Sophie Warrender introduced her secretary working at the desk. ‘Do you want to finish up now, Rhonda? I think we’ve broken the back of it. Thank you so much for coming in today.’
Rhonda nodded and asked if they wanted coffee, but Brock said not and Sophie took him over to sit at the low table. The door closed behind her secretary, and she began, in a low, confidential voice.
‘Marion began working for me almost a year ago, Chief Inspector, helping me with the research for my current book. I write biographies, of nineteenth-century figures.’
‘Of course,’ Brock said, ‘ How Pleasant to Know Mr Lear. I enjoyed it very much. If I’d known I was going to meet you I’d have brought it for you to sign.’
She was pleased, looked shrewdly at him, reassessing him. ‘That’s kind of you. Of course, I’d be delighted to sign it. Perhaps we’ll have another opportunity. And I take it as a real compliment that you enjoyed the book. In a way we do similar things, don’t you think? Trying to tease out the hidden motives and misdirections of the people we study. But I think my task is simpler, working on dead subjects. The living are much more elusive. But since you’ve read the book you’ll understand when I tell you that we’ve been in Corsica for the past four weeks.’
‘Ah.’ Brock remembered part of the Lear biography dealing with his painting expedition to the Mediterranean island.
‘When I was doing the research for that book I retraced his steps on Corsica, and it was during those visits that Douglas, my husband, and I found the house that we bought and now have as a holiday retreat. We went over there to get out of the way of the decorators, and didn’t keep up with the English news. That’s why I had no idea about this tragedy until this morning. I was appalled when Rhonda told me-she just assumed that I knew.’
‘So Marion was working for you as well as studying for her doctorate?’
‘Yes. The job with me was part time, casual. She could fit it in around her other commitments.’
‘Her tutor, Dr da Silva, didn’t mention that.’
‘No, well, he probably didn’t know. Marion was on a scholarship of some kind, and there were restrictions on how much paid work she could do, so she just didn’t tell them at the university. In fact the research for me did help her own studies, because we were both examining the same group of people, the Pre-Raphaelites-that’s why I picked her in the first place.’
She hesitated, and Brock waited, letting her tell her story at her own pace. She was frowning, pursing her lips, and he sensed some inner debate going on.
‘I suppose other people have described Marion to you?’
‘To some extent, but we’d like to understand her better. We haven’t found anyone that she really confided in.’
‘No, I’m not altogether surprised. That was my impression of her, a lone… well not wolf, perhaps. A lone tigress, maybe. She was a very spirited girl, very fervent and single-minded about her work and ideas. Sometimes, when she was talking about the people she was studying, the dead painters and poets and their spouses and lovers, I used to feel that they were her real friends, the ones she felt closest to, who interested her so much more than the living people she had to put up with.
‘I can’t say I blame her, really-they were fascinating characters, and their lives were all tangled up in such passionate and complicated ways. I’m working on a biography of Jane Burden, the wife of William Morris, the socialist poet and creator of all those wonderful fabrics and wallpapers and pieces of furniture you can see in the V amp; A. But she was also the very striking model for Dante Gabriel Rossetti, who was infatuated with her and was her lover for years, while his friend William looked helplessly on.’
‘And Dante’s wife was Lizzie Siddal, the model for the drowned Ophelia, who looked remarkably like Marion,’ Brock said.
‘Yes. You have been doing your homework. I’m impressed. I had no idea the Metropolitan Police were so well read.’ She gave a little frown and said, ‘Sorry, that sounds patronising, doesn’t it? I didn’t mean it.’
‘Well, Victorian biographies probably don’t figure high on the reading lists of the Met, though when I think of some of the stuff we have to read I’d say it’s a great pity.’ Brock was trying to recall Kathy’s report. ‘We got the impression that Dr da Silva felt Marion’s interest in these people had a morbid element to it.’
‘He may be right. That’s really what I wanted to speak to you about. Can I ask… Rhonda showed me a report in the Guardian this morning, that there’s a rumour she died of arsenic poisoning. Is that true?’
Brock frowned. ‘We haven’t officially released that information, but yes, it does seem to be the case. Is that significant?’
‘Well, it’s an extraordinary coincidence. You see, in recent months Marion became increasingly interested-I would say almost obsessed-with arsenic poisoning. I found myself trying to deflect her with other topics that I wanted researched, but she was quite stubborn. Once she got her teeth into an idea, she just wouldn’t let it go.’
‘How was it relevant to Jane Burden and the Pre-Raphaelites?’ Brock asked.
‘Arsenic certainly had a big influence on the life of Jane’s husband, William Morris. His father established what was then the biggest arsenic mining company in the world, near Tavistock in Devon, which created the fortune that Morris inherited and which allowed him to finance his other projects. Arsenic also cropped up in several coincidental ways in their story-it was used in dyes and paints, in medicines and make-up. They treated syphilis with it and used it in all sorts of patent medicines. All this was well known. It was just a fact of life in Victorian England. But Marion seemed to want to make more of it.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘She had very firm ideas about the way the Pre-Raphaelite women were used by their men. She thought they were exploited and oppressed.’
‘You didn’t agree?’
‘Oh, there was a lot in what she said, but I felt the relationships were more nuanced than that-the triangle between William Morris, Jane Burden and Dante Gabriel Rossetti was a very interesting case in point. But where she really lost me was in claiming that arsenic was an integral part of this oppression, deliberately used to keep women sickly and docile.’
‘Really?’
Sophie Warrender shook her head sadly. ‘I gathered that Dr da Silva thought this was nonsense. She was quite scathing about him. But when I cast doubts on the line she was taking she stopped talking about it and became more secretive. And now this. If it weren’t so tragic one would say it was a triumphant vindication of her theories.’
‘Are you suggesting that Dr da Silva might have given her arsenic?’
‘Oh, no.’ She looked acutely embarrassed. ‘That would be a shocking thing to suggest. No, it was just such a strange coincidence
…’
‘Too strange?’ Brock asked.
She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, then again offered him a coffee. This time he accepted, and followed her out to the kitchen, obviously freshly re-equipped and decorated, with the maker’s sticker still on the oven door.
Sophie opened a large stainless-steel fronted fridge-freezer and groaned. ‘Oh dear, no coffee. We may have to make do with tea, I’m afraid.’
Just then a man came in carrying a large cardboard box filled with groceries. He was powerfully built, late fifties, face red with exertion. He swore and dumped the heavy box on the table, then noticed Brock. ‘Hello, who are you?’
‘Dougie, this is Detective Chief Inspector David Brock, from the police.’
‘Oh?’ He drew himself upright. ‘How d’you do.’
Brock offered his hand. ‘Mr Warrender?’
‘That’s right. What’s the problem?’
‘It’s about Marion Summers, darling,’ Sophie said.
‘You called the police?’
‘I thought I should.’
He frowned and said dubiously, ‘Yes, quite right.’
‘Did you know Marion, Mr Warrender?’ Brock aske
d.
‘Hardly at all. Shocking thing, of course. I suppose you come across it every day.’ He looked around distractedly. ‘Where’s Rhonda? Can’t she sort out this mess?’
‘She’s my secretary, darling, not our housekeeper.’
‘She managed to look after the builders for the past month, didn’t she? Can’t she lend a hand?’
‘She’s gone home. You know she doesn’t usually work on a Saturday. Did you get coffee?’
Her husband grunted. ‘Bugger coffee. I’m opening a bottle of the Nielluccio.’ He bent over a case in the corner and pulled out a bottle of red wine. ‘You’ll join us, Chief Inspector? Corsican, fresh from the vineyard.’
‘Thank you. Perhaps I will. This is a wonderful house. How long have you been here?’
‘Over forty years, would you believe.’ He began opening cupboards, all empty. ‘Where are the fucking glasses?’
‘I think they’re all in the dining room, darling.’
Douglas Warrender stomped out to fetch them and Sophie went on, to Brock, ‘It is a wonderful house, isn’t it? Built at about the same time that Morris and Company started up in business. That was one reason I was drawn to write about Janey Morris. When I walk through the house I can imagine her here, advising the first owners on wallpapers and fabrics. Dougie’s parents bought it when they came back from India in the sixties.’
They heard an exchange of voices, then Douglas returned with a tray of glasses, followed by an elderly woman and a teenage girl, both dressed in thick coats and scarves. ‘Sophie, Joan and Emily want to go out. Tell them it’s lunchtime, for God’s sake.’
‘I can’t stand another minute in the house,’ the older woman said imperiously. ‘The smell of paint is making me quite ill. Emily and I are going out for some fresh air. If we feel hungry we’ll get something ourselves.’
‘Joan, can I introduce you to Detective Chief Inspector David Brock,’ Sophie said. ‘From Scotland Yard. This is Dougie’s mother, Lady Joan Warrender, and our daughter Emily.’
‘A policeman! What have you done now, Dougie?’ the old woman cried. ‘Stealing from your shareholders? Plundering the vicar’s collection box?’
Warrender gave a pained smile. ‘It’s about that research assistant of Sophie’s, Mother. You heard, didn’t you?’
‘Oh yes!’ Lady Warrender was instantly contrite. ‘I’m so sorry. How awful. And you’re leading the investigation into her death?’
‘An inspector of mine is the senior investigating officer on the case. She’s away at the moment, and I answered Mrs Warrender’s call. Did you know Marion?’
‘Only to say hello to. Emily knew her better, didn’t you, dear? She helped you with your school assignment.’
The girl nodded. She was a plainer, awkward version of her mother. ‘I liked Marion a lot,’ she said softly.
Douglas poured the wine into three glasses as Joan and Emily left, then announced that he would take a sandwich up to his study and go through his mail. Sophie and Brock returned to her office in the conservatory room.
They sat, Brock admired the wine, then said, ‘You mentioned William Morris’s arsenic mine in Tavistock. Could Marion have gone to visit it?’
‘Not that I know of. It closed down many years ago. I shouldn’t think there’s much to see there now. Why?’
‘We’re puzzled by where the arsenic that killed Marion might have come from.’
‘But surely that will follow when you discover who gave it to her. Do you have a suspect?’
‘The forensic evidence seems to point to Marion having deliberately mixed and taken a poisoned drink herself. We found arsenic in her kitchen.’
‘What?’ Sophie looked bewildered.
‘You find that hard to believe?’
‘Yes, I do. I would never have imagined Marion was suicidal. Did anything drastic happen to her while we were away?’
‘We’re trying to find that out. Were you aware of a man in her life?’
‘No, she never spoke of one. In fact she never said much about her private life.’ She frowned, thinking. ‘I have absolutely no idea where she could have got the arsenic from.’
‘Did she ever talk about the place where she was living?’
‘It was a student flat in Southwark, I believe.’
‘She moved from there about three months ago. She never mentioned a house in Hampstead?’
‘No. It seems I didn’t really know her at all.’
‘Earlier you seemed guarded when you were talking about her tutor, Dr da Silva.’
She sighed. ‘Yes, I suppose I was. He’s a highly respected scholar of international standing, and the author of the definitive book on Rossetti. But I felt from what Marion said that the relationship between them wasn’t as it should have been.’
‘Really? In what way?’
‘I was only getting one side of the story of course, but from Marion’s odd remarks, she seemed to feel that he was an oppressive figure.’
‘Might they have been in a sexual relationship, do you think?’
‘She never hinted at it, but I suppose it’s possible.’
‘When she left her student flat in Southwark she seems to have told no one where she went, as if she was trying to escape from someone. Could that have been Dr da Silva?’
Sophie Warrender spread her hands in a hopeless gesture. ‘I really don’t know.’
‘What about this man? He’s her stepfather, name of Keith Rafferty.’ Brock showed her his picture. ‘Mean anything to you?’
‘Oh…’
Brock saw the start of recognition in her face. ‘You know him?’
‘Once, as Marion was leaving, we were at the front door together and I noticed a white van parked on the other side of the street. The driver’s window was open and he was staring across at us, and I thought what a mean-looking character he was. It was this man, I’m sure of it. I remember Marion suddenly drawing back into the house, looking very pale. She said she didn’t feel well, and I made her sit down and got her a glass of water. Later I called a taxi to take her home. The van had gone by then.’
‘When was this?’
‘I’m not sure exactly. This year, I think. January or February.’
Brock drained his glass. ‘Well, thanks for your help. I’d better go now. Please let me know if anything else occurs to you.’
When they reached the front door, Sophie Warrender said, ‘I hope this doesn’t sound out of place, Chief Inspector, but I gave Marion a number of my books and research notes to work on while I was away. I really will need to get them back before too long. Will that be a problem?’
‘I shouldn’t think so. Tell you what, I’ll get my inspector, DI Kathy Kolla, to contact you and she can work something out.’
‘I’d be so grateful.’ She shot Brock a dazzling smile, then closed the front door.
•
That evening, in the Long Bar of the National Theatre and afterwards over supper, Brock told Suzanne Chambers about Marion and her connection to Sophie Warrender. Suzanne was as shocked and intrigued by the circumstances of Marion’s death as everyone else, but it seemed there was another reason for her interest. She had read all of Sophie Warrender’s biographies and greatly admired them, but eventually, after a couple of drinks, she admitted that what had originally drawn her to them was the discovery that Sophie was married to Suzanne’s first great love.
‘What, Dougie Warrender?’ Brock looked surprised, then laughed.
‘What’s funny?’ Suzanne stiffened.
‘Nothing, nothing,’ he said rapidly.
‘Did you see him today?’
‘I did, actually. A powerful man, bit flustered from the trip back from Corsica. They have a house there.’
‘In St Florent, yes.’
‘You know all about them, don’t you? You haven’t been stalking him, have you?’
She coloured a little. ‘Of course not. I saw her on TV once, authors talking about where they do their writing, and she mentioned
the house in Corsica, and the one in Notting Hill. But I knew it already. When I was thirteen my best friend at school, Angela Crick, lived next door to the Warrenders on Lansdowne Gardens. I spent a magical summer staying with Angela while my parents were overseas, and fell madly in love with Dougie. He was older, about seventeen, very dark and brooding, my Mr Darcy. They’d just come back to England from India, where Dougie’s father had been a diplomat of some kind. It was my first big passion. His cousin was staying with him at the time, I remember, and he fell for Angela. I wonder what happened to Angela? I remember being devastated when I heard that the Warrenders were moving to New York, but they held on to the house in Notting Hill, apparently. And now you’ve been there, and have actually met them all.’
She looked wistfully into her glass. For a moment, as she had been talking about the Warrenders and the house in Lansdowne Gardens, the memories of those days had come back so vividly, the intensity of the feelings of her youth allowing her to briefly pull away the dulling blanket of years. She thought of Brock’s amused reaction to her confession about Dougie Warrender, and wondered if she would be terribly disappointed if she bumped into him again. Probably she would; they probably wouldn’t even recognise each other. twelve
T here was a mood of new beginnings on Monday morning at Queen Anne’s Gate. Detectives who had been seconded to Counter Terrorism Command had returned and were ready for new assignments. Bren and the others looked refreshed, hyped up by their spell away. They gathered in the incident room for Brock’s morning briefing, several of them clustering around Pip, whom Kathy noticed as she walked in.
The young DC came over to her and said meekly, ‘Am I forgiven?’
Kathy smiled, pleased to see the girl back on her feet. ‘It was my fault, Pip. I should never have let you go in there alone. Let’s just put it down to experience.’
‘I heard they’ve dropped charges against those guys. I can’t believe it. What about Marion? You’ll let me go on working with you on that, won’t you?’
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