Chapter 18 An Inspector Calls #2
“Oh really? I was in Palestine.” He took a cigarette case from his pocket. “Smoke?” He lit Robbie’s and his own cigarette, and said, “I’m sorry to have to ask this, but is Mr. Sullivan a homosexual, as far as you’re aware?”
Robbie drew deeply on his cigarette. “Gosh. I really wouldn’t know. It’s hardly the sort of thing he’d talk about, is it?” He congratulated himself on using the conditional present tense, even as nausea curdled the contents of his stomach.
The inspector dipped his chin and said lightly, “What about you, Mr. Trafford?”
Robbie looked at him, confused. “What about me?”
“Look, I wish I didn’t have to be so personal.
And I ought to make one thing clear: I have no interest in bringing any charges for…
for…” DI Comyns glanced toward the door, which was half an inch ajar.
Robbie went and clicked it firmly closed.
“I need to examine all lines of inquiry,” the inspector went on, his eyes following Robbie’s movement. “I’m sure you understand.”
Robbie sat down. “I’m not sure I do. What on earth does this have to do with me?”
“You and Mr. Sullivan were overheard arguing one evening. At the King’s Arms pub on Fulham Road. Several witnesses said you were very upset.”
He felt his face turn ashen. Before he could respond, DI Comyns said in an alarmingly sympathetic way, “Do you need a glass of water?”
Robbie shook his head, swallowed some gluey saliva, and said, “I am a bit parched. I’ll just make myself a drink.
I don’t suppose you…” The man held up a demurring hand.
Robbie went over to the sideboard and filled a glass with one-third whisky and two-thirds soda water.
He took several large gulps before sitting back down.
“Perhaps you could tell me about it,” said DI Comyns. “The argument. Perhaps the onlookers got entirely the wrong end of the stick. Wouldn’t be the first time.”
Focus, thought Robbie. Don’t panic. You’re finished if you panic.
He took another large sip of his drink. Then he said, “There was nothing to it really. We bumped into each other, and Mr. Sullivan made some rather offensive remarks to me. Casting aspersions.” He stubbed out his cigarette.
“I’m married. My wife and I are separated just at present.
But we both hope that’s a temporary state of affairs. ”
“Right. I see. I’ll reiterate, if I may, that you needn’t worry about incriminating yourself. By which I mean, don’t lie to me to conceal a crime in which I have no professional interest. That will only cause trouble for you.”
“I’m not lying. And if I may, I resent the insinuation. As I say, my wife and I—”
“Unfortunately, the barmaid at the King’s Arms recalls quite a different conversation between you.”
“A barmaid? You can’t seriously be taking the word of a…” Robbie stopped, uncertain how to finish the sentence.
DI Comyns consulted his notebook. “Millicent Turnbull, thirty-five. Widowed, lives with her mother. Keen church choralist. Former Wren. Nice lady. It’s unclear why she should make up stories.”
“People misremember things, don’t they? Or as you put it, they get the wrong end of the stick.”
“Hmm. Mrs. Turnbull was confident she’d overheard some type of jealous spat. You were aggrieved, she said, over Mr. Sullivan’s relationship with another man.” He glanced at his notebook. “George. Who is George?”
I might help myself, thought Robbie. Say who George is.
Claim she was having an affair with Jimmy.
Deflect these dangerous accusations. But he knew he mustn’t drop her in it.
Not if he ever wanted to look at himself in the mirror.
They had to stick together; that was the pact.
“As I say, Detective Inspector, whatever this woman thinks she heard, she’s mistaken.
The only George I know, aside from our late king, of course, is my great-uncle, George Higginbotham.
He keeps bees in Somerset. I don’t suppose he socializes in the same circles as Mr. Sullivan. ”
DI Comyns remained poker-faced at this facetiousness. He jotted down some notes, which Robbie took as another attempt to unnerve him. He hadn’t said anything useful, surely?
“I appreciate your time,” said the inspector, replacing his notebook in his blazer pocket. “Before I go, I’d like to speak to Miss Mountford-Owen. Perhaps you could ask her to—”
“Certainly,” said Robbie with excessive alacrity, jumping to his feet. “Best of luck with your investigation.”
“Robbie, for goodness’ sake, calm down,” said Honor in a cross murmur. “You said he didn’t seem to care about your affair with Jimmy. So I don’t see any reason to panic. And you denied it, in any case. He can’t prove otherwise, can he?”
“That damn barmaid.” He sat down and rested his forehead in his hand. “How dare she eavesdrop and repeat private conversations. Jobs like that ought to have a code of conduct attached to them.”
“He didn’t guess, then, that George was George?”
“Didn’t seem to. But you know these detectives. They play everything close to the chest. I got the feeling the whole time that he was testing me. Did you get that feeling? He was trying to trip me up.”
“Be that as it may,” said Honor, “oughtn’t we to tell George about this? If the detective inspector thinks George was having an affair with Jimmy, he’ll wonder why she concealed it. Won’t he?”
Robbie shook his head. “Please don’t tell her. I don’t want her to know about me and him. I honestly couldn’t—”
“But, Robbie, she ought to be told that she may fall under suspicion. It’s not fair to keep it from her.”
He looked at her with pure anguish.
“All right,” she relented. “We won’t tell her. But we’ll have to revisit this decision, depending on what happens.”
“Right, right. What did you make of him, Comyns?”
She thought about it. “I’m afraid he’s one of those quietly clever types.
Presents a diffident face to the world, but underneath, his brain is working nineteen to the dozen.
That said, he didn’t seem to think Jimmy had been killed, just that he’d absconded.
If they’ve got cases resting on his testimony, I don’t wonder they want to track him down. ”
“Did you know he’d be expected as a witness in court?” His tone held a hint of rebuke.
“No! I didn’t realize the police still needed him. Stupidly, I thought he’d simply told them what he knew in exchange for his release, and that was that. It was to do with a prisoner friend of his. A fellow who’d entrusted him with all sorts of confidences. Boasts, I suppose.”
“What sort of a friend?”
Honor raised an eyebrow. “Well, quite.”
“This is all very exciting,” exclaimed George. She kicked off her sandals and tucked her feet underneath her. “I’ve never met a policeman before. What do you suppose has happened to poor Mr. Sullivan? You don’t think he’s come to a sticky end, do you?” She widened her eyes.
“I…” DI Comyns glanced down at the cork heel of George’s shoe, resting sideways on the rug.
“He always struck me as very much the sort of fellow who knew how to look after himself. Wait, that came out wrong. I don’t mean he seemed capable of violence. But you can never really tell with people, can you? I had a school friend who—”
“Miss Mountford-Owen, if I could stop you there. All I’m doing right now is talking to people who know him. He has absconded from his parole, you see. You’re not in touch with him, I take it?”
George caressed the beaded brooch on the neckline of her dress, as though absently pondering. But the man’s eyes didn’t stray from her face. “I’m trying to remember if I’ve seen him,” she said. “In the street or anything, since he moved out. But I don’t think so.”
“You don’t consider him a friend?”
“I like to think I’m nice to everyone I meet. Naturally, when he took a room here, I tried to be kind, because I gathered he’d had a tough time. One should always be charitable, or so my parents taught me. Second chances and all that.”
“Did he have any girlfriends, do you know?”
“I never saw him in the company of any girls, as far as I recall. But that doesn’t necessarily mean anything, does it?”
DI Comyns looked at her without speaking.
He was not an unattractive man, she thought.
Perhaps forty or forty-two, he had wide gray eyes that tilted down at the outer corners, giving him a sympathetic, mournful mien.
Neatly oiled black hair. Bookish specs. The bluish tint of a five o’clock shadow emphasized the thinness of his lower face.
He seemed thoroughly decent. The only countervailing feature was his nose, which was prominent and crooked.
At a certain angle, it made him look almost disreputable.
“What about the other young lady who rooms here?” he said at last. “Were they…”
“Mina?” George laughed. “Gosh, no. Mina wouldn’t give him the time of day.”
“A beauty, is she?”
“Um… let’s just say she has her sights set on a more advantageous match.
I hope that doesn’t sound sneering. I don’t mean it to.
I can quite see why climbing the social ladder is an appealing prospect.
For a particular type of girl, that is. I’m afraid I’ve rather slid down in the other direction. As an hon.”
He didn’t react to this attempt at rank-pulling. Either he didn’t know what she meant, or he wished to convey indifference. “I’d like to speak to her—is she at home?”
“No, she rarely is. I can ask her to contact you, perhaps?”
DI Comyns rose to his feet and picked up his hat. “No need. I might drop by again. Would you please thank Mrs. Wilson for me? I must be going.”
George saw him to the door. Her head was aching. What had she even said? It was all a blur. Had she struck the right note? And why, of all the filthy luck, was he so undistracted by her feminine charms?
Hilary Comyns wished Miss Mountford-Owen a pleasant evening.
Nice girl, he thought. But troubled. He saw it quite clearly.
All that forced vivacity, the flirtatious mannerisms. No doubt this was a longtime successful strategy.
She probably couldn’t stop doing it if she tried.
And why was an honorable living in a Chelsea rooming house in the first place? What had gone wrong to lead her there?
He walked back the way he’d come, northeast toward Hyde Park, and replayed the conversations in his mind.
Shame about Mr. Trafford; he was patently terrified.
Well, who wouldn’t be. But Hilary had meant what he said.
He wasn’t interested in making trouble for the fellow—he just needed to find Jack Shaughnessy, a.k.a.
James Sullivan. Mr. Sullivan had told his probation officer he had a new lady friend, so why hadn’t anyone admitted to meeting her?
Unless the lady friend didn’t exist and was simply a cover story for romantic leanings in another direction entirely.
If it came to it, of course, he could force Mr. Trafford to be more forthcoming. There’d be evidence somewhere to be used against him—there always was. But Hilary lacked the stomach for such machinations. People couldn’t help who they were, could they?
As for Mrs. Wilson, what an odd duck. Certainly not your average landlady.
The court record admitting the late Mr. Wilson’s will to probate had his widow’s age as twenty-nine, which would make her, what, thirty-four now?
Yet she acted like a dowager aunt. Another queer thing, when he’d looked for records of her from before her marriage, he couldn’t find anything.
She seemed to materialize into existence during the war.
Her maiden name, supposedly, was Petrova.
A Russki, perhaps. There was no trace of an accent, but if she were foreign—had been a penniless refugee, say—it might also account for the couple’s frankly vast age difference.
Later that evening, Mina knocked on Saul’s door and stuck her head around. “Did you hear? A copper came calling!”
“Come in, Mina! Have you just got home?” Her cheeks were flushed, and an errant curl had escaped its hairpin.
“A little while ago,” she said, sitting down and spreading out her full skirt to avoid creasing.
“George filled me in. She seems very sanguine about the whole thing, I must say. She found the policeman charming, apparently. That’s as may be, I told her, but that’s part of his job, isn’t it, to weasel information out of people, and in that way collar wrongdoers. He didn’t speak to you, then?”
“I was out, as it happens.”
“Thank heavens I was out, too! Can you imagine? At least now, if he comes back, we won’t be caught unawares.”
“We must remain on our guard, certainly. But it ought not to come as a huge surprise that Jimmy’s disappearance has been noticed. It was bound to be. There’s no reason to think any of us will fall under suspicion, is there?”
Mina considered this. “So long as they don’t have a body, they can’t charge anyone with murder. They can suspect all they like, I suppose, but that’s the bottom line.”
Saul wasn’t sure this was true. “There you are, then. No need to worry unduly.”
Easy for him to say, thought Mina. “Could I have a cigarette, please?” she asked.
“Of course.” He proffered his case and lit it for her. “I didn’t think you smoked.”
Mina held her cigarette aloft in straight fingers and gazed moodily into the middle distance.
“I’m trying to learn.” She took a tentative puff and exhaled poutily.
“I’ve been studying Lauren Bacall. She’s a marvelous smoker, don’t you think?
The trouble is, it makes me feel like puking. Sorry. But it does.”
He smiled. The poor child did look green. “You’ll soon get the hang of it, I’m sure.”
With a determined frown, she took another drag. “Is Honor worried, then? About the policeman? I mean, in her situation… it’s a bit dicey, isn’t it? If I was pretending to be someone else, the last thing I’d want is the attention of the law.”
She was right, thought Saul. If the police learned that Jimmy was Honor’s brother, what then? She’d always seemed so confident her secret was safe. “I’ve covered my tracks,” she once said. “Nothing can connect me to the past. Elsie Armstrong might as well be dead.”
“Well,” he said, “Honor seemed rather sanguine, too. Her former self, as it were, is so far in the past, it’s as though she can’t conceive of anyone—even a police detective—raising her ghost.”