Superfluous Women (6 page)

Vera looked anxious. “The Saracen is too expensive for me.”

“We'll see if we can share a room with two beds and a truckle,” Isabel suggested. “Though if one of us goes down to the reception desk smelling like this, I wouldn't blame them for refusing us!”

“Daisy has clean clothes she can change into,” Willie reminded them. “Daisy, would you mind—?”

“Of course not. Here's our hot water.” She opened the door to admit the Boots, struggling with several steaming water-cans. “Thanks, Edward.”

He disappeared behind the screen and the metal cans clinked on the marble. Unlike Sally, he didn't appear to notice any untoward effluvium. Also unlike the maid, he had no qualms about accepting a generous tip. He went off whistling.

“If I'm to put on clean clothes,” said Daisy, “I think I'll have a bath. It didn't seem fair before, but as I'm to tackle the landlord…”

“Do,” said Isabel. “All the more hot water for us.”

Half an hour later, much refreshed, Daisy went down to the foyer. The proprietor himself came in response to the bell. Mr. Whitford was short, round, rubicund, and smiling, like an idealised innkeeper straight out of Dickens. He continued to beam as he affirmed that he had a vacant room that would suit Daisy's friends down to the ground with the addition of a remarkably comfortable folding cot that the Boots would fetch down from the attic.

“And the names of your friends, madam?” he asked, pencil poised over the register.

“Miss Wilhelmina Chandler. Miss Isabel Sutcliffe. Miss Vera Leighton.”

He looked up, eyebrows raised. “Miss Leighton? That'd be the new teacher?”

“Yes, that's right.”

“Summat wrong at the house?”

The truth and nothing but the truth, but not by any means the whole truth: “There's a nasty smell.”

“Drains. That's an old house, that is. The last people were always having trouble with the drains. My cousin, he's a plumber and he knows them drains inside and out, back'ard and for'ard. Here, let me write down his name for the ladies. Not but what May—May Hedger—will tell 'em he's the one they want.”

“Thank you, I'll give it to them, but they already have someone … looking into the matter.…”

“Never mind, eh! They'll end up wanting his help, I don't doubt. Now, here's the key to the room, two of 'em's all I've got.”

“I'm sure they'll manage.”

“And I'll see the cot's set up within the hour.”

“Thank you very much, Mr. Whitford.”

The landlord leaned across the counter and lowered his voice confidentially. “Truth is, I wouldn't do it for just anyone, but my daughter's boy as wasn't any too keen on learning his letters, he
likes
going to school since Miss Leighton's come.” He nodded and winked.

Not at all sure what his manner was intended to convey, Daisy smiled in response and returned upstairs.

Opening the bedroom door, she took a shallow breath as she stepped in, then sniffed. “It's not half as bad as it was,” she announced.

“I can still smell it,” Vera said unhappily. “I wish I had a change of clothes.”

“I could lend you and Willie frocks, though you'd flounder in them. You're both much slimmer than I am and Willie's shorter.”

“It wouldn't be fair. Izzy's too tall to borrow from you.”

“I expect I can persuade Alec to go and pick up some clothes for you when he gets here.”

“We haven't even got our handbags,” Willie pointed out, “and I have to have my briefcase for work tomorrow.”

“Alec will sort things out. In the meantime, here's a couple of keys to your own room. They're setting up a cot, which the landlord swears is remarkably comfortable.”

Isabel looked sceptical. “Let's hope we won't have to suffer for too long. Daisy, how long will they keep us out?”

“I really don't know, but I doubt if it will be longer than you'll want to stay away.”

“I wonder whether Mrs. Hedger will be willing to clean the cellar? We may have to hire—I don't know what sort of person or company.” Isabel's domestic mind had already returned to the practicalities of their situation.

Vera shuddered.

“You'll find someone, Iz,” said Willie. “In the meantime, as we're now officially residents, I'm off to take a bath, even if I have to put the same clothes on again afterwards.”

“Will there be time for all of us to have a bath before the police arrive?” Vera asked.

“If not, they'll just have to wait. Come on. We'll see you in a bit, Daisy.”

Daisy decided to put her feet up for a few minutes while she pondered the body in the basement. She was certain her three friends, the old and the new, were in no way responsible for the corpse in their cellar. Nonetheless, they were going to find themselves drawn into the police investigation, always an ordeal. Daisy would have to stay in Beaconsfield and do what she could to give them the benefit of her experience.

She rearranged the pillows, kicked off her shoes, leaned back, and promptly fell asleep.

*   *   *

Harris was not happy. So much was evident as soon as the bulky sergeant stepped through the garden gate, wheeling his bicycle, his podgy face under the helmet creased in a scowl.

Alec wasn't very happy, either. He had been pacing up and down the path for over thirty minutes. He didn't see how even an overweight police officer could take half an hour to bicycle three quarters of a mile downhill.

As Alec strode towards Harris, the sergeant turned his back and wheeled the bike over to a tree, against which he leaned it, his every motion slow and deliberate.

Refusing to let himself be baited, if that was the man's game, Alec walked on to the gate. He looked each way along the street before he closed it and turned back to find the sergeant staring at him suspiciously.

“Mr. Fletcher?”

“Yes. You're Harris, I take it.”

“What was you looking for just now?”

“Just to make sure no one followed you here. An elementary precaution.”

Harris looked puzzled, as well he might. Some of the belligerence had left his voice when he asked, “Now what's all this about finding a corpse?”

“Follow me.” Alec spoke with authority. The man was already resentful so any attempt to conciliate him was pointless. At least he didn't argue.

Alec led him round to the open side door. Inside, the smell had mostly dissipated, though an unpleasant trace lingered. If Harris noticed it, he did not comment as the crunch of boots on gravel changed to a clatter on floor tiles.

Alec gestured towards the cellar door. “The body's in here. Would you like to see it first, or shall I explain the circumstances that led to my finding it?”

“Circumstances be blowed! I want to see whether there really is a body.”

“All right.” Alec held his handkerchief to his nose as he reached for the door handle.

Harris gave him a scornful look. “I thought you Met people were tough.”

The door swung open. Before he had even cast a glance downwards, the sergeant gagged, his ruddy complexion taking on a ghastly grey-green tint. At top speed he lumbered to the open side door and disappeared.

Having slammed the cellar door shut, Alec went after him at a slightly more leisured pace. Sounds of retching came from the right, so he turned to the left and moved a few feet away to stand with his back to the unhappy sergeant.

“I would offer to fetch you a glass of water, Sergeant, but I don't intend to go back into the house for a while. Are you ready to hear how it came about that I—”

“Save it for Inspector Underwood,” Harris snarled. He smirked as Alec swung round. “He's expecting my call.”

“I wondered whether you'd rung in. Underwood, is it? High Wycombe or Aylesbury?”

“High Wycombe. He'll be here in no time.”

“Where are you going to telephone from?”

Harris took a step towards the house, shuddered, then hawked and spat. “Not in there.”

“They aren't connected yet, as it happens. What are you going to tell Underwood?”

“Why, that it's no false alarm, there really is a body.”

“You haven't actually seen it, though.”

“How do you know? Anyway, there's no need to tell the inspector. I smelled the reek all right. That's enough for me.”

“I'll stay and guard the house while you go and phone.”

“No need for that. Just lock the place up before you go. Wait, where are you going? Don't leave Beaconsfield till the inspector's seen you.”

“If I were to go, I'd join my wife and the ladies at the Saracen's Head. Unfortunately, they left in rather a hurry and didn't hand over any keys. I can't lock up, besides which the house needs airing.”

“Well, don't go mucking about inside.”

“If I had any desire to do so, I had half an hour on my own here before you turned up, Sergeant. I'll be here when you return.”

“Have it your own way.” Sulky-faced, Harris trudged past Alec and round the corner of the house.

Alec wished he could overhear Harris's report. He wondered whether Underwood would press the man about the appearance of the body. Admittedly, he doubted that he himself would be able to give a good description. The stench had been so overpowering, it befogged his memory, obscuring the scene in spite of his deliberate attempt to fix it in his mind.

No blowflies. That was a mercy. But it was odd. The cellar was not absolutely airtight, and carrion flies were exceptionally good at seeking out the smell of death. Although they couldn't find a way in, he'd have expected them to cluster at the keyhole.

He tried to recall the moments before he had swung the keyhole cover aside and inserted his pick. Had he been aware of a faint odour, or was it his imagination, in hindsight?

No, there had been something, but his olfactory memory insisted it had been the smell of disinfectant, not decay. One of Daisy's friends, most likely Isabel Sutcliffe, must be keen on hygiene—or doing her utmost to diguise the noxious emanations from the cellar.

Alec wanted to know a good deal more about the background of Miss Sutcliffe; of her companions, as well, since Isabel might have tried to get rid of the smell without knowing its source.

However, it was none of his business, he reminded himself. All he had to do was hang about until the obnoxious sergeant returned, and later give a statement to the inspector from High Wycombe.

His pondering had come full circle. What exactly had he seen on the floor below the broken rail?

A woman, lying on her back, her arms flung out, her head at that angle that speaks unmistakably of death, the obscene remains of scarlet lipstick on the devastated mouth. The condition of the body was such that he couldn't begin to guess her age. Though her dark brown hair had shown no grey, these days that meant little. Bobbed hair, or she had put it up in a knot behind her head.

Brown tweed costume; flesh-coloured stockings; one well-polished brown leather shoe, not flat but low-heeled, as if the wearer expected to do a certain amount of walking; he hadn't noticed a second shoe. Pearls, real or imitation closer examination would tell. Gloves? He thought not. He had a vague impression that a hat, the usual cloche-style, had lain on the floor some distance from her head.

She had fallen backwards, or twisted as she fell. As for the space she lay in, it was about the same size as the kitchen above it. Three walls of mortared brick were lined with empty wooden wine racks. The floor appeared to be the native chalk, levelled and compacted. He hadn't looked at the ceiling.

That was all Alec remembered. He was tempted to go and take another look, but repulsion overcame temptation without much of a struggle. It was not his affair.

Except as a witness, he was reminded, as an elderly constable joined him, saying, “I'm the beat officer, sir. Sergeant Harris told me to keep an eye on you.”

 

SIX

The click
of the door latch woke Daisy. She blinked at Alec.

“Have a good nap?”

“Darling, I wasn't asleep!”

“Of course not, if you say so. Let me amend that: Are you feeling better for the rest?”

“Much. I didn't dream … or rather have a nightmare?”

He laughed at her, then said seriously, “I'm afraid not.”

“I take it the local bobby turned up? What did he have to say?”

“He was in a great hurry to turn things over to his superiors. I didn't wait for their arrival. Where are your friends?”

“They've taken a room here and went to do a more thorough job of washing than they could as nonresidents. Darling, they desperately need clean clothes. I don't suppose you could fetch something for them?”

“Not, at least, until Inspector Underwood gives the say-so. In any case, they won't want me rooting through their drawers.”

“I wouldn't be so sure, especially if the alternative is letting the locals paw through their undies. Or going into the house before it's been fumigated. Goodness, is that the time? They're probably downstairs by now. Will you go and knock on their door while I splash my face and powder my nose?”

Daisy had to go to the bathroom to wash the sleep from her eyes, as every last driblet of water in the cans had been used. When she returned to their room, Alec was back, having found the others' room empty, gone downstairs, and found out they were in the parlour.

“Whither I dared not venture.”

“There's a residents' lounge, too. I'll get them to move so that we can have a confab.”

He groaned. “Do I want a confab?”

“Of course. I'm sure you've got dozens of questions you want to ask.”

“That's as may be. Allow me to remind you, it's not my case.”

“Yet,” said Daisy. “Unless you altogether avoid Willie and Company, you won't be able to avoid discussing it.”