Somewhat to Fran’s surprise, rather than ridiculing Mo’s idea, Tom took it up with alacrity, and by the end of the evening he had discussed it by telephone not only with Florence Ripley herself, but also with Mademoiselle Bertillon and the Ripleys’ solicitor, Mr Gaffney.
‘I thought Gaffney might be a bit stuffy about it,’ Tom told her, ‘but he seems to feel that there’s nothing against it. According to him, the police have made up their minds and don’t appear to be making any further enquiries, so in the absence of appropriate professional intervention the Ripleys have nothing to lose by engaging amateurs.’
‘How is Mr Ripley doing?’
‘Gaffney reckons he is still in shock and simply can’t believe what is happening.’
‘I can understand that. I mean, even to us, it doesn’t feel quite real, does it? Someone you were eating lunch with not a fortnight ago is now on the point of standing trial for murdering his wife?’
‘Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,’ Tom said. ‘There are quite a few hurdles to get over before being sent for trial. First there’s the inquest and then the formal committal proceedings at the magistrates, and then the case won’t actually be heard until it’s been approved by a grand jury at the next assizes.’
‘But they have adjourned the inquest and hardly any murder cases ever get thrown out at any of those other stages,’ Fran said.
‘No.’ Tom’s tone grew sober. ‘Hardly any.’
‘So it’s agreed then,’ Fran said as brightly as she could. ‘I’m to go back down to Nottinghamshire on the next possible train.’
When her taxi drew up outside Aunt Hetty’s on Thursday afternoon, Fran experienced a strong sense of déjà vu. Everything in the spare bedroom – the paper-lined drawers of the dresser, the floral-patterned bowl and jug on the washstand, even the little tin of biscuits on the night table – looked just the same. And yet, Fran thought, things are different. As the page of the calendar had turned to October, so the weather had abruptly changed: the long Indian summer had given way to rain and gales. The flowers in Aunt Hetty’s borders looked forlorn and battered, the trees across the road were starting to show their autumnal tints, and a cardigan was a definite requirement. Other things had altered, too. There had been a certain larkiness to their original arrival. Aunt Hetty’s suspicious deaths had been no more than a puzzle to solve, whereas now a man’s life was at stake. Suppose everything she and Tom uncovered merely pointed to Mr Ripley’s guilt? Although there was no money involved, she and Tom had sought their commission on the basis of helping rather than hindering the bank manager’s cause, and yet they could not be sure that he stood on the side of right.
Added to this was the faint worry that her name might somehow become publicly linked with the case. The press had given up besieging Durley Dean for the time being, but no doubt the furore would erupt all over again the moment there were any fresh developments. Fran could well imagine her mother’s reaction to an appearance in the papers by her only daughter in connection with something as sordid as an alleged murder.
It had been arranged via Tom that Florence Ripley would contact various people to whom he and Fran wished to speak, so after eating supper with Aunt Hetty, Fran walked the now familiar route to the Ripleys’ house to learn the results of this operation. She was admitted by Martha, as usual, and shown straight into the drawing room, where she found not only Florence and her governess but also Miss Rose.
‘Miss Rose wants to help in any way she can,’ Florence explained. ‘Knowing that you would need to see her, she offered to come over this evening, because of course she is still working at the bank during the day.’
‘And there is no convenient place for a private interview at my boarding house,’ Miss Rose intervened. ‘When the police came to see me, my landlady was rather difficult about it. Nor does she like her lodgers receiving telephone calls. Obviously she takes the respectability of her establishment very seriously – we are all unmarried ladies, of course – and she feels that the arrival of the local constabulary casts quite a slur upon her premises. Fortunately I have been able to persuade Inspector Donaldson, who seems to be leading the police investigation, that if he needs to speak with me again, it would be far better achieved by attending my place of employment.’
‘Thank you, Miss Rose. I would appreciate talking to you, of course.’
‘Here is the list of people Mr Dod asked me to contact.’ Florence handed across a sheet of paper, adding, ‘No one has refused.’
Fran cast her eyes down the list. ‘Goodness,’ she said. ‘You have done well. Reverend Pinder has agreed, I see.’
‘Well, of course. He’s our vicar, after all. And it’s a good idea, going to talk with him, because vicars tend to know all sorts of things, don’t they? Especially vicars who encourage people to go to confession.’
‘The confessional is sacred, Miss Florence,’ Mademoiselle Bertillon reproved. ‘Anything said to a priest in such circumstances would never be revealed.’
‘Well, not revealed as such, no,’ Florence said. ‘But surely Reverend Pinder could drop a hint if he knew something important, rather than just letting Daddy go ahead and be hanged?’
‘Miss Florence!’
The girl tossed her head and said almost angrily, ‘It’s no use pretending to be shocked. We all know what will happen to Daddy unless we can find out what really happened to my stepmother.’
Fran could see that beneath the bravado Florence was close to tears. ‘I’m sure it isn’t going to come to that,’ she said quickly, with far more confidence than she felt.
‘Why don’t we go into the study, Mrs Black?’ Miss Rose suggested. ‘Florence has kindly put the room at our disposal and I’m sure some tea can be sent in, or coffee, if you would prefer it.’
Fran noticed the way in which Miss Rose – who had once virtually assumed the role of hostess – was now deferring to Florence as the head of the household. She immediately agreed to both suggestions, with the result that in a matter of a few minutes the two women were settled in the bank manager’s study, with Miss Rose taking an armchair to one side of the fireplace and Fran taking the other.
Fran had decided to adopt a similar line to that which she had seen Tom employ and, making it sound like the most natural enquiry in the world, she began by asking, ‘Do you think Mr Ripley could have killed his wife, Miss Rose?’
It was a calculated risk, but to her relief the other woman replied in a completely level voice. ‘That rather depends on what you mean. If you are asking could Mr Ripley have killed his wife, meaning did he have the opportunity to do so, then the answer is “yes”. But if you mean was Mr Ripley capable of killing his wife, then I would answer emphatically “no”.’
‘What makes you say that?’ Fran asked politely.
‘Horace Ripley and I have worked together for just over seven years and during that time we have got to know one another very well. As you must be well aware, I am very fond of him, and I am sure that he is very fond of me – but I believe he was equally fond of his late wife and extremely loyal to her. She could at times be an extremely exasperating woman, rather selfish and self-centred, but he tolerated all of that and, although we became good friends during our time working together, there was never a hint of impropriety between us. The other thing …’
Miss Rose hesitated, received an encouraging nod from Fran, and continued. ‘The other thing is that Horace Ripley is not a brave man. I don’t mean that unkindly, Mrs Black, but … well … I think it takes a certain amount of nerve to commit a murder and Horace is not that kind of man. I don’t mean to say that he is a coward. I daresay,’ she hastened on, perhaps fearing she had made a bad impression, ‘that had it not been for his being unfit for service, he would have answered his country’s call. However, he is conventional. He worries over the slightest lapse at the bank. Even blots in the ledger, or a farthing out of the final balance is a source of agitation. Such men do not go looking for perilous situations. They are not – in my opinion, at least – the stuff of which murderers are made. Finally, as someone who knows him well, I would say that his shock and grief on learning of his wife’s death were absolutely genuine.’
Fran found herself nodding, as if in comprehension. ‘Were you present when he heard that his wife had died?’
‘It was me who broke the news to him. The governess, Mademoiselle Bertillon, telephoned from the house, and when I told her Mr Ripley was rather tied up, she said that in any case it might be better if she spoke with me. I was extremely surprised, because I could not imagine why she would prefer to speak with me, and such a thing had never occurred before. Then she told me that Mrs Ripley had taken a sudden turn for the worse and died. She said Mr Ripley was needed at home, and asked my advice as to how we might break the news, so I offered to inform Mr Ripley, and she accepted. I went into his office and told him that he must prepare for some bad news. He was shocked, of course, and asked me at once what had happened. I told him that Mademoiselle Bertillon had just telephoned to say that his wife had died a few minutes before.’
‘Can you remember what he said in reply?’
‘Not the exact words, no.’ Miss Rose paused, thinking. ‘He made some kind of exclamation. He was obviously shocked and surprised. He said something like “Impossible!” or “Surely not?”, and I said I was terribly sorry but it was true and that he would be needed at home. Then he just sat at the desk for a moment and tears came into his eyes. I said I would tell Mr Johnston – he’s our chief clerk – that he would have to take over for the rest of the afternoon, and Mr Ripley just nodded, and then I went out and explained the situation to Mr Johnston. Mr Johnston and I agreed between us that we would not say anything about Mrs Ripley’s death to the junior staff, as it was only a couple of minutes to closing time and there was no point in people becoming distracted from their work just then. I was on the point of returning to Mr Ripley’s office, to ask if there was anything he would like me to do, when he came out wearing his hat and coat and gave me a brief nod before he left the building. I honestly believe he was too much overcome with emotion to have said anything more to me just then.’
‘Mrs Ripley’s death seemed to you to have been completely unexpected?’ Fran prompted.
‘Goodness, yes. I don’t imagine Horace would have come into the bank that morning if he had thought for a moment that his wife was dying. He may be very conscientious about his duties, but he is not such a cold fish as that!’
‘And yet Doctor Owen issued a certificate,’ Fran said thoughtfully.
‘Oh, but that would have been perfectly proper,’ Miss Rose said. ‘Before I was with the bank, I worked for a time as a hospital secretary, so I know a little bit about the regulations. Providing the doctor who issues the certificate has been treating the patient in the run up to their death and there are no suspicious circumstances of course, then a certificate can be issued without an inquest.’
Fran could not help thinking that if someone wasn’t expected to die and then suddenly did, that was in itself a slightly suspicious circumstance, but she kept the thought to herself. Instead, she asked, ‘When was the last time that you saw Mrs Ripley, before she died?’
For the first time, Miss Rose had to stop and think for quite a long time. Eventually she said, ‘Do you know, I’m not really sure. It would have been in some quite ordinary way I expect, such as meeting one another in the High Street, for example.’
‘You didn’t go to see her when she was ill?’
‘Goodness, no. We were sociable with one another, but we were not friends.’
‘You didn’t like her?’ Fran suggested.
‘I didn’t dislike her, if that’s what you mean. She was Mr Ripley’s wife, so of course I was respectful and showed her the degree of friendship appropriate to our relative positions.’
Since Miss Rose did not seem in the least upset or offended by these questions, Fran decided to probe a little further. She was conscious that it was not polite to do so, but then she remembered that private investigators were not necessarily expected to be polite. ‘Do you think Mrs Ripley realized you were fond of her husband, and he of you?’
‘I think you have perhaps overestimated the level of fondness which existed before Mrs Ripley’s death,’ Miss Rose said. ‘I have no doubt Mrs Ripley was aware that her husband and I got along well and that he appreciated my efficiency as his secretary, but there was nothing in our relationship which would have given Mrs Ripley any cause for concern. It was all very proper, I assure you.’
‘And that was as far as I got with Miss Rose,’ Fran told Tom, when he arrived on Friday evening. ‘She continues to insist that there was nothing but normal friendliness between herself and her employer until after his wife had died. She also claimed that Mrs Ripley was still an extremely beautiful woman, to whom her husband appeared devoted. “If anyone had suggested to her that her husband was in love with his secretary, she would have laughed in their face”, were her final words on the subject.’
‘I hadn’t realized that Mrs Ripley was a looker,’ said Tom. ‘And poor old Miss Rose isn’t exactly a beauty queen.’
‘That might make it worse,’ Fran said thoughtfully. ‘I mean, suppose you were a slightly dull-looking secretary, wildly in love with your boss, but his relationship with you was no more than friendship because he adored his utterly gorgeous wife … Wouldn’t that make you all the more eager to get rid of her?’
‘Because you weren’t satisfied with just being good friends and wanted something more?’ Tom’s question hung in the air for a moment before he added, ‘But surely Miss Rose is completely out of it, because she was never anywhere near the house during Mrs Ripley’s last illness? Though she could have been somehow in cahoots with Mr Ripley, I suppose. We only have her word for it that he adored his wife and took no romantic interest in his secretary until after his wife’s death. It could all be a double bluff. Perhaps Miss Rose is just putting on a front in order to protect her lover?’
‘Except that after Miss Rose had gone, I spoke to Mademoiselle Bertillon again and she essentially confirmed what Miss Rose had said about Mr Ripley being pretty devoted to his wife. Don’t forget that Florence took exactly the same line. It had obviously never occurred to her that her father might have wanted her stepmother out of the way in order to marry Miss Rose.’
‘So we’re no further forward so far as the Ripley ménage is concerned.’ Tom sighed. ‘Never mind,’ he said. ‘We have lots more people to talk with tomorrow.’