,” Irwin said angrily. “He advised me that the entire family was about to be arrested for murder. Naturally, I hurried to my daughter’s assistance.”
Alec and Mrs. Jessup exchanged a look. Simultaneously they said, “Mr. Bennett.”