‘Humph! I’m not at all sure I’d take his word for it! I don’t trust those artistic types. It wouldn’t surprise me if… oh, well, I’d better not say it, I suppose.’
‘I understand you, but I agree that it should not be said. Was she a girl who formed many friendships with young men?’
‘Oh, she was normal, as to boys. I didn’t pass any objection so long as I knew who she was out with, and she was willing to bring them home and introduce them properly. But, there! You never know what girls get up to, out of your sight! This marriage of hers—I’m not sure it hasn’t upset me as much as the—as much as her passing away.’
She took out her handkerchief again. Dame Beatrice waited until she had recovered, and then asked gently:
‘When did you last see your daughter?’
‘During the summer holiday. She was at home for a few days and then said she had made plans to go away with this young art student. She’d been away with him before. I made no objection. Lots of young people go away together and have a good time and nothing wrong in it. And as for Tony, he was ever so good to her. Gave her the money, and quite a bit over, to spend there, and carried her bag to the station and saw she got a seat on the train, and everything. Not her own father could have done more to give her a send-off—I’m sure of that. Quite put himself out, he did, his own train going an hour later.’
‘Was her husband with her?’
‘No. He was to meet her down there the following day. He’d got something to do—a holiday job, I think—and couldn’t get away until the Sunday, or so she said. It seemed a pity for both of them to miss the Saturday, as they had to pay all the same.’
‘I see.’ Dame Beatrice made a note on Miss McKay’s blotter. A notebook, she thought, might frighten the witness into silence.
‘Then she came home at the end of the fortnight and was with us a couple of days before she went off to stay with her aunt at Harrafield. She was there about ten days and then she came home for a week before going back to the college. And to think that, all the time, she was married!’
‘I suppose she really did go to her aunt?’
‘Oh, she went, all right, because I got a postcard stamped at Harrafield, to say she’d arrived safely. Besides, her aunt would have let me know at once if she hadn’t arrived.’
‘Is the aunt your sister?’
‘No, my late husband’s.’
‘The police may want her address.’
‘They’re welcome. It’s the Hour-Glass Hotel, near the centre of the town. She’s the manageress there. Norah and I used to visit there together until I married Tony. But Sarah took exception to that, and told me I needn’t bring him there again. Nice, wasn’t it? You’d have thought we weren’t respectable! I told her if that’s how she felt, we wouldn’t trouble her any more for the rest of our lives. I was wild with her rudeness, I can tell you. Still, I wouldn’t stop Norah going. She was very fond of her aunt. Well, you’ve been very understanding, I’m sure. See you at the inquest, I expect? And now I’d better have a natter with Miss McKay before I go.’
‘Before you go, Mrs Biancini, there are just one or two points I should like cleared up. First of all, are you staying in the neighbourhood?’
‘Yes, and have been ever since we heard the news. We’re putting up with a Mrs Spear who lets lodgings down in the village. It’s where we put up last year for the College Open Day and that. She’s very nice, although I must say I’d like to show her how to make a batter pudding. Tony’s so fond of them.’
‘Yes. You do realise, don’t you, Mrs Biancini, that, whatever Norah’s reason for leaving college may have been, she went voluntarily?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Can you suggest anybody, apart from her husband (whom, I may say, I have interviewed), who had sufficient interest in her, or influence over her, to wish to smuggle her away? You see, from the night she left college to the time the students found her body, she was, so to speak, lost without trace. Cannot you throw any light whatever upon her disappearance?’
‘If I could, I would, and quick enough, too. Don’t you think I’ve had enough of all this sort of thing from the police?’
‘I’m sure you have. What made you let her come to college in the first place?’
‘Well, the idea had been for her to get a nice job in a bank. Several of the girls from her school had gone into banks, and it seemed refined sort of work, and not above what she could do. But she and Mr Biancini didn’t seem to hit it off, as I’ve tried to explain, and nothing would satisfy her but to get away from home.’
‘Quite natural, under the circumstances, I should have thought.’
‘As I said before, I didn’t see it at all fair on me,’ said Mrs Biancini. ‘Still, if that’s how she felt, there it was. She took her G.C.E. and passed in five subjects and then stayed on until she was eighteen so as to start here. They won’t take them before eighteen if they can help it. I mean, they do take them at seventeen, going on eighteen, if it’s exceptional or means family hardship, but she didn’t come under either of that. There was the bit of money her father left her, you see. She came in for that at eighteen. Too young, I thought, so I used it to send her here and give her all the pocket-money she wanted.’
‘Does that mean that she could have been in control of the whole sum, once she went to college?’
‘Oh, yes, according to the law, I suppose, and I gave her just what she asked for. It was her own money, after all, just in the bank for her use and no strings tied to it except my late husband’s wishes, which, of course, I should always respect.’
‘Quite so. Now please forgive me for asking such a question, but—what wishes had your husband expressed about the destination of the money supposing that your daughter died before you did?’
‘No wishes at all. Norah was always a hale and healthy child, and she was only ten years old, as I’ve said, when her father died, so it wouldn’t have occurred to him, I suppose, to think I might outlive her.’
‘So the money has remained in your account, and would have done so until your daughter left college. How old…?’
‘Just turned twenty-two.’
‘But I thought you said she entered college when she was eighteen?’
‘Well, no. She was to have done, but I was a bit doubtful about spending the money, so she went and helped her aunt for her keep and her pocket-money for a bit. Then she turned restless and said she didn’t have a future and must be trained. She picked an agricultural college, and I gave in. Anything, so long as she was contented.’
‘May I ask—or perhaps the police have already asked it— how large a sum is involved?’
Mrs Biancini shook her head.
‘The police have asked,’ she said. ‘I told them and I can’t see any harm in telling you. It isn’t enough for anybody to be tempted into killing Norah for it.’
‘One can never be sure of that sort of thing, Mrs Biancini.’
‘All right, then. It amounted to round about three thousand pounds, that’s all. I’ve paid her college fees outright for the two years, and put a matter of five hundred into my current account for her clothes and pocket-money and that, and there’s something over two thousand left of it in my deposit account.’
‘I am sure you have been most thoughtful.’
‘I hope so, I’m sure. You can’t always do for the best.’
‘Would you have any objection to my going to visit her aunt as soon as the inquest is over?’
‘Certainly not. Why should I? Not that she knows any more than we do, for I’ve asked her, thinking she might have been more in Norah’s confidence, as she’d worked for her.’
‘As your daughter stayed with her for some time before she went to college, I hope to be able to find out something which will help us to trace the murderer.’