Furious Old Women Read online

  “Yes.”

  Naomi was staring at him now with a fixed melancholy.

  “Were you near enough to hear if anyone had entered and talked to her there?”

  “Oh yes. No one did that.”

  “Then where were you?”

  “As a matter of fact I found I’d forgotten to do my hall.”

  “That’s the central room of the house?”

  “Yes. They don’t like it being called the lounge. It’s the hall.”

  “Wouldn’t that be the first room you’d do?”

  “No. The last. After I’d done those round it. Yes, I remember what it was kept me now. I found I’d forgotten it in the morning.”

  “Does it take an hour?”

  “Oh yes. With all the staircase and that.”

  “I see. And all this time you heard and saw nothing of Miss Griggs?”

  “No. When I looked in before leaving she was asleep.”

  “How was she lying?”

  “On her back on the big settee with a lot of cushions under her head.”

  “Was there much light?”

  “No. Not much. She always pulled the blinds before going to sleep.”

  “But you could see her face?”

  “Only just.”

  “Where did you go from there?”

  It was quite evident to Carolus that this was a new one. Whatever the police had asked Naomi they had stopped at the point of her leaving the house.

  “Home,” she said.

  ‘You live with your mother?”

  “Yes.”

  “Just the two of you?”

  “S’right.”

  “Was she in when you got home?”

  “No. She was at work. She’s the head cook at Highcliff House.”

  “Who lives there?”

  “It’s a private nursing home. Just up the road. Mum’s got a good job there.”

  “Didn’t you ever think of working with her there?”

  “I did only it upset me. All those poor things. So I went to work for these three. There wasn’t the strain.”

  “You still haven’t told me where you went that afternoon.”

  “Why? What’s it to do with it? You’re trying to find out who killed Miss Griggs, not worry about what I do in my own time.”

  “What time did you meet Grey?”

  “Who said I met him that day?”

  “Really, you are being rather silly, you know. You seem to want to make me think you had something to do with the death of Miss Griggs. I’ll tell you frankly that I believe you know something you’re afraid to tell. I can’t see why you should be so evasive otherwise. Now don’t start crying.”

  “I’m not crying,” said Naomi unconvincingly. “Only you keep on at me with questions which have nothing to do with it.”

  “If they have nothing to do with it, why not answer them?”

  “What is it you want to know?”

  “What time you met Grey.”

  “He got off early that afternoon. He came home about four.”

  “To your home?”

  “Yes, for a minute. Then he went off to see Estelle. That’s his daughter. She’s only two. Then he got changed and came back here to pick me up. Then we went off to the pictures.”

  “By bus?”

  “No. Laddie, that’s Laddie Grey, everyone calls him that, has got a motor-bike and side-car. We went to Burley in that.”

  ‘“ What is Grey’s job?”

  “He’s on the building. Only there’s not much doing this month.”

  “That’s why he was able to get off early that afternoon?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Where was he working?”

  “At Commander Fyfe’s, I believe. Painting a room.”

  “How do you think Miss Griggs was killed?”

  “Me? Oh I think the same as everyone else. Knocked on the head and robbed.”

  On her way to the church?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “You don’t see anything difficult to believe about a woman leaving her afternoon snooze by a warm fire and walking through a dark afternoon to clean brass in an empty church?”

  “Not with her I don’t. She was church mad.”

  “You don’t think she could have been killed anywhere but in the churchyard?”

  “Well, it would be a bit risky in the road. Where else could she have been killed?”

  “Anywhere. Here for instance.”

  Naomi goggled.

  “In this house?”

  “Why not?”

  “I should have heard it.”

  “But after you had gone?”

  “Of course I don’t know what may have happened then.”

  “No. Did you come back that day?”

  “Me? Come back? Whatever for?”

  “You might have forgotten something.”

  “No. I never came back.”

  “You have your key?”

  “Of the back door, yes.”

  “When did you hear about Miss Griggs’s death?”

  “Next morning. While I was at work. Slatt, the village policeman, came to see Mrs Bobbin and told her.”

  “You knew she was missing?”

  “Only when I got to work. Miss Flora told me.”

  “When you left the house that afternoon did you walk home?”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “I wondered whether you had a bicycle,” said Carolus mildly.

  “No. I always walk.”

  “How far did you have to go?”

  “About half a mile. Beyond the church.”

  “Whom did you pass on the way home?”

  “No one. Why?”

  “I quite understand that Gladhurst is a quiet little place, but surely between half past three and four on a fine weekday afternoon you’d have met someone?”

  “Not that I remember I didn’t.”

  “Please try to remember. It may be quite important.”

  “I think I saw the Reverend Slipper. That’s the curate. He was just nipping into Jevonses the grocers. I don’t know whether he saw me.”

  “No one else?”

  “Not to my recollection.”

  “You didn’t call anywhere?”

  “Don’t think so.”

  Carolus handed Naomi his cigarette-case and lit both cigarettes.

  “Look here,” he said, “won’t you take my advice? I don’t know why you’re holding something back or who has persuaded you to, but whatever it is it’s fatal not to be open in a case like this.”

  This time Naomi began to cry in earnest.

  “I daresay you’ve been through a lot,” said Carolus sympathetically, “but I’m afraid you’ll have a good deal more unless you tell the truth. Why don’t you?”

  “There’s nothing,” blurted out Naomi between her sobs. “I’ve told you all I know.”

  “All right,” said Carolus. “Have it your own way. Only if you decide to be sensible get hold of me or the police at once. Don’t tell anyone else you’re going to tell the truth. Really. You can phone me at the number I’m writing down or go to the police. But for heaven’s sake don’t hesitate.”

  Carolus saw her staring fixedly at him through tearful eyes. But she asked no question and in a moment went still sobbing from the room.

  “I knew it would be a beastly case,” he reflected.

  A few minutes later Mrs Bobbin came into the room.

  “You’ve made the girl cry,” she said.

  “I’m afraid shell cry a good deal more before the case is over unless she decides to speak the truth. She knows something which she is determined not to reveal.”

  “But why?”

  “I don’t know. I shall in time. And she lies.”

  “What about?”

  “I wanted to know what she did between 2.30 when your sister Flora left for Burley and 3.30 when, she says, she started out for home.”

  “What does she say she did?”

  “For
got to clean the hall in the morning. Remembered it and did it. Your sister Millicent meanwhile was sleeping in the drawing-room.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “A woman doesn’t forget to do the principal room of a house. And if by some freak she did she wouldn’t spend an hour on it when it was time for her to go home.”

  “But the hall was done that day, very thoroughly. I remember noticing the smell of furniture polish when I came in. I congratulated Naomi on it next morning before we knew anything about Millicent. She said ‘Yes, I did it last thing before going home’. So it doesn’t sound as though she was lying at all.”

  “Then she told me she got on quite well with your sister Millicent though she never had much to do with her. After what you told me yesterday I knew that wasn’t true.”

  “Well, she certainly did not get on with Milly as well as with Flora and me but then few people did. She probably did see less of her than of us.”

  “These are not perhaps very important. But I know that girl is hiding something and if you have any influence with her I hope you’ll use it to persuade her to tell the truth.”

  “You’re very sure of yourself, Mr Deene.”

  “When do you think I could meet your sister, Miss Flora?” asked Carolus.

  “Tomorrow or the next time you come. She’s not up to it today. It has been a severe shock to her.”

  “I quite understand. I have plenty of work to do. Tell me, how was your sister dressed when she was found?”

  Mrs Bobbin looked at Carolus sharply.

  “Exactly the clothes she was wearing when Flora left except for her fur coat.”

  “What about shoes?”

  “Oh, she had changed those, of course. She had on a strong pair of walking shoes.”

  “She did not wear galoshes, of any sort? You must forgive my being old-fashioned enough to call them galoshes.”

  “She did, yes.”

  “Always, in winter?”

  “Nearly always.”

  “And she wasn’t wearing them?”

  “No. Not that day. It was dry.”

  “Are they still in her room?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “May I see them?”

  “If Naomi hasn’t gone.” She went to the door. “Naomi!” she called rather stridently.

  When the girl appeared Carolus saw that she had repaired her face and was looking more self-confident.

  “Naomi,” said Mrs Bobbin, “where are Miss Millicent’s rubber shoes?”

  “Her overshoes, you mean?” asked Naomi watchfully. “Wasn’t she wearing them?”

  “I believe not.”

  “I’ll see,” said Naomi.

  When she returned she said simply that they were nowhere to be found.

  “Perhaps if she had not got them on when she was found she left them in the church?” suggested Naomi.

  “Then surely Mrs Rumble would have come on them?” said Mrs Bobbin.

  “Well, you know what she is,” said Naomi meaningly.

  “Yes,” admitted Mrs Bobbin.

  “You mean,” said Carolus, “that your sister probably wore her galoshes and took them off while she was in the church?”

  “It seems possible.”

  “Then either she forgot them when she left or else something happened to her while she was still in the building?”

  “If Mrs Rumble found them there, yes.”

  “I shall have to see her tomorrow, then. Would your sister have taken anything with her from here if she went to clean brass in the church?”

  “No. The things she used were kept in a cupboard in the vestry.”

  “Mrs Rumble will know if they had been disturbed?”

  “Most unlikely. She had nothing to do with the brass.”

  “She lives near the church?”

  “Just opposite.”

  “Well, thank you, Mrs Bobbin. I shan’t have to trouble you again, I hope, though I would like to see Miss Flora as soon as possible.”

  “Have a cup of tea before you go? You run along, Naomi. I’ll get it myself.”

  Half an hour later Carolus left the house and walked towards the church. It would be too late, he decided, to see much of the building but it was at about this time, according to.Naomi’s and Mrs Bobbin’s conjectures, that Millicent Griggs would have taken this way nine days ago.

  He could make out the tall shape of the square tower which stood apart from the village. Beside it was a fair-sized house which he took to be the vicarage and a small cottage which was probably Rumble’s.

  As he stood there a woman’s figure approached him from the direction of the church and cottage.

  “Good-night, Naomi,” he said as the tall girl passed.

  “Oh! Oh, good-night.”

  “Been to see Mrs Rumble?” asked Carolus.

  “No! What? I was just … Why do you … Oh, leave me alone. I’ve told you everything. Why do you keep on?”

  “I just said good-night,” said Carolus. “Don’t forget when you do want to tell the truth….”

  But Naomi was gone.

  4

  THAT evening Carolus paid his first visit to the Black Horse. He found it fairly crowded and after a while wondered what recommended it. Most pubs have something in their favour, something with which to enter the more or less bitter competition with their fellows. Where all have grown so stereotyped, each has to find a way faintly to distinguish it from the rest. So one will have a waggish, or a generous or a popular landlord, another a personable landlord’s wife or daughter; in another there will always be a bright warm fire while yet another has beer from a brewery whose advertising has been successful in making men believe its beer is different from and better than the rest. In one there will be good darts, yet another is supposed to give a larger than ordinary measure of spirits. Yet all, being brewery-owned, licensing-hours-observing, well-regulated, standardized swilling-houses for standardized products at standardized prices, have lost all character, and in a few years their customers will be as standardized as they are. English pubs have ceased to differ one from another except superficially, their signs, their furniture, the way in which their antiquity has been restored may vary slightly, but there it ends.

  What made the gathering in the Black Horse choose it from among the three in the village? Not the landlord, surely, for a more dull and surly-looking man than George Larkin it would be hard to find. He stood back from his counter and said “Eh?” whenever anyone shouted for a drink. His most effusive welcome was a sudden small nod. It may have been the beer which attracted customers, but as there were several complaints about it that evening it seemed scarcely likely.

  Then Carolus decided not to be carping. Perhaps the beer was better than it seemed. Perhaps George Larkin had a heart of gold.

  … Folks of a surly tapster tell,

  And daub his visage with the smoke of Hell;

  … He’s a Good Fellow, and ‘twill all be well.

  Well, he might be, but Carolus, quietly sipping a Scotch and soda from a not too transparent glass still wondered at the inn’s prosperity.

  As the evening wore on he thought he found an explanation for it. Her name was Flo. She was a laughing buxom woman in her thirties who seemed to be everyone’s friend. It was a tribute to her good nature that she was referred to as “old Flo”. Of her it was said—“Flo doesn’t mind”, and that, in all its implications, was the secret of her popularity.

  She was evidently a nightly customer and her jolly laugh, which doubled her plump body and brought tears to her eyes, could be heard at the end of each smutty story which Flo, quite evidently, “didn’t mind”. Was she, Carolus wondered in good old English phraseology, the village whore? No. She just didn’t mind.

  Carolus found himself being addressed by a small, mild, informative man.

  “I come from what they call Hellfire Corner,” he said surprisingly. “Well, it’s a name they give. It’s only like a building estate really. There are one or tw
o rough lots up there, though. Old Slatt, that’s the copper, doesn’t come up there more than he has to. I don’t blame him. The last time he was nosing round someone dropped his bicycle down an old well there. He never did find out who did it and of course it made him look very silly with the Inspector. But there you are. Those that will keep hanging round at closing time what do you expect?”

  Carolus recognized the question as rhetorical, bought two more drinks and settled down to listen.

  His friend indicated a small stocky man with a flat face and a ready grin.

  “That’s Rumble,” he said. “Sexton and verger!”

  “He looks very cheerful for a sexton and verger.”

  “He is very cheerful. Why shouldn’t he be? He enjoys his work, does Rumble. Very thorough he is. Well, you have to be with his job. His wife’s just the opposite. Funny, isn’t it, how you get that? She’s as sour and nasty-tempered as he’s easy-going. You don’t often see her in here. She works for Miss Vaillant at the Old Vicarage.”

  “Is that the big house opposite the church?”

  “Yes. The vicar’s had to let it. He lives in a smaller place. Miss Vaillant’s a character.”

  “In what way?”

  “Queer old stick, she is. Well, not so old. Plenty of money, mind. Ah, here’s Mrs Chester. I thought she’d be in. She’s in charge of the kitchens up at Highcliff House. That’s a big place for invalids. Sort of nursing home. You know, rich people who can afford it. Mrs Chester’s worked there for years. She’s a good sort. You ought to hear her and Flo if they get together. Laugh? Well, you would laugh. The things they come out with. Flo doesn’t mind.”

  “That’s a good thing, anyway.”

  “Old George Larkin takes no notice. I often wonder if he hears half the time. His son’s a bit better than what he is but they’re both pretty quiet.”

  “So I’ve noticed.”

  The younger Larkin had in fact joined his father behind the bar and seemed just as remote and discontented as the landlord.

  Carolus found himself vigorously nudged by his informative new acquaintance.

  “This is a real character, just come in,” he said. “Mugger, his name is. Lives a few doors from me.”

  “What does he do for a living?”

  “That’s just it. Anyone would be hard put to it to say. Odd jobs here and there. Could be a wonderful gardener if he took the trouble. Now’n again he does a bit. Gives them a hand round at the Swan when they’re busy. Goes in for keeping rabbits and pigeons and I don’t know what. Breeds ferrets. Chickens, turkeys, anything like that. You ought to see his place. You wouldn’t think it to look at him, would you?”