Sunday Best (16 page)

‘Good evening, Mrs Verrey Smith,' he said. ‘I've told the police to come through the back entrance. Thought it might embarrass you if the whole street were to see their arrival. They're in uniform, you know.'

‘That's thoughtful of you,' she said, asking him in, though she resented the criminal aura he'd shed on the visit. When they reached the front room they heard the police tapping on the kitchen door. Four of them, looking as if they had come to make an arrest. They all settled in the kitchen.

‘May we go up?' the Cloth said. ‘Just a few questions. Horrible business, Mrs Verrey Smith, but the Force have to question everybody.' His tone was deferential, strictly on the side of the Law. Only of God would he speak with greater respect.

She sat down on the kitchen chair, and they wondered why she was holding up proceedings. ‘He's not here,' she said simply. ‘I haven't seen him since he left for school yesterday morning.'

The posse rocked in one movement drawing the more than obvious conclusion. The Cloth sat down heavily and salivated. ‘But Mrs Verrey Smith,' he stammered, ‘you said he had the 'flu. You brought us here to see him. How most misleading of you.' He looked at the Force with abject apology. He was going to be on the right side of the Law whoever was chairman.

‘I didn't know how to tell you,' she said helplessly. ‘I hoped he'd come back during the day.'

It seemed there was no special spokesman for the Force, and though all four minds flooded with the identical thought, not one of them wished to voice it.

‘Well, come now,' said the Cloth, as detective manqué, ‘there seems to be some inference here. Mr Parsons is found murdered, and Mr Verrey Smith has disappeared.' He spelt it out loud and clear as if from the pulpit. ‘I think perhaps some questions are in order.' He had given them their cue and they looked at each other offering one another the floor.

‘I think we need the Superintendent for this one,' the most courageous of them offered. ‘May I use your phone, Madam?'

He went into the hall, and though there was absolute silence in the kitchen, and ears on all sides were strained, it was difficult to decipher the conversation. After a while he came back and announced that the Superintendent was on his way, and they rocked sideways together, as if barring her exit should she have her escape in mind. No word was said between them, and even Spit and Polish, who normally at this hour sang their little throats out, cowered with an instinctive recognition of the uniform, both of the Law and of the Cloth. They both turned their backs on the gathering and nestled close to each other. Again Mrs Verrey Smith recapped her items of information but, even at this stage and in the tangible presence of the police, she refused to connect them. She had to break the silence with some kind of protest. If she said nothing, it could be deduced that she agreed with their obvious conclusions. She addressed herself to the Cloth. ‘I refuse to see any connection between my husband's disappearance and the death of Mr Parsons. I don't honestly see why one has anything to do with the other.' She was getting angry now. ‘I
think it most premature of you to make any such suggestion.' She hated the Cloth, and now she understood why George had hated him too, and again she felt a stab of love for her vanished husband.

‘We shall see,' the Cloth said, and she was sure she saw him smile. She turned her back on him. She would not entertain him with her tears.

They sat for a long time in silence, and she wished the Superintendent would arrive. The phone rang as they waited and, as she got up to answer it, the Cloth restrained her. ‘Perhaps we'd better leave it to the police,' he suggested. He nodded in their direction and, on command as it were, one of them crossed into the hall. The Cloth was having a whale of a time, and could hardly bear to wait to hear who it was. The policeman returned.

‘It's a Mrs Bakewell for you, Madam,' he said. ‘She'd like to talk to you.'

She got up. ‘I see no reason for you to answer my phone,' she said. As her husband's case appeared to her to be more and more shaky, she became aggressive and resentful. ‘You are treating me as if I were a criminal,' she said. ‘You too,' she nodded at the Cloth hoping that, if George ever came back, he would never want to return to that school. She went into the hall and picked up the receiver. Mrs Bakewell was avid to know who had answered the phone, and seemed less than satisfied when Mrs Verrey Smith told her it was the electrician who was expecting a call from his firm. She did not feel like talking to Mrs Bakewell, who in any case had rung up for a chat, as was her wont, this time of the evening. She was anxious to get back to the kitchen, in case the conspirators were talking about her. She hoped the Superintendent would come soon. Anything was better than their continued accusing silence.

When he arrived, in a large police car, and by the front door, it was with an air of authority and ability to take absolute control. ‘This is a police matter,' he said to the assembled company on arrival, and his opinion could only have been meant for the Cloth, who was neither witness nor prosecutor.

‘I thought perhaps I might stay by Mrs Verrey Smith's side,' he said. ‘Rather upsetting business for her, a woman alone, I would think.'

Yes, it was indeed, Joy thought, but the Cloth in the role of
consort would help little and she was glad when the Superintendent assured him that he would not be needed. In fact, he started to propel him towards the front door. The Cloth's collar did not impress him. He had a job to do, and no doubt the Cloth likewise, and they had both better get on with it.

‘I'll come to see you tomorrow,' the Reverend Richard Baines threw from the front door. He had to be kept informed. Mr Verrey Smith was, after all, one of his staff, he explained to the Superintendent, and his welfare was part of his concern. The Superintendent shut the door on him and returned to the kitchen. He told his men to wait in the hall while he talked to the lady.

Now they were gone, and he looked as if he were determined to wring every item of information out of her, while she, staring back at him, was equally determined to withhold at least part of it. There was still a chance that George would come back, and the less known of him the better.

The Superintendent took out his notebook, and began with routine questioning. She told him what he already knew, that her husband had disappeared, and that she could find no reason to account for it. No, he had no financial problems, no other woman, no phase of deep depression. ‘My husband is perfectly normal,' she challenged him and it was her aggression that aroused his suspicions.

‘I hate to ask you these personal questions, Mrs Verrey Smith, but it is in all our interests that your husband be found. He may have absolutely nothing to do with the murder. His disappearance may be purely coincidental. But you agree, that until we find him, we cannot clear him? Are you sure there was no other woman?'

It suddenly occurred to Mrs Verrey Smith that George might be hiding next door, but she kept this idea to herself. ‘My husband and I have been married for seventeen years. We have always been happy together. As far as I know, he has never been with another woman.' The misery of their years together was no business of the Superintendent. A man who could commit murder could commit other things too, and she had to prove George guilty of nothing. For a moment she considered whether it was remotely possible that George had had a hand in Mr Parsons's undoing, but she dismissed the thought. It would have been a victory for the Superintendent if he had managed to plant such a thought in her mind.

‘I would like to search the house,' he said suddenly.

‘But why?' she said. ‘He's not here. You don't think I'm hiding him?'

‘Not for one moment, Mrs Verrey Smith, but there may be some clues as to his disappearance, or even, though I doubt it, some evidence of a connection with the late Mr Parsons. I'm afraid I have a warrant,' he said, seeing the beginning of her protest. ‘It would be of help to yourself, I'm sure, if you would be of help to me. Does your husband have his own room? A study, perhaps? I presume you share a bedroom.'

‘Yes,' she said, leading the way. ‘I'll take you to his study.'

In the hall, the Superintendent motioned the men to follow. On the stairs she explained to him how he always kept the study door locked, and how, on returning home after the funeral, she had found it open. That was all he needed to know, she thought, and suddenly remembered his Sundays, hanging in his closet. One of the policemen had already opened the wardrobe door, and she was beside him with overflowing explanation. ‘They're mine, those clothes,' she said. ‘I'm sorting out my things to give to a jumble sale. I hung them in there for the time being. It's in aid of handicapped children you know. We have one every year.' She heard her endless chat as from an unsure liar. ‘Anyway,' she ended, ‘they're mine.' Then she wondered why she'd made an issue of them at all. They were palpably hers, wherever they were hanging, and her vociferousness had not been lost on the Superintendent. He called her aside.

‘For everyone's sake,' he said, ‘it would be better if you confided in me. You have told me that your husband always kept this door locked. There is a divan in this room. There are also women's clothes in the cupboard. Is it not possible that your husband was keeping another woman, and that you, rather than lose him completely, decided to turn a blind eye?' He was giving her a very convenient get-out, and it was certainly preferable to be married to an adulterer rather than a murderer. She decided to fall into the net. It would give George a reason for his disappearance, and would also help to remove the suspicion that was tailing him.

‘Yes,' she said. ‘He did occasionally have other women, and I think lately, he had someone quite regularly. But I don't know who she was. But the clothes are mine, that's true.' She didn't want them taking them away and finally discovering
that they belonged to her. ‘I'm having a sort out of my clothes. I'm putting the overflow in here. My husband always kept his clothes in his study. Our bedroom closet is too small. I'll show it to you,' she said, chattily again. She was now willing to give him every ounce of collaboration, any story that would detract suspicion from George, even if it reflected poorly on herself. For a moment she hated her husband, and wondered whether he was worth even the slightest stain on her own reputation. She began to wonder whether there were indeed other women, others apart from Mrs Johnson. But it would be useless to ask her. She intended to ignore Tommy's declaration. As far as she was concerned, Tommy was an orphan. But at this thought, she saw George dead, murdered in a back alley, and she shuddered. Her mind was so confused. She wanted to love George, she wanted him back, but her mind kept getting in the way.

‘We must have a photograph of him,' the Superintendent was saying. ‘We must circularize his details.'

‘I haven't got a photograph,' she said quickly.

One of the policemen picked up the passport from the desk. ‘Here's one,' he said, opening it. ‘Quite recent, too.' He handed the document to the Superintendent who put it in his pocket.

‘D'you have a full-length photograph?' he said, ignoring her last remark.

‘Only a wedding one, and that was seventeen years ago. He's changed a lot since then.'

‘What was he wearing when he left?'

Again she was loath to give information. She did not want George found until Parsons's murderer had confessed. Then his way back would be clear.

‘Was he wearing a suit perhaps?' The Superintendent tried to help her.

‘No,' she said. A suit was more findable than a nondescript pair of trousers and jacket. ‘He had grey trousers on, I think, and a small checked jacket. I don't recall what shirt or tie.' That was true. She rarely noticed George for he himself gave no attention to it either. She had given the Superintendent very little to go on with, and he took the passport out of his pocket. ‘Was your husband clean-shaven? I mean, did he, when he left, have either a moustache or a beard?'

She shook her head. She could not imagine George bearded.

‘How long would it take your husband to grow a moustache, would you think? Does his hair grow very quickly?'

‘Oh yes,' she lied. ‘He could have the beginnings of a fine beard in a week.'

The Superintendent looked at the photograph again. ‘He seems to have a very fair skin,' he said. ‘I wouldn't have thought him a hairy man myself.' He made a note. He clearly did not believe her. ‘How tall is your husband?' he went on.

‘Six foot,' she said, giving him a few inches.

‘Is he of small or medium build? Is he a fat man?'

‘He's medium,' she said, ‘and not fat.' According to her description George could have looked like anybody. The Superintendent was not pleased. He dismissed his men and told them to report to the station. She noticed that they left this time by the front door. There was no longer any need for their discretion. They had enough evidence to leave the house like gentlemen.

When they had gone, the Superintendent sat on George's desk chair, as if meaning to stay, and he motioned her to sit down.

‘You seem to be reluctant to give me information, Mrs Verrey Smith,' he said. He reminded her of the stereotype telly detective, a good sort at heart, with a wife and kids of his own, who despite a rough exterior had a deep understanding of human problems. This understanding, he was about to jettison in Mrs Verrey Smith's direction, and she was determined not to be influenced by it.

‘You give me the impression that you are holding something back, something perhaps about your husband of which you are ashamed. It is very important for us to find your husband if only for the one reason of clearing his name. I have to tell you, Mrs Verrey Smith, there is obvious suspicion attached to him. It seems from what I have gathered from the other members of the staff, especially from Miss Price, and the Reverend Baines himself, that your husband was very friendly with Mr Parsons, indeed a mite too friendly, as the headmaster put it.' He was referring to his notes again. ‘Now there is obviously some connection. It is just possible that your husband has some information that will lead us to an arrest. It is of vital importance that we find him, Mrs Verrey Smith, and it is in your interest that you co-operate with us.'