Find the Lady Read online

  Angel’s jaw tightened. He rubbed it.

  ‘Hmmm. They never do.’

  ‘There was plenty of gossip.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’ he said knowingly.

  ‘Yes. The women had plenty to say about Mr Prophet. All good though. He comes out very well. The perfect husband. The next best thing to Johnny Depp.’

  Angel’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Charles Prophet: Mother Teresa in Y-fronts, eh? Loaded with money. Stuck with a woman who is blind.’

  Gawber nodded wryly. ‘That’s about what they’re saying.’

  Angel grunted and then said, ‘I’ve still got to tell that poor man about his wife.’

  Gawber was aware that it had to be done.

  ‘Anybody see Lady Blessington?’ Angel asked.

  ‘A woman in the house opposite, The Larches, Number Eighteen, says she saw a taxi arrive about two, and a woman in blue get out. She’s seen her before, a couple of times. Medium height. She thought about sixty. Strange dress. Couldn’t get any more detailed description. Nobody else saw anything.’

  Angel wrinkled his nose.

  ‘What’s strange about a blue dress?’

  Gawber shrugged.

  ‘You’d better get after her. I’ve already set Scrivens on to start at Wells Street Baths, that’s where the taxi picked her up and dropped her, but why Wells Street Baths, I wonder?’

  He squeezed the lobe of his ear between finger and thumb.

  ‘What attraction could an Olympic-sized swimming pool possibly have for a middle-aged titled lady who is most probably a murderer?’ Angel mused.

  ‘Swimming, sir,’ Gawber said innocently.

  Angel frowned.

  ‘Swimming?’ he growled. ‘Well do the crawl and find her then. Smartish!’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  * * *

  The highly polished brass plaque read, ‘Prophet and Sellman, Solicitors’.

  Angel sighed. He pushed open the glass door and walked into a small waiting-room where a pretty young woman was working at a computer. She glanced up at him and smiled. He looked at her more closely. She was a good-looker. He liked what he saw. He pulled out his warrant card and said: ‘I must see Mr Charles Prophet on a matter of great urgency, please.’

  She stood up and peered at the card. He noticed her tiny waist and long legs. He wondered why there were so few beautiful girls in the force.

  She read the name out aloud.

  ‘Detective Inspector Michael Angel?’

  She had a voice like an angel, and made it sound as if she was referring to somebody terribly important.

  ‘That’s right, miss,’ he said with a smile.

  His eyes drifted down to the third finger of her left hand. There was no wedding ring showing. He breathed in deeply, pulled in his stomach and stuck out his chest.

  She looked at him and smiled again. He found himself smiling back. She had full Cupid’s bow lips and dark mysterious eyes. He couldn’t stop looking at her.

  ‘Won’t keep you a moment,’ she said and deftly manoeuvred her rounded backside round the corner of the desk. He watched her float through a mahogany door to the inner office leaving a cloud of expensive French perfume and ideas that he could get six months in prison just for thinking.

  He sighed as he looked round the small waiting-room. He selected a chair near the door and sat down. Then the reason for his visit came back to him. The smile on his face melted away as sight of the wood-panelled wall and the smell of wax polish brought him back to face the awful truth. He was there to investigate a murder and had to tell a man his wife was the victim. He began to consider how he was going to break the tragic news. Although he had done it several hundred times before, it didn’t get easier. There was no textbook way: no magic formula. You simply said what had to be said, gently, and that was all.

  The inner office door opened and the glamorous secretary came out.

  ‘Mr Prophet will see you immediately, Detective Inspector,’ she said in a voice that would have stirred Cecil B. DeMille, if he had still been around.

  Angel stood up.

  ‘Thank you.’

  He passed the young woman. He enjoyed a whiff of the perfume again, and then went through the door into the office.

  The glamour went out and closed the door.

  A well-groomed man with a tanned face and chiselled features stood up behind a desk in the centre of the office. He flashed a set of ivories, which Burt Lancaster’s dentist would have been proud of, stretched out a hand and said, ‘Inspector Angel? Charles Prophet. Very pleased to meet you. What can I do for you? My secretary said it was on a matter of great urgency.’

  It was a firm handshake, the sort Angel liked.

  Angel looked into the ice-blue eyes and was not a bit surprised that he was popular with all his lady neighbours.

  ‘It is, sir,’ Angel said and licked his lips.

  Prophet’s face changed.

  ‘Please sit down.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Angel said. ‘You are Charles Prophet, married to Alicia Prophet and you do live at 22 Creesforth Road?’

  ‘Yes?’ he said. He started looking worried.

  Angel certainly had the man’s full attention. He took in a breath and said, ‘I have some very bad news, sir. You need to prepare yourself.’

  Prophet’s face changed. He sat down. ‘Yes?’

  Angel waited only a moment and then said, ‘This afternoon we had a 999 call from your neighbour, Mrs Duplessis. Police officers attended and found your wife, dead on the settee. She had been shot.’

  Prophet stared across the desk at him.

  ‘No,’ he said quietly. His eyes closed and his mouth dropped open. He breathed in and then out very deeply. It was a very big sigh.

  His breathing became heavy.

  ‘My poor, dear Alicia,’ he muttered. ‘Did she suffer?’

  ‘No, sir. Death would be instantaneous.’

  ‘You know she was blind?’

  ‘We know now. Yes.’

  His eyes opened.

  ‘How did it happen? How will I cope?’ he asked tearfully. ‘Who did this dreadful thing? Why ever would anyone want to hurt her? What happened? How will I manage without her?’

  He reached out to a jug on a silver tray and poured some water into a tumbler. With shaking hands took a few sips from the tumbler.

  Eventually Angel said: ‘I was hopeful that you could tell us who might have murdered her.’

  Prophet held the tumbler, looked down and shook his head.

  ‘Unless it was a caller at the door? We were constantly hounded by people selling things.’

  ‘No. We don’t think it was a casual caller. However, a woman was seen leaving the scene.’

  Prophet looked up.

  Angel went on: ‘Your next-door neighbour, Mrs Duplessis, saw a woman in a fussy blue dress. She said that her name was Lady Blessington.’

  Prophet leapt to his feet. His eyes were blazing.

  ‘Yes. Yes! Lady Blessington. Damn that woman. It would be her. It all fits.’

  Angel stared at him.

  ‘What fits?’

  ‘That woman,’ Prophet stormed. ‘She’s been trying to insinuate herself into an unwanted and unsought friendship with my wife for six months or so now.’

  Angel licked his lips.

  ‘Why would she do that?’

  ‘I’m sorry to have to say it, Inspector, but for money. As far as I can tell, she’s a forgotten member of the aristocracy. Apparently, my wife and she were … acquaintances years ago. I think she must have married an impecunious lord, and is now a hard-up widow. I kept trying to warn my wife against her, but Alicia, dear Alicia, wouldn’t listen.’

  He slumped back down in the chair. He buried his head in his hands.

  ‘I told her time and again she should give her a wide berth.’

  ‘Was Lady Blessington trying to extract money from your wife?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you think that … that … some dispute may hav
e broken out and … in the course of it, she shot your wife?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Angel agreed. At the moment it did seem to be the most likely possibility. He rubbed his chin.

  ‘Can you tell me,’ Angel began, ‘on the settee, where your wife was found there was the peel of an orange. It was sort of spread about, untidily. Looked like the peel of a perfectly ordinary, fresh orange. Can you explain that? Did your wife like oranges?’

  ‘Really? How extraordinary. Yes, she liked oranges, Inspector. I can’t explain the … untidiness. That was not like her. Very strange.’

  ‘I know this is a terrible time for you, Mr Prophet. May I ask you just one more question and then I will leave you in peace for the time being.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ he grunted.

  ‘We need to get hold of Lady Blessington, of course. I have men out searching for her now. Do you happen to have her address?’

  ‘No. I haven’t. I have no idea where she lives. I wish I did. My wife may have it somewhere. I don’t think so, somehow. Since she lost her sight, she also lost all interest in writing.’

  ‘You’ve no thoughts where Lady Blessington might be at this moment?’

  ‘No, Inspector. I hardly knew her. Didn’t want to know her….’

  ‘Right, sir. Thank you very much. We’ll be going through everything, of course.’

  He stood up.

  Prophet sighed.

  ‘Oh dear. Are your people at my house now?’

  ‘I’m afraid they’ll be there, possibly for a few days.’

  ‘I’ll stay at The Feathers.’

  Angel nodded gently.

  ‘It’ll be best, sir. Please accept my sincere condolences. I’ll be in touch with you tomorrow, sir. In the meantime if anything occurs to you as to where the missing woman might be, or if she should contact you, please phone the station.’

  Charles Prophet lowered his head.

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ Gawber said.

  ‘Ah. Come in, Ron. Good morning. Sit down. Tell me about Wells Road Baths then? Did you catch up with young Scrivens?’

  Gawber sighed.

  ‘Not much to tell, sir. Yes, Ted Scrivens is coming along fine. I took a good look round the place, the men’s changing rooms, shower cubicles, tea bar and slipper baths and so on, then spoke to them in the office. They were very busy yesterday, especially in the afternoon, it being so hot. They could not remember a woman in a blue dress. The manager was very frank about it. They were run off their feet. Hadn’t time to notice their own shadows.’

  He nodded.

  ‘Is there any CCTV?’

  ‘Just the pool, for safety reasons. But nowhere else. I checked the tape last night. I didn’t spot anybody on the edge or wearing a swimsuit who might have answered the description of Lady Blessington.’

  Angel picked up the phone and tapped out a number.

  ‘There’s nothing else much up Wells Street … some houses,’ Gawber continued. ‘A newsagent’s, butcher’s … that’s about all.’

  ‘It might be worth going into the newsagent’s,’ Angel said. ‘She might have popped in for something, perhaps while she was waiting for the taxi, and if she lives round there, she might be known to him. A man might remember a woman in a blue dress.’

  Gawber smiled.

  There was the sound of a reply from the earpiece.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said and turned to the phone.

  ‘Ahmed. Find out what Burke’s Peerage says about Lady Blessington. Also, see if you can get a reference to her anywhere else … anywhere at all, on the internet or in the telephone directory, or on the voter’s list at the town hall. We must find out where she lives.’

  He replaced the receiver.

  ‘I’ll get onto that newsagent’s, sir,’ Gawber said and stood up. ‘The houses up there would be too long a shot, wouldn’t they?’

  There was a knock at the door. Gawber opened it. It was Crisp.

  ‘At this stage, they would,’ Angel replied. ‘And there’s too many. But if we don’t get a direct lead soon, we may have to resort to sniffing round them. Leave Scrivens up there. Tell him to scratch around. See what he can uncover. It’s a long shot. Be good experience for him.’

  Angel saw Crisp and said, ‘Come in, lad.’

  Crisp and Gawber exchanged nods.

  Angel called, ‘Let me know if you find out anything.’

  ‘Will do, sir,’ Gawber said as he went out. Crisp closed the door behind him.

  ‘Sit down. Now this woman, Margaret something or other. You found her all right?’

  ‘The name’s Margaret Gaston, sir. What a girl,’ he said with a big smile.

  ‘Gaston. Right. Did she call at the Prophets’ at any time yesterday?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘No?’ Angel said and rubbed his chin. ‘What else did you find out?’

  ‘Ah, well sir, she’s a good-looking lass, about twenty-five with a great figure. She has long blonde hair, and—’

  ‘You weren’t supposed to be checking her out for the position of the next Mrs Crisp!’

  ‘No sir,’ he said, trying to stifle a smile. ‘Well, she’s got a young son aged about two and she lives on her own in this small flat at the top of Mansion Hill, number 19.’

  ‘A one-parent family?’

  ‘I think so, sir.’

  ‘Aye. Go on.’

  ‘She does a few hours a week cleaning and house-keeping for the Prophets.’

  ‘Was she at the house at all yesterday?’

  ‘No, sir. Monday is her day off.’

  ‘When she’s at the Prophets’, who looks after her little boy?’

  Crisp licked his lips.

  ‘She didn’t say, sir.’

  Angel’s jaw tightened.

  ‘You didn’t ask, did you?’ he growled.

  Crisp’s eyes bounced.

  ‘Never thought about it, sir.’

  Angel shook his head. He wasn’t pleased.

  ‘Did you ask her how well the Prophets got on together?’

  ‘Yes, sir. She said that she thought they got on well enough. She didn’t know much about it, she said, because she was usually alone at the house with Mrs Prophet during office hours when Mr Prophet was out, at the office.’

  ‘Did she ever see Lady Blessington?’

  ‘No. She said she’d never heard of her.’

  Angel frowned, then his eyebrows shot up and his mouth dropped open.

  ‘Really? Mrs Prophet never spoke to her about the woman?’

  ‘Apparently not, sir. That’s what she said, anyway. On reflection, it does seem a bit strange. You’d expect her to boast a bit about knowing a titled lady.’

  Angel frowned.

  ‘Wasn’t she ever there when Lady Blessington called?’

  ‘Couldn’t have been, sir.’

  ‘Don’t you think that’s odd?’

  Crisp considered the question.

  ‘It could just be a coincidence.’

  Angel squeezed an earlobe between finger and thumb. He wasn’t happy about it. He’d never believed in coincidences, not in the murder business.

  ‘No good asking you if she knew the address of the mysterious Lady Blessington then, is it?’

  Crisp shook his head.

  The phone rang. Angel reached out for it. It was a young PC on reception.

  ‘There’s a woman here, sir. Reporting a lodger gone missing. She sounds worried. Inspector Asquith is at the hospital having his sinuses washed out or something. I don’t know quite what to do with her.’

  Angel would have liked to have told him; instead, he sighed.

  ‘Right, lad. Ask the lady to wait. I’ll get DS Crisp to see her.’

  He replaced the phone and turned to Crisp.

  ‘Nip up to reception. A woman reporting a misper. See if you can sort it out smartish. Then come back here.’

  ‘Right, sir,’ Crisp said and dashed out of the office.

  Angel picked up the phone and tapped in
a number. It was soon answered. It was DS Taylor.

  ‘I take it you are still at 22 Creesforth Road? Have you found anything that would indicate the address of this Lady Blessington, Don. We can’t find it anywhere. Nobody seems to know.’

  ‘Nothing yet, sir.’

  ‘Is there anything in the place that might help us? A letter, a photograph?’

  ‘There is a drawer with a lot of loose photographs in a drawer in the sitting-room. They are not in an album. They might include a picture of her ladyship.’

  ‘Aye. Right. That’d be something to be going at. I’ll send round for them. And have you come across a cheque book or anything that would indicate where Mrs Prophet banked?’

  ‘Yes sir. The Northern Bank, Market Street.’

  ‘Right lad. Thank you.’

  He replaced the phone. There was a knock at the door. It was Ahmed.

  ‘Yes, lad. What is it?’

  ‘Lady Blessington isn’t in Burke’s Peerage, sir. There’s a Blessing, and a Blessingham, but no Blessington.’

  Angel nodded.

  ‘And she’s not in the phone book, sir, or in the voter’s list at the town hall, or on the internet. Do you want me to look anywhere else?’

  ‘No, Ahmed. I think it is fast becoming clear that our Lady Blessington is no lady, in every sense of the word. We are looking for a woman who is a murderer, untitled, in a powder-blue fussy dress, has blonde hair and appears to be between the ages of forty and sixty.’

  Ahmed nodded, but couldn’t think of anything useful to say. He turned to go.

  ‘Just a minute,’ Angel said. ‘There’s summat else. Go to 22 Creesforth Road and collect a bundle of photographs from SOCO and bring them here. On your way back, I want you to call in at the Northern Bank. Tell the manager we are looking into the murder of Mrs Alicia Prophet and get a copy of statements of her account for the last 12 months and look sharp about it.’

  Ahmed dashed off.

  The phone rang again. It was Crisp in reception. ‘Sorry to bother you, sir. About this misper. This lady is worried about one of her tenants. He’s been missing a month. Would you have a word? Incidentally, she owns the flats at the top of Mansion Hill, where another of her tenants is Margaret Gaston.’

  Angel pulled an unhappy face. He rubbed his chin. He’d plenty on his plate. He really didn’t want to get involved.