Chapter 10
TEN
This time Daisy listened carefully, in case the inspector quizzed her afterwards. It was easier to keep her mind on what was said because Willie’s voice was bright with interest, and she fenced with Underwood, just as Daisy had.
“Why on earth do you want to know why the three of us moved south?” she demanded.
“The more I know about those involved, the quicker I’ll be able to solve the case.”
“‘Those involved?’ We’re not involved. Someone took the liberty of using our house to dispose of—”
“That’s as may be, Miss Chandler. Supposing you to have nothing to do with the murder, it was probably committed by someone who knew the house was empty.”
“The neighbours.”
“Or the house agent, or someone who was aware of your plans. I’m still asking you to tell me why you moved.”
Willie grinned and complied. “Not many firms are willing to hire a woman accountant,” she finished. “I couldn’t afford not to take the position.”
“I’ve never had anything to do with accountants,” Underwood admitted. “What’s the difference between them and bookkeepers?”
“We’re the ones who check the books, to make sure they’re properly kept: accurate arithmetic and accounts balanced, no errors, no fraud. That’s my job for the present. Senior partners advise companies on the law and so forth.”
“Fraud, eh? Anyone in your sights?”
“That’s confidential.”
“In other words, yes.”
“I can’t say any more. It’s an interesting theory, though.”
“What is?” Underwood asked irritably.
“I assume you’re proposing that someone either intended to kill me and botched it, or hoped to intimidate me into botching an audit.”
“Or just to distract you from doing a thorough job,” Daisy suggested.
“Rubbish!” The inspector frowned at her. “I’m not proposing any such notion, Miss Chandler, especially your second theory. Killing someone just to intimidate a third person may be something that goes on in the East End, or in Huddersfield for all I know, but not on my patch!”
“Good. Then you won’t keep pestering me to disclose confidential information.”
“Let’s see if I have better luck with nonconfidential information. What date did you move into Cherry Trees?”
“The afternoon of Saturday the eighth. Isabel came over on the first and spent the week making sure everything was ready for Vera and me. I don’t know how much time she spent at the house, but I assure you, she didn’t use any of it to push a stranger down the stairs.”
Underwood eyed her narrowly. “Put like that, it does seem unlikely,” he conceded. “But perhaps the victim was not a stranger. I’m not going to be making any headway until she’s been identified. You didn’t recognise her?”
“I didn’t see her. To put it crudely, I smelled her, and that was quite sufficient. I can’t express how grateful I am that Mr. Fletcher was present to take charge.” Willie smiled at Daisy.
“Tell me about it. Start with why you invited him to the house.”
As far as the facts relating to the dinner invitation and the corpse’s discovery were concerned, Willie’s statement differed little from Daisy’s own and what Daisy had heard of Vera’s.
“When Mr. Fletcher came back,” she finished, “he said we could leave, and we did, as fast as possible.”
“Who can blame you? Mrs. Fletcher says you were the first to suggest that the previous owner of the house is likely to be either the victim or the killer. Is that correct?”
“I can’t remember whether I was first. It seems a reasonable proposition.”
“Did you ever meet her?”
“Briefly. Twice, actually. Miss Sutcliffe found the house and liked it, but of course she didn’t make any decisions without us—Vera and me—looking it over and giving our approval.
Mrs. Gray was present when we called, and the house agent, too.
I was far more interested in the house than in its owner.
She didn’t make much impression then. And when I met her again, to sign the papers at her lawyer’s, I was concentrating on the contract. ”
“Do you recall her lawyer’s name?”
“Ainsley. Ours is Butterworth.”
“Would you recognise Mrs. Gray, if you saw her again?”
“I doubt it. I’m not good at faces. If she’s the body, judging by what I’ve gathered about its condition, definitely not!”
“You ladies didn’t find any of her effects in the house when you moved in? A handbag, clothes, suitcase, nothing at all?”
“I assume Isabel would have mentioned it if she had come across something other than the household effects that were part of the deal. She certainly would if she’d found a handbag with anything of value in it.”
“Does Mrs. Gray have any relatives that you’re aware of?”
“For all I know, she could have swarms. I haven’t the foggiest. Surely Mr. Ainsley must know.”
“The solicitor? Yes.” Underwood asked a few more questions in a desultory way: Where Willie had lived before the Huddersfield lodgings, how long she had lived there, whether she’d known the other two previously, the name of her firm in High Wycombe.
Having provided the last, Willie begged, “Please don’t talk to the partners before I’ve had a chance to tell them what’s happened!”
“We may not have to see them at all, certainly not before you go to work tomorrow. I’ll have more questions for you at a later date. We’ll wrap it up for now, though. Thank you.”
“Not at all, it’s been interesting. By the way, I really must have my business suit for tomorrow.”
“If you and the other ladies each write a list of necessities, I’ll see what I can do. Pennicuik, fetch Miss Sutcliffe now, with apologies for keeping her waiting.”
Daisy was half eager to see whether any new information would emerge, half dying to go and have a drink with Alec.
She doubted Isabel would need support any more than Willie had; on the other hand, her chair was much more comfortable than anything in the bar.
She had sunk into its embrace to the point where getting out would be quite a struggle.
“Would you like me to stay again?” she asked,
“Why not?” said the inspector sardonically.
From the doorway, Willie waved to Daisy. Pennicuik followed her out.
Underwood cocked an eyebrow at Daisy.
“Nothing,” she said regretfully. “I hope Alec doesn’t hit the roof when he finds out I’m attending your interviews, especially as he isn’t.”
“It’s highly irregular. Please blame it on your friends, not on me!”
“Don’t worry, I will. I just wish I was being more helpful. I’m glad you didn’t ask Vera about identifying the body.”
“It’s a nasty job to ask anyone to do, even when the person is strong-minded and the body’s in reasonably good shape.
Failing a belated ‘missing person’ alert that fits, I expect we’ll have to rely on the cleaning woman.
Not the most desirable kind of identification, always supposing she agrees to do it and doesn’t go off into a fit of hysterics.
Which,” he added, his thin face gloomy, “she probably will.”
Isabel arrived. She had no objection to Daisy’s presence. “Vera asked me to thank you for staying with her, Daisy. She was too shattered to remember when she was allowed to leave the room.” She glared at Underwood.
Daisy jumped to his defence. “Not the inspector’s fault,” she said.
“Perhaps you can tell me, Miss Sutcliffe, why Miss Leighton was upset when I asked whether she had heard any gossip at school?”
“Well, she disapproves of gossip on principle. But she really was pretty upset when she came back, and I’ve never known her react so strongly before.”
“Talking about murder and finding decayed bodies isn’t exactly soothing to start with,” Daisy pointed out. “Besides, she’s afraid gossip about it will result in her losing her job.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Fletcher. She told you that?”
“She told all of us,” said Isabel, while Daisy was examining Underwood’s gratitude for sarcasm. In her experience, detectives were sparing of thanks, especially directed to her. He seemed sincere. She decided she rather liked him.
All the same, she kept quiet as he went on questioning Isabel.
After the formalities of name, past addresses, dates, and so forth, and her description of the afternoon’s events, the inspector said, “You’ve spent a good deal of time in the house for the past two weeks. You never noticed a smell in the passage by the cellar door?”
“Yes, but it wasn’t the smell of death and decay.
Mrs. Hedger, our char, scrubs it with carbolic every time she comes.
I’ve told her she’s overdoing it. She insists that what with the drains and my coming in from the garden with manure on my boots, it’s necessary.
She’s one of those people it’s a waste of time to argue with.
Stubborn and set in her ways as they come.
I wouldn’t have chosen her, but she did for Mrs. Gray before so it was easiest just to keep her on. ”
“Not so easy to find cleaning women these days,” Underwood sympathised. “Mr. Fletcher also smelled carbolic. Which days does Mrs. Hedger oblige?”
“Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.”
“Today’s Sunday, and the carbolic smell was still evident. No wonder none of you noticed any odour that escaped from the cellar. You have no other servants?”
“No. That reminds me, though. The Grays had a live-in cook-housekeeper and lady’s maid, and a full-time gardener.
I can’t recall their names, but the gardener recommended a jobbing gardener to me.
Chap called Lassiter. Presumably Lassiter would know the name of the man who sent me to him, if not where to find him. ”
“This Lassiter’s a local man?”
“I don’t know his address. I’ve only needed him once. I left a message at the newsagents in Station Road, as the other man advised, and Lassiter turned up next morning to do some digging for me.”
“We’ll find him.” Underwood made a note. “Miss Sutcliffe, as well as spending more time in the house than either of your friends do, I gather you saw more of Mrs. Gray in the course of buying the house. Tell me about her.”
“Medium height, good figure, dark hair, bobbed but longer than mine and expensively waved,” Isabel said promptly.
“Thirty-five or so at a guess, but looked younger. She dressed well, expensively: nothing fancy that I saw, just a bit too smart for a country town, in my opinion. So was her makeup. I don’t use the stuff.
Not much jewellery, but what she wore looked good.
Not that I’m much of a judge. Usually pearls, both necklace and earrings, and a largish ruby on her ring finger. ”
“You have an observant eye, Miss Sutcliffe.”
“Running a boarding house—or private hotel if you want to doll it up—teaches you to notice people.”
“I daresay. Have you heard any gossip about her from the neighbours? I take it you’re not as unalterably opposed to gossip as Miss Leighton.”
Isabel grinned. “Heavens no. As the neighbours have yet to call, they’re no help. I did find out a bit from Mrs. Gray herself and from the house agent.”
“Oh? What did they have to say?”
“The agent told me she was much younger than her husband, and his second wife. Albert Gray had plenty of brass.” She pronounced the word with the short Yorkshire vowel.
“He was tight-fisted, though. His only extravagance was his wine cellar. He’d pay for her fancies to a point and then shut the spigot.
She wasn’t at all happy. Mr. Vaughn had no qualms over gossiping about his client. ”
“You didn’t like him,” Underwood stated.
“Not much, I admit. I wouldn’t have chosen him to deal with, but as it happens he’s a relative of one of Willie’s bosses, who recommended him.”
“Ah. Nor you didn’t like Mrs. Gray?”
“Discontent sours people, don’t you think?
Even though he’d died—last April, I think it was—and she’d inherited a fortune, she stayed sour.
That was my impression. She told me herself she’d been married to a miser and couldn’t wait to get out of the place.
A long holiday abroad was her immediate aim, before deciding where to live. ”
“Did she mention where exactly? ‘Abroad’ is a big place.”
“Paris to start with—Albert Gray had refused to spring for a holiday in Gay Paree. Then she was going to stay with friends on the Riviera, possibly followed by Italy.”
“No names for the friends?” he asked unhopefully. “Or which Paris hotel?”
“She had no reason to mention them as there wasn’t the slightest chance I’d know them.”
“Cannes? Monte Carlo?”
Isabel shook her head. “Just ‘the Riviera.’ Boasting.”
“That sort.” Underwood nodded his understanding. “If you remember anything else about her destination…”
“I’ll let you know, of course. Not likely, though.”
“Did she have any relatives?”
“Not that she mentioned, but why should she?”
“All right. Can you tell me any more about Vaughn?”
“Not about his relatives, other than the one I mentioned, who’s in Willie’s firm.
He’s Donald Vaughn’s brother-in-law, I think she said.
Vaughn married his sister. Vaughn’s pushy, but I suppose house agents have to be.
Flashy and full of himself. A bit of a bounder, perhaps.
I don’t want to traduce him. You’ll talk to him yourself, Inspector? ”
“Most certainly.”
“You may decide I’m talking through my hat.” She hesitated. “It seemed to me there was something between them, Vaughn and Mrs. Gray. Something more … personal than his finding a buyer for her house.”
“Indeed!”
“Nothing definite. Nothing I could swear to.”
“A place for me to start. You’re a detective’s dream, Miss Sutcliffe.” They smiled at each other.
At once, Daisy wondered if there was a possibility of “something between them” in the future. Not much chance. At Underwood’s age, he was probably married, and Isabel would remain a surplus woman.
Had Mrs. Gray been a member of the superfluous ranks? Had she, like Daisy, beaten the odds to find a husband? Unlike Daisy, though, it didn’t sound as though she had found love, or even contentment, far less happiness.
More to the immediate point, had she found death in a dark cellar?