Superfluous Women (24 page)

“You could be right. Any ideas yet on how to bring them together?”

“I've been too busy to think. Or thinking about other things. Do you still need her evidence?”

“At least as to the date she last saw Judith Gray. I should have pressed her harder on that question.”

“You'd think she'd remember, if only because she can't have been paid after that. Unless—I wonder whether Isabel paid her for the days she worked when no one was in residence?”

“Dammit, Daisy, I wish you'd thought of that before I started to undress!” He unbuttoned his pyjama jacket. “I hope she's still up.”

“Darling, for pity's sake, it can wait till the morning, can't it?
If
Isabel paid, and
if
she remembers for how many days, she won't forget overnight.”

“I bet her household accounts are in perfect order, with Willie looking over her shoulder.”

“Bound to be.” Daisy recalled with guilt her own accounts, left in Mrs. Dobson's hands—competent, fortunately—for close to a month now. “So if Izzie's forgotten, she'll be able to look it up for you. In the morning. Or as soon as she can get back into the house.”

“Good point. I'll pass it on to Underwood. You're in good form tonight.”

Daisy smiled smugly. “Thank you, kind sir.”

“What else have you been mulling in that overactive brain?”

“Whether DI Underwood—and you, for that matter—still suspect Willie and friends.”

“You know they can't be crossed off our lists until we have far more information. As far as I'm concerned, they're at the bottom. I can't speak for Underwood.”

“Who's at the top? Cartwright and Vaughn? And the stepson?”

“Yes, but we have nothing definite on any of them. What we need is a few good suspects!” He crossed to the window, opened the upper sash a few inches, and peered out into the darkness, as if he might spot the murderer lurking outside.

“It's early days yet, darling,” Daisy consoled him. “Come to bed.”

 

TWENTY-TWO

Daisy was
up in time to have breakfast with Alec, if only because arriving at the Foreign Office before ten was pointless. None but lowly clerks and typists started work before that hour.

The dining room was half empty, so Daisy and Alec had their choice of tables. Most of the occupants were already eating. Sally came in with a laden tray, delivered heaped plates to two solitary men, more toast to another, and hot water to a couple's teapot. Then she hurried over to say good morning to the Fletchers and take their order, as well as that of someone who had entered after them. On her way back to the kitchen, she cleared dirty dishes from three tables.

“I'm glad I'm not a waitress,” said Daisy. “She never stops running, and with those heavy trays! No wonder she wants to train as a typist.”

But by the time Sally returned with their food, the rush was over. She served the last-comer first so that she could talk for a few moments with Daisy and Alec.

“Miss Sutcliffe said to tell you, Mrs. Fletcher, she went to High Wycombe with Miss Chandler. She's got to find someone to clean up the cellar. I'm sorry Auntie is so disobliging.”

“I don't blame her.” Daisy looked at Alec. “I suppose—I hope—the inspector said she could go ahead?”

“He dropped in last night, on his way to catch a train, to tell her in person. The cellar can be dealt with, once Ernie's looked over the place, but the rest of the house is still out of bounds. Miss Hedger, have you seen Sergeant Piper this morning?”

“He already had his breakfast, sir, and a word with Miss Sutcliffe and the others. He asked me to tell you Miss Chandler gave him a number the inspector wanted. The number of a car, he said, that might be the one you've been looking for.”

“A car?” Daisy recalled Willie memorising the licence plate number of a vehicle that had passed them at a dangerous speed the other evening. “If I'd known you were looking for it, I could have told you she knew.”

“
Might
be,” said Alec.

“Whose car is it, darling?”

“That's what we want to find out.”

Sally said hesitantly, “Ernie—I mean Mr. Piper—told me Miss Sutcliffe knows who owns a car just like that one. I can't tell you, though, because he wouldn't tell me.”

“I'm glad to hear he has so much discretion,” Alec said dryly.

“He's gone off to the police station already. He's a hard worker.”

“Yes, he is. Thank you, Miss Hedger.”

Sally went off to answer a call from another table.

“Why do you want to know about that car?” Daisy asked.

He wasn't listening. “Ernie? She called him Ernie?”

“Love at first sight.”

“No, really, Daisy!”

“Call it attraction at first meeting, then.”

“If DS Piper's going to be mooning about instead of—”

“Darling, Ernie isn't the moony sort. He's much too serious about his work. It's time he settled down with a nice young woman, and Sally would be perfect for him. Now eat your breakfast before it gets cold.” Applying herself to her bacon and scrambled eggs, she pondered Sally and Ernie's future.

Alec ate half his meal before he spoke again. “I'm going to drive up to town in case I have to chase the woman down.”

Slightly confused by what to her was a change of subject, Daisy said, “Woman?”

“Mrs. Gray's friend. For all we know, she may be visiting anywhere in the country. Or out of it.”

“You're not going to follow her to the Continent!”

“No. If I get an address for her, I'll send a wire. If not, I'll have to ask the S
û
ret
é
to trace her.”

“Unless she's gone to Italy—”

“I'll cross that bridge if and when.”

“Could you drop me at home? It's not too far out of your way to Whitehall. If the rain holds off, I'll take the twins and Nana for a walk. If not, I'll tackle my account book. And I'll bring back the article I started writing before I fell ill. I ought to try to get some work done.”

Far from attempting again to persuade her to stay at home, as she expected, he said, “If you want to bring your portable typewriter, get a taxi to Marylebone. And don't carry it from the Beaconsfield station, up that steep approach. Leave it there and I'll pick it up when I get back.”

“Thank you, darling. I hope you don't have to go haring off to Scotland because the mysterious friend has joined a shooting party.”

“Judging by what I've learned of Mrs. Gray, no intimate friend of hers would be a sporting type.”

“Even the unsporting can get inveigled into a country house visit that involves shooting. You're right, though, she's more likely to be on the Riviera.”

“Lucky her. If you've finished, you'd better go and get your coat.”

“I must write a note to Isabel, to let her know I'll be back. I hope she's managing to find someone willing to clean.”

*   *   *

Alec had only once before called on Eric Bragg at the Foreign Office. Bragg had since been promoted. He was now Private Secretary to the Deputy Secretary to the Permanent Under-Secretary, or something of the sort—he was vague about his exact rank. He had even acquired a secretary of his own, a spruce, alert young woman, and an office that retained some of its Victorian grandeur.

He was the same scruffy, wild-haired chap Alec had first met at university, in Manchester. The son of a couple of Lancashire cotton-mill workers, he had inherited the determination that had enabled them to survive childhood labour in the “dark, Satanic mills,” and move up to owning a corner shop in the city.

In Eric's case, he had made good use of the help of a teacher who recognised his abilities. He had won a scholarship to Manchester Grammar, where his affinity for languages from classical Greek and Latin to modern French and German emerged. A second full scholarship, to the Victoria University of Manchester, added several more languages to his repertoire.

That was sufficient to overcome the FO's built-in bias toward Oxford and Cambridge graduates. Bragg started as a lowly translator, acquired a fair understanding of another couple of dozen languages, and made himself indispensable despite his humble background, farouche appearance, and ineradicable Mancunian accent.

“Robert Gray?” he said now. “Yes, I know Bob.”

“You do? I didn't expect that.”

“He's a colleague, and a friend. When he's home, we work together, do a bit of fencing, go out together for a pint now and then. He can speak colloquially more languages than I can read. No degree. He's a rolling stone, and he picks up the lingo like a native, wherever he goes.”

“Which is what I'm interested in: where he goes, or rather, where he's been. I hoped you could get the information I need from whoever would have it, but perhaps you already know his movements?”

“No one knows Bob's movements. He's … sort of extracurricular.”

“A spy?”

“A seeker of information. Like you. What are these enquiries of yours about? I don't see how he can be in serious trouble. In this country. He doesn't spend enough time here, especially since his father remarried. It is an official criminal case, I presume?”

“Sort of extracurricular, but that's beside the point. It's a murder case. The victim is Robert Gray's stepmother.”

“Oh lord!”

“You said he has avoided England since his father married her.”

“Yes. He referred to her as ‘the witch.' Sometimes with a different initial letter, depending on the company. When he was in England on leave, he'd meet his father in town rather than risk coming face-to-face with her.”

“Why did he so dislike her?”

“He never really talked about her—just the odd mention. The usual thing, I suppose: She was on the hunt for a wealthy husband, and old Gray was the sap she got her claws into.”

“If she made him happy…?”

“D'you know, I'd swear Bob never talked about his stepma, but I definitely have the impression that she made his pa very unhappy. Don't quote me on that.”

“I won't, but it adds to the opinions we've heard from others. When did you last see Robert Gray? You know his father died in April?”

“April, was it? Bob turned up in June, a couple of months later. He'd been in—well, I'd better not say, even to a high-up copper. It was several weeks before the news reached him, and it took him several weeks to get home.”

“You saw him then?”

“Oh yes, he was in and out of the office for a fortnight or so, though he came back only to see his lawyer.”

“Damn, I knew there was something else we should have asked Ainsley. Lawyers have a way of getting rid of unwelcome visitors.”

“If Ainsley's in Beaconsfield, Bob didn't see him. He communicated through his own lawyer, here in town.”

“But he was in England for a couple of weeks in June. You're certain he left the country afterwards?”

“Absolutely certain. He sent in a despatch, via the British consul in—somewhere in the Middle East, in September? It's dated in his own atrocious handwriting, and the date of the consul's seal is two days later. I can't remember exactly; I can find out for you. Of course, that doesn't mean he couldn't be back in England by now. In fact, he is. But he came home with one of those eye conditions common in that part of the world. To my knowledge, he's been under a doctor's care with his eyes bandaged for the past ten days.”

“You could have told me right away!”

Bragg grinned. “I could have. Just prolonging the pleasure of your company, mate. You see, though: He couldn't have done in the witch.”

“That rather depends, doesn't it, on when the witch was killed.”

“Oho, so that's it! Not in the last ten days, I take it. When?”

“We can't be sure of the exact date. Be a good chap and get me the date when he wrote that despatch.”

“All right, but I'll have to go and beg on bended knee. Coffee?”

“Is it any good?”

“Oh yes, none of your police canteen muck for us. I'll be back shortly.” He sauntered out. Alec, remembering him as a brisk mover, assumed he was aping the languid manners of the well-bred young men whose families had pushed them into the FO for want of anything better to do with them.

The rattle of the typewriter in the outer room stopped and Alec heard his friend ask his secretary to bring coffee for two. He addressed her as “chuck,” not what she would be accustomed to from those languid young men. The Mancunian endearment didn't hold any significance; Bragg addressed thus any female less than a decade older than he was, and the secretary was about Daisy's age.

She brought in a tray with two cups of coffee and a plate of Marie biscuits. Having set it on the desk, she lingered. “I hope Mr. Bragg isn't going to be too long. His coffee will get cold, as usual.”

“As usual?”

“He gets so wrapped up in his work, he often doesn't even notice I've brought it. He'd never eat any lunch, either, if I didn't remind him.”

“How long have you worked for him?”

“Since May. He's such a hard worker, he keeps me busy, but that's better than being bored. And lots of what I type is pretty interesting. Top secret, of course. I'm not allowed to talk about it at all, not to anyone. Have you known Mr. Bragg a long time?”

“About twenty years.”

She nodded. “I thought you must be an old friend. All the same, it's lucky you arrived first thing. He never sees anyone without an appointment, even his boss. He says interruptions pull him out of whatever language he's translating and then he wastes time switching back from thinking in English. Part of my job is keeping people out. Well, I'd better get back to work. I'm sure he won't keep you waiting, sir.”