Superfluous Women (16 page)

“Wait a minute,” said Willie. “Cartwright? Vera's Cartwright?”

“Her headmaster, yes. He insisted that ‘she' was lying about him, which rather baffled the coppers as he'd barely been mentioned.”

“‘She' being Vera?” Isabel asked.

“He refused to say, once he understood that no one had been saying anything, true or false, about him. But I'm certain Alec and Underwood assumed it was Vera, and the superintendent was pretty quick on the uptake. Underwood must have told him on the phone about you three. He knew Vera was a teacher, so he put two and two together. By that time, Cartwright had backed down and denied any connection with the case. He departed with as much haste as he'd arrived.”

“He never explained what he was talking about?”

“No, but they're going to take a statement from him. Did Vera tell you what he did that started the fuss?”

Isabel frowned. “Yes. She said I could tell Willie, but she couldn't make up her mind about you, Daisy. Sorry, she feels she doesn't know you well enough.”

“Never mind.” Daisy did her best to repress her bursting curiosity. “I understand.”

“Iz, we ought to tell her—not what he did, since Vera is so embarrassed about it, but what Cartwright said afterwards.”

“Well … all right. He threatened that if she reported … what he'd done, he'd easily convince people it was all her fault. Everyone would take his word over hers. She'd be disgraced and she'd lose her job.”

“And all three of us would have to leave the district,” Willie added. “The trouble is, he's right. He's a pillar of the community. We're strangers, and ‘superfluous women.' No one would believe her.”

Daisy couldn't deny it. “However, the situation has changed. I still can't see what it has to do with the murder, but the police are going to dig until they're sure of that. I doubt they can keep it quiet, even if they try. If you ask me, Vera should make a clean breast of it.”

“That's what I told her,” said Isabel. “She refused to go to the police—the inspector or even your husband—so I persuaded her to go and talk to Mr. Turnbull, the rector. She can't postpone it till tomorrow because of school. She was putting on her hat as I left.”

“Oh good! At least someone will know the truth before the rumours start flying.”

“And someone with plenty of credibility,” Willie pointed out.

“One would hope so!”

“What's more, it's a church school, for what that's worth, so the rector is probably on the board of governors.”

“What still baffles me,” said Daisy, “is why Cartwright assumed the police were investigating his misbehaviour towards Vera. I suppose he walked or drove past Cherry Trees, fortuitously or because he's been keeping an eye on her.”

“He hasn't got a car. Teachers in church primary schools aren't paid at all well, even the head in such a small school. In fact, before what happened, Vera told me he'd been complaining to her that his wife nags him for wasting his talents for such low pay. One of the things she wants is a car, apparently. He claimed to Vera to be dedicated to teaching. Vera says he's dedicated to power, even if it's just power over a classroom full of children. He's a great knuckle-rapper, is Cartwright.”

“If he bullies children, it's not surprising he would bully his subordinate.” Daisy returned to her theory. “He could have walked past the house. He would have seen the police there, and then he heard they were here, too.”

“Or vice versa,” said Willie.

“Or vice versa,” Daisy agreed. “But was whatever happened with Vera so criminal as to require so large a police presence?”

“No,” said Isabel. “I'm certain the police would have taken no action whatsoever if she had reported it.”

“Guilty conscience, then. And now it's his own fault that it will all come out. It does seem to me, though, that it rules him out as the murderer.”

“Yes,” Willie said sadly. “Much as I'd love to see him arrested, he'd hardly have drawn attention to himself if that were the case.”

“Unless,” said Daisy, “it's a deliberate red herring, as Vaughn asking for Mrs. Gray's address may be. Cartwright might hope that bringing attention to the lesser offence will throw them off the track for the greater.”

“Could it work?” Isabel asked.

“Unlikely. The police—the CID, that is—see through much more complicated ruses. But he may have a low opinion of the local police—”

“Not surprising if he takes Sergeant Harris for an example!”

“Or Cartwright may just be really, really stupid. Not unintelligent, perhaps, but lacking in common sense. At any rate, having thrust himself into the middle of a murder investigation, he's going to find himself thoroughly investigated.”

 

FIFTEEN

Vera scurried
into the parlour. Daisy suspected it had taken a lot of nerve for her to brave the residents' lounge on her own. She was dressed for outdoors.

“Did Izzie tell you?”

“I told them you're going to see the vicar. Rector. And I told Willie why, but not Daisy.”

“Oh.”

“Isn't that what you wanted.”

“Yes. But…” Vera dithered.

“But what?” asked Willie with a hint of impatience.

“Daisy, are you C of E?”

“Yes. At least—”

“Would you mind awfully coming with me? Izzie's Methodist, and Willie never goes to church.”

“I hardly ever go,” Daisy admitted.

“But you're not Mr. Turnbull's parishioner. Willie is.”

As Daisy actually wanted to accompany Vera, she stopped raising objections. “I'll get my coat.”

“It's very kind of you, Daisy,” said Isabel, “but are you sure you're not too tired?”

“Not at all.” Curiosity outweighed weariness every time.

“It's just across the street,” Vera pointed out, “beyond the church. I'll run up and fetch your coat and hat if you like.”

“I'll go,” Isabel offered, and she hurried out.

Taking her cue from Willie, Daisy didn't tell Vera about Cartwright's irruption into the middle of things. It might well change her mind about confiding in the rector.

Five minutes later, Daisy and Vera crossed the road, free of traffic on a Sunday evening. The grass in the churchyard sparkled with frost and the church stood silhouetted against the star-filled sky. Daisy started to turn left, towards the Old Rectory, an ancient building she had noticed on her peregrinations.

Vera put a hand on her arm and gave a little tug to the right. “It's this way. The new rectory is to the north. Not that it's very new—mid-eighteenth century.”

“Much more comfortable, I expect. Look, there's a light in the church. Could it be the rector?”

“I doubt it, not so long after Evensong. Probably the sexton clearing up.”

“What sort of person is the rector? Is he married?” A nice, sympathetic clergyman would be an ideal match for Vera, Daisy thought.

“He reminds me of my grandfather.”

Too bad. “In what way?”

“He looks like him. Grandpapa was a clergyman. They run in the family. But he was also a hard-headed, practical Yorkshireman. He spent all his life as vicar of a poor parish in Bradford and he was more concerned with alleviating poverty than climbing the church hierarchy, like my father. He was the kindest man I ever met.”

“And Mr. Turnbull is kind?”

“Well, I don't really know, but he looks kind and he was very nice when he called.”

Daisy crossed her fingers for luck. Vera's optimism seemed a bit premature, but at least she had cheered up.

A frowning maid opened the door of the rectory and asked their business. Daisy gave their names and asked to see Mr. Turnbull. Grudgingly the woman invited them to step into the hall, then went away to ask her master if he could see them, muttering audibly about “people who never give the poor man a moment's peace.”

“Should I offer to come back in the morning, before school?” Vera whispered. “Or after school?”

“No.” Daisy was adamant. Given time to worry, Vera would not easily be brought back up to scratch. Besides, delay would give Cartwright a chance to get his story in first.

The maid returned, with a martyred air that Daisy hoped was not a reflection of the rector's. She led them to a pleasant, shabby living room, Daisy with a firm grip on Vera's arm to prevent backtracking.

The man who came to meet them was short and plump, with a broad pink face and thick, wavy silver hair. He had changed his clerical black for an ancient blazer with the threadbare crest of a Cambridge college on the pocket.

“My dear Miss Leighton, what can I do for you?” He turned courteously to Daisy. “I'm afraid I didn't quite catch your name, Mrs…?”

Vera seemed tongue-tied so Daisy said, “Fletcher. A friend from London. We're sorry to disturb you so late on a Sunday evening.”

“Not at all, not at all.” He beamed at them benevolently, then glanced behind him, where a plump, grey-haired woman was gathering up her knitting. “My wife.”

No hope for Vera, then, even if he weren't thirty years too old. Daisy exchanged polite murmurs with Mrs. Turnbull.

“Don't move, dear,” said the rector. “I'll take the ladies to my study.”

“There's no fire, dear. It will be icy.”

“No matter, no matter. They are young and dressed for out-of-doors, and you know I don't feel the cold.”

Vera found her voice. “Mrs. Fletcher has just recovered…”

“Come and sit by the fire, Mrs. Fletcher,” said Mrs. Turnbull placidly. “I'll make cocoa.” She went out.

When they were all seated, the rector asked Vera how he could help her. She looked pleadingly at Daisy, beside her on a sofa.

Daisy knew only half the story. Also, she wanted to avoid all mention of the murder, let alone suggesting any link between it and Vera's troubles. She opted for brevity and candour.

“I just happen to be in Beaconsfield for a few days. I'm not really familiar with the situation, but I gather something that happened at the school upset Miss Leighton. She—”

“Indeed!” The rector leaned forward, fixing an intent gaze on Vera. “I'm sorry to hear it, Miss Leighton. And extremely interested.”

Alarmed, Vera faltered, “B-but I … You already know?”

Had Cartwright spread his version of events? If so, Daisy thought, the fat was in the fire. She could only hope she'd be able to smother the flames.

“The fact is,” the rector continued, reaching over to pat Vera's hand, “we have had great difficulty in keeping teachers for the infants. It is some time since any have stayed longer than a single term. Naturally we—the board and I—suspect a common factor. However, not one of the young women has been willing to speak out, to give any but the vaguest of reasons for resigning. Without facts, we cannot act.”

“Go on, Vera,” Daisy urged.

“It was last month,” she began hesitantly, “a couple of weeks after the beginning of term. Before we moved to Beaconsfield. The children had left and I was tidying the room, preparing lessons for the next day. I was at the blackboard copying out a poem from
When We Were Very Young
. Children respond so well to Mr. Milne's verses. They want to learn to read them for themselves.” She fell silent.

“My little ones love them,” said Daisy. “You were writing one on the board when…?”

“When Mr.… The headmaster came in. I thought … I assumed he wanted to make sure I had everything I needed, to ask if I had any questions or wanted advice, as he had once or twice before. I said hello and went on writing on the board. He came up behind me and put his arms round me, and he … he…” She shuddered. “I'd rather not describe—”

“No, no, by all means!” exclaimed the rector.

“I broke away from him and ran to the door. I told him I was going to report his … advances. He said I was a … a typical frigid old maid and it was no wonder no one had ever loved me. It's not true! I was engaged. It's different when someone you love kisses you, when you
want
to be kissed.” Her voice cracked.

“He didn't come back from the war?” the rector asked gently.

Vera nodded. Daisy couldn't speak, a lump rising in her throat as she relived the moment when she'd heard that Michael wasn't ever coming back. She took Vera's hand in hers.

As if taking strength from her clasp, Vera went on: “Mr. Cartwright threatened that if I told anyone, he'd say I tried to … to seduce him and had hysterics when he wouldn't … cooperate. He said I'd lose my job and never teach again.”

“Darling, that's a threat that would only work if he had done it right away. Telling his version now will lead to his having to explain why he let you go on teaching innocent children after your misbehaviour. Wouldn't you agree, Mr. Turnbull?”

“Why, yes. I hadn't thought about it in precisely those terms, but yes, I see your point, Mrs. Fletcher. He would be most unwise to come forward now.”

Daisy realised it was pointless to try to keep Vera's personal troubles separate from the murder. “That seems to be just what he's done.”

“What? He hasn't come to me.”

“He went to the police.”

“Surely this is not a matter for the police!”

“I doubt it. But ‘the wicked flee when no man pursueth.'” Daisy was pleased with herself for producing an apt biblical quotation. “You've heard about the police investigation in Beaconsfield?”

“I have heard a doubtless garbled version of something of the sort,” the rector said severely. “More than one, in fact, so one or the other is necessarily inaccurate.”

“Yes, well, the details are not important just now. As to what brought Mr. Cartwright into the picture, I can only speculate. My theory is that he was passing the house where Miss Leighton lives, saw the police there, learned that she was helping with their enquiries, and jumped to the conclusion that she'd reported him. At any rate, I witnessed his bursting into the inspector's room declaring wildly that an unnamed ‘she' was lying. When the inspector obviously didn't know what he was talking about, he withdrew his words. And his person.”