The Paying Guests(145)
‘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.