Brought to Book (3 page)

He sipped his wine. ‘Where does she live?'

‘Over at Cricklehurst; I reckon it'll take me about an hour to get there.'

‘He'd be a colourful subject for a bio,' Max commented. ‘He was quite a lad in the early days – brawls, drunken parties, God knows what.'

‘Really?' Rona looked up in surprise. ‘I hadn't heard that.'

‘Oh, it was years ago. Either he sobered up or became more circumspect as he grew older.'

The waiter approached, they gave their orders, and Rona felt herself relax for the first time that day. The candle-lit table, the low murmur of conversation, and the crispness of the wine on her tongue combined to give a feeling of well-being. There was, after all, no reason to feel apprehensive about the biography; no one could force her to write it. If, on investigation, the prospect didn't appeal, she would politely decline.

She glanced at Max across the candle flame and felt the familiar lurch inside her. He was an attractive man, with his thick, prematurely grey hair and piercing blue eyes. It was the old adage of not being able to live either with or without each other, she reflected, and there was no denying that their separation during the week enhanced their weekend lovemaking. Which was not to say they didn't still have rows, stormy scenes of shouting, recriminations and slamming doors. Both of them were strong-willed and stubborn, unwilling to admit to being in the wrong. Fortunately, they were also blessed with a sense of humour, and frequently, when an impasse had been reached and they stood glaring at each other, one of their mouths would start to twitch and the disagreement would end in slightly shamefaced laughter.

‘A penny for them,' Max invited, breaking into her reflections.

‘Just thinking what an impossible man you are,' she smiled, and leant back as the waiter set down her plate.

The meal was, as always, delicious, and served with the panache of which only Italians seem capable. ‘Brandy?' Max enquired, as their espressos arrived. ‘Or shall we have that at home?'

‘At home, I think.'

After the warmth of the restaurant, the night air felt damp and chilly. The street lamps were wreathed in mist, and Rona gave a little shiver. ‘At least there won't be a frost,' Max said, taking Gus's lead from her and threading her arm through his. They set off, walking briskly but pausing every now and then to allow Gus his night-time sniff round the lamp posts.

The houses in Lightbourne Avenue were over a hundred years old, tall and narrow, with a number of steps leading up to the front doors and semi-basements behind decorative railings. The pavements were tree-lined, and in summer one looked out of the upper windows through a screen of leaves. Each house had a minute front garden bordering the path from gate to bottom step, and an almost equally small patch at the rear. The ground-floor windows were uniformly bay, with long narrow panes.

Max and Gus waited while Rona fitted her key in the lock, the door swung open, and a wave of warmth came to meet them. Originally, the single-fronted house had had two main rooms on each of its four floors, but before moving in, they'd had the dividing walls demolished on all but the first floor, making a through room in each case. The top level had been transformed into Max's studio, now seldom used, and the basement into a kitchen-cum-dining room, the work area at the front and the table overlooking the patio. In summer, the back door was usually open, and they frequently ate in the secluded garden.

Max had designed the ground-floor sitting-room himself, the plain duck-egg walls being intended both to disguise the relative narrowness of the room and as a backcloth for his collection of modern paintings. The mottled marble fireplace had been rescued from a builders' yard, and several of the small tables came from antique fairs. There were shelves of books, a couple of large and comfortable armchairs and two sofas which, in their contrasting upholstery, harmoniously melded the old and new. It was a room that always felt welcoming, and Rona loved it.

Now, she dropped on to the hearthrug next to Gus and took the balloon brandy glass Max handed her, smiling to herself as he slotted a CD into the machine before seating himself in the chair next to her. At least, in deference to the hour, the volume was low.

‘It's at times like this,' he remarked, swirling the brandy in his glass, ‘that I wish we didn't need separate establishments. While Farthings undeniably has its uses, it also has serious deficiencies.'

‘Such as Gus and me,' Rona said.

‘Exactly.'

‘If you miss us during the week, cut down on your evening tuition.'

Regretfully he shook his head. ‘Commissioned art work might be the main source of income, but there are only three or four payments a year, and it's the tuition that keeps the wheels turning. And as you know, apart from the OAPs and housewives on Wednesday afternoons, my students are either at work or school during the day.'

‘Then,' she remarked, sipping her brandy, ‘we'll have to make the most of the evenings we have.'

‘Which is precisely,' he said, bending down and taking the glass out of her hand, ‘what I propose to do.'

After they had made love, Rona lay awake for some time, listening to Max's steady breathing and the rain on the windows. Her brain, too active for sleep, revolved ceaselessly round Theo Harvey and the questions that had surrounded him, both living and dead. Perhaps, she thought, turning over and resolutely closing her eyes, she would soon have some of the answers.

M
ax left immediately after breakfast. When he'd gone, Rona went back upstairs and had a shower, after which she surveyed the contents of her wardrobe for several minutes before deciding on narrow brown trousers with matching jacket and a cream cashmere sweater. Smart but businesslike, she told herself.

Gus was awaiting her in the hall, tail thumping on the floor. ‘Right, boy,' she said, shrugging into her car coat, ‘let's see what today brings.'

None of the houses in the avenue had a garage, and the choice was either on-street parking – always difficult – or renting one in nearby Charlton Road. Since she seldom used the car, Rona had opted for the latter. It was from Charlton Road that the alley led up to the park, and as they came to its entrance the dog automatically turned into it. Rona tugged gently on his lead.

‘Sorry, boy, not today. We've a long drive ahead of us.'

She opened the rear door of the car and he jumped obediently inside and up onto his blanket on the back seat. She reversed out of the garage, locked the door, and slid back into the car, adjusting her seat belt. They were on their way.

It was a dull, overcast morning, but she was thankful the mist had dispersed; a large portion of the journey would be along unfamiliar country roads. As she left the outskirts of Marsborough behind, Rona's thoughts went ahead of her, to the imminent meeting with Meriel Harvey. What kind of woman was she? Would they like each other? First impressions were important in a working relationship. The fluttering in her throat and the coldness of her hands were indications of her tension, and she switched the radio to Classic FM in an attempt to relax. What was the matter with her? she thought impatiently. Usually, she was excited at the prospect of a new project. What was so different about Theo Harvey?

For a while she made good progress along main roads, but once she'd branched off cross-country she had to slow down. Here, the roads were narrow and twisting, with the odd tractor to overtake or stray sheep panicking on the side of the road. Her spirits lifted as a blink of sunshine broke through the clouds, and for the first time she became aware of a wash of green along the hedgerows and snowdrops on the verge. Spring was at last on its way.

A few miles short of her destination she pulled off the road alongside a narrow track and, fastening Gus's lead, took him for a quick walk down the muddy path. There was no saying how long her interview with Mrs Harvey would last, and she wanted him to be comfortable. The trees lining the path were covered in tight buds, and somewhere above her a blackbird was singing. Briefly, she wished she could keep on walking with the cold nipping her ears and the smell of earth in her nostrils, that there was no anxious widow waiting for her a few miles down the road. But a glance at her watch told her she should be on her way, and reluctantly she turned and headed back to the car.

Cricklehurst was an overgrown village some twenty miles west of Marsborough, whose main claim to fame was its highly rated restaurant, the Golden Feather, owned by a television chef. Max had taken her there when they were engaged, but it had been on a winter's evening and she'd seen little of the surroundings. Now, as she approached, she saw that the village straggled along the main road for a couple of miles or so, without any noticeable centre. A midweek market was in progress, and temporary stalls had been set up on the narrow pavements, causing shoppers to spill out onto the road. Rona was forced to slow almost to walking pace, which at least gave her time to look about her. The church, she noted, was away to her left on higher ground. Its squat tower proclaimed its Norman origins, but the buildings that surrounded it seemed to be a hotchpotch of different styles and centuries, some in the local stone, some timbered, some mellowed brick.

Father along, she passed the attractive frontage of the Golden Feather, its car park almost empty mid-morning, and finally, round a bend in the road and right on the edge of the village, she came to an imposing entrance with a sign proclaiming ‘The Grange'. The gates stood open, and Rona turned in on to the wide gravelled drive that swept up to the front door. She had arrived.

Aware of possible scrutiny from the windows, she did not, as she'd have liked, pause to take stock of the house, but, having ensured an adequate air supply for Gus, climbed quickly out of the car, retrieved her handbag, and went to ring the bell. The door was opened by a young woman in her early twenties. Unsure if she was a daughter of the house, Rona said tentatively, ‘I'm Rona Parish. I believe Mrs Harvey is expecting me.'

‘Of course,
madame.
May I take your coat? If you would care to come this way . . .?'

Rona followed her across a large square hall, waited while she tapped on a door, and, as she stepped aside, went forward into the room. She had time only to register that it was long and low-ceilinged and extended the length of the house, before her attention was claimed by the woman who had risen to greet her and was now coming forward with outstretched hand.

‘Ms Parish, I'm Meriel Harvey. Thank you so much for coming.'

‘Thanks for inviting me.'

Mrs Harvey waved her to a chair and reseated herself. She looked to be in her late forties, tall, thin and fair, with a network of fine lines round eyes and mouth. Her fingers, long and liberally bedecked with rings, repeatedly smoothed her skirt as though she were nervous.

‘Cecile will bring coffee in a moment.' There was a pause, then she said a little abruptly, ‘I've read several of your biographies, and enjoyed them very much. I had the feeling you also enjoyed writing them?'

‘Yes, I – find people's lives fascinating.' Rona broke off, wondering if this was the right thing to say in the circumstances.

‘You don't shirk your subjects' faults and failings,' Mrs Harvey went on, ‘yet you seem to have a deep understanding of them, which is communicated to your readers.'

‘It's kind of you to say so; that's certainly my aim.'

A tap on the door brought an end to this somewhat stilted conversation, and the young French woman came in with a tray of coffee, which she set on a table. She waited while Meriel poured it, brought Rona's across to her, together with the cream and sugar, which she declined, then, with a smile, left the room.

Rona sipped the hot liquid gratefully, waiting for the next move. It came at once.

‘How much do you know about my husband, Ms Parish?'

‘Only what's common knowledge, I'm afraid: that he was a successful thriller writer, that he had a couple of unproductive years, and then produced two outstanding and highly acclaimed novels.'

‘Before dying in unexplained circumstances,' Meriel Harvey finished expressionlessly.

‘Yes.' Rona hesitated, then went on diffidently, ‘Could I ask why you want a biography so soon after his death? Surely it will be painful for you?'

The other woman held her eyes for a long moment before looking away, into the heart of the fire. ‘I want it,' she said quietly, ‘because I'm beginning to wonder if I ever really knew him at all. I want to find out if there were reasons why – certain things happened. Most of all, I suppose, I need to know why he died.'

‘But surely the police—'

‘I don't mean the actual mechanics of it, but how it came about. More specifically' – her voice wavered – ‘if he killed himself. All the police discovered was that he'd been drinking, which is neither here nor there, and once the inquest was over, they lost interest.'

‘I doubt if I could help you on that,' Rona said. ‘You'd probably do better employing—'

Meriel leaned forward suddenly, hands clasped together. ‘Don't turn me down, please! I can't go on like this, torturing myself, wondering if I was in any way responsible. If I could understand the reasons for his hang-ups and inconsistencies, I might be able to come to terms with his death. Obviously I'd help you all I could, and he had many friends and acquaintances you could interview.'

‘There's no guarantee I'd find the answers,' Rona said gently. ‘I should warn you, though, that on occasion I've gone deeper into a subject's life than the family had anticipated.'

‘I'm prepared to risk that.'

The ambivalence she'd felt about this request had been well founded, Rona acknowledged; this would be no ordinary biography. At the same time, she was aware of growing excitement. ‘And as I explained on the phone,' she added, taking refuge in practicalities, ‘nothing can be settled today. If I decide to go ahead, I'd need to find a publisher willing to commission the book, which would then have to be cleared with your husband's literary executor.'