Here Lies Gloria Mundy

give some privacy from the curiosity of passers-by.

Most of the houses had basements with their own steep, narrow steps leading to the servants’ entrances and flights of broad stone steps leading up to the front doors. Above the basements the houses rose in three storeys; they had large bay windows on the first floor, large Georgian-type windows on the floor above this, and much smaller, rather mean-looking windows on the top floor.

Some of the houses had been turned into flats, others had become business premises and their owners had taken down the street wall and gates (from which, in any case, the iron railings had been removed during the war) and had concreted what had been the front lawns and turned them into parking-spaces for the workers’ and management’s cars.

The other three houses past which I walked were a YWCA hostel, a hall of residence for college students and a more imposing mansion than either. This was a guest house called the Clovelly Private Hotel.

From what I had heard of Gloria I thought that this was more likely to be her choice than a YWCA hostel, so I mounted the steps and went in through an open front door which led into a small vestibule. Beyond this were swing doors. I pushed in and on my left there was the reception desk and behind it at a small table a woman and a girl of about nineteen were having a cup of tea.

They did not appear to have noticed my entrance, in spite of the fact that one of the swing doors had given a slight moan, so I coughed to attract attention. The older woman looked up.

‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘no vacancies. Residents only, and we’re full.’

‘I don’t need accommodation. I am looking for my sister and the place where she worked gave me this address. I am from the Argentine.’ (I suppose my subconscious mind brought this country uppermost, since I had been told that Coberley had had business interests there.) ‘So we have not met for years and she may be married by now. The name is M—’ I was about to say Mundy, but caught the word back and substituted ‘Malvern’.

‘No guest of that name here.’

‘She wrote to me that she was engaged to a man named Domremy. Would a Mrs Domremy mean anything to you? As I remember my sister, she was very slightly built and had red hair and a pale complexion. Sometimes she dyed part of her hair black, sometimes all of it was black.’

The woman shook her head, but the girl, who was still seated in the background, said, ‘It couldn’t be, could it?’

‘Couldn’t be what?’ asked the woman.

‘You know. That case in the papers. It said she had red hair one side of her head and black the other.’

‘Of course it couldn’t be her. We don’t get ourselves mixed up with murder and that kind of thing.’ She turned to me again. ‘We don’t know anything about a Miss Malvern or a Mrs Whatever name you said.’ She turned her back on me and went back to her cup of tea.

‘One moment,’ I said peremptorily.

‘Well?’

‘I am a police officer. If you know anything whatever about the woman with the red and black hair and do not disclose it, you will be hindering me in the execution of my duty, and that is an indictable offence.’

If either of them had asked me for my credentials at this point, I should have been stymied, but fortunately neither of them thought of it, any more than the girl in Trends had done. The older woman came back to the counter.

‘She was here, perhaps, if we’re talking about the same person,’ she said, ‘but please don’t ever mention it, us not wanting the reporters and the notoriety, and her hair was always dark while she was here. She called herself Parkstone and we never saw her with anything but dark-brown hair, not really black.’

‘Parkstone?’ What imp of mischief had been at work here, I wondered. ‘When did she leave?’

‘Oh, that would have been a fortnight ago.’

‘Do you know where she worked?’

‘Oh, yes, she worked at Trends in the West End.’

‘Did she ever have visitors?’

‘Not that I know of. I shouldn’t think her sort would have wanted them if the police wanted her. No wonder she left here, if you were on her track.’

‘Did she leave anything behind?’

‘Oh, no. We’re fully furnished, so she only took her clothes with her. There was nothing else. Look, we can’t help you, so you’ll keep us out of the papers, won’t you? This place is my livelihood, you see, mine and my daughter’s.’ She indicated the girl at the table.

‘We are very discreet,’ I said. ‘I shan’t need to trouble you again, I’m sure. Did this Miss Parkstone leave a forwarding address for letters?’

‘Oh, no, nothing of that sort. She would have left it with the post-office, I expect.’

I had no idea what to do next. I seemed to have come to a dead end almost as soon as I had started. I walked somewhat disconsolately to the bus stop, but while I stood there I thought of one more thing which I could do, although, in my chastened state of mind, I did not think anything would come of it. I left the bus stop and walked down a side street to the post-office, not really believing for a moment that Gloria would have left an address there if she was on the run, as now seemed more than likely.

It was one of those places which combines postal business with keeping a little shop. This one sold stationery, birthday cards, sello-tape, string, paperbacks, pencils and pencil-sharpeners, paperclips, india-rubbers and other oddments, so I made a few purchases and then went to the post-office counter and bought some stamps.

‘I want to send birthday cards to my nieces,’ I said, ‘but they seem to have moved from their hotel. Would you have a forwarding address for Parkstone, Mundy and Domremy?’