Faintley Speaking

‘It is nothing of that kind, Mrs Trench. The police are inquiring into the circumstances under which Miss Faintley met her death, and we think your husband might be able to help a little.’

‘Him?’ The woman looked shocked. ‘There’s nothing like that about him! He wouldn’t harm a fly! If the coppers have got suspicions of my husband they must be even bigger fools than I take them for!’

‘They are not fools, Mrs Trench, and they do not suspect your husband of having committed a criminal act. Did you go away for a summer holiday this year?’

‘No, I didn’t. I stayed here in Kindleford, same as I always do. I haven’t had a decent holiday, not since the war.’ She wiped her eyes, and continued in maudlin accents: ‘The war upset me properly. We wasn’t here then; we was near London, and the bombing got on my nerves, and I haven’t really ever got over it.’

‘No, it was a bad time,’ said Mrs Bradley, who had remained in London, mostly at a casualty clearing station, during the worst of the air-raids. ‘Well, thank you for our little chat. I had better go now. Don’t get up. I can see myself out.’

She went at once. No protestations followed her. The moment she reached the front door Mrs Trench reached for the brandy and slopped some into a glass, fumbled in her dressing-gown pocket for cigarettes, and, after four attempts, managed to light one.

Mrs Bradley returned to Kindleford school and decided not to wait until the children were dismissed before interviewing Trench. The discovery that Mrs Trench was an habitual inebriate sufficiently explained her husband’s excuses for his absence from school functions. To these she could never accept an invitation, and probably (thought Mrs Bradley) the unfortunate man felt that it was better to be at home to make certain that she did not, in her drunken wilfulness, come to the school entertainments, and, by her conduct, betray the secret he had guarded so jealously for so long.

The trouble was that it seemed only too likely, in view of the amount of money her brandy-tippling must cost him, that Trench might have been tempted to augment his income by dabbling in the affairs of the fern experts, whatever those affairs might be. It seemed highly probable that he and Miss Faintley had been in collusion, even in partnership, over the delivery of the mysterious parcels, and that she had felt perfectly safe in advising him to be at the public telephone in Park Road to take an emergency call.

Miss Golightly seemed to extend a rather frigid hand when Mrs Bradley arrived at the school.

‘Interview Mr Trench here?’ she asked. ‘I suppose, if you want to, you must. You had better talk to him down here in my room. I will look after his class while you see him. Let me see, now… oh, yes.’ She pressed a buzzer at the side of her desk and a boy with a cow-lick and a large, solid girl appeared. ‘Mr Trench in the woodwork centre,’ she said. ‘Ask him to get all tools put away, library books out, and to come to my room as soon as he can manage it. My compliments, as usual, of course. You go, Roberts. Marion, run across to the cookery centre and ask Miss Welling to spare me a moment if there is nothing in the ovens. If there is, tell her I will come over to her. My compliments, of course, as usual.’

There proved to be nothing in the ovens, as the class was having an extra laundry lesson as a punishment for having eaten sultanas instead of dropping the full quota into the boiled puddings, so Miss Welling shortly appeared. She was an alert young woman of about twenty-eight, full of grievances, and Mrs Bradley’s presence did nothing to render her inarticulate.

‘And if I’ve told Susie Jenkins once to go and wash her hands and face before she comes to class, I’ve told her a dozen times, Miss Golightly. After all, if we can’t have personal hygiene in the cookery centre, where can we have it?’

‘Send her to me,’ said the headmistress, with (Mrs Bradley suspected) an inaudible but heartfelt groan.

‘And, Miss Golightly, I’m sure Brown’s are not sending me my full sugar. The staff are always complaining about no extra sugar for the stewed fruit… If it’s not Brown’s, then the children eat it, and I always keep everything locked up, so I don’t see how…’

‘Sugar for the stewed fruit is the business of the school meals service. The staff cannot expect to come on to the cookery centre for more, Miss Welling.’

‘Well, they always have,’ said Miss Welling, unanswerably, ‘and they think I’m being mean about it, and it’s most unpleasant, especially the men. They seem to think I’m made of sugar… no, I don’t mean that, exactly…“

‘I will put up a notice in the staff-room. And you had better go to Brown’s yourself instead of sending girls. And now, Miss Welling, what I really wanted to see you about… Oh, here is Mr Trench. Excuse me one moment. Ah, Mr Trench, Mrs Bradley, who is assisting the police in an inquiry into the circumstances of Miss Faintley’s death, would be glad of a word with you. She thinks you may be able to help her. Miss Welling, if you will walk across to the woodwork centre with me, I will…’

Her voice grew muffled and then faded, as she and Miss Welling went out. Mr Trench, a small, compactly-built man with greying hair and a weak chin, closed the door and looked inquiringly at Mrs Bradley.

‘I’ve been to see your wife,’ she said. His expression changed.

‘Yes? She’s – she’s quite an invalid, I’m afraid.’

‘Indeed? She seemed to know very little about Miss Faintley.’

‘I shouldn’t think she knew her at all. You will have gathered that my wife had really no connexion with the school.’

‘What was your connexion with Miss Faintley, Mr Trench?’

‘I don’t think I had much connexion with her. Our subjects did not overlap, and I —’

‘And you were only able to take an occasional telephone message. That much I understand. What I do not understand is this extraordinary business of the parcels of ferns.’

‘Ferns? Oh, but I had nothing to do with that.’

‘With what?’

‘Well, the parcels, you know. I know she used to collect them, and then, when she said would I go, and I rang her up… or, rather, she rang me up… well, she just wasn’t there, do you see?’