Sunday Best (20 page)

Mrs Jenkins made no move. ‘I'm responsible for my gentlemen's belongings,' she said.

‘Your gentleman has been murdered, Mrs Jenkins. His belongings are no longer your responsibility. The police have the right to investigate wherever they feel it is neccessary. I shall not need you here.'

‘I don't like doing this, Inspector,' she said.

‘I will take full responsibility, Mrs Jenkins.'

She sulked out of the room, straightening the late Mr Parsons's already straight counterpane.

The Superintendent started to go through the papers. There were no letters of any relevance, or notebooks. There were collections of postcards of old master reproductions, purchased from the National Gallery. There were cellophane packets of foreign stamps and semi-precious stones. And there was his bankbook, statements and cheques. The Superintendent went through these thoroughly, though with little heart, for his thoughts were itching for Brighton, but after a perusal of Parsons's accounts, he was bound to admit that Parsons drew an inordinately large sum every week, considering his comparatively frugal way of life. It was a clue he could not in all conscience dismiss. He packed the accounts into his brief-case and went downstairs.

On his way back to the station, he tried to find some innocent explanation of the large withdrawals. The obvious answer, which in any other case the Superintendent would have reached for, was possible blackmail, but his thinking was so fixedly pointed in George Verrey Smith's direction, and to his obvious motive, that he would not admit of this possibility. So he decided with equal logic that Parsons was
keeping Mrs Price in Brighton, and that the extra cash was for her rent and board. He was delighted with his reasoning, and hurried back to the station to collect any new developments. There was nothing from Brighton – he didn't, in any case, expect news so soon. He plugged in his headphones to hear if Mrs Verrey Smith had anything new to offer. There had been two calls, one that Mrs Verrey Smith had made herself; a pathetic apology to a Mrs Bakewell for verbal insults tendered, which ended in an invitation to tea from the latter to prove that she, Mrs Bakewell, knew the meaning of true friendship. The second call announced Mrs Verrey Smith's great and good fortune in having been chosen to receive six free dancing lessons from the Rainbow Teaching Establishment, and Mrs Verrey Smith's not surprising, if rather vociferous, refusal. He took his headphones off. It was early days. He was not dissatisfied.

It was now the seventh day of his disappearance, and Joy Verrey Smith was losing hope of ever seeing him again. Apart from a hurried cup of tea at Mrs Bakewell's, to whom she had confided all that Mrs Bakewell already knew from the papers, she had not left the house since George's disappearance. He had not phoned again, but she hadn't given up hope, and every time the phone rang, which was rarely, she rushed to the receiver in a burst of anger and forgiveness. But such calls as she had received had merited neither. Apart from the news reporters, few people had come to see her. Some neighbours had offered to do her shopping and laundry. Mrs Johnson had opted to stay with her own mourning, and for that Joy Verrey Smith was grateful.

The house was quiet and dirty. Over the Georgeless days, it had accumulated dust and dishes, and a mountain of cigarette ends. Spit and Polish were suddenly misnomers, their brass cage tarnished and lack-lustre, and their occasional songs likewise. As the days passed, the newspaper coverage lessened, so it was less of an agony to pick up the morning's paper from the doormat. But today, a letter had come with it, and she sat at the kitchen table looking at it, as she had done for the last two hours, not daring to open it for she sensed that it contained a clue that might undo her. It was a familiar handwriting, and a familiar postmark. Ireland. A letter had come for George from Ireland every week and, though she had always been curious, she had never dared to refer to it. Only once, and it was the first time such a letter had arrived, had she asked George about it, and he was so outraged by her interference that she had said no more. But every week she had slid the letter under his study door, and tried to forget about it, till the next one arrived. Now there was no delivery room, and no one but herself to open it. She dreaded that it would reveal a story of which she had been happily ignorant
until now. But she knew she had to open it, sooner or later. It could well be a clue, not to his present disappearance, but to the reasons why he went at all.

She covered Spit and Polish's cage. The letter was strictly private. Once again she read the sender's address on the back of the envelope. It was the same as it had been over the years, but there was no name attached. She was careful not to tear into it as she opened the letter. She waited for a while before taking the letter out, for a sign perhaps that she should not do it, for a ring at the doorbell, or the telephone, or a scream from Spit or Polish. But there was nothing in the silent house to stop her.

She took the letter out and spread it on the table. It was written in an ominous purple. The address was given again on the top righthand corner, printed this time, but underlined in purple ink. The message was short. Great pains had been taken with its layout; the margins between the florid purple were equal, and the whole message was central to the page. As a piece of calligraphy it was pleasurable to view, until you came to the matter of the message, which was, to say the least, alarming, ‘CONFESS, CONFESS' it read, ‘my son', half of it in bold capitals, and the rest, which carried less confidence, in small purple letters. That was all. She read it many times. Backwards and forwards, even up and down, the message was the same, and all ways, abundantly clear. So George had done it, and somehow his mother knew. George was Parsons's murderer, and a mother was pleading with her son to give himself up. She had to see her. They had had no contact since Mrs Verrey Smith had moved to Ireland on her remarriage. But they were not on non-speaking terms. She had to find out what George's mother knew about Parsons, how she had found out, and what story lay behind it all. How could the mother be so sure that George was a murderer? She had to see her. But she couldn't go to Ireland. The Superintendent would be suspicious of the move, and besides, she couldn't leave the phone. No, Mrs Verrey Smith, or whatever she was now called, was going to have to come to her. She could send her a telegram. She didn't want to do it over the telephone. It would be checkable, and in any case, she couldn't be too sure that her phone was not tapped. The Superintendent had come to visit her every day, and he had not mentioned Brighton. Had he heard the call, he would surely have gone there. But
she could not be too sure. She would go to the Post Office. She hated leaving the phone, so she took off the receiver. George would ring again. She didn't want him to think that the house was empty, or he might feel utterly betrayed. So she hurried, and at the Post Office counter she thought for the first time how to word the telegram. ‘George in desperate trouble,' she tried. ‘Come at once.' But it sounded by way of an order, and she wanted more of a plea. So she amended it a little. ‘George in desperate trouble,' she decided. ‘He begs you to come at once.' Such a message, she felt sure, could not be denied. She handed it furtively over the counter, but there was no untoward reaction from the assistant. Not even a nod of sympathy, and Joy Verrey Smith was glad of it. She hurried home and replaced the receiver. For the first time, she noticed how dirty the house was and, prompted by the possible visit of her mother-in-law, she decided that, George or no, she must clean it up. She went about it with an energy that surprised her. She polished the bird cage till it shone, and Spit and Polish gratefully offered a Te Deum. When it was all done, she saw to herself. She bathed and changed, and tried to feel much better. She was pinning all her hopes on George's mother to unravel the mystery, but it nagged at her that, when all was said and done, she had married a murderer.

When the front doorbell rang, she supposed it was the Superintendent, and she feared that she might have been followed to the Post Office, and her message discovered. But it was a woman's shadow, which turned out in substance to be Mrs Johnson.

Joy Verrey Smith opened the door, but made no gesture of inviting her in. Mrs Johnson, on her part, was rather surprised, since she had come merely as a neighbour to offer what help she could. She obviously did not know of Tommy's tales, or she dared not have come. Mrs Verrey Smith hesitated. Perhaps there was no truth in it at all, and here was a woman, herself in mourning, come to console her. She asked her in, glad now that the house was clean, and they went into the kitchen.

‘I don't know what to say to you,' Mrs Johnson said. ‘If there's anything I can do. You were so good to me in my trouble.'

‘How's Tommy?' Mrs Verrey Smith asked. She still had a nagging concern for her possible stepson, though he did tend
to look like the late Mr Johnson. She looked closely at his mother and wondered what, if anything, George had seen in her. She was much too tall for any practical purpose, and much too angular to be called attractive. ‘Did you know George well?' she asked.

She noticed that Mrs Johnson did not flinch at the question.

‘Not well,' she said. ‘I didn't see very much of him, except occasionally on his way to school in the mornings. Did he have any close friends?'

‘Not that I knew of,' Joy said. ‘He was very secretive, you know.' For some reason, she felt herself warming towards the woman, possibly because of their common bereavement, but she envied Mrs Johnson the finality of her loss, and the stainless reputation her husband had managed to take with him. ‘He couldn't have done it,' she said suddenly. ‘George wouldn't hurt anybody.'

‘He struck me as being very kind and gentle,' Mrs Johnson agreed, though it was contrary to all the reports of him that Tommy brought home from school. But she cared not to reveal that she had had personal experience of his kindness. She wondered whether Mrs Verrey Smith knew, and whether that accounted for her initial hesitation at the front door. ‘It's a terrible mistake,' she said. ‘The fact that he disappeared at the time of the murder doesn't mean anything. People disappear every day. Don't let's talk about it if you don't want to, dear.' She put her hand on Joy's arm.

‘No, it helps to talk about it,' Joy said. ‘But I don't know what to say. I don't know anything about anything, except that he isn't here and that he's been gone for over a week, and there hasn't been a word from him.'

‘You'll hear, I'm sure you'll hear. He must be alive, or you would have heard by now. Try not to worry. I know it's easy to say. It's a terrible nightmare. But it will pass.'

They sat for a while in silence. Joy wondered whether she should bring up the Tommy business, but she decided against it. If it were not true, then it need not be spoken about, but if Tommy were her stepson, she did not want it known that she knew, for she would have to affect a reaction that might change her whole life. In any case, it was best to wait for George's return, and at that thought, she shivered.

The Superintendent came while they sat there, and asked to see Mrs Verrey Smith privately. Mrs Johnson took her
leave, with promises to return with a cooked supper.

‘You have good neighbours,' the Superintendent said when she was gone. Having made a polite beginning, he thought he might as well come straight to the point. ‘You promised to be in touch with me if you heard anything, Mrs Verrey Smith.'

She trembled. They were tapping her phone. She gave herself time to count her luck that she had gone to the Post Office to send the wire to Ireland. ‘I don't know what you mean,' she said.

‘About a week ago, you had a phone call from Brighton, Mrs Verrey Smith. Your telephone is monitored at the station.'

‘Why?' she said angrily. ‘Don't you trust me?'

‘You have given me little cause,' he said. ‘What are you trying to hide? My men are in Brighton now. We shall find Mrs Price, Mrs Verrey Smith, I assure you. But you owe it to us to give us any information. Have you heard from your husband since, or from Mrs Price, by letter, perhaps, or a message? Think carefully. Have there been any letters that might give us a clue?'

‘No,' she said quickly. ‘I haven't heard anything from Mrs Price or my husband.'

‘It was clear from the conversation that you do not know Mrs Price,' the Superintendent said. ‘These women your husband entertained in his study. Did you know any of them?'

‘No,' she said. It was true, because there had never been any.

‘I don't want to intercept your letters, Mrs Verrey Smith,' he said quietly.

‘I'm hiding nothing,' she said. ‘I didn't tell you about the phone call because I'm concerned first of all with my husband's safety. Even if he is with another woman. When you find Mr Parsons's real murderer, my husband will come back, and I don't know why you're wasting your time here or in Brighton for that matter, when the real murderer has probably left the country by now.' She was glad to have got it off her chest.

‘Your husband is suspect number one. I think you ought to know that, Mrs Verrey Smith, and since he disappeared there are other leads that have come to light that have only served to confirm our suspicions.' He would give her a run for her money. He would say no more.

‘What leads?' she whispered.

‘At the moment, I cannot divulge that,' he said, ‘for they may come to nothing. But if by chance your husband does communicate with you, in some form or another, or perhaps Mrs Price, it would be well if you could let them know that the net is closing.'

She crumpled in her chair.

‘Now, Mrs Verrey Smith.' He stood over her. ‘Are you still keeping some information from me?'

‘I have nothing,' she said. The letter from his mother was no information. It was only an opinion, an opinion that tallied only too well with the Superintendent's. ‘Nothing at all. But tell me what the leads are,' she shouted. ‘I'm entitled to know. I'm his wife.'