Chapter 18 An Inspector Calls
It was astonishing, thought George as she strolled home on a sunny May afternoon, how one could simply move on from ghastly experiences.
Not quite six weeks had passed since they’d buried Jimmy.
And yet, it occurred to her now, for the past few days she’d scarcely thought about him.
She’d even given up brooding over how, exactly, she and Jimmy had been siblings.
Honor still insisted it was the truth but that for George’s sake—for her sake alone!
—she couldn’t explain any further. Downright baffling.
George had always wondered, when reading about criminals and murderers, how they coped with the constant fear of being found out.
True, she’d had a few sleepless nights early on.
But given the efficient way everything had been dealt with, there seemed little to worry about.
No one had come looking for Jimmy. Not yet, at least. In any case, the house’s residents were beginning to palpably relax, to resume normal routines, admittedly by gradual, varying increments.
Herself included. She was even seeing someone: Rory, a producer of BBC documentaries, of all things.
Judging by what he’d told her, his subjects were terribly worthy and boring.
Still, he was relatively good fun. When he’d chatted her up at the cheese counter in Selfridges Foodhall, she’d taken in his wholesome pinkish face and expensive-looking steel watch on a thick wrist. It was less love at first sight than “you’ll do” at first sight.
Over a glass of champagne, he told her about his jazz gramophone records.
As contemporary versions of “come up and see my etchings” went, this was a cut above a stamp collection or a battalion of model airplanes (both had been offered to George as enticements from fully grown men).
Following a suitable amount of persuasion, she’d accompanied him to his flat on Hallam Street.
As soon as they’d taken their clothes off, she realized she’d done the right thing.
She turned onto Tregunter Road, enjoying the sight of her shadow stretching over the chalky pavement.
As she approached the house, she saw a man going up to the door and ringing the bell.
A shiver of fear went through her. Understandable jumpiness, she reflected.
But it was all right; he was a nondescript chap in early middle age, wearing a dark suit and homburg hat.
He appeared dully harmless. Not a likely associate of Jimmy’s, at any rate.
Greta opened the door and looked at the man without saying anything.
“Good afternoon, madam,” he said. “Am I speaking to the lady of the house?”
She frowned darkly. In her hands she held a red-checked tea towel, which she slowly folded in two and threw over her shoulder, like a chef. “Who are you wanting?”
“I’m Detective Inspector Hilary Comyns, Metropolitan Police. I was hoping to speak to a Mrs. Wilson.”
Greta’s nostrils flared, as though detecting a bad smell. “Police? Where is your uniform?”
George hurried up the porch steps. “Hello, Detective Inspector,” she said. “Hello, Greta, don’t worry, I’ll look after our guest.”
Greta gave one of her please yourself shrugs and retreated into the house.
George held the door open for DI Comyns.
“Do come in. And please don’t mind Greta.
She’s a refugee, you know. Her country was invaded by the Krauts.
We make allowances. If you’d like to go in and take a seat, I’ll see if Mrs. Wilson is at home. ”
“Thank you, Miss…?”
“Georgina Mountford-Owen. Back in a jiffy.”
“A policeman?” said Honor. From her tone, she might have been saying “A circus clown?” She was in her usual position behind her desk, cigarette holder between her fingers and drink at her elbow.
Her tomato-colored lipstick had worn away at the center, as though a child hadn’t finished coloring her in.
“Robbie, do you know what this is about?”
“Other than the obvious, you mean?” Robbie, who stood with his back to the door, spoke in a frantic whisper. “Of course I don’t. Why would I? George, what did he say exactly?”
George removed a pile of books from a chair and sat down. She felt lightheaded. “He wants to see Honor. He asked Greta if she was the lady of the house.” She affected DI Comyns’s deep voice and south-of-the-river accent.
“What a cheek!” said Honor, forgetting to whisper. “Greta’s pushing sixty, and—”
George gestured at her to keep her voice down. “Hadn’t we better focus on the matter at hand? This might have nothing to do with Jimmy. Let’s hope not. But it’ll seem a bit suspicious if we leave the detective twiddling his thumbs for half an hour.”
Honor stubbed out her cigarette and sprayed herself with perfume, rubbing her wrists together and saying, “You’re right. I’ll go down now. You two stay here. Is anyone else at home, by the way?”
“I think Mina’s out,” said Robbie. “Don’t know about Saul.”
“Honor Wilson, a pleasure. Have you been offered any refreshment? Tea, coffee, gin?”
DI Comyns shook her outstretched hand, and they both sat down. “Nothing for me, thank you, Mrs. Wilson, thank you very much. I’ll come straight to the point. It’s about a Mr. James Sullivan. I’m given to understand that he is, or was, your lodger, is that correct?”
“Oh no! Has something happened to him?”
“I was hoping you could tell me that.”
“Gosh, really? I do hope he’s all right. But I’m afraid he doesn’t keep in touch. Since he moved out, I mean.”
DI Comyns produced a small notebook and said, pencil poised, “And when was that, exactly?”
She pressed her lips into a thoughtful moue. “Um. March, I think. Yes, it was late March. I remember because Easter was just around the corner. He’s not in any sort of trouble, is he?”
“We’ll have to see about that. Were you aware of his criminal record?”
“Oh yes.” She didn’t elaborate, and he smiled. What the smile meant, Honor wouldn’t have liked to say.
“And he asked to stay here because his late mother had once been a servant in your family’s employ, is that correct?”
Honor nodded.
“The thing is, Mrs. Wilson, Mr. Sullivan was helping us with certain other… certain other investigations. He’ll be called to appear as a witness at court.
But no one’s seen nor heard from him in weeks.
So anything you might be able to tell us would be extremely helpful.
For instance, did he leave a forwarding address? ”
“No, he didn’t.” She said this in a reproving tone, then leaned forward and lowered her voice conspiratorially. “What sort of crime has he witnessed? Oh, but you don’t suppose he’s been—what’s the phrase—tampered with?”
His mouth pursed with apparent amusement. Then he frowned and swallowed. “At this stage, I’m following all potential lines of inquiry. If you wouldn’t mind explaining, why did Mr. Sullivan move out?”
“I think I’d better be honest, Inspector. I asked him to leave. Things weren’t very cordial. He went off in a huff, as it were.”
He scribbled in his notebook, and Honor wondered if he was quoting her verbatim.
“He has failed to register a new address with his probation officer,” he said, “which he is legally obliged to do.”
She gave a small shrug. “My dear, I do so wish I could help.”
“What was the nature of your falling-out?”
“Our falling-out?”
“You said you asked him to leave.”
“Well, it was only meant to be temporary, his stay here. There wasn’t really room. So it wasn’t fair on my other houseguests. But he took it rather personally.”
DI Comyns nodded and licked a fingertip to stroke back a few pages in his notebook. “Can you confirm, Mrs. Wilson, who else lives here at the moment?”
“Of course. There’s Robbie, Mr. Robert Trafford.
But I can assure you, he won’t know any more than I do.
And there are the girls. You met the Honorable Miss Georgina Mountford-Owen, and then there’s Miss Wilhelmina Taylor.
She’s only eighteen, so…” She didn’t mention Saul, since he lived in the separate basement flatlet.
Aware this was a technicality, she nevertheless hoped to get away with it.
“I see. Might I have a word with Mr. Trafford, then?”
Unlike George, Robbie hadn’t stopped fearing this day would come. As he walked slowly down the stairs, his mind went to the most catastrophic of places—even though Honor, when fetching him from the office, had hurriedly told him that the man knew nothing, only that Jimmy had vanished.
“Robbie Trafford,” he said as he entered the drawing room. “How do you do. And how can I help?”
“Good afternoon. I’m sorry for the intrusion. This won’t take long.”
Robbie sat down. Thank God the man hadn’t shaken his hand. He had a desperate urge to run his palms over his trouser legs. Instead he pressed them onto the edge of the armchair seat, hoping he wouldn’t leave damp marks.
“As I was saying to Mrs. Wilson, I’m trying to track down James Sullivan. I understand he was a friend of yours?”
Robbie opened his mouth to respond, trying to produce the right expression: incredulous, but not too incredulous. More surprised. A mixture of surprise and concern. “Well, not really, but we lodged across the landing from one another. Passed the time of day sometimes, you know.”
The man nodded and said nothing. An excruciating silence hung in the air. It’s a technique, thought Robbie. He means me to start yabbering. Well, I wasn’t born yesterday.
DI Comyns looked around the room and said, “This is a nice house, isn’t it? How long have you lived here?”
“Must be four years now, give or take. Mrs. Wilson and I work together. We run a literary magazine.”
“And what did you do before that? Work-wise, I mean?”
“I was at Cambridge. And before that the army.”
“Where did you serve?”
“Egypt. Eighth Army.”