A Question of Identity

by Anthea Fraser

‘But she grew out of them,’ Rona insisted. I had some pretty lurid dreams, whispered a voice in her head.

  Paola sighed. ‘I worry too much. George always tells me so.’

  Gradually, thanks to Rona’s sustained efforts, the conversation teetered on to a more even keel, but for the first time in her life she was glad when it was time to go.

  Having driven round the corner from the Kings’ house, she drew in to the kerb, turned off the engine, and, reaching for her mobile, pressed the button for Magda’s number.

  ‘Magda Ridgeway.’

  ‘Mags, it’s Rona,’ she said rapidly. ‘I’ve just left your mother. Why on earth didn’t you warn me not to mention your going on stage?’

  ‘On . . .? Oh, Friday, you mean. God!’ Her voice rose suddenly. ‘You didn’t tell her?’

  ‘Of course I did! She asked about it, I told her, and she hit the roof.’

  Rona heard Magda’s indrawn breath. Then she said more calmly, ‘Well, don’t worry about it. She believes meddling with the mind is against God’s will, or something. She probably thinks I’ll be stuck in purgatory.’

  But Paola’s concern had been more immediate. Rona said hesitantly, ‘She seemed to link it with the imaginary friend you had as a child.’

  Magda gave a snort of laughter. ‘She’s not still on about that? Dear Anna Lisa – I haven’t thought of her in years. Mama probably thinks I actually saw her, that I’m psychic or something, whereas the truth is I was simply lonely. As you know, I’d no friends till I met you.’

  ‘Well, I’m very sorry if I upset her. Perhaps . . .?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll give her a call and set her mind at rest. And I’m sorry, not to have warned you in advance. It just never occurred to me, but with hindsight it should have done.’

  Lindsey phoned that evening.

  ‘I’ve been catching up with last week’s Gazette. There’s a review of the show at the Darcy, so I thought I’d ring and see how you enjoyed it.’

  ‘What was the critic’s verdict?’

  ‘Oh, he was quite impressed. Were you?’

  ‘Yes, all the acts were good. Max made a fool of himself by challenging the telepath, and had to sit down with a red face!’

  Lindsey laughed. ‘Serves him right! Was his telepathy as good as ours?’

  ‘Well, apart from Max and a couple of other links with the audience, it was mostly guessing playing cards.’ Rona braced herself. ‘And talking of guessing, who do you think we saw at the Bacchus beforehand?’

  ‘Haven’t a clue.’

  ‘Hugh and his new lady friend.’

  There was a long pause. Then: ‘Did you speak to them?’

  ‘Literally en passant. He was a bit embarrassed, I think.’

  ‘No reason why he should be.’ Lindsey’s voice was brittle. ‘What’s she like?’

  ‘Sleek, sophisticated, in her forties. All I got was a cool nod.’

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Mia Campbell. Have you heard of her? He introduced her as a work colleague.’

  ‘Means nothing to me, but I’ve not been near HW&B for years. The entire staff has probably changed.’ A pause. ‘She’s attractive, then?’

  ‘Reasonably. She has vibrant red hair, which makes Hugh’s ginger look faded.’

  When Lindsey made no comment, she added, ‘And my other news is that I had lunch with Mum today.’

  ‘Really? How come?’

  Rona said wryly, ‘She wanted some things from the deli.’

  ‘Par for the course! How is she?’

  ‘Fine. By the way, did you know she’s selling the house when she and Guy get married?’

  ‘Our house?’

  ‘Yep. It came as quite a shock, actually.’

  ‘But . . . why? There’s loads of room for both of them.’

  ‘She said they wanted somewhere new, with no ghosts from the past. And we can choose what we want, after Pops and Catherine have had their say.’

  ‘Too bad I didn’t know that earlier!’ commented Lindsey, who’d recently spent a large amount on new furniture and fittings.

  ‘It’s silly, but it quite upset me. I like to think of it being there, more or less as it’s always been, and Mum ensconced in it.’

  ‘Where will they live, did she say?’

  ‘I don’t think they’ve started looking yet.’

  ‘It’s odd to think the divorce will come through after Christmas. Then there’ll be a spate of family weddings!’

  ‘Well, two, anyway – unless you’re thinking of making it three?’

  ‘Not a hope!’

  ‘Did you see Dominic over the weekend?’

  ‘No; Nicole and David invited me for a meal on Saturday, and suggested I stay overnight, so I could enjoy a drink. There was another couple there I’d not met before, and we had a jolly good evening. I didn’t get home till yesterday afternoon.’

  Rona’s eyes fell on the school photograph, propped up against the toaster, but she was determined not to mention it till Lindsey did.

  ‘Sorry,’ Lindsey said quickly, ‘there’s someone at the door – I’ll have to go. See you.’

  ‘See you,’ echoed Rona, and thoughtfully replaced the phone.

  FOUR

  For the next three days, Rona worked steadily on her book. It had taken her a considerable time to sort out the mass of letters and diaries that Gwen Saunders, Elspeth’s personal assistant, had delivered after Elspeth’s death, and even longer to brace herself to read them. She had never before written a biography of someone she’d met personally, and couldn’t rid herself of the sensation of prying into private papers.

  In particular, it was painful to read of Elspeth’s long friendship with Chloë Pyne, a fellow artist who lost her life under a tube train, and of Chloë’s ill-fated love affair. Had Elspeth lived only days longer, she would at least have learned she wasn’t responsible for her friend’s death.

  On the Thursday afternoon, after a somewhat gruelling two hours, Rona closed the diaries, turning instead to the folder listing Elspeth’s paintings, with a note alongside of the galleries or private collectors who owned them. Over the last months she’d visited several galleries in Manchester, Liverpool, Dublin and Edinburgh, as well as a couple of Stately Homes where her work was displayed.

  Elspeth was known principally for her obsession with clouds, which she had painted in every imaginable way, and Rona admitted there were times when she never wanted to see another cloudscape. Max, however, had been able to talk her through several pictures, pointing out the different techniques employed to achieve the desired effect, and she humbly accepted that, to him, each painting had an entirely different character.

  She was trying to decide where to visit next when she was interrupted by the pealing of the doorbell, followed by hysterical barking from Gus, who, assuming she was deaf, took it upon himself to alert her.

  It was rare to have visitors in the afternoon, but, glad of the excuse to leave her desk, Rona ran downstairs and opened the door to find her father on the step.

  ‘Pops!’ she exclaimed. ‘How lovely! Come in!’

  Tom Parish returned her hug and bent to pat the excited dog. ‘I hope I’m not being a Person from Porlock,’ he said. ‘You’re not at a crucial stage, are you?’

  ‘No, and glad of the break, to be honest. Come downstairs and I’ll make some tea.’

  ‘I hoped you might, so I bought a cake en route.’

  ‘Even better!’

  He sat down at the table, fondling Gus’s ears and watching as Rona filled the kettle. ‘It seems ages since I saw you,’ he commented.

  ‘I know, Mum made the same complaint; I had lunch with her on Monday.’

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘Very well.’ She turned to him, a thought striking her. ‘Did you know she intends to sell Maple Drive?’

  ‘No, though I rather thought she might.’

  ‘But . . . surely you own half of it?’

  Tom shook his head. ‘I made it over entirely when we se
parated. It was the least I could do.’

  ‘Well, she’s intending to invite you and Catherine to choose what you’d like.’

  ‘That’s very generous of her.’

  ‘I suppose they’ll be faced with trying to fit the contents of two homes into one.’

  ‘We’ll be spared that, at least. All I took at the time were my books and personal papers, and, as you know, I’m renting the flat furnished. Avril did offer me my choice of ornaments and pictures – even furniture – but I felt they belonged where they were. So, my pet –’ he took the mug of tea she handed him – ‘far from having to squeeze in our belongings, we shall have to look for more. In view of which, if that offer still holds, I might welcome the chance to reconsider.’

  ‘Catherine will be selling her bungalow, then?’

  ‘Yes; like your mother and Guy, we decided we wanted a home new to both of us.’

  Rona, opening the cake box, felt a spasm of regret. She loved the tranquil charm of Catherine’s home.

  ‘Oh, lovely – lemon drizzle!’ she exclaimed, lifting out the cake. ‘My favourite!’

  ‘Which is why I bought it.’

  ‘You’re a star!’ She cut two generous slices, and handed him a plate. ‘How’s Catherine?’ she added, seating herself opposite him.

  ‘A bit down, actually. She’s worried about Daniel.’

  Catherine’s son, a computer programmer, lived with his wife and baby daughter in Cricklehurst.

  ‘Oh? Isn’t he well?’

  Tom hesitated. ‘I’m not sure I should be telling you this.’

  ‘Well, you’ve started, so you might as well finish!’

  He took a sip of tea. ‘Between you and me, he and Jenny are going through a difficult patch.’

  ‘Really? I thought they were blissfully happy. They certainly give that impression.’

  ‘I think they have been, up to now. The trouble is, Daniel’s incredibly busy and having to travel more than he did, which involves being away overnight. Added to which, Alice is still not sleeping through, Jenny’s missing out on her own sleep, and it’s been getting on top of her.’

  ‘So how serious is it?’

  Tom sighed. ‘It looks as though she’s seeing someone else.’

  ‘God!’ Rona stared at him. ‘And Daniel went running to his mother?’

  ‘Lord, no: he was away this week, and Catherine went over on Tuesday to babysit, to give Jenny a break. And while she was at the cinema with a girlfriend, this chap phoned.’

  ‘Oh dear!’

  ‘Without giving her a chance to speak, he launched into plans for their next meeting, before realizing he was speaking to Jenny’s mother-in-law.’

  ‘Big mistake! Did Catherine tackle her about it?’

  ‘I’m not sure what happened. She was very upset, as you might imagine, and blurted out the gist of it when she got home; but she didn’t go into details, and I suspect she now regrets having mentioned it.’

  ‘So presumably Daniel knows nothing about it?’

  ‘Presumably not.’

  Rona finished her cake in contemplative silence. ‘Poor Catherine,’ she said then. ‘She must be wondering whether or not she should tell him.’

  ‘Yep. Don’t pass this on, will you?’ Tom said anxiously. ‘I probably shouldn’t have told you.’

  ‘I won’t say a word,’ Rona promised, ‘but I do hope they sort it out; I like them both.’

  ‘What were you dreaming about last night?’ Gavin asked curiously, at breakfast the next day. ‘You were tossing and turning and muttering most of the night.’

  Magda looked up quickly. ‘Sorry if I disturbed you.’

  ‘But what was it about, can you remember?’

  ‘And this is the man who says nothing’s more boring than other people’s dreams!’ She reached for the cafetière. ‘But since you ask, I can remember, because, unusually enough, the dreams I’ve had this week have stayed with me all day, and frankly I wish they hadn’t!’

  ‘Why? What are they about?’

  ‘It wasn’t so much the content. They were the usual mishmash – snatches of scenes and people, not making any sense when you analyse them. But it was the way I felt when I woke. Disorientated and – angry, somehow.’

  ‘Better not eat any more cheese at supper, then!’ Gavin advised, and returned to his newspaper.

  Driving to work that Friday morning, Lindsey wondered, with mild irritation, when her sister would refer to the photograph she’d slipped into her bag. Admittedly, there was no hurry – the book group wouldn’t meet for another three weeks – but she’d like to have at least some news to pass on to William in the interim.

  The group met once a month at the home of Debra Stacey, who had initiated it some six months ago, and who lived in one of the turnings off Alban Road North, a five-minute drive from Lindsey’s flat. There were ten of them in all, none of whom had known each other before replying to Debra’s advertisement in the local paper. Most were older than Lindsey, several considerably so, but they were a friendly bunch, who all contributed to their literary discussions.

  William Stirling, the provider of the photograph, Lindsey judged to be in his mid-fifties, a tall, well-built man with an easy manner and pleasant smile. At their first meeting he’d explained his wife’s absence by saying she had no interest in books, preferring to spend her time playing golf or bridge, neither of which appealed to him. From this, Lindsey inferred, rightly or wrongly, that they went their separate ways. In any event, following that early comment he’d not mentioned his wife again until the previous week, when he’d produced the photograph.

  For some reason she couldn’t fathom, Lindsey found him quite attractive – Rona always maintained she preferred older men – and she suspected her interest was reciprocated, a source of secret satisfaction when Dominic was at his most obtuse. Though she’d not analysed it too closely, part of her reason for volunteering Rona’s help had been to establish a contact with William outside the group – which made it all the more frustrating that her twin was studiously ignoring the photograph.

  She parked the car and, her mind still on William, was considerably startled when, rounding the corner into Guild Street, she cannoned into him.

  ‘Lindsey, hello!’ he exclaimed, putting out a hand to steady her. ‘Sorry – I always dash along at a rate of knots! Are you OK?’

  ‘Fine, thanks.’

  ‘On your way to work?’

  ‘Yes, I’m at Chase Mortimer.’

  ‘Better mind my p’s and q’s, then! I’m just round the corner – Frinton Insurance.’ He paused. ‘We’ve been wondering if your sister was able to help with the photo?’

  ‘Not as yet,’ Lindsey answered evasively. ‘I left it with her; I hope that’s OK?’

  ‘Of course. She’s agreed to look into it, then?’

  ‘Not exactly, but I’m working on it.’

  ‘Look, I wouldn’t want to impose. If she hasn’t time, or she’s not interested, please don’t—’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry, she’ll get round to it.’

  ‘Well, as long as we’re not making a nuisance of ourselves . . .’ He paused again. ‘Glenda was wondering if she’s by any chance the Rona Parish who writes for Chiltern Life?’

  ‘She is indeed.’

  He smiled. ‘No wonder you mentioned her detective skills! We always enjoy her articles. Look, I mustn’t hold you up now, but here’s my card. I know she must be busy, and I certainly wouldn’t want to press her, but if anything should come up before the next book group, could you give me a call? It’s just that this photo has really got to Glenda, and I know she won’t be happy till she knows who was blotted out and why.’

  ‘We’ll see what we can do,’ Lindsey promised, and, with a brief smile, hurried on her way, obscurely disappointed with the outcome of the meeting.

  Had she but known it, Rona was at that moment staring with a mixture of resentment and curiosity at the offending photo, which she’d taken up to her study and propped aga
inst her pen holder. She’d stopped work the previous day at a sticky patch – never a wise move – and a night’s sleep had done little to solve the problem. Open to distraction, she succumbed and, leaning forward, picked it up and studied it closely for the first time.

  The print was black-and-white with a gloss finish, and despite being badly creased, the faces of those depicted were still clearly defined, frozen in a long-ago summer’s day.

  Passing quickly over the pupils – bright, expectant faces, ready for whatever life might throw at them – Rona focused on the eight members of staff: four women, three men, and one, gender unknown, completely obliterated by the ink splodge.

  On impulse, she reached for the phone and pressed the button for Chiltern Life.

  ‘It’s Rona, Polly,’ she said. ‘Is Barnie free, by any chance?’

  ‘Hi, Rona. Yes, no one’s with him as far as I know.’

  ‘Then could you put me through, please?’

  ‘Rona!’ The features editor’s voice boomed over the phone. ‘Great to hear from you! How are things?’

  ‘A bit slow, to be honest, but I’m ploughing on.’

  ‘Not ready to rejoin our ranks?’

  ‘Not at the moment. Actually, I’m hoping to test your memory. Does the name Springfield Lodge ring any bells?’

  ‘The hotel, you mean?’

  ‘I was thinking more of its previous incarnation.’

  ‘It’s had several, one of them being a private girls’ school.’

  ‘That’s the one. Do you know anything about it?’

  ‘Not really; it closed down years ago.’

  ‘Any idea why?’

  ‘Hey, Rona, what is this? Twenty questions?’

  ‘Sorry! I’ve come across an old school photo dated 1951, and a member of staff has been rather spectacularly obliterated. I was wondering why.’

  ‘If it belonged to one of the girls, it could be any reason, ranging from a sudden fit of pique to long-standing resentment or revenge for favouritism. Why, is it important?’

  ‘It isn’t really, but some friends of Lindsey’s are curious.’

  ‘So they turned to the Number One Ladies’ Detective Agency?’

  Rona laughed. ‘You know me – I can’t resist a challenge. What I was wondering, though, is if it’s possible to trace the photo­grapher on the off-chance that he still has the negative. Chiltern Life’s full of photos – I thought perhaps you could tell me which firms specialized in school photos.’