‘Tell them the truth, that one of your lodgers has been murdered and the police are coming to search his room. It’ll be in the papers and they’d wonder why you didn’t mention it.’ She laid a quick hand over Beth’s, aware that she must temper her sympathy in the presence of Eric Barnes. ‘It’ll be pretty bloody tomorrow and I’m sorry I can’t take the day off to support you, but there’s an important client coming in and I have to be there.’ Moira worked for a building society. ‘I’ll come and collect you after work,’ she added, ‘and you can spend the weekend with me. Mr Barnes will have gone home and you won’t want to be alone.’
Beth nodded, wondering how long this numbness would last. She resolved to live one day at a time – as, she remembered with a jolt, she had done after Dougie’s death. The memory brought her up short. Dougie had been her beloved husband for twenty years, whereas she’d known Johnnie for eight short weeks and imagined herself in love, she supposed, for about half of them. But surely she’d not known him well enough to love him for himself? Had it, then, been simply a strong physical attraction that, after years of celibacy, had gone to her head?
Dougie had died peacefully in his bed with his hand in hers, whereas Johnnie had been stabbed to death in a dark street. It was shock as much as grief that had unbalanced her, and it was as well to get things into perspective.
She looked up at the two worried faces watching her. ‘I’ll be fine,’ she said.
Foxclere
Victoria was still jumpy. During the last two weeks there’d been no sign of the man who had been so much in evidence, but she couldn’t put the attempted break-in out of her mind.
‘Forget it,’ Nigel advised. ‘They found we were harder to get into than they expected, so they’ve gone after easier pickings.’
‘Or they’re lulling us into a false sense of security,’ Victoria countered. ‘If only we knew what they were after, Nige.’
He shrugged, losing interest, but between customers she spent her time moving from one painting to the next, though as far as she could tell there was nothing unusual about any of them. As always, a few were by local artists who were grateful for the opportunity to display their work and who usually sold out at the twice-yearly exhibitions, partly because their friends and relatives flocked in to support them but also because their paintings were lower priced than those of better-known artists. It was unlikely, she thought, that any of them would have been the target for their unwelcome visitors, nor any of the small sculptures, pottery ornaments and hand-carved wooden figures which were also on display. Though decorative, they were not valuable.
Nigel was right, she decided. She’d no way of knowing who or what had sparked that interest and perhaps, as he said, having tried and failed, they wouldn’t risk another attempt.
By the third week, and rather to his surprise, Edward was beginning to look forward to his piano lessons. The focus and determination that had furthered his business career was standing him in good stead and he quickly learned to correct mistakes, seldom making the same one twice. Having overcome his embarrassment, he even enjoyed his twice-weekly visits to the school music rooms, where he diligently practised for an hour at a time, and had already decided to continue with his lessons when the trial period came to an end.
Jill was delighted with his progress. ‘I wish all my pupils were as quick to learn,’ she said. ‘We’ll have you on the concert platform yet! And speaking of concerts, did you see that Ludmilla Kranz is coming to the Elizabeth Hall next week? I’d give anything to hear her, but even though I phoned the day booking opened they were sold out by the time I got through.’
Edward hesitated. ‘Actually, I’m going to hear her,’ he said.
‘You managed to get a ticket? Oh, well done! I’ll expect to hear all about it!’
He cleared his throat. ‘Actually, my wife belonged to Friends of Elizabeth Hall; we had reserved seats for the first night of every performance, though sadly, because of business commitments, I was seldom able to go with her.’ He paused, then went on: ‘Since her death I’ve been releasing them, but now I’ve retired I intend to make full use of at least one ticket.’ Another pause. ‘And on this occasion, I should be delighted if you’d accompany me.’
Jill stared at him, conflicting thoughts milling round her head. Of course there was nothing she’d like better than to hear her favourite pianist, but she’d always vowed never to mix business with pleasure. On the other hand, it would be ungracious to refuse; Edward was lonely, he’d mellowed considerably since his first stiff lesson and she’d even begun to enjoy his company. She should put her prudish principles aside and accept his invitation in the spirit in which it was offered.
‘Provided you allow me to pay for my ticket,’ she said, ‘I’d be delighted.’
‘There’s really no need—’
‘It’s a condition of my acceptance.’
He smiled, and she was reminded how seldom he did so, and how much more approachable it made him seem. ‘Then you leave me no option,’ he said.
Stonebridge
‘I was so sorry to hear about your mother-in-law,’ said one of the regular customers, and Julia burst into tears. Horrified, Alexa took her arm and hurried her to the back of the shop, while Charlotte reassured the embarrassed customer.
‘She’s come back too soon, that’s the trouble,’ she confided. ‘We tried to persuade her to take longer, but she was desperate to get back to work. Said it took her mind off things.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ the woman stammered, clearly distressed. ‘The last thing I wanted was to upset her.’
‘I know, and she’s grateful for your sympathy. Please don’t worry about it – she’ll be fine in a minute.’
Alexa, meanwhile, passing Julia a packet of tissues, was thankful that the only other customers at the moment were in the basement looking at cookware; tears were not a recommended selling point. But Julia, mortified, was already blowing her nose.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘That was unforgivable.’
‘Of course it wasn’t.’ Alexa looked at her shrewdly. ‘But it’s not only Sally, is it? Even before she was killed, something was wrong.’
Julia made an impatient gesture. ‘I must apologize to Mrs Carson,’ she said.
The three women, who had met on a Cordon Bleu course, had opened Jac’s Books and Cookware – known simply as ‘Jac’s’ – ten years ago, and it had been an instant success. The ground floor was given over to recipe books from around the world, with a couple of sofas and a coffee-making machine to make browsing more pleasant. The basement held an extensive range of the latest cookware and the first floor was used for cookery demonstrations and weekend courses. The shop’s name was composed of the initials of its three owners.
Driving home at the end of the day, Julia remembered Alexa’s perceptive comment. She was right, dammit; she’d been feeling hurt, angry and upset for some weeks now since, quite by chance, she’d learned of David’s affair, and his protestations that it was over were little consolation. To add to her misery Sally, in whom she’d always confided, had clearly been out of bounds on this occasion. After a wearying round of excuses, rows and subterfuges, she had finally, three days before Sally’s fatal accident, reached the decision to leave him, and been planning the best time to tell him. Which, of course, was now impossible, at least in the near future. In any case, she’d no idea where she would go; her parents had retired to a town on the south coast that was awash with grey hair and wheelchairs, and her sister, to whom she’d never been close, lived in Wales and was unlikely to welcome an influx of family. There was also the girls’ schooling to consider.
The reason she’d not confided in Charlotte and Alexa was largely a question of pride, though no doubt they’d offer helpful advice. Charlotte was divorced herself but on incredibly cordial terms with her ex, and Alexa, who was now living with a TV chef, had survived a couple of break-ups. The fact that they both congratulated her on her stable marriage did not make things easier
.
None of this, though, was responsible for her embarrassing tears earlier; it was simply that Mrs Carson’s unexpected though well-intentioned sympathy had touched a raw nerve. Julia had always felt closer to her mother-in-law than to her own parents; Sally had made her welcome from the moment David first introduced them, and on their wedding day had declared with satisfaction, ‘At last, I have a daughter!’
Julia’s eyes filled again at the memory. She really must pull herself together before she reached home. Turning her mind to more prosaic matters, she hoped Lisa had remembered to put the lasagne in the oven; she was a nice girl and the twins loved her, but she did sometimes have her head in the clouds.
Ten minutes later, when she opened her front door, she was reassured by the savoury smell that assailed her nostrils. Dropping her bag on the hall table, she walked down the hall to the kitchen, where the twins were halfway through their tea.
‘Any more replies to your invitation?’ she asked after the usual greetings.
‘Florence and Lily gave me theirs,’ Cassie volunteered, gesturing at two crumpled envelopes on the side, but Pippa shook her head and Julia gave an exclamation of annoyance. There was just over a week to the twins’ tenth birthday party and so far there had been few replies. Last year she’d had to phone to ascertain whether three or four of the invited guests could be expected at the party. She prided herself on the fact that Pippa and Cassie, though they complained vociferously, were required to send replies and, later, thank-you letters, within a few days of receipt.
‘What shape will the cake be, Mummy?’ Cassie enquired. A loaded question, since both girls had submitted requests.
‘You’ll have to wait and see,’ Julia said, and, leaving her daughters to Lisa’s ministrations, went up to take a shower before David came home.
SIX
Foxclere
For some reason she’d not bothered to define, Jill hadn’t mentioned she was going to the concert with Edward. However, on the day before Georgia called in with a library book she’d offered to collect for her, and over a cup of tea remarked casually, ‘Too bad you weren’t able to get tickets for Ludmilla Kranz; she’s getting rave reviews.’ And she had felt bound to confess.
‘Actually, I’m able to go after all,’ she admitted. ‘My new student Edward French has reserved seats for every performance and invited me to go along.’
Georgia looked at her in surprise. ‘Well, you kept that pretty quiet!’
To her annoyance, Jill felt herself flush. ‘It was only arranged on Friday; I mentioned I’d been unable to get a ticket and he said he had a spare one. It’s all perfectly innocuous.’
‘I never suggested otherwise,’ Georgia said solemnly, and after a moment they both laughed. ‘Seriously, Mum, I’m delighted you’re going. I know she’s one of your favourites.’ She paused. ‘How’s his playing coming along? Still afraid of making a fool of himself?’
Jill poured another cup of tea. ‘No, actually, he’s doing quite well. He’s been practising at the grammar school and made good progress.’ She paused. ‘His late wife was a member of the Friends of Elizabeth Hall, which explains the reservations, but I don’t think he’s made much use of them since she died.’
‘Perhaps you should join yourself. At least it would ensure you a regular seat.’ She flashed her mother a wicked glance. ‘Unless, that is, you’re going to cash in regularly on Edward’s spare ticket!’
‘You see!’ Jill exclaimed. ‘Is it any wonder I didn’t volunteer the news?’
Georgia laughed. ‘Only teasing.’ She glanced at a folded newspaper on the chair beside her and picked it up, sobering abruptly. ‘God, Mum, have you seen this? They’ve actually attacked someone this time!’
‘Who have? What are you talking about?’
‘The latest country house burglary. Haven’t you read the paper?’
‘No, I save it till lunchtime when I can give it my full attention. But what’s happened?’
Georgia’s eyes flew down the page. ‘The owners were at home. They heard a noise and the husband, a Mr Donald Lancing, went down to investigate while his wife phoned the police. The brutes bashed him over the head before escaping empty-handed. He’s in hospital in a coma.’
‘Oh, that’s terrible – the poor man! The robberies were bad enough, God knows – all those irreplaceable antiques – but at least no one’s been hurt before.’ She drew a sharp breath. ‘You don’t think there’s any connection with that break-in attempt Victoria was telling us about?’
Georgia looked up. ‘Of course not – how could there possibly be? As you said yourself, it’s priceless antiques they’re after, not the sort of knick-knacks The Gallery sells.’
‘Nevertheless, she was worried and this certainly won’t help.’
‘It was just an opportunist attempt, Mum – probably some drunk on the way home from the pub.’
‘I hope you’re right,’ Jill said uncertainly, ‘and that poor Mr Lancing or whatever his name is makes a full recovery. At least after this the police will be redoubling their efforts to catch them.’
Edward had regretted his impulsive offer of the spare seat. Not that he didn’t like Jill – he did – but he knew a lot of Cecily’s friends would be at the concert and might put the wrong interpretation on seeing them together. There was also a point of etiquette that was troubling him; the concert began, as always, at eight o’clock, and on the relatively rare occasions he’d gone with Cecily they’d had a pre-theatre supper in the hall’s restaurant, as had a large proportion of the audience.
Should he also invite Jill to that? Or would it put too much emphasis on the evening, make it more of a ‘date’? He winced at the word. And if he did ask her, she’d probably insist on paying for her meal as she had for the ticket, which could be embarrassing. In the end he flunked it, reckoning it was better to be thought mean than forward, and called for her at seven thirty to allow time for a drink in the bar before the performance.
To his relief she made no fuss about reimbursing him, merely handing him an envelope as she got into the car. ‘I really do appreciate this,’ she said.
She was looking subtly different, wearing a dress and high heels in place of the casual clothes he was used to. The effect was oddly unsettling, as though they were meeting for the first time, and as they entered the bar he couldn’t help noticing that men’s eyes followed her, prompting him to see her as an attractive woman rather than simply his long-suffering music teacher.
Nonetheless, that was how he introduced her when people he knew came up to greet him. ‘She wants me to hear how the piano should be played!’ he added. But he hadn’t foreseen – though he should have – that Jill would also know some of the concertgoers and, following his lead, she introduced him as one of her pupils, which illogically annoyed him.
Once they were alone he decided to put them on a more social footing, even if temporarily, and said lightly, ‘At our first meeting you asked a few questions about my background; now if I may I’d like to do the same. I believe you said your daughter lives in the flat above you?’
Jill smiled. ‘I don’t think of it as a flat, but I suppose you’re right. Yes, we converted the family home after my husband’s death. My son was somewhat ambivalent about it but we’re hoping we’ve won him round.’
‘Does he live locally?’
‘A few miles away. He’s deputy headmaster at Briarfields.’
Edward raised his eyebrows. ‘An eminent institution. Was your husband also in the teaching profession?’
‘No; when we met he was doing project work for an IT firm which entailed working away from home all week, but he moved on to other things.’
Edward waited, and when she didn’t elaborate, prompted, ‘He must have died tragically young?’
‘He was fifty-six.’ She paused, then ended flatly, ‘He was killed in a suicide bombing.’
Edward’s eyes widened. ‘Good God – how horrific! I’m so sorry – I’ve no right to interrogate you like t
his. I’d no idea—’
She raised her hand with a faint smile. ‘It’s all right, it’s common knowledge. I’m used to talking about it.’
‘Nevertheless, it was very intrusive of me—’
‘Please, Edward, forget it. It doesn’t matter.’
He was saved from further grovelling by the sound of the bell intimating the performance would shortly begin. Thankfully he was able to take her elbow and lead her into the auditorium.
The following morning, Nigel and Victoria were discussing the latest report on the coma victim when The Galley door pinged open. The newcomer looked to be in her early forties, with a Riviera tan shown to advantage by her short skirt and sleeveless top. Her hair was dark and cut close to her head and she nonchalantly swung her sunglasses as she moved from picture to picture.
Victoria glanced at Nigel, raising her eyebrows, and he lifted his shoulders in reply. Since there was no one else in at the moment, she smilingly approached her.
‘Are you interested in any particular artist, or just browsing?’ she enquired pleasantly.
The woman, who had jumped at her approach, turned, her blue eyes vivid against her tan. ‘Just browsing, thanks,’ she said. Then, ‘Are these all by local artists?’
‘Oh, no, most are by established names. There are only two or three local ones.’ Victoria waved a hand towards the far right-hand wall.
‘Could you show me which they are?’
‘Of course.’ They walked together down the room while Nigel busied himself at the counter. ‘The artist of this seascape lives locally, as does Francis King, who painted the still life.’
The customer glanced briefly at the two pictures indicated. ‘My friend was in about week ago and said you had several by local artists.’
‘There might have been a couple more, but they’re popular and sell well.’
Which was sales talk rather than the truth.
A Tangled Thread Page 7
