Four Strange Women (33 page)

The two others looked startled.

“You mean,” the chief constable asked, “she wanted a sort of souvenir of each of her victims?”

“I think so,” Bobby said.

The chief constable made no comment, but even he, man of long and varied experience as he was, had become a little pale, and taking out his handkerchief he wiped his forehead and his wrists that had grown damp. Bobby went on:—

“As soon as I felt sure it was a woman, I knew it must be always the same woman. There were four, and four only, who seemed in various ways to have known or been connected with each of the dead men—Lady May Grayson, Miss Becky Glynne, Miss Hazel Hannay, Miss Gwen Barton. In addition I had to remember Mrs. Reynolds, the wife of the absconding chauffeur—”

“You don't mean you think he was another victim?” Mr. Findlay interrupted.

“Yes,” Bobby said, “though I'm not sure whether partly at least he didn't suspect the truth—perhaps even he had helped. I don't know. But there is evidence he was hanging about in the vicinity at the time of Lord Byatt's death. Anyhow, I feel sure he is dead, and that is why the search for him was a failure.”

“No body has been found, has it?” the chief constable asked.

“No, I think it was hidden. Probably there had been less time for making the necessary arrangements for passing it off as suicide or accident, as was done pretty successfully in the other cases.”

“Can't do much unless we find the body,” remarked the chief constable.

“I think I know where to look,” Bobby answered. “I'm not sure, of course, but I've a pretty good idea.” He went on:— “So I had to think of Mrs. Reynolds as a possibility, and then there was the street singer who kept turning up as if she had something to do with it. Also I had to remember the statement made by the old butler or whatever he was Lord Henry sacked—rather brutally, it seemed. Incidentally, it was noticeable that all the men concerned seemed to have their characters changed—developed perhaps would be a better word—by their contact with this woman. I took it that was another proof of the strength of her personality she seemed able to impress on everything and every one near her. That fact became an important indication.”

The chief constable nodded.

“Some of your line of reasoning is new to me,” he remarked, “but I did notice how that stood out.”

“To go back,” Bobby continued, “to what Lord Henry's old serving man said—that someone had come between Lord Henry and Miss Barton. Miss Barton herself more or less confirmed that. But again there was nothing to show who it was. It might, for all they seemed to know, be any one, one of those I was already considering, or someone I had never heard of, or, again, they might both be wrong in making the suggestion. Obviously the first thing was to try to rule out those I knew of. I took first the street singer who called herself Mrs. Jones. I was sure she came in somewhere and I thought, too, that probably she was up to something on her own. I didn't feel too easy about that, either, and I felt we had better know what it was and stop it, if possible. I remembered she sang in Welsh and I knew Mrs. Reynolds lived in Cardiff. It seemed suggestive, so I went there to try to see if Mrs. Jones was also Mrs. Reynolds. But she cleared out before I got the chance, as soon as she saw me outside the shop. A sweet shop, selling chewing gum it was. Only a detail, but there had been chewing gum wrappers near the burnt caravan in Wychwood Forest. Well, I thought her flight conclusive. Next thing Lord Henry's key turned up in my letter box and when I went to his flat, he had been knocked out and fastened up. The thing to be noted was the knocking out—the first piece of physical violence in the case. I thought the difference in technique suggested a different—well, operator. The porters at the flats where he lived had seen him bringing in a woman, they had specially noticed because she didn't look his class. I made a point of asking about her shoes because I had noticed that the street singer woman wore very sloppy, down-at-heel shoes, part of her rig out, I thought. The other women concerned all wore the usual high heels that make a tap tapping sound on marble floors like the one in that entrance hall. This woman's didn't. I thought it looked like the street singer woman turning up again and still working on her own for her own ends, and I thought it pretty clear she was really Mrs. Reynolds. Only I couldn't prove it, and as usual, Lord Henry wouldn't say a word, no one in the case ever would say anything.”

“You don't mean Mrs. Reynolds is the woman you've been looking for?” Mr. Findlay asked quickly. “You've no real proof Reynolds was actually one of the victims?”

“Only that he disappeared, that in his case also there is a history of jewels, and that he deserted his wife with whom previously he had been living on perfectly good terms. At any rate, she seemed greatly distressed when he vanished, and it is pretty plain she had nothing to do with it or she would have disappeared, too.”

“What was Mrs. Reynolds's idea—if it was Mrs. Reynolds —in this Darmoor business?” asked the chief constable. “Why should she want to fasten him up like that? Her idea of a joke?”

“No,” said Bobby. “I think she wished to warn him, and I think she knew very well he would not listen to a word unless she made him. So she knocked him out with her improvised sand bag made out of a stocking, fastened him up, and then, when he recovered consciousness, told him her story. Then she went away, leaving him to think it over, and sent me to release him.”

“Yes, but I mean, why tell him?” insisted the chief constable, “why not tell us what she knew—if she did know anything?—”

“I think,” Bobby said gravely, “she kept away from us for the same reason that has made her keep away from us all the time. I think she is playing her own hand because she means to take the law into her own hand.”

“Oh, we can't have that,” said the chief constable hurriedly; “we can't have that, that must be stopped.”

“Yes, sir,” agreed Bobby. “If we can,” he added. Then he said:—“I think she knows more than we do, and I think she will trouble less about—well, procedure.”

“Must be stopped,” the chief constable muttered, looking very uneasy. “Must be stopped somehow.”

Bobby did not ask how. He continued:—

“I suppose she didn't want to risk there being another victim, so she took her own way of making sure Lord Henry listened to her. She gave him the warning I was too late to give De Legett and that Mr. Eyton ought to have, too. Only no one knows where he is and it may be too late again.”

“Oh, not another,” the chief constable exclaimed, almost flurried now. “Not another, for God's sake.”

“I think every effort must be made to find him,” agreed Mr. Findlay.

“I'll see to it,” the chief constable promised. “We'll broadcast an SOS if we have to. Only will he reply?”

No one answered that. Bobby said:—

“It was what Eyton said the other night when he came to see me that finally gave me proof it wasn't Miss Hannay. I knew he had been mixed up a good deal in private theatricals with her. It was pretty certain he would have recognized her had it been she who talked to him in Wychwood Forest. For that matter she would never have risked such recognition. It had to be someone Eyton had never met and didn't know—therefore not Miss Hannay, with whom he had a good deal to do over amateur theatricals. It's true he told me he never got a glimpse of her all the time they were talking, but I didn't believe that for a moment. It wasn't probable in itself and it was so evidently what he was told to say. I never seriously suspected Lady May. I felt the way her photographs kept turning up showed they were being used as red herrings to confuse the trail. At a guess, too, there was a touch of feminine psychology in that. If I am right, the woman responsible for all this is not strikingly beautiful—I think she is one of those women who can walk down a street and no one will look at her twice, only if you do, you're lost. A sort of inner flame in her, a flame of desire. I remember reading somewhere that none of the portraits of Cleopatra show great beauty—an inch more or less on her nose would have made no difference, it was her, not her looks, that did the mischief. I think there was a sort of jealousy, or rather, an extra zest in triumph behind these photos of a really beautiful woman she gave her lovers to put up in their rooms, like the one I saw in poor De Legett's office. So I soon ruled Lady May out. I was a good deal worried about Miss Glynne for a time. Little uncomfortable things kept cropping up. I think now some of them were introduced on purpose to confuse us—the gold tennis badge, for example, and Baird's clumsy show of efforts to meet her. He had been told to put on a show of interest in Miss Glynne, just as previously another man was persuaded to pay open attention to Miss Hannay. Kind of a smoke screen. In each case the man was so infatuated he was ready to swallow any yarn, and do anything he was told. Finally I got information from a friend that showed Miss Glynne wasn't in London the Friday night of the Mountain Street meeting, the night Marsh saw General Hannay. So I felt she was out.”

“What was General Hannay doing?” the chief constable asked.

“I take it he knew something of what was going on and suspected Miss Hannay was mixed up in the proceedings. I think to some extent that was so, and she has been in deadly fear of it being found out. Not that it amounted to much, only she was scared of her father knowing, and he got it into his head that possibly there was something in the stories associating her with Andy White's name. The Mountain Street hall itself was only a kind of—well, try out, a hunting ground, bait, a place where suitable young men could be picked up. Probably most of them simply went for what they thought was just a bit of fun, meaning by ‘fun' a chance to behave rather worse than at the average night club, with the further advantage of nothing to pay, lots of free drinks, and so on. It was all paid for out of the money obtained from Byatt and White and the others. There is nothing to suggest most of those who went there had any idea what was behind. Some may have suspected something. I don't know. I expect it was there Lord Byatt was picked up and probably the others, too. General Hannay must have got to hear something.”

“I'm glad Miss Hannay is cleared,” said Mr. Findlay slowly. “Very awkward for your chief constable,” he added to Bobby, “if it had turned out that the chairman of his Watch Committee—” He paused as a new idea struck him. “Is that why it was left so entirely to you?” he asked.

“I think so now,” Bobby agreed. “I thought at first the colonel was afraid that Leonard Glynne or Miss Glynne might be involved. Both Colonel Glynne and General Hannay felt the thing was somehow beginning to concentrate on Midwych. They both made that plain in their first talk with me. I suppose it was because of that, because they felt they needed independent help, that I was sent for. Only now I expect it wasn't so much Leonard and Miss Glynne the colonel was worried about, as Miss Hannay. I didn't realize that.”

“I thought you said you had a complete alibi for Miss Glynne?” Mr. Findlay remarked.

“That only came later on from a casual remark a friend of mine happened to make,” Bobby answered. “Before that, I couldn't help feeling Miss Glynne's behaviour was—well, curious. You see, I hadn't fully allowed for the effect of her disillusion over the man she was engaged to. He was a bad lot. Leonard Glynne knew it and said so, and then he got killed in an accident, for which Leonard Glynne was held partly to blame. I did consider the possibility that Miss Glynne might be, so to say, working off her disappointment and disillusion on other men, but it didn't seem a very plausible idea, and now it seems what was upsetting her was that she thought the same sort of thing was happening to Leonard. She got the idea that Lady May was playing the same kind of trick with him that Cadman had with her. That was all wrong, but it resulted in a violent row between them. He boxed her ears and in the scuffle she bit his thumb. She had got wind that Lady May was already married and that was right enough, only it was Leonard Glynne himself she had married. Apparently, they didn't want it known till she had wound up her contracts and he had completed some invention he is busy with. There were two complications worrying me. He had got hold of money and that seemed suspicious till I looked him up one day and got asked if I was bringing him another happy wire. I didn't realise at first what that meant. It's an expression the football pool people use when they send a wire to the winners of big prizes. Leonard Glynne won a half share in a £20,000 prize last year. He kept his own name out of it and said nothing about it at home because Colonel Glynne had been running a sort of crusade against the pools. A bit difficult for him if it had come out that his son had won a half-share in one of the biggest prizes. That explained where young Glynne got his money from, and it explained the Blue John diamond business, too. Both he and Lady May are keen on jewels. It may have been what brought them together in the first place. Leonard seems to be a bit of an expert in precious stones, and has carried out deals in them—probably pays him better than his inventions. He bought the Blue John for Lady May out of his pool prize money, partly perhaps as an investment or reserve. That cleared away the second complication—her possession of one of the pieces of jewellery mentioned. Only, of course, it was always noticeable that she displayed her possession of it, while the other pieces all vanished.”

The chief constable was looking at the notes Mr. Findlay had made and had handed across the table to him. He said:—

“A lot of all this is guesswork and theory. It all makes a logical whole all right enough, but where's your proof? The sort of proof you can take into court and plump down before a jury?”

“I know,” Bobby answered. “You remember, sir, I said my case was not complete. I felt something had to be done. That's why I spoke. If we can't put her in the dock, we can at least make sure she—stops.”