“Well, you see, my nana thinks I have my accommodation all sorted here in Bath. I may have implied it had been arranged for me as part of my pay package. At this point, I thought it best not to confuse her. And there is Oona’s flat, you see. All paid up. I have the receipt.” She leaned forward. “You don’t mind, do you, Hayley? That I’m staying there?”
“No, certainly not. Why would I mind? It’s only that I was worried about you being alone.”
“Oh, I can take care of myself,” Clara said with a sharp nod. “And I wanted to be ready for my first morning—I was so very happy to get your text about getting back to work on the exhibition today.”
“My text,” I repeated. The words jogged my memory. “That reminds me; any sign of the phone you lost?”
Her face went blank.
“Clara?”
“I lost my phone,” she said.
“Yes, it’s just that I thought it might’ve turned up. You know how they do—you think something’s gone for good, and then there it is under the sofa cushion or in a shoe, and you wonder how it got there.”
“In my shoe?” she asked.
“Never mind.” I had wanted to ask her about visiting Naomi, but our time was running short. I would bring that up later. “Well, on to my news. I wanted to let you know that we have hired a manager, at least on a trial basis. Let me explain—”
Buzz. What—the front door? It can’t be Zeno. Please don’t be Zeno. Not yet.
Mrs. Woolgar came out of her office and reached the front door just ahead of me. She opened it, and took a step back when she saw Zeno wearing a coat so thick with fleece, it looked as if he might’ve pulled the entire sheep on over his suit.
“Hello, good morning.” He beamed at the secretary. “I am Zeno Berryfield, the exhibition manager for your upcoming event. And I believe you must be Glynis Woolgar—am I right? Lady Fowling’s longtime friend and associate?”
Had I mentioned Mrs. Woolgar to Zeno? I didn’t think so, but then it couldn’t be difficult to glean the information from the Society’s website.
“Good morning, Zeno,” I said. “Please do come in.” I introduced the two, and Zeno took Mrs. Woolgar’s hand, which she took back again fairly quickly.
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Berryfield,” she said. “I won’t keep you now, as I’m sure you and Ms. Burke have a great deal to do this morning. However, I do need to tell you, Ms. Burke, about Mr. Berryfield’s tea with the board. Maureen Frost is booked for this afternoon, and Mr. Rennie would have to shift his schedule to attend. Shall we proceed with the others?”
“No, Mrs. Woolgar, I wouldn’t want to . . .” Have to go through the whole thing twice. “We could try for tomorrow afternoon. No, wait, we have the literary salon tomorrow evening.”
“God, I love a good literary salon,” Zeno said with enthusiasm. “I quite admire your lineup for the season. Is this the one with Margaret Raines from the Met?”
“Yes, well, of course you are invited,” I said, wishing Zeno would be quiet so I could think. No, wait, perhaps I’d just spoken the solution. “I tell you what, Mrs. Woolgar—the board arrives early to meet our lecturer for the evening, why not use the time to have them meet Zeno as well? Over a glass of sherry.”
“Yes, fine,” she replied. “I’ll take care of it.” She left, closing her door firmly behind her.
“Thank you,” I called after. “Well, Mr. Berryfield, why don’t we go to my office? I want to introduce you to our PA.”
Our being the operative word here. I didn’t want Zeno getting proprietary over Clara.
She stood when we entered my office. I took a breath to start the introductions, but before I could, Clara said, “Hello, Mr. Berryfield. Good morning.”
“Have you two met before?” I asked.
Their answers came on top of each other.
“Yes,” Clara said.
“No,” Zeno said.
Then he looked abashed and put a hand to his chest.
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry. Have we met?”
Clara’s face had turned bright pink. She nodded. “Yes, we have. It was—”
“No, wait, don’t tell me. Were you working for Oona at the show in Carlisle? I did stop in to say hello at that event. But, you know, Oona had a way of filling a room to the exclusion of others, didn’t she? Again, I’m terribly sorry about that—not remembering. It’s unforgivable.”
Clara turned even pinker. “Oh, it’s nothing.”
“Heigh-ho, Ms. . . .”
“Powell,” I said. “Clara Powell.”
“Ms. Powell.”
“We’d better get started, hadn’t we?” I said. “I do want to go over the schedule and review how far we’ve come before I take you over to the Charlotte. I told Naomi Faber—the booking manager—we’d be there at eleven. That should give us plenty of time.”
Zeno carried a fireside chair over to my desk and the three of us sat. I opened a file folder full of everything I had on the exhibition— I had printed it out that morning at five o’clock, because if you can’t sleep, you might as well work.
“First, let me say that I’m sure our professional relationship—the three of us—will be fruitful, but I do want to point out that you, Clara, are to report to me.”
“Yes, Hayley, of course.”
The front door buzzed.
I hesitated for a moment, but heard nothing from Mrs. Woolgar’s quarters, signaling to me that she was done with answering the door for the morning.
“I’m sorry for the interruption,” I told Clara and Zeno, “but let me see to this.”
I sprinted to the entry and pulled open the door to find Becky on the front step.
“Hello, Hayley.”
At that moment, my life split in half. Work waited in my office, while here on my doorstep, one of two people with whom I knew I had another sort of business.
I prayed she didn’t notice my moment of hesitation. “Becky, come in, please. How lovely to see you. I’m glad you didn’t have to leave first thing this morning.” As both you and your sister said you would. I checked the pavement, but there was no Bess lurking behind her.
Becky wore one of those coats with a multitude of zippered pockets, which she now used to occupy her hands—zip, unzip, zip, unzip—as she looked round the entry.
“You did say stop in anytime, but perhaps you’re busy this morning.”
“Not so busy I can’t take a few minutes to visit.” What else was I supposed to do—send her on her way back to Devon? In my mind, I tried to move us all round Middlebank like chess pieces, but couldn’t figure out how I could be in two places at once.
At that moment, Mrs. Woolgar emerged from her office—possibly intrigued by a voice she didn’t recognize—and I introduced Becky.
“Lovely to meet you, Ms. Moffatt. That was a fine pot of snowdrops you gave Ms. Burke.”
I took Becky’s coat and hung it on a peg as she replied, “They make a good show of it in winter,” and then added, “What a lovely dress,” nodding to the secretary’s thirties-style frock with its purple appliqué at the shoulder. “Do you sew your own clothes?”
Mrs. Woolgar smiled—actually smiled. “Thank you, I do, yes. Now, Ms. Burke, would you like me to take Mr. Berryfield and Ms. Powell up to the library so that you and Ms. Moffatt have some time to youselves?”
Not everyone could charm the secretary so easily, and I would love Becky for that if nothing else.
“Thank you, Mrs. Woolgar,” I said, resisting an urge to hug her for this kindness. I put my head in my office and quickly explained to Zeno and Clara the benefit of perusing the collection—“it will help you get a sense of Lady Fowling’s tastes”—and handed them off to Mrs. Woolgar, who escorted them up to the library. I gave Becky a quick tour of the ground floor.
“Now, why don’t we go up to my flat and ha
ve a coffee?”
Up the stairs we went, pausing for a moment on the first-floor landing. Inside the library, I heard Mrs. Woolgar say, “No, Mr. Berryfield, I don’t believe I have heard about the time you created a one one-hundred-twenty-eighth-scale papier-mâché replica of Ben Nevis.”
Oh God—I should take over before Zeno starts talking about pig’s blood. I should be emphasizing the quality of the exhibition, the need to coordinate, the imperative to remain true to the First Edition Society’s mission and the library’s far-reaching influence. I became short of breath and fought against dashing in and giving orders.
“She’s lovely, isn’t she?”
Becky stood admiring the full-length portrait of Lady Fowling, who was looking at me as if to say, Here’s your business now. Pay attention.
I took a deep breath. I could do only one thing at a time, and at the moment that one thing was find out why Becky had stopped by Middlebank instead of going home to Devon.
“Lady Fowling,” I said. “Yes, she is lovely. We never met, but I feel as if I had known her—so many of her friends share such wonderful memories.”
“Did she leave any family?” Becky asked.
“A nephew,” I replied. “He isn’t involved in Middlebank, however.”
“Family is very important,” Becky said, with her eyes still on Lady Fowling.
Right, better get on with this. We continued up another flight to my flat, where I put the kettle on and got out the cafetière while Becky stood nearby looking down into the back garden. We took our coffee out to the sofa, and Bunter trotted in the door and hopped into Becky’s lap.
“Bunter!” I said.
“Oh,” Becky cooed, “aren’t you a love?”
She scratched the cat under his chin and tugged lightly on his tail. When Bunter put on his starved-for-affection act, a session like this could go on forever.
“It was lovely to spend time with you and Bess last evening,” I said, hoping to jump-start the conversation.
Bunter, at last sated, shook himself and sauntered off to the window, where a patch of low winter sun offered the false promise of warmth. Becky picked up her mug of coffee.
“Our dad is the best,” she said as openers.
“Yes, he is.”
She took a shortbread finger off the plate and tapped it on the rim of her mug in an absentminded fashion. “I don’t really remember our mum. I should, I know—we were nearly five when she left—but I just don’t. Bess remembers. Bess remembers everything—at least, she says she does, although I wonder if that’s true or if she’s making it up so that we don’t lose—”
Downstairs, the buzzer sounded. Becky stopped, and her gaze shot to the open door of my flat as her eyes grew large. I heard the faint sounds of Mrs. Woolgar greeting someone.
“Let me just nip down,” I said to Becky. I had recognized the visitor’s voice, as I’m sure she had.
When I reached the library landing, I could hear Zeno pontificating about an exhibition as a microcosm of life and saw Clara taking notes on her tablet. Focus, Hayley. I turned my attention to the entry below.
“Hello, Bess,” I said, walking halfway down the stairs. “You’ve met Mrs. Woolgar? Why don’t you come up?” Bess shed her tailored coat, thanked the secretary for taking it, and followed me as I rabbited on. “I’m so glad you had time to stop, instead of rushing back to your job. Coffee? It’s fresh. We’ll save the tour for after—I’d love to show you Middlebank before you leave.”
In my flat, Becky had moved to the window next to Bunter, and greeted her sister by saying, “I thought you had already left for Cheltenham.”
“I thought you had a lesson to give midday in Torquay.”
“Look, Bess—Hayley has a cat. His name is Bunter.”
“Hello, Bunter,” Bess said, and approached, offering a hand to sniff. With the cat between them, the twins stood facing each other in silhouette against the window, and at that moment, even with the different hairstyles, I would be hard-pressed to tell them apart.
I retreated to the kitchen for another mug, and heard Bess’s stage-whisper. “I told you to leave this to me.”
“She invited us—that means me, too.”
They’re girls, I told myself, and I’ve frightened them.
No, wait—not girls.
“Mum,” Dinah would often say to me, “I’m not a girl any longer.” “Sorry, sweetie,” I would always reply. “I know you’re not—you’re a young woman.”
Bess and Becky were young women. Still, Val had been their protector their entire lives, and they felt the need to return the favor. Could I blame them? No. But how was I to convince them they weren’t about to lose their father?
“Just let me take care of things,” Bess whispered to her sister.
“Bess, what is it? Why are you—”
When I stepped out of the kitchen, they jumped apart and froze.
“I’m awfully glad to see both of you. But I have a feeling this isn’t just a social call. Why don’t we all sit down?”
I poured Bess’s coffee, and as she stirred in milk, I wondered how long we could keep silent before someone—not me, I vowed—would speak.
Bess broke first, casting her eyes about my flat.
“This is a lovely place. And your accommodations are included in your job?”
I smiled. “You know, that’s just about the first thing your father said to me when we met.” And I had reacted badly—we laughed about it now.
Bess frowned, probably trying to decide if that was a good thing or a bad one. “Of course, if you live on the premises, I suppose it means you never really get away from your job.”
“True.”
“Dad’s never had it easy, you know,” Bess said, causing me a bit of whiplash as the subject changed. “Bringing us up by himself. I’m sure we were a handful.”
“I’ve never heard him complain.”
“He’s the best dad,” Becky said.
Bess persisted. “So, now, at this stage of his life”—I swallowed a protest that she was making forty-five sound like eighty—“we feel it’s our responsibility to keep an eye out for him.”
“What are you afraid I’m going to do to him?” I asked.
“Leave.”
They saw more clearly than I had thought. They saw perhaps even better than we did ourselves that Val and I had moved beyond a casual relationship. Smart girls. Women.
“Why would you think that? Why would you let that worry you?”
“Do you think our mum loved us?” Becky asked.
“Don’t,” her sister whispered.
“Of course she loved you,” I rushed in.
“How would you know?”
“Because she was your mother,” I replied, and my eyes filled with tears. “And because I could see it in her face in that photo.”
“She left us,” Bess pointed out.
“She didn’t think she was leaving you forever.” I wanted to put my arms round them, but knew better, and instead clasped my hands in my lap. “Even with your parents divorced, she would always have been your mum and loved you.”
How many times had they heard that through their lives, and yet still needed to hear it again? The air between us quivered, but the moment passed, because, inevitably—today, at least—the front-door buzzer went off.
14
The new arrival had nothing to do with me—it was board member Jane Arbuthnot, coming for morning coffee with Mrs. Woolgar. Nevertheless, the twins beat a hasty retreat, and I hurried down the stairs after them. They gave me a polite good-bye, but spoke not a word to each other. I closed the front door and put an ear to it, wishing I could hear through the thick oak. What were they saying out there on the pavement? Why this extra visit? I understood they could feel protective of Val, but now I sensed another issue lurking just below th
e surface. Did it concern Bess? Did Becky even know what it was?
Zeno’s voice drifted out from the library. “No, Ms. Powell, when I create an exhibition, it’s a visceral experience.”
I raced up to the library. Enough of the Berryfield lecture—it had just gone eleven o’clock, and we were late for our appointment with Naomi. I hustled my crew off to the Charlotte, usually a ten-minute walk, which we made in five. We paused at the door, and I tried to catch my breath.
“Clara,” I said, “the police have finished in the office, but you will let me know if you feel uncomfortable working there. I could try to make other arrangements.”
“No, Hayley,” she replied, jutting out her chin. “I will be fine. We must get on with things. Don’t you agree, Mr. Berryfield?”
“Well said, Ms. Powell, that’s a fine attitude. I’m sure Oona would want us to carry on.”
Inside the Charlotte, chaos reigned. It was moving-out day for the watercolorists, and so we maneuvered our way through a sea of easels and paintings flowing past until we reached an islet of calm near the edge of the room. A sign tacked to the doorpost listed the dates for the next exhibition, which was called Druids Then and Now.
Like in an old film, I saw calendar pages flying off a wall, and I realized February was upon us and our April dates were breathing down our necks. We had yet to make a single decision about theme or high points or layout. We’d yet to secure the loan of any display boxes or paraphernalia. What materials would we use? What about lighting? Signage! What about—
“Hayley, good morning. Sorry if I’ve kept you waiting.”
Naomi approached us, but backed up a step when a man called, “Coming through!” as a Perspex display box was carted by. One of the watercolorists—the man I now recognized from my other visits—approached.
“Listen, Naomi, I’ve left that framed painting of the Box Tunnel as I said I would, all wrapped and labeled. It’s back in the alcove, won’t be in anyone’s way, and I’ll return for it next week. Cheers, now. See ya.”
Naomi acknowledged him with a nod, and when traffic had cleared, I said, “Good morning, Naomi, may I present Zeno Berryfield, our exhibition manager?”
Murder Is a Must Page 14
