Chapter 27
TWENTY-SEVEN
Cartwright didn’t resist being taken to the police station.
Finding out that the rector knew of his misdeeds took the stuffing out of him.
Even his moustache looked limp. He forgot to take his overcoat and hat from their hook as they passed.
Ernie Piper retrieved the hat and plonked it on his head, then helped him into the coat.
The schoolmaster had wit enough left to jerk down the hat brim to shadow his face.
To Alec’s relief, Daisy’s umbrella was no longer visible. In fact, no one was about except a constable trudging away towards the crossroads, presumably on his beat.
Pennicuik bringing up the rear, the five men crossed Wycombe End and entered the station. Cartwright stumbled on a step. Ernie caught his arm and steadied him.
Sergeant Harris was at the entrance desk. He looked up, glared at Alec, and without a word started to write busily. Underwood ignored him. They went through to the office. The inspector motioned Cartwright to a chair. He sat down as if his knees had given way.
“I’ll be with you in a moment, sir. Chief Inspector, I’d like a quick word.
” Leaving Ernie and Pennicuik to loom over the schoolmaster, Underwood and Alec stepped out of the room.
Closing the door, Underwood nodded gloomily towards the front of the building.
“I’m sorry he’s back. We needn’t expect any more cooperation from him than is necessary to keep his nose clean. ”
“No, I’m afraid not. With luck we won’t need much from him. Piper and your chap are good men.” And then there was Tom, busy behind the scenes.
“Pennicuik’s still wet behind the ears, but he tries. Quite quick on the uptake. I was thinking someone ought to catch Mrs. Cartwright while we’ve got hubby here.”
“And you’re wondering whether Piper could handle it? I take it you’re not ready to stick Cartwright in a cell to cool his heels?”
“No, and nowhere near ready to arrest him.”
“I’m glad we agree. Ernie could handle it, but on the whole I’d rather you or I did.”
“You. We’ve already impressed him with your rank—”
“Oh, is that my function?”
Underwood laughed. “Among others. Pity to waste it. Do you want to take Piper?”
“I’ll leave him for you. Better just one person, for a first interview, especially with a woman.”
“Do you want to take your wife to hold her hand?”
“I think I’ll manage without,” Alec retorted, grinning.
The inspector nodded. “Right. You know where they live?”
“Ernie found the address among your reports and told me how to get there. That’s the sort of detail he excels at. It’s just five minutes’ walk.”
“Don’t forget we have an appointment with the Vaughns at six, and you offered to drive.”
“I’ll be back.”
The Cartwrights lived in a small, newish house of the local brick.
The small front garden with its white picket fence was very neat: the lawn closely mowed and dandelion-free, the two beds well weeded and still colourful, boasting chrysanthemums, Michaelmas daisies, and a couple of rose bushes bearing a few late blooms. On one side of the house, a hawthorn flaunted its crimson berries.
A flock of chattering chaffinches were busy wrecking the display.
A net curtain twitched as Alec opened the gate and set foot on the crazy-paving path.
Peripheral vision informed him of twitching curtains in the houses on either side.
If a canvas of the neighbourhood should prove necessary, it would be much more fruitful than the struggle to elicit information from the residents of Orchard Road. He rang the bell.
Had Alec been asked beforehand what he expected of Mrs. Cartwright, he’d have described her almost to a T.
She was about her husband’s age, possibly a year or two older.
Her brown hair was set in over-stiff marcelled waves and her makeup was minimal.
Her maroon woollen afternoon dress was of good material, well-cut, but not in the current style, nor that of the past couple of years—Alec was conscious of fashion because clothes tell a good deal about character and circumstances.
Her face was set as stiffly as her hair, in lines of discontent.
Her look was hostile. “If you’re selling Hoovers, I already have one.” She started to close the door.
Alec was tempted to offer her the latest model, but he curbed his tongue. “I’m a police officer, madam.”
The hostility remained, but she said grudgingly, “What do you want?”
“A few minutes of your time.” He glanced to left and right. “Perhaps I could come in?”
“If you must.” She stood aside, and shut the door emphatically behind him, as if defying her neighbours. “Well, what is it?”
“Could we sit down, do you think?”
Her mouth tightened, but she led the way into a very conventional sitting room, the furniture well-chosen though inexpensive. Over the mantelpiece hung an oil painting of a colourful garden. Alec went to take a closer look.
“I wish I had more time to spend on my garden,” he said, and turned in time to catch an almost wistful expression.
“It’s a lot of work. If I had time and money, I’d have a big garden and help—and if wishes were horses, beggars would ride.” Impatiently, she added, “What is it you want to say to me?”
He introduced himself.
“Scotland Yard.” She raised plucked eyebrows. “Indeed. To what do I owe the honour of your call? Do get on with it. I have to go and supervise in the kitchen. The girl simply can’t do anything right.”
Alec decided he had to crack her shell of indifference if he was to get anywhere. “I must inform you that your husband is presently helping my colleague with his enquiries, at the police station.”
She paled beneath the rouge and she sat down at last, but her voice remained indifferent. “Sit down, Chief Inspector. I don’t like people towering over me. What has Roger done now? Set his heart on some underage enchantress? Not one of his pupils, I trust!”
“You’re aware of his … straying.”
“Obviously. Don’t tell me he’s gone beyond making overtures this time.” She took a cigarette from a silver-plated case, the silver worn to show the brass beneath, and tapped it on the lid before lighting it with a match.
“We’re investigating.”
“He makes us both ridiculous,” she snapped, driven at last to overt anger, viciously stabbing out the cigarette after one puff.
“Please tell me how he came to be a church-school teacher.”
“I can’t imagine what that has to do with anything, but if you want.
… He was a promising young barrister when I married him.
He was in first-rate chambers, a criminal practice—you’d recognise the name, I daresay—and he bore out the promise, until the war came along.
When he was demobbed, he just couldn’t settle back into his work. ”
“Not uncommon.”
“Which made it no easier to deal with.”
“No. I beg your pardon.” Alec noted her self-satisfied look. Scoring a point off the questioner made people feel superior and, oddly enough, sometimes caused them to open up. “Please continue.”
“In the end, he resigned from his chambers. Our savings ran out and we went to live with—and on—my parents. He found work occasionally, but never stayed long. If he didn’t quit, he was given the sack.”
“Was there a pattern? I mean—”
“I know what you mean. He usually quit because he considered the work meaningless or demeaning, or both. He was dismissed sometimes for drinking, usually for losing his temper once too often.”
“He has a bad temper.”
“He flies off the handle at the least little thing.”
“And lashes out?”
“Sometimes.” Mrs. Cartwright regained a measure of caution. “Not with me, not since I fended him off with a hot poker. This isn’t anything to do with his philandering, is it? You think he killed that woman, what’s her name … Gray?”
“Did you know he was … interested in her?”
“I’m not saying another word.”
“Do you want to ring up your lawyer?”
“My lawyer? On a schoolmaster’s salary, one doesn’t have a lawyer at one’s beck and call.”
Alec didn’t press her. He was inclined to feel sorry for her, particularly as her husband was almost certain to lose yet another job.
On the other hand, he wasn’t convinced that she hadn’t known about Judith Gray.
Given that knowledge, she herself might have been tempted to push the woman downstairs, with or without the aid of a hot poker.
Though, as far as Alec knew, she hadn’t attacked any of Cartwright’s previous amours, everyone had a breaking point.
“The female of the species…” In less than two decades, Kipling’s line had become a cliché.
Alec’s years of policing, not to mention the war, had taught him otherwise: the male human was far more deadly than the female.
But one must not discount the female. What of Mrs. Vaughn?
Walking back to the police station through the damp dusk, he called to mind what he knew of her.
She was the one who had brought money to the marriage, according to Willie Chandler’s boss, Davis, who had it from his partner, Myra Vaughn’s brother.
Her income was sufficient to run a car. The money was under her own control, and she wasn’t particularly generous with it, as evidenced by her “lending” the car to her husband.
Her stinginess might be responsible for his holding a job, though possibly her income was insufficient to keep them both in comfort, or perhaps he just enjoyed the work. His employer said he was good at it.
Yet, to all appearances, what he earned from commissions didn’t satisfy him. He was fiddling the books.
Had Judith Gray found out? Was Vaughn himself aware of the audit?
Back at the station, he rejoined the others. As he entered the room, Cartwright looked round apprehensively. He was seated facing the desk. Pennicuik stood behind him and Ernie, notebook and pencil in hand, sat against the wall.
Underwood, behind the desk, stood up. “Might I have a word with you outside, sir?” To Ernie Piper and Pennicuik, he said, “Keep an eye on him.”