“If it was to be confined to the town, as such, perhaps not, but, you see, there was a little coterie—if that’s the word—who attended our Mothers’ Pleasant Afternoon, who would have been likely to, well, draw their skirts aside, if you know what I mean, and that certainly wouldn’t have helped matters.”
“So some of you talked Mr Luton out of his self-sacrificing dream?”
“Yes, in the end, we did. It’s all very well to see yourself as a Good Samaritan, but, in this case, what seemed at first to him to be the right thing to do was going to be so damaging to the good name of our chapel and Sunday School that—well, we just couldn’t let him do it, and, anyway, the girl was dead against it, too, as you can understand. Mr Hughes, our pastor, had the last word. He told him, straight out, that he would no longer be permitted to be Sunday School superintendent if he persisted in carrying out his idea.”
“What you tell me is extremely interesting,” said Dame Beatrice.
“Yes. The latest trouble has been one of our Sunday School teachers. A very sad business that is.”
“But Mr Luton did not renew his attempt to…”
“Well, of course, he’s older and wiser now—he was, I mean. We only knew about it shortly before his death. Of course, he went along to see her—being, as I said, a very keen social worker—and our pastor, Mr Hughes, has been to see her too, but she said she only wanted to be left alone, and her mother was standing by her, so we didn’t see what else we could do.”
“And you feel sure that, this time, Mr Luton did not propose marriage to her?”
“Oh, I’m certain he didn’t. This time he didn’t even ask for guidance, you see. He would ask for guidance before taking any such action, of course.”
“And the guidance he obtained on the former occasion convinced him that his well-intentioned plan, if he had carried it out, would have been against the interests of the chapel and the Sunday School. Yes, I see that he would not have attempted to carry out a similar plan the second time. By the way, did Mr Luton know the name of the baby’s father on this second occasion?”
“I don’t know for certain, but I think he must have done, because what he said to me this last time was to the effect that it wasn’t as though the fellow couldn’t afford to support a wife, and so I think he must have known or guessed who the father was. Still, he named no names, and, in these days, there’s many a young man employed in this town at a rate of pay quite sufficient to marry on if they have honourable intentions.”
“Would you mind giving me the girl’s address?”
“Well, it can’t do any harm, I suppose. Are you from the Unmarried Mothers’ Society?”
“No. I am investigating, with the approval of the police, the death of Mr Luton and the others.”
“I thought the police were satisfied Luton’s death was an accident.”
“The Coroner’s jury thought so; the police are still looking into the matter. They want to find the man or woman who caused the death, whether or not it was accidental.”
“Oh, I see. And you’re helping them?”
“In my capacity as psychiatric adviser to the Home Office, yes, I am.”
“Well, I wish you luck, I’m sure. Of course, Luton was a rare one for a practical joke in a mild way, but this went rather beyond a joke, didn’t it? Come inside, and I’ll look up that address and write it down for you.”
The home of the unmarried mother was in a cul-de-sac off the high street known as Paddock Place. It had been agreed, in accordance with his own suggestion, that Perse should escort Dame Beatrice to the house and then leave her to conduct the negotiations as she thought most fitting.
The front door opened directly on to the alleyway, for there was no front garden, and it was opened by a respectable-looking woman in a flowered overall. From the rear of the premises came the smell of cooking.
“Yes?” said the woman.
“Mrs Darbey?” asked Dame Beatrice. She handed the woman a visiting card. “I have just come from the Sunday School, where I was given your address. May I have a word with your daughter?”
“Mabel’s out. What did you want? We’re not interested in the Welfare, or nothing of that.”
“I am not connected with the Welfare, but with the police.”
“You better come in, then. That Mrs Coggins next door got her ears on elastic.” She stood aside and Dame Beatrice entered the parlour. It was clean, and the floor and furniture had been polished. The wallpaper-pattern was somewhat unrestrained, but the armchairs and settee looked comfortable and Mrs Darbey immediately lighted the gas fire. “Now,” she said, “I don’t see what the police have got to do with it. There’s no law against a girl making Mabel’s mistake, is there?”
“I am not aware of such a law. What I have come to find out is only obliquely concerned with your daughter, Mrs Darbey. Do you know the name of the baby’s father?”
“No, Mabel wouldn’t say. Said she wouldn’t marry him, even if he asked her, which he wasn’t likely to do. So it’s no good you or the police thinking it’s any use buggering along them lines. She’ll get over it, and, although I’ve spoke my mind, I reckon she’s only in the same boat as half-a-dozen others I could name. She means to have the baby adopted, and then she’s going to live with her auntie and uncle at Wolverhampton for a bit. Time she gets back it will all have blown over, I daresay. It ain’t the disgrace it used to be, you know. Nobody don’t think all that much of it nowadays. After all, it’s natural-like. The baby’s the unlucky one, not the mother.”
“I asked whether you knew the name of the baby’s father for a reason which does not really affect your daughter at all.”
“Oh? How’s that, then?”
“He may be wanted on a charge of murder.”
“Oh, my goodness! Murdering who?”
“I am not prepared to tell you that at present.”
“Well, what’s it got to do with Mabel, then?”
“I assure you, very little. If the father is not the man I think he is, then, probably, nothing at all. Come, Mrs Darbey, you know who the father is, don’t you?”
“Mabel’s never said.”
“That isn’t an answer. You suspect someone. I’d like to know who it is. After all, as I have told you, murder is suspected and…”
“Suspected? I thought it was proved.”
“You are thinking of the schoolmaster, Mr Spey, but I am referring to the death of the Sunday School superintendent, Mr Luton.”
“But the paper said…”
“Yes, I know what the paper said. What the papers say is not necessarily the whole truth, is it?”
“If I was to tell you what I think and believe, I might find myself in trouble. It don’t do to say all you think. I don’t want to find myself in a police court, so I ain’t naming no names. I’ve got no proof, and Mabel won’t say. I expect she’s frightened, like I am, of being had up for putting the blame where I reckon it will never be proved. Them that’s in high society can do as they like with the law, same as they always could. So now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got to see to the dinner. Mabel’s dad is up the allotment, as usual of a Sunday, and he’ll be hungry when he comes in.”
“Very well, Mrs Darbey,” said Dame Beatrice, getting up. “It has been very good of you to let me talk to you. If I give you the name of the man, will you tell me whether you agree with my opinion?”
“No,” said Mrs Darbey, flatly. “I’ve had quite enough trouble, as it is, over all this business. Mabel’s acted real silly, and I’m not the one to deny it, but perhaps she couldn’t help herself, being in service and all that. Anyway, soon as the baby comes it’ll all be over, and with any luck we’ll have a quiet life once more. Thank you for calling, and I’m sorry I can’t oblige, but the less said the better, and I haven’t got no proof.”
“Giles Faudrey will run into trouble one of these days,” said Dame Beatrice, in an off-hand tone, “but you are probably wise to say nothing, even to me.”