‘Hello Lady Warrender,’ Suzanne murmured, feeling her face colouring, as if she’d been caught stealing apples from the old lady’s tree, or something equally absurd.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, readers, lovers of fine books…’ The woman by the pyramid of biographies called for their attention and began a glowing introduction to the author. Dougie had sat down somewhere at the front, and Suzanne couldn’t see him. There was applause, then Sophie Warrender got to her feet.
‘How pleasant to know Mr Lear,’ she began.
‘He reads, but he does not speak, Spanish,
He cannot abide ginger beer;
Ere the days of his pilgrimage vanish,
How pleasant to know Mr Lear!’
Sophie smiled at the gathering. ‘Edward Lear’s autobiographical poem said it all for me. Getting to know him through researching and writing his life was indeed a very pleasant experience.’
The talk was followed by questions. How did she pick her subjects? How long did it take her to do the research? Who were her own favourite authors? Then it was announced that she would sign copies of her books, and the audience began to get to their feet.
‘You must come and meet Dougie,’ Joan Warrender said, with a glint of what might have been mischief in her eye.
‘Oh no, I don’t want to intrude.’
‘Nonsense. Of course you must, after all these years.’ Joan Warrender turned to the young woman at her side. ‘This is my granddaughter Emily. Emily, meet an old friend of your father’s, um. ..’
‘Suzanne Chambers. How do you do, Emily.’ They shook hands, and Suzanne reluctantly followed them as they slowly made their way through the throng to the front of the room.
Douglas Warrender was standing near the table at which his wife was seated, signing her books. He was talking to the bookshop manager who, Suzanne suspected from her animated gestures and smiles, rather fancied him. She wasn’t really surprised, for despite the years he still had the powerful physical presence she had found so overwhelming that summer long ago. Her heart beat a little faster as she allowed herself to be led forward.
‘Dougie!’ Joan interrupted peremptorily. ‘I’ve got someone you must meet. A childhood sweetheart.’
‘What?’ He turned to look at them with an amused expression on his face, and then his eyes snagged on Suzanne’s and they gazed at each other. ‘Good Lord,’ he said softly. ‘Is it…?’
‘Suzanne,’ she said brightly, a little too loudly, before he could make a mistake. ‘Suzanne Chambers. I was Angela Crick’s friend.’
He stared at her for a moment, then said, ‘I want to hold your hand.’ They all stared at him in astonishment. Suzanne, startled, was dimly aware of his wife pausing in her signing and looking up at them.
‘Remember?’ he said.
Then she gave a laugh, remembering vividly, and said, ‘Anyone who had a heart.’
‘Can’t buy me love,’ he replied, with a big, wicked smile.
‘Don’t throw your love away. Oh, Dougie. I do remember.’
The others still weren’t sure, too young, or in Joan’s case too old, to remember the hits of 1964.
‘So how do you know my father?’ Emily broke in.
‘I stayed in the house next door to yours for a couple of months, with a school friend who lived there.’
‘But there was something else, wasn’t there?’ Joan said, again with that edge in her voice. ‘Oh, that’s right, you’re the wife of the detective who called about Marion. Do you remember, Dougie, last Saturday, that man?’
The smile on Dougie’s face froze.
‘We’re friends,’ Suzanne said quickly. ‘Not married.’
‘Oh, sorry,’ Joan went on relentlessly. ‘But that was how you came to call at the house on Monday, wasn’t it?’
‘Monday?’ Douglas said. Sophie’s pen had stopped, suspended over a book, while she listened.
‘I was in Notting Hill, and after hearing my friend mention that he’d met your wife, whose work I admire so much, and realising it was the same house I used to know, I couldn’t resist seeing it again. Lady Warrender was in the garden, and very kindly invited me in.’
‘I see,’ Douglas said carefully. ‘And now you’re here.’
‘Yes. As I said, I’m a great fan of Sophie’s books.’ She glanced at Sophie, who was now distracted by an enthusiastic reader haranguing her about a very interesting great-grandfather, ripe for biography.
‘Well, you must meet her.’ Douglas’s poise had returned. ‘Have a glass of wine with us while she finishes off that queue. So what are you up to these days?’
Emily was whispering in her grandmother’s ear and pointing to the gardening section, and the two of them moved away, leaving Suzanne alone with Douglas. She accepted the glass he offered and told him a little about her shop in Battle, and he seemed genuinely interested.
‘So how come you know this copper?’
‘Oh, I’ve known David for ages.’
‘Just good friends, eh?’
‘Yes.’ She gave a casual laugh, and silently asked Brock to forgive her.
‘What was the girl next door called again?’
‘Angela Crick.’
‘I can’t picture her.’
‘Long straight blonde hair, quite pretty. Your cousin Jack was madly in love with her, do you remember?’ She didn’t add that she had also been madly in love that summer. She wondered how much he did remember.
‘Oh, Jack, of course!’ He grinned. ‘I remember now. And have you kept up with Angela?’
‘No, haven’t heard of her for ages. How about Jack? What’s he doing now?’
‘Ah, he died, I’m afraid. Massive heart attack, ten years ago.’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry.’
‘God, I need a drink.’ Sophie had appeared at Douglas’s shoulder, and was regarding Suzanne keenly.
‘Of course, darling. I want you to meet someone I used to know, a very long time ago.’
He made introductions, then Suzanne had to explain her presence once again while he found Sophie a glass.
‘So you were an old girlfriend of Dougie’s? And you came into the house on Monday, did you?’ She had a faint smile, but made it sound dubious. ‘I’m afraid it was probably a mess. We’re still trying to get the place straight after a major renovation.’
‘No, it looked lovely,’ Suzanne said lamely. ‘I had such fond memories of it, the high ceilings, the elephant’s foot in the hall.. .’
‘The what?’
She explained, feeling more and more uncomfortable talking about Sophie’s own house from a time before she knew it, as if Suzanne were claiming some prior knowledge.
‘How disgusting.’
Suzanne assumed she was referring to the elephant’s foot, and was relieved when Douglas reappeared with Sophie’s wine. He seemed offhand now. ‘Get that down, old thing,’ he said abruptly, looking at his watch, ‘and then we really must go. God, these things are a bore.’ Then he caught his wife’s eye. ‘Not you, darling. You were brilliant, as always.’
‘Yes,’ Suzanne said. ‘Absolutely gripping.’
‘Nice to meet you again,’ Douglas said, offering his hand. ‘Good luck with the antiques business.’ Then he took his wife’s arm. ‘Let’s round up the others.’ nineteen
‘ Y ou sound happy.’
Kathy looked up at Bren’s voice. She realised she’d been humming to herself.
‘Oh.’ She grinned. ‘I’m all right. How about you?’
‘Spring flu,’ he said, looking exhausted. ‘Not me, so far. Working its way through the family.’
‘Oh dear. The girls?’
He nodded wearily.
‘How’s it going with Rafferty?’
He shook his head. ‘Nothing much, except that he does seem to spend a hell of a lot on the horses. How’s Interpol?’
‘Interesting.’ She knew he was running two other cases, and didn’t press.
‘You should wangle a trip to Lyons,’ he said, m
oving off, then gave a violent sneeze.
She did feel happy. It was amazing, really, how a little thing could change the whole way you felt. Well, it hadn’t been that little
…
But she still felt impatient about Marion’s case. She had worked out that, of the ten people on Tina’s list of key words, five had been connected with ‘the Scottish poisoner’-there was Lena Wardle and Madeleine Smith herself, then her husband George Wardle, and James Smith who had attended and been a witness at her wedding, and finally H. Haverlock, whom she had discovered to be the other witness. At some point she was going to have to talk to da Silva, but she wanted to go armed and prepared, knowing the right questions to ask, the right weaknesses to probe.
She remembered the letter Marion had received from the American university, and wondered if they might have some information. It was too early to phone them, and she made a note to try that afternoon. For an hour she worked on her Interpol files, then put her pen down. It occurred to her that Sophie Warrender should be able to throw some light on the Madeleine Smith angle, and picked up the phone. The author seemed less friendly than when they’d met at Marion’s house, but she agreed to meet Kathy at her home in Notting Hill in an hour. On impulse Kathy looked her up on Google, where her eye was also caught by an entry for Douglas Warrender. It referred to a speech he’d given at a banking conference, and gave a reference to his company, Mallory Capital, with an address in St James’s Square.
•
Kathy was impressed by the house when she caught sight of it along Lansdowne Gardens, its new paintwork gleaming beneath a blue spring sky. When she rang the doorbell it was answered by a woman who introduced herself as Rhonda Bailey, Sophie’s secretary, and led her across a hall and down a passage lined with green wallpaper printed with a pattern she thought similar to the William Morris designs illustrated in da Silva’s book.
Sophie was on the phone, arguing with someone about a publicity campaign, and Rhonda showed Kathy to a seat and offered her a cup from a pot on the coffee table, then returned to her keyboard.
After a while Sophie slammed the phone down and turned to Rhonda. ‘Bloody idiot. How does he expect to expand sales if they won’t invest a little in publicity?’ She took off her glasses and stood up, coming over to Kathy. She seemed agitated and didn’t offer her hand. ‘So, what can I do for you, Inspector?’
‘There were a couple of little things I thought you might be able to clear up. Sorry, I can see you’re very busy. Would you like me to come back later?’
Sophie waved a dismissive hand. ‘No, no. Now’s as good a time as any.’
‘Well, first of all, I know I asked this before, but are you absolutely sure you didn’t inadvertently take a copy of Anthony da Silva’s Rossetti biography from Marion’s house?’
She watched Sophie’s hackles rise again. ‘Absolutely not! I already have that book-it’s over there-and neither I nor Emily removed it. What’s so bloody important about it anyway?’
‘Sorry, I just have to account for everything. It really doesn’t matter. Can I ask you if you recognise this woman?’ She handed over the photograph of Madeleine Smith.
Sophie glanced briefly at it. ‘No. Why?’
‘Her name was Madeleine Smith, and she married William Morris’s manager, George Wardle.’
‘Oh, the murderess. Yes, I know who you mean. What are you after?’
‘It seems Marion was very interested in her, and since she had been accused of poisoning her lover with arsenic…’
‘Oh, the morbid fascination with arsenic angle, yes, I see. Look, I went over all this with your boss, what’s his name? Brock. It was the reason I contacted him in the first place. I told him about Marion’s theories about the role of arsenic in Victorian society. I really do rather resent having to repeat myself.’
‘He told me about your conversation, Mrs Warrender, but it was Madeleine Smith in particular I wanted to ask about. Did Marion discuss her with you?’
Sophie frowned. ‘We did talk about her, now you mention it. Marion sympathised with her predicament-you know, having that lover who would rather ruin her than let her go. But there was something else… She’d had some disagreement with Dr da Silva about Madeleine Smith, I think. I seem to remember she got quite agitated about it. Do you recall, Rhonda? Were you here that day?’
‘Actually, she told you that Madeleine Smith was the key to the whole business.’
‘Did she?’ Sophie raised her eyebrows. ‘I don’t remember that.’
‘What business?’ Kathy asked.
‘Well, her disagreement with Dr da Silva, whatever that was.’
‘It wasn’t really of any interest to my work,’ Sophie said. ‘She did tend to go off on a tangent. I had to remind her several times who was paying for her time.’ She checked her watch pointedly. ‘Was there anything else?’
‘Not really. I’m sorry to have interrupted you when you must be so busy after your time away.’
‘Yes, it has been rather hectic. Bloody phone, after four weeks of blissful peace.’
‘I’ve never been to Corsica, but I’d like to. An ex-boyfriend of mine is in Calvi. Is that near where you are?’
‘Not far. Our house is in the north of the island too, at St Florent, between Calvi and Bastia, the main city in the north. He didn’t join the Foreign Legion, did he? That’s where they’re based.’
‘Really? No, I’m sure he didn’t.’ But thinking about it she wasn’t so sure. ‘He said Corsica is beautiful at this time of year,’ she lied, ‘with the wild spring flowers over the hills. Is it like that where you are?’
‘Oh, absolutely, the maquis is an ocean of blooms.’
‘You’re lucky to have a job that you can take away with you to a place like that. It must be more difficult for your husband. He’s in banking, isn’t he?’
‘What is this, Parkinson?’
Kathy smiled. ‘Sorry. My inquisitive nature.’
‘Well, yes, it is more difficult for him, but he’s reached a level where he can more or less make the rules. Modern communications are wonderful, of course, and if they need him for a meeting he can always fly back.’
‘But wouldn’t he have to change planes at Paris or Nice? It must take all day.’
‘You have been doing your homework, haven’t you? Are you thinking of going out to see this Beau Geste of yours? Once the tourist season starts next month you can get direct flights from London to Bastia, but Dougie doesn’t have to bother. They send over a private jet to pick him up. It lands back at City Airport, and a car has him at his desk in no time.’
‘Ah. Did he come back around the time Marion died, by any chance?’
Sophie stiffened, and Kathy was aware of Rhonda looking up.
‘Why on earth do you ask that?’ Sophie demanded angrily. ‘Or is it just your inquisitive nature?’
Kathy shrugged, trying to make light of it. ‘You could say that. I’m interested in Marion’s movements around that time, and any sightings of her by people who would have recognised her would be useful. Your husband’s office is in St James’s Square, isn’t it?’
‘Well, let me assure you, Inspector, my husband did not leave Corsica at that time, and I must say I’m beginning to resent the intrusive attentions of your boss’s little coterie. Rhonda will show you out.’ Face flushed, she swung away, shoving her glasses aggressively back on her nose, and began noisily shuffling her papers.
Kathy left, wondering what little coterie she was talking about.
•
Brock was talking in his room with a couple of other detectives when Dot tapped on his door. ‘Sorry, but I’ve got a Mrs Warrender on the line. She says you know her, and she’s very steamed up about something.’
‘All right, we’ve just about finished here.’ He went round to his desk chair as the other two left. ‘Hello? David Brock speaking.’
‘Yes, I’ve got a bone to pick with you, Chief Inspector.’
The woman sounded furious. ‘Wh
at’s that, Mrs Warrender?’
‘You know bloody well what’s that. I came to you in good faith with what I knew about Marion, as any honest person might, and the next thing I and my family are being subjected to underhand surveillance and questioned as if we were suspects.’
Brock scratched his beard, wondering what she was going on about. ‘I really think there must have been some mistake.’
‘Mistake? I’ve just had your inspector here, accusing me of theft and lying about our movements, and practically implying that my husband was mixed up in Marion’s death.’
‘DI Gurney?’
‘What? No, the blonde woman, Kolla. She insisted on seeing me under the pretext of being interested in some irrelevant nineteenth-century character, and the next thing she’s asking leading questions about my husband’s movements. But that’s only the latest intrusion. No doubt your other informant has briefed you about her spying activities?’
‘I’m sorry, I have no idea-’
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