Superfluous Women (20 page)

“We've got Miss Chandler hiding something, too, something about this Vaughn chappy who keeps asking after Mrs. Gray, not to mention Miss Sutcliffe claiming he fancied her—Vaughn fancied Mrs. Gray—maybe was even her lover. Here we are.”

He stopped at a newish brick building separated from the pavement by just a couple of steps. Beside the green door, a brass plate, worn by much polishing as if it had been transferred from an older building, announced the presence within of Ainsley & Barrett, Solicitors and Commissioners for Oaths. Underwood reached for the electric doorbell.

Alec put a restraining hand on his arm. “If he isn't aware that we haven't yet identified the body,” he advised, “don't be in a hurry to tell him. He'd probably refuse to talk about a living client.”

“It wasn't in this morning's papers. Local rumours all assume the body is Mrs. Gray's.” He pressed the bell.

“I expect they're right.”

“The surgeon's doing the autopsy this afternoon. If nothing else, her rings will help.”

They were ushered straight into the lawyer's office. Mr. Ainsley was a small, dried-up man, dwarfed by a large room furnished with a huge Victorian desk and heavy glassed bookcases. He didn't stand when they came in or offer to shake hands.

Underwood introduced himself, “Detective Inspector Underwood, sir, of the Buckinghamshire Constabulary. And this is my colleague from Scotland Yard, Detective Chief Inspector Fletcher.”

Ainsley bowed his head in acknowledgement and invited them to be seated. “How may I be of assistance, gentlemen?”

“I daresay you've heard, sir—”

“My secretary informed me that Mrs. Albert Gray's lifeless body has been found. Is it true that she was murdered?”

“The circumstances indicate a case of murder, yes, sir. You'll appreciate that the more information we have about a victim the better, and nobody we've spoken to hereabouts seems to have been more than barely acquainted with Mrs. Gray.”

Neatly worded, Alec thought; Underwood had avoided stating outright that the body was Mrs. Gray's, though the solicitor still might raise a stink if he found out it hadn't yet been officially identified.

The lawyer nodded. “I was given to understand that her friends are, or were, I should say, mostly in London.”

“And her family?” Underwood asked. “We have to get in touch with her family.”

“I fear I cannot help you there. Neither she nor her late husband, when he was alive, ever mentioned her family to me.”

“She left them nothing in her will?”

Ainsley steepled his fingers and studied the two detectives over this barricade, not inconsiderable for one of his stature. “Strictly speaking, I am not at liberty to discuss Judith Gray's will until it is probated. I can tell you this: When I drew it up after Gray's death, I asked her if she wanted to leave any little remembrances to family members and she refused without explanation. She has … had little enough to leave.”

“Really? Everyone says Albert Gray was wealthy!”

“He was.”

“How long were they married?”

“About five years. Judith Gray was certainly entitled to provision for life. However, acting on my advice, Albert left most of his property in trust to her, as long as she remained unmarried, with reversion to his son by his first wife, and his son's descendents per stirpes.”

Underwood looked baffled.

“You mean,” Alec intervened, “she enjoyed the income for her lifetime but couldn't touch the capital?”

“Precisely.”

“But she was able to sell the house?”

“Oh yes. Gray foresaw that she'd want to move to a flat in London.”

“Or to an unknown address in France?”

“That neither of us foresaw, I regret to say. Nothing in Gray's will disallows such a move, so I was obliged to authorise a letter of credit to a French bank, for almost the entire proceeds of the sale.”

“Drawn on what bank, sir?” Alec put in.

“The local branch of the County and Midlands. Retrieving the sum from France is going to be complicated, to say the least,” Ainsley added peevishly. “And I have several personal letters waiting for her to send her address. I suppose I'll have to open them.”

Underwood's eyes gleamed. “They'll probably give us the addresses of some of her friends.”

“I shall need legal proof of her demise, first.”

One of those frustrating vicious circles, Alec thought. They needed a close friend to confirm identification of the body but they couldn't find a friend until … “Does the estate include Mrs. Gray's ruby ring?”

“It does, though not her pearls, which she left to a friend.”

“To a friend!” Underwood exclaimed. “Then you must have that friend's particulars?”

“I'll have my clerk look out the name and address for you.”

“Thank you, sir. Also Albert Gray's son…?”

“Of course, of course. Robert's the name. Though you may not find him at his London flat. He's in the Foreign Service, a diplomat. He's often abroad.”

“Does he know the provisions of the will?”

“Yes indeed. You mustn't think he's been unprovided for. His father bought the flat for him and set up a small trust so that he will never starve. However, Albert felt a young man should make his own way in the world, as he himself had.” The lawyer took out his pocket watch and opened it.

Underwood looked at Alec, who said, “Just one more question, sir. You would recognise the ruby ring? Beyond a doubt?”

“Certainly. Why?”

“Not having any family members to identify the body, we can do with as many confirmations as possible.”

“Her stepson will recognise her.” Ainsley let out an unexpected chortle. “With pleasure.”

The inspector opened his mouth. Alec shook his head. They took their leave, with proper expressions of gratitude, and stopped on the way out to tell the secretary someone would be sent later that afternoon to fetch the promised names and addresses.

Out on the pavement, Underwood said, “Why…?”

“He was more helpful than he should have been, than he intended to be, but he would never have explained what he meant by ‘with pleasure.' We can assume the son didn't care for his stepmother.”

“Not to mention, he stands to inherit a lot of money! I'd say he's suspect number one.”

“I won't argue with that.”

“He has a huge motive. The means are right there on the spot. Opportunity is all we need.”

“And evidence,” Alec said dryly.

“We didn't ask about keys.”

“An excuse to go back. What's next on the agenda?”

“What would you suggest?”

“The bank, don't you think?”

“We'd better step on it. It's nearly closing time, if the Beaconsfield branch is the same as High Wycombe.” Underwood took a plan of the town from his pocket and consulted it.

The bank was just a couple of minutes' walk along Station Road. It was a small branch, with just two clerks. Underwood asked to see the manager.

Over his half spectacles, the clerk frowned at them. “We close in ten minutes,” he pointed out. “The manager won't be seeing any further customers today.”

“Police.” Underwood showed his warrant card. Though he spoke quietly, the second clerk and the three customers present turned to stare.

The frown became a scowl. “No need to announce—” Catching sight of Alec's raised eyebrows, an expression known to stop even Daisy in her tracks, the clerk pursed his lips. “Very well, I shall ask Mr. Torrance whether he is able to assist you.” He took his time closing down his station, then disappeared into a backroom, from which he quickly reappeared. “Please come this way.”

Mr. Torrance was stout and red-faced, with bulging eyes. “What do you want?” he demanded aggressively.

Alec placed his warrant card on the desk in front of the man. “To ask just one question, sir.”

He picked it up and studied it for a moment. “Scotland Yard. Well?”

“Mr. Ainsley, the sol—”

“Yes, yes, I know who Ainsley is. Get to the point.”

“Mr. Ainsley, as trustee of the estate of the late Albert Gray, provided his widow with a letter of credit for a large sum, drawn on this bank. Has it been presented at a bank, here or abroad, and if so where?”

“That's two questions. And now I've one of my own. What business is it of yours?”

“Murder is our business,” Alec said bluntly. “Your evidence could prove that the victim is not Mrs. Gray.”

Torrance's eyes popped more than ever. “Mrs. Gray murdered?”

Alec left it to Underwood to explain. He was still uncertain of his colleague's abilities. This was a good test. The inspector passed, giving the bank manager just enough information but no more.

“Oh, very well,” said Torrance petulantly. “Such a large transaction would have landed on my desk. As it has not, you can take it that the letter has not been presented for payment or deposit at any bank in the United Kingdom within the past two or three days. A Continental bank should have notified us immediately, or enquired about the validity, but of course one can't count on them, and it would take longer.”

“How long, sir?”

“Any of the more civilised countries, no more than a week. If that's all…? The bank may close to the public but I still have work to do.”

“You'll let us know if and when the letter of credit is presented, of course, sir,” Alec said in a tone that took for granted a positive response.

Emerging on to the pavement, Underwood blew out an emphatic breath. “Phew! I reckon we were lucky to get anything out of him. Not that his answer solved the question. Just another hint suggesting the deceased is Judith Gray.”

“Better than the reverse,” Alec pointed out.

“What do you mean?”

“If he'd provided evidence that Judith Gray was alive no more than a week ago, we'd have a corpse on our hands without the slightest idea whose.”

 

NINETEEN

Daisy reached
the Saracen's Head at teatime. Edward the Boots informed her that Miss Sutcliffe was in the parlour.

“Oh, good. Please tell her I'll join her shortly. Is Mr. Fletcher in?”

“No'm. He went to the p'lice station, him and Mr. Piper. That 'tec that was in the snug, he's there today.”

Bother,
Daisy thought crossly. It would be much more difficult to find out what was going on at the police station. She thanked Edward and went upstairs for a wash and brush-up, pondering Ernie Piper's unexpected arrival. Then she headed for the ladies' parlour.

A welcome fire burned in the grate. Isabel sat by it, alone, paging in a desultory way through a gardening magazine.

“Daisy!” She tossed the magazine onto the nearest table. “I'm glad you're back. I'm feeling like a leper in here. Women I've seen at the shops, who've never appeared to notice my existence, keep peering in and instantly recognising me as connected with the murder. And going away again.”

“Never mind. Don't let them stop us ordering tea. I'm parched.” She rang the bell. “I'll tell you about what the rector and I found out, as soon as I've wetted my whistle.”

Sally came. “Edward said you're back, Mrs. Fletcher. Tea?”

“Yes, please, Sally.”

“We've got lots in for tea, so it may be a little bit. The ladies are all going in the dining room, though. You've got it nice and peaceful here.”

“They're all talking about us, aren't they, Sally?” Isabel asked.

“About the murder, miss, yes. I'm listening out for anything about Mrs. Gray, being as I know Mr. Fletcher needs more information. That Sergeant Piper, madam, do you know him?”

“Oh yes, I regard him as a good friend. He's staying here?”

“That he is. Seemed like a nice young man.”

“He is. And not married.”

“Oh, madam, that's not what I meant at all,” Sally said, rosy-cheeked. “I'll fetch your tea, ladies.”

Daisy waited till the door closed to say with a laugh, “Ernie's made quite an impression there!”

“Do you really…” Isabel fell silent as the door opened again.

Two women came in—all the way in, and closed the door behind them. As the pair came over Daisy recognised Mrs. Turnbull.

“May we join you, Mrs. Fletcher?”

“Please do. This is Miss Sutcliffe.”

“Mrs. Barnes,” the rector's wife introduced her companion.

Everyone murmured, “How do you do.”

“I met your husband last night, Mrs. Fletcher,” said Mrs. Barnes, “and Miss Chandler also. Your mutual friend, I believe?” She looked from Daisy to Isabel.

“As is Miss Leighton, of course,” Mrs. Turnbull added. “Miss Sutcliffe, I must apologise for not having called at Cherry Trees. I was away when you moved in and then I got swamped with catching up. I'm afraid the three of you are going through a time of troubles.”

“That's one way of putting it!” said Isabel.

“If there's anything I can do to help or advise…”

“I don't suppose you have any influence over Mrs. Hedger? The cleaning lady?”

“None whatsoever,” the rector's wife admitted tartly. “She's not an Anglican.”

“But I doubt the Congregational pastor can help you either,” said Mrs. Barnes. “She's a thoroughly cross-grained old woman.”

Isabel laughed ruefully. “She seems to be notorious.”

“I daresay she's done the odd job now and then for just about everyone in town. She's a hard worker but she does things her own way. She's not refusing to work at Cherry Trees, is she? She's been there forever. I wouldn't have expected her to give up one of her regular jobs like that.”

“She's not. But I'm going to have to ask her if she'd clean up the … Well, I won't go into distasteful detail. I doubt she'll agree, even for extra pay. I couldn't really blame her, but if she refuses I don't know where to turn.”