The Paying Guests

  ‘Well, they won’t need you for long, surely? They said you were under no obligation. Isn’t that what the sergeant said? That you were under no obligation?’

  ‘What are they going to ask me?’

  ‘I don’t know. Just try to stay calm.’

  ‘He said they’d found something. Didn’t he? He said they weren’t satisfied. Why would he say that? Suppose —’

  More footsteps in the corridor. Abruptly, they moved apart. And after that they didn’t dare speak again.

  Soon, anyhow, there was a knock at the door, and Sergeant Heath was back, bringing with him another man. This man was neat, un-uniformed, clean-shaven, slightly tubby, with the watch-chain and round steel spectacles of a senior bank clerk: seeing him come forward, Frances could only think, confusingly, that he was some colleague of Leonard’s from the Pearl. Then he offered his hand, and introduced himself as Divisional Detective Inspector Kemp, and said that he was here to go over Mrs Barber’s statement. And at that word ‘detective’, together with the realisation that he was a plain-clothes man, her confidence toppled and her heart seemed to pound right into her throat.

  He said he would try not to keep Mrs Barber too long. Perhaps Miss Wray – she was the landlady, yes? – perhaps she would like to just step outside?

  But Lilian caught hold of Frances again, in that terrified, terrifying way. ‘Mayn’t Frances stay with me?’

  ‘Well —’ He thought about it. ‘I don’t see why not. If you’ve no objection, Miss Wray?’

  Frances gave an awkward shake of her head and joined Lilian at the matron’s table. The two of them sat on one side; the men sat on the other. Inspector Kemp looked through a sheaf of notes. How on earth had he got so many notes already?

  To begin with, however, his questions were familiar ones; familiar, too, was that disconcerting delay while he made his careful, unemotional record of the answers. When had Mrs Barber last seen her husband? What had his movements been the day before? He had spent his evening, so far as she knew, with his friend Charles Wismuth? Could she confirm the spelling of Mr Wismuth’s name? Could she confirm Mr Wismuth’s address, and the address of his employer?

  And what about Mrs Barber herself? How had she spent her evening?

  There was the small, distinct sound of Lilian parting her dry lips. Well, she said, she had done nothing; a bit of reading, a bit of sewing. She’d gone to bed early, just after ten.

  Did she often go to bed early? – No, she wouldn’t say often. Just when she was tired.

  She had been tired last night? – Yes. No, she couldn’t think why.

  And at what time had she been expecting her husband? Hadn’t she missed him when he didn’t appear? – Well, he was sometimes late. She’d fallen asleep, that was all. When she’d woken this morning and realised that he hadn’t come home she’d supposed that he’d missed his tram and gone to Charlie’s, or – She didn’t know what she’d thought. She hadn’t had time to think anything before the policeman came to the door.

  She spoke earnestly; perhaps too earnestly. Her manner struck Frances as not at all convincing. But she had no idea what sort of an impression was being made on the men. They were not like Constable Hardy. Their faces were grave and unrevealing, and when they smiled, the smiles were professional, insincere, cold-eyed. Now and then she saw the inspector’s gaze flick over Lilian as she spoke, and she thought she could see him taking in her pallor, and the touches of powder and lipstick. She thought she saw him gazing in a speculative way at the curves revealed by her crimson jersey.

  And then, in an apparent change of direction, he asked about the events of that night in the summer when Leonard had been assaulted. When, exactly, had that been?

  Frances felt Lilian hesitate. She knew the date; they both did. It was the night of their first embrace, and had had a talismanic significance for them ever since. At last she parted her dry lips again and said, ‘The first of July.’

  He tilted his head. ‘You remember it well? A Saturday night, wasn’t it? Were you with your husband when the assault took place?’

  ‘No. I – I saw him just after. I’d been at my sister’s birthday party. That’s how I know the date.’

  ‘Your husband hadn’t gone to the party with you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How about Mr —’ He consulted his notes. ‘Wismuth? Was he there?’

  She frowned. ‘Charlie? No. He was with Len.’

  ‘They were together that night, too?’

  ‘There was a dinner. An assurance dinner. Charlie was there.’

  ‘And what did your husband tell you about the assault, at the time?’

  ‘He just said that somebody had hit him.’

  ‘Did he know who the person was?’

  ‘Just a man on the street, he said.’

  ‘Do you have any idea who assaulted him?’

  She looked at him. ‘Me? No.’

  ‘And did he describe the man to you?’

  But Lilian had begun to tremble. She put her hand to her throat, looking ill, closing her eyes. ‘I – I’m sorry.’

  Frances touched her arm and spoke quietly to her. ‘Take your time.’

  ‘Yes, take your time, Mrs Barber.’

  ‘It’s just – I feel so giddy.’

  ‘Perhaps you’d like a glass of water?’

  She nodded. The sergeant fetched a jug and tumbler from the matron’s desk. Frances kept her hand on Lilian’s arm as she sipped, and spoke across the table.

  ‘I don’t think Mr Barber saw the man who hit him, Inspector. An ex-service man, he said; someone perhaps wanting money. He came here and reported the incident, a day or two later.’

  The inspector regarded her levelly, then turned back to Lilian. ‘Is that your understanding, Mrs Barber?’ And then, when again she didn’t answer: ‘I am interested, you see, because I believe there might be a link between that other assault and this one.’

  He left a pause after the words. Frances felt the muscle of Lilian’s arm tighten under her hand. Her own heart began to rise again. She said, with an effort, ‘You think, then, that this was an assault? Constable Hardy told us —’

  ‘Constable Hardy hadn’t had the benefit of our surgeon’s preliminary report. I’ve just spoken to the mortuary by telephone, and I’m afraid there are one or two features that make the wound a suspicious one. In fact’ – he put his hands together on the table and looked squarely at Lilian – ‘well, I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Mrs Barber, but it seems there’s a very real possibility that your husband was murdered.’

  Frances was horrified at the bluntness of the word, then horrified all over again to realise that he had said it in just that manner – deliberately, brutally – as a way of gauging Lilian’s response to it.

  Did Lilian realise it too? She gazed at the inspector, and her face crumpled.

  ‘It wasn’t like that!’ she said – making Frances, in fright, grab at her hand. ‘It can’t have been! Don’t say it! Oh!’ She bent forward, her arms across her belly. ‘I need the lavatory. Frances —!’

  She got up, staggering a little. Frances supported her on one side, and Sergeant Heath came nimbly around the table to support her on the other. Inspector Kemp went to the door, put out his head and called for the matron; she appeared at once. ‘I have her now,’ she told Frances stoutly, once the two of them had got Lilian out into the passage. And, ‘Yes, Miss Wray,’ called the inspector, ‘Matron Wrigley will look after Mrs Barber now.’

  He gestured for Frances to return to the table. She hesitated, watching Lilian being led away. It was terrible, sickening, to see her being taken out of reach like that.

  But the men’s eyes were on her. She moved back into the room. The door was closed again by Sergeant Heath, and the inspector held out her chair.

  ‘A nasty shock for Mrs Barber, all this,’ he said, as she sat. ‘And for you and your neighbours too, of course… A nice couple, were they?’

  She was listening out for sounds from th
e corridor. ‘Mr and Mrs Barber? Yes.’

  ‘Good tenants, would you call them? They’ve lived in your house for – let’s see, six months or so?’

  ‘About that, yes.’

  ‘You weren’t acquainted with them before that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And what were relations between them like, in your opinion?’

  She looked at him properly then. He was still on his feet, standing in a casual sort of way, a hip against the table, his arms folded high across his chest.

  She said, ‘All right, I think.’

  ‘No disagreements? Quarrels? Things like that?’

  ‘Well, I really couldn’t say.’

  ‘Did they often spend their evenings separately, as they did last night? I ask, you see, because in a case like this, where a respectable man is assaulted and killed —’

  ‘You don’t know that for sure, do you?’

  ‘No, we don’t know it for sure. I’m simply trying to get a sense of Mr Barber’s character, his habits. It seems to me, Miss Wray, that you’re in a position to help us a good deal. You must have seen more of the couple’s comings and goings than most people. You haven’t noticed anything? No one hanging about outside? No curious letters arriving at the house?’

  She willed herself to speak coolly. ‘I’m not in the habit of examining my lodgers’ post.’

  He gave one of his professional smiles. ‘I’m sure you’re not. But, still, there might have been things you saw, or heard… Yesterday, for example: was Mrs Barber at home all day?’

  Frances pretended to consider. But she was losing touch with what she ought to know and not know. And her heart was still beating so horribly hard! She was afraid that he would see it – that he would hear it, even. Finally she nodded. ‘Yes, all day and all evening.’

  ‘And how did she pass the time, do you know?’

  She remembered what she had told her mother. ‘I think she was… spring cleaning.’

  ‘Spring cleaning? Turning things out, drawers and boxes?’

  Why had he seized on that? ‘I don’t know. Yes, I suppose so.’

  ‘And the husband? He seemed quite himself to you, the last time you saw him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Would you say he was the type of man to make enemies?’

  ‘Enemies? No, I wouldn’t say that.’

  ‘You remember the assault, back in July?’

  ‘Yes, very well.’

  ‘You were at home that night, while Mrs Barber was at her party?’

  She couldn’t bring herself to admit that she had been at the party too. She answered vaguely. ‘I saw the injury directly it had happened.’

  ‘You saw the actual injury? Bad, was it? Was a doctor called?’

  ‘No, it wasn’t as bad as all that. A bleeding nose, black eyes. A lot of blood on the kitchen floor, but – No, it wasn’t so very bad. My mother and I sorted it out. Mr Barber came here, a day or two later, to report it.’

  ‘He told you that, did he?’

  ‘Yes, he told me on the Monday or the Tuesday. He said he’d spoken to a – a sergeant, I believe he said.’

  The inspector grew thoughtful and confiding. ‘Now, I wonder why he did that. No report was ever filed, you see, Miss Wray. We had complaints from one or two of your neighbours, but from Mr Barber himself – not a peep. Can you imagine why that might have been?’

  Genuinely bewildered now, Frances gazed into his smooth, bank-manager’s face; and couldn’t answer.

  And then she jumped, at the sounds of a commotion out in the corridor: it took her a moment to separate the noise from its own echoes and realise that it was made up mainly of women’s voices, Lilian’s among them. Sick with fear, she got to her feet; Sergeant Heath rose at the same time. She followed him out into the passage – and saw Lilian, a few yards along it, sagging almost to the floor, being supported by her mother and her sister Vera. They had just arrived at the police station, Matron Wrigley came to explain. Lilian had seen them, gone running to them, and fainted in their arms.

  They got her back into the warm room, put her in the chair beside the fire. The matron stirred sal volatile into a glass of water and held it to her lips. She turned her head from the tumbler with a moan, then opened her eyes and looked in terror at the faces ringed around her. Then she burst into tears.

  ‘There, there,’ said Mrs Viney shakily. ‘There, now.’

  She had one of Lilian’s hands in hers and was madly patting it. Her face had its stripped, lashless look. She stared around the room as if stupefied herself; then she recognised Frances, and the corners of her mouth and button eyes turned down like those of a tragedy mask.

  ‘Oh, Miss Wray! Can you believe it?’

  The matron began to try to move her back. ‘Stand off, please. Right off. We must give Mrs Barber some air.’

  Lilian gripped her mother’s hand. ‘Don’t leave me, Mummy!’

  ‘Leave you?’ cried Mrs Viney. ‘No, indeed I shan’t!’

  But her protests were cut across by a brisk knock at the door. A man entered the room – evidently the police doctor. He set his bag on the table and drew out a stethoscope. ‘A little privacy, please?’ he said, meeting no one’s eye as he spoke. And then, a moment later, in a tired bark of impatience: ‘Really, I can’t be expected to make any sort of examination with the place full of women like this.’

  The matron succeeded in chivvying Mrs Viney, Vera and Frances from the room. ‘I shall be just out here, my darling!’ Mrs Viney called to Lilian, as the door was closed. But they were not allowed to wait in the corridor, no matter how much fuss she raised. They were shown down a flight of stairs to a public waiting-area noisy with voices and footsteps – another grim lobby, with a dozen poor-looking people in it, who lifted their heads at their approach, broke off their conversations, to stare at them in open curiosity.

  Mrs Viney, in response, seemed to expand into the stares. A youth in a torn jacket gave up his chair so that she might sit, and she sank on to it in a grateful, unembarrassed way, saying, ‘Thank you, love. Thank you, son.’ She took out her handkerchief and wiped her lips. ‘Oh, my Lord. I can’t hardly believe it. I can’t credit it, Miss Wray! When the policeman stepped into the shop and I saw his face – well, it gave me such a turn. I made sure it was one of the grandchildren, burned in a fire or drowned. Then he said it was poor Lenny killed in an accident, and that we was to come here for Lil! Thank heavens you’ve been with her, anyhow. Oh, but don’t she look shocking, though! I should hardly have known her, she looks that dragged! What’s happened? Do you know? The police haven’t told us nothing. Only a blow to the head, they said. Was it a motor-car done it, or what?’

  Frances was conscious of the other people in the lobby. She had not said the words yet, to anyone. When she spoke, her mouth felt rubbery.

  ‘They’re saying that someone might have killed him.’

  ‘What?’

  And, ‘What?’ echoed Vera, her gaze sharpening. ‘Killed him? Len?’

  ‘Why would they say such a thing as that?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Frances.

  ‘But who are they saying done it, and why?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Mrs Viney looked stricken. She wiped her mouth, wiped it again, then made a ball of her handkerchief and held it at her breast. Vera asked Frances what she knew. Where had Len been found? When had it happened? What time had the police come to the house?

  ‘Oh, what a thing,’ Mrs Viney said once, ‘for you and your mother, Miss Wray!’

  All the time that they were talking, they kept peering over at the stairs leading back to the matron’s room. Policemen passed and re-passed, but no summons came. The muddle of echoing steps and voices went on without a pause. Frances grew increasingly uneasy – a dreadful, animal unease it was, at being separated from Lilian. She pictured her up there, frightened to death. What might she be doing? What might she be saying?

  At last the matron reappeared. She darted forw
ard to greet her – but it was Mrs Viney, of course, who was wanted. She stumped back upstairs as fast as her monstrous legs would carry her; when she returned to the lobby a few minutes later, her face was a tragedy mask again. Frances’s heart gave another leap of fear at the sight of her – but she had already started on a noisy account of what had happened. Oh, wasn’t it atrocious bad luck? Didn’t it beggar belief? Poor Lil had been in the family way for the first time in years and the doctor was saying that the shock of Len’s death had brought on a miss.

  At least now, Frances thought, Lilian could admit to being ill. When they returned to the matron’s room they found her looking pale but tearless, sipping another cup of tea. She met Frances’s gaze just once, and after that kept her eyes lowered, but Frances could see that some of the panic had gone from her expression, and that made her own anxiety die down. Even Mrs Viney grew calmer. For here, of course, was something she could understand, a homely female crisis over which policemen and doctors, with all their nonsense, could have no sway. She held her hand to Lilian’s forehead as she drank; she put back the hair from her white face. As soon as her teacup was empty she took it and handed it to the matron.

  ‘Thank you for that, nurse. But I shall take my daughter home now. Vera, pass us Lil’s hat and coat. Here you are, my darling, you just put your arms through here.’

  The matron, alarmed, went off to fetch the inspector; he returned in time to find Mrs Viney doing up the buttons of Lilian’s coat. With his face as smooth as ever, he said he was sorry to hear that Mrs Barber had fallen ill. Had they known about her condition, they of course would never have asked her to identify her husband’s body.

  ‘I shall speak to Constable Hardy about it, you may be sure,’ he said. To which Mrs Viney answered hotly, ‘Yes, I should think you will! A disgrace, I call it, asking a wife to do that! Police or no police, we’d be quite within our rights to bring an action against you!’

  Lilian put a hand on her mother’s arm. ‘It’s all right. It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter?’

  ‘I just want to go home.’

  And, yes, said Inspector Kemp, Mrs Barber should certainly go home now and do all she could to recover her strength. Sergeant Heath would report to the coroner, and would advise him to hold over opening the inquest until Monday, by which point it was to be hoped that she would be well enough to give her evidence.