helen simpson –
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Early on Monday morning Mrs Bradley went in person to Miss Golightly to ask for Trench’s address. Miss Golightly had to be persuaded into giving it. She could not imagine, she said, that Mr Trench was involved in Miss Faintley’s affairs. He was a most reliable and unassuming man.
Mrs Bradley explained that if anyone on the school staff was involved it had seemed likely that it must be either Mr Trench or Mr Bannister. She added that she had had Mr Bannister to her country house for the week-end and had questioned him. Now it was Mr Trench’s turn, and she proposed to interview not only Mr Trench but his wife.
‘I understand that she is an invalid,’ she added, ‘but as I am a doctor you need have no fear that I shall upset her if she really appears to be ill. And do you mind not telling Mr Trench that I am going to see his wife? What is she like, by the way?’
‘I have never met her,’ Miss Golightly replied. Then she gave the address, and added, ‘How I do hate all this! It seems dreadful to go behind the backs of my staff. I’ve never done it before.’
‘You haven’t had one of them murdered before,’ Mrs Bradley pointed out in mild tones. ‘By the way, I have sent Miss Menzies to you this morning, but her fortnight was up on Friday, and I should be grateful if you would release her before the end of the week. I want to get back to Cromlech. There is not a great deal more that we can do here at present, when once I have interviewed Mr and Mrs Trench.’
‘I see. Perhaps you would like me to release Miss Menzies after the end of to-morrow.’
‘If that would not inconvenience you too much.’
‘No, no. I think that will be all right. The Office have now promised me a Supply. I will ring them immediately.’
Laura, informed during the course of the morning of her impending release, was duly grateful.
‘I don’t mean I haven’t enjoyed it,’ she said. ‘It’s been fun in a way. But… well, you know how it is!’
Miss Golightly agreed that she did, and added thoughtfully that she imagined nature study and botany were not favourite subjects with Miss Menzies. Miss Menzies, grinning wryly, replied that she preferred English, and added Miss Topas’ famous rider to text-books on botany that she knew only one Natural Order – that of Fools! Miss Topas, she added, was a genius, and had lectured at College in history.
So Laura and her headmistress parted on terms of mutual and undisguised friendship and relief, and Laura, at lunch-time, broke the news to Miss Cardillon that on Wednesday the school was due for a change on the staff.
Mrs Bradley, meanwhile, had parked her car some distance from Trench’s house, and had gone on foot to interview his wife.
The door was answered by a middle-aged woman wearing a soiled dressing-gown. Her hair was untidy and last night’s make-up was still on her face. Her eyes were hooded under deeply purple lids and her speech was thick and slurred.
‘Yes, dear?’ she asked, holding on to the door for support. ‘If it’s Trench, he isn’t at home.’
‘It isn’t your husband I want to see. It’s you.’
She wondered, however, whether much was to be gained from a woman who was so obviously drunk.
‘Me? What about? I don’t know you, do I? I don’t remember meeting you before. But I get muddled, you know, dear. It’s my head. You wouldn’t believe the headaches I get. Something cruel.’
She swayed a little.
‘No, you haven’t met me before,’ Mrs Bradley assured her. ‘I am connected with the police.’
‘I haven’t done nothing that I know of.’ She looked alarmed, and straightened up a little. ‘I’ve paid my way, so far as I remember. I may be D.,’ she added, with a pathetic attempt at a propitiatory smile, ‘but I’ve never been D. and D., dear, not to be a nuisance outside, that is. Unless I’ve forgot. I do forget things sometimes. I never had much of a memory, even as a girl at school.’
‘School? Ah, yes. Your husband’s a schoolmaster, I believe.’
‘He doesn’t schoolmaster it here,’ said Mrs Trench austerely, with a dignity which was somewhat marred by a slight belch. ‘Pardon. If we’re going to talk about Boffin, you’d better come in. My neighbours is all ears, as you’d imagine.’
She led the way along a smelly passage into a littered room. Bread, cheese, a half-empty bottle of brandy, some unwashed cups, a piece of knitting, a novelette, a scattered pack of cards and a book on fortune-telling were on the table, and dust was thick on mantelpiece, sideboard and the wooden arms of chairs. The curtains were drawn across the windows and the electric light was on. Crumbs and cigarette ash covered most of the hearthrug, and a couple of empty brandy bottles were standing in the alcove next to the fireplace. The room was airless and stank of drink and stale tobacco.
‘And now, what do you want?’ demanded Mrs Trench in altered tones. ‘Boffin didn’t send you, did he?’
‘I want some information about the late Miss Faintley,’ said Mrs Bradley coolly. ‘Did you and Mr Trench know her before she came to live in Kindleford?’
‘Miss Faintley? Who’s she?’
‘She was a teacher at the school.’
‘So he’s been up to something! I guessed as much! Him and his N.U.T. Conferences! I thought as how they seemed to come round pretty often! Carrying on with the lady teachers, is he? I wonder how long
