The Paying Guests

  She swallowed. ‘Oh, yes?’

  ‘Yes, we’ve been keeping the matter quiet for the sake of the inquiry, but the newspapers have just got wind of it, so it won’t be secret for long.’ He looked up. ‘Two possible witnesses from the night of the murder…’

  And he proceeded to tell her everything she’d heard already from Mrs Playfair, about the man and the girl and the scuffling in the lane. She struggled at first to arrange her features, wanting to hit just the right balance between surprise and concern. But the longer he went on, the calmer she grew. If this was all he’d come for…

  ‘Naturally,’ he finished, ‘the biggest puzzle for us now is Mr Wismuth’s statement. He’s quite adamant that he last saw Mr Barber at Blackfriars at ten. But —’

  ‘Yes,’ she said helpfully, ‘I see how that places you.’

  ‘And, to tell you the truth, there are one or two other things about his story that make us not quite satisfied with it.’

  She paused at that, as if just getting the point. ‘But you surely don’t suspect Mr Wismuth of having anything to do with the murder?’

  ‘Well, we’re keeping an open mind.’

  ‘But Mr Wismuth – No, it couldn’t possibly have been him.’

  He looked interested. ‘You don’t think so? I’ll remember that you said that. However —’ He returned to his book. ‘It’s really Mr and Mrs Barber that I’d like to talk about today. You won’t mind if I make a few notes?’

  Again she eyed the little book. ‘No, I don’t mind. What is it you’d like to know?’

  He brought out a pencil. ‘Oh, just general things about the couple and their routines. How well, would you say, did you and your mother know them?’

  She pretended to think it over. ‘Not very well, I suppose.’

  ‘You didn’t tend to spend time with them?’

  ‘Our habits were rather different. My mother sometimes chatted with Mr Barber.’

  ‘Your mother got along all right with him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How about you? Did you get along with him?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so.’

  ‘Ever see him much on his own?’

  ‘No, never.’

  ‘Not even casually, about the house?’

  ‘Well, of course, on the stairs and places like that…’

  ‘And Mrs Barber? You saw more of her, I suppose?’

  She nodded. ‘A little more.’

  ‘At parties and so on?’

  That took her by surprise. When she didn’t answer he went on, ‘I understand you accompanied Mrs Barber to the party given by her sister in July – the night, of course, that Mr Barber was first assaulted. You didn’t mention that, Miss Wray, when we talked about it at the police station.’

  She made her voice very level. ‘I didn’t? It was rather hard to concentrate that day.’

  ‘And yet the party seems, by all accounts, to have been a memorable one. I’ve spoken to several of the other guests. They tell me that Mrs Barber was – let’s say, making the most of her husband’s absence. Taking rather a lot to drink, and so on? Dancing with a number of men?’

  Now she knew what he was getting at, why he had come. Quite steadily, she said, ‘Mrs Barber danced with her cousins, as far as I recall.’

  He consulted his book. ‘James Daley, Patrick Daley, Thomas Lynch —’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t know their names.’

  ‘But Mrs Barber was dancing pretty freely with them?’

  ‘It was a family party. Mrs Barber danced with several people. She danced with me, as it happens.’

  ‘She did?’

  He said it in that bland way of his, that was somehow like the lenses of his spectacles, making his gaze more penetrating even while appearing to screen it. She went on, after a second, ‘All I mean is, the dancing was harmless.’

  ‘You don’t recall there being anyone – a cousin, or some other man – with whom Mrs Barber seemed on particularly friendly terms?’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘No one who seemed specially to admire her? Just cast your mind back for me, would you?’

  But her mind had gone back already. She was remembering watching Lilian from the sofa. She was remembering standing with her at the gramophone, the space between them tugging itself closed.

  She shook her head. ‘No.’

  ‘And you were with her all evening? You left the party together? No one else travelled with you? You weren’t aware, before you left, of Mrs Barber making any sort of arrangement with any other guest? I ask because the people I’ve spoken to, they all say there was something about Mrs Barber that night. Nobody can quite put a finger on it, but – just something. She had taken a great deal of trouble over her costume, apparently. You didn’t notice anything?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Could you describe Mrs Barber’s temperament?’

  ‘Her temperament?’

  ‘Her likes and dislikes, and so on. I’ve been given the impression that she’s rather a romancer – rather dreamy, rather discontented. It seems to have been well known among her friends and family that she wasn’t quite happy in her married life.’

  ‘Well, that’s true of half the wives in England, isn’t it?’

  He gave a faint smile. ‘Is it? I shall have to ask mine. You knew yourself that she was unhappy, then?’

  She hesitated. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It doesn’t surprise you, to hear of it.’

  ‘I – I never thought much about it.’

  ‘She never confided in you? She seemed rather to cling to you, I thought, on Saturday, at the police station.’

  ‘Well, she’d just had to view her husband’s body. She’d have clung to anyone sympathetic, I imagine.’

  ‘There haven’t been callers to the house? No notes? No letters?’

  ‘You asked me that once before.’

  ‘Yes, but as you’ve said, it was hard to concentrate then. Nothing’s sprung to mind since we last spoke? The day of the murder, for example. You and your mother both mention in your statements that you heard the sounds of Mrs Barber doing some spring cleaning – moving boxes, emptying drawers. I keep thinking about that, Miss Wray. It seems to me an odd thing for Mrs Barber to have been doing, given what we now know about her condition at the time. She couldn’t have been… packing things up? Putting clothes and so on together for some sort of trip?’

  Frances looked at him. ‘Some sort of trip?’

  ‘A hasty departure? A flight of some kind?’

  She was appalled. ‘No. Not at all.’

  ‘You seem very certain.’

  ‘I am certain.’

  ‘Did you know that Mr Barber’s life was insured, with his wife as sole beneficiary?’

  The question was like a wire drawn tight at ankle level: it brought her down with a bump. Leonard’s life insured? Such a thing had never occurred to her. She desperately tried to think through the implications of it. But she couldn’t think anything at all with the inspector watching her. She moistened her dry lips. ‘No, I didn’t know that.’

  He nodded. ‘Sergeant Heath came across the paperwork when he was going through Mr Barber’s things. The company has confirmed it. The policy was opened when Mr Barber was first married, but it was extended in July this year – not long after the night of that party, as a matter of fact. Altogether, Mr Barber’s life was insured for five hundred pounds.’

  Five hundred pounds! The figure took her aback. After another awkward pause, she said, ‘Well, insurance was Mr Barber’s business.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  ‘It sounds to me as though you’re going about picking on any detail that suits you, jumping to all sorts of wild conclusions —’

  But she mustn’t lose her head, as she’d lost it yesterday! The inspector watched her, waiting for more, but when she didn’t go on he closed his book and said, in a comfortable tone, ‘Well, I dare say you’re right. As I think I’ve said before, I have to consider ev
ery eventuality; it wouldn’t be just to the murdered man if I didn’t. You’ll keep my questions in mind, I hope? And let me know if anything occurs to you? It isn’t pleasant, I know – especially for respectable people like you and your mother. But unfortunately even the most respectable of people sometimes find themselves drawn into unpleasant situations.’ He got to his feet. ‘I’d be obliged, of course, if you didn’t mention our conversation to Mrs Barber. I imagine you’re in contact with her?’

  Was this another trip-wire? She said, as she rose, ‘I haven’t seen Mrs Barber since the inquest.’

  ‘You haven’t? I mean to call in on her later today. I want to let her know, amongst other things, that we’ve heard back from the police laboratory. We were quite right about those hairs on Mr Barber’s overcoat. Some are very clearly Mrs Barber’s. Some —’ He paused, to tuck away the notebook, his eyes on hers. ‘Some are a good match with yours. One is definitely Mr Wismuth’s. As for the others – they’re unaccounted for. They may take us nowhere – but, you never know. They might come in useful later on.’

  He was almost chummy now. He buttoned up his overcoat with a remark about the unseasonal chillness of the day. She took him back out to the hall and, seeing the trail of muddy splodges his shoes had left on the drying floor, he gave another grimace of apology. ‘I’m afraid I’ve made more housework for you.’

  She crossed the tiles. ‘It doesn’t matter. There’s always housework here.’

  ‘And always done at odd hours, it seems… You take care of it all yourself? I noticed that you keep no servant.’

  ‘Yes, I do it all. We lost our servants in the War. I’m used to it now.’

  She wanted simply to get rid of him. She had her hand on the latch of the door. But, turning, she saw that his step had slowed. He was gazing around, at the stairs, at the bits of furniture; he seemed struck by the heavy-looking coat-stand that she had pulled out of its place. His eyes travelled from that to Frances herself, to her heel-less shoes, her hips and shoulders, her lifted arm, her bare strong wrists.

  At last he looked into her face with a funny half-smile. ‘You’re an interesting young woman, Miss Wray, if you don’t mind my saying so. You’ve a colourful past, I gather.’

  She left the latch unturned. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Oh, all sorts of things come up in our inquiries, odd details from old police files. We like to know if any of our witnesses has any sort of a criminal record. I must admit, when I ordered a check on your name I did it as a mere formality. But it seems my colleagues over at A Division had some dealings with you, a few years ago.’

  She realised that he was referring to that ridiculous occasion during the War: the thrown shoes, the night in the police cell. She felt herself blush. ‘Oh, that. I did that, you know, mainly to annoy my father.’

  ‘And did it work?’

  ‘Yes, very well.’

  He was smiling broadly now. Her own expression felt as though it had been nailed to her face. She drew open the door and, still in that friendly way, his spectacles flashing as the watery sunlight caught them, he fitted on his hat and moved past her. She waited until he had stepped from the porch, then quietly closed the door behind him.

  And then she leaned against it, in a sickening combination of relief at being rid of him and alarm at what he had revealed to her. It was all so much worse than she’d been supposing! He didn’t simply suspect Charlie; that much was obvious. Perhaps he didn’t even really suspect Charlie at all. But he’d worked out that there was a lover involved. All those questions about the party, dancing, other men… How long before that ‘nose’ of his led him away from them, to her?

  But maybe he was on her trail already. She kept thinking back to the way in which he had told her about that insurance policy. He had done it in the same deliberate manner in which he’d first mentioned murder to Lilian – as if to get a reaction from her, as if to observe her response. He knew she was hiding something, then. But just what did he suspect her of concealing? Why had he mentioned those hairs that had been found on Leonard’s coat? And why bring up her ‘colourful past’, in that apparently casual way?

  She didn’t know what to think. The whole conversation seemed to her to have been a series of tests. She had no idea whether she had passed or failed them.

  She had to see Lilian. She had to see Lilian! She had put off going to her after Mrs Playfair’s visit, but she had to go to her now; she had to do it before he did. She went quickly around the hall, shoving the furniture back into place; then she dashed up to her bedroom for her shoes, coat and hat. Thank God her mother wasn’t here. She came racing back out of the room, the carpet slithering under her feet. She nearly slipped on her way down the stairs – and after that she slowed her pace, standing at the mirror in the hall to put herself tidy, calm herself down.

  As she let herself out of the house she grew cautious again, suddenly fearful that Inspector Kemp might still be somewhere on the street. Suppose he had lingered to take more notes? To peer at the gutters or the gardens? But she looked keenly all around as she started down the hill, and there was no sign of him. A nursemaid was pushing a baby-carriage. A delivery boy was going by on a bicycle, whistling. A man in a buckled grey mackintosh was at the bend of the road, lighting a cigarette – turning away, out of the breeze, to strike his match and cup the flame, as Frances went past him. None of them paid any attention to her. She put up the collar of her coat and quickened her pace.

  But it was Wednesday – early closing day. At the bottom of the hill the road was noisy with traffic streaming in and out of Town, but the pavement had a thinned-out, Sundayish feel, and she felt conspicuous hurrying along it, especially once the shops had become slightly humbler, as they did almost as soon as she’d broken away from Camberwell. It occurred to her to take a bus or a tram, but whenever she paused at a stop she managed to time it badly: she waited in vain at the stop itself, then saw buses and trams go sailing past her the moment she’d moved on. It seemed simpler to keep walking. It wasn’t so far, in any case. A little over half an hour after she’d left home she reached the start of the Walworth Road.

  Mr Viney’s shop was a few hundred yards along it: a modest Victorian front still with its mirrored ’seventies lettering, one half of its display given over to collars, to masculine vests and pants, the other festooned with stockings and elastic corsets. The blind on the door was down and there was no sign of life behind it, but to the left of the window was another door, an ordinary street-door, painted in matching chocolate gloss: this led, Frances supposed, to the rooms above. She put her finger to the bell-push, and waited. When nothing happened she pressed again.

  The door was yanked open at last by a stout, freckled girl of about fifteen. Was she one of Lilian’s cousins? She coolly looked Frances up and down. ‘Yes, what is it?’

  Frances explained why she had come – that she hoped to speak to Mrs Barber. But at that the girl’s manner cooled even further.

  ‘She’s not seeing nobody from the papers.’

  ‘No, I’m not from the papers. I’m Miss Wray, her friend, from Champion Hill.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know nothing about that.’

  ‘I’m sure Mrs Barber will be glad to see me.’

  ‘Well —’

  ‘It’s rather urgent.’

  The girl spoke grudgingly. ‘Well, all right. But if you ain’t who you say you are, mind, there’ll be trouble!’ Still hostile, she moved back, opening the door fully, doing her best to flatten her bulky figure against the wall.

  Stepping forward, Frances found herself in a long brown passage leading to a set of narrow stairs. Somewhere up above a small dog was madly barking, and there seemed nowhere to go save closer to the sound. Once the door was closed, however, the passage was dark, lighted only by a dusty transom. She paused, and the girl pushed past her, to go ahead of her up the staircase. As they reached the minuscule half-landing an inner door was opened and a Jack Russell came scrabbling out. It was followed by
a pink-faced Mrs Viney, peering button-eyed into the gloom. When she recognised Frances her eyes grew even rounder.

  ‘Oh, Miss Wray, is it you? What must you think of us, keeping you out on the street like that! Here, Monty! Oh, isn’t he a villain!’ The dog was jumping up and barking. ‘Catch hold of him, Lydia, before he knocks poor Miss Wray down the stairs! – This is Lydia, Miss Wray, who lives next door to us, and who’s been helping us out while Lil’s been here. We’ve had that many callers, you see, we are sick to death of them, but Lydia – well, she don’t take no nonsense from no one! But, oh, to think of it’s being you! And me in my pinny! Come in off them draughty old stairs. – Monty! Be quiet, do!’

  Frances moved forward as best she could around the demented dog, and, following Mrs Viney, emerged in a stuffy kitchen. She took in the immense black range in the chimney-breast, the laundry dangling from the rack above it, the coconut mat on the floor, the dresser shelves crammed with blue china – all of it meaner and more old-fashioned than she had been expecting, so that for a moment, disconcerted, she bent to the leaping dog, trying to pat and calm it; it kept twisting its jaws to her hands.

  When she straightened up, Lilian was there, just coming in through a second doorway. She was dressed in what must have been some outfit of Vera’s, an artificial silk frock in a muted floral pattern, with her hair pulled up in a pair of combs; she looked even less like herself than she had at the inquest. Her face had lost its horrible doughiness, however, and had more colour to it – though when she met Frances’s gaze some of the colour drained away. She must have seen in her expression that something had happened.

  She came forward to catch hold of the dog, lifting it up and sitting it in her arms. Drawing her chin away from its muzzle, she said, ‘Is everything all right?’

  No, answered Frances, with her eyes, her breath, her skin. ‘Yes,’ she said aloud. ‘I happened to be passing, and – well, I thought I’d call in. You wouldn’t rather be left alone?’

  Lilian looked around, troubled. ‘No, I – No, it’s nice to see you. But there isn’t anywhere to take you. Vera and Violet are upstairs. Violet’s off school, she’s been sick all morning —’