The Company She Kept (12 page)

He watched Abigail note this down before continuing. ‘Tell me, did you live in, at Flowerdew?'

‘Sometimes I stayed the night, if we were working late, but mostly I went home. My sister wasn't married then and I lived with her.'

‘Who else lived at the house?'

‘The housekeeper, Jessie Crowther.'

‘And nobody else?'

‘Not on a permanent basis.' Twisting her bangles, she added, ‘But there were always lots of visitors. Kitty liked to have people staying with her.'

‘You say Angie Robinson used to come with Dr Freeman on her visits to Mrs Wilbraham. That's a bit unusual, isn't it?'

‘Not really. Madeleine was more than just her doctor – she was a very good friend. And of course she didn't bring Angie with her when she called professionally – only when she visited socially. Kitty didn't mind ... as I've said, anyone was welcome at Flowerdew.'

‘What sort of a house was it?'

The abrupt change of direction made her blink but he had the feeling that it was not a change she welcomed, any more than the previous conversation. ‘An old house, with a lake in front, and a little island,' she said after an interval, ‘but it's impossible to describe it. You'd have to see it to really appreciate what it was like, you know?'

He said easily, ‘Oh, I can probably imagine it. I know what these people who've lived abroad for most of their life are like. A famous archaeologist like Mrs Wilbraham, I expect the house was stuffed with mementoes of her work, artefacts and so on?'

‘No,' she said shortly. ‘It wasn't. Kitty couldn't legally have brought the genuine thing out of Tunisia – the only things she had were replicas brought home by herself and her husband, and they were all kept in the one room. Some of them were rather grisly and apt to make people feel uncomfortable, so she'd had an extension built on, the room where she worked, especially to house them. They weren't for public viewing.'

‘Masks, perhaps? Cremation urns?'

She sat up just that much straighter, surprised and distinctly wary, a tinge of pink shading each high cheekbone. ‘Yes, she did have some things like that in her workroom. But otherwise Flowerdew was furnished just like any other house. But what is all this about Kitty and her home? I thought it was Angie Robinson you were interested in?'

‘Well, you see, Mrs Lawrence, Angie Robinson left a record of something that happened there that seemed to have upset her, and although it was apparently some time since, we have to investigate anything at all that might have some bearing on her death. You do see that?'

‘Of course I see it,' she returned quickly. ‘But Angie was a hysterical type, it didn't take much to upset her.' She paused. ‘What sort of record? What did she say had happened?' It was as if she held her breath while he answered.

‘A séance, for instance,' he suggested, avoiding a direct answer. ‘That would be the sort of thing that would upset her?'

He'd scored a bull's eye there, Abigail thought, and saw at once how that might be the explanation of the puzzling phrase in the letter Angie had written. ‘ ‘
The night she died, Dido came ... there were bad vibes ... death for the old woman.
' The spirit of Dido-Elissa. A séance. Of course.

But Sophie Lawrence was frowning, pale face now even paler, and her soft mouth pulled in tight, professing not to understand. ‘A séance? What can you mean?'

‘A sort of gathering where I understand the spirits of the dead are called up.'

‘I know what a séance is – but we certainly never had one at Flowerdew! I can't think what put that into your mind.'

‘Can't you? Well, never mind,' Mayo said. ‘It's just a point that I expect I can clear up. So, it's fourteen years since you last saw Angie Robinson? And you haven't been in touch with each other since?'

‘Angie and I?' One delicate eyebrow was raised, signifying incredulity. ‘There would have been absolutely no reason for us to do so. We weren't friends, just acquaintances who met occasionally. We'd simply nothing in common.'

‘You didn't see her on Tuesday evening, then?'

‘No, I did not. On Tuesday evening I was here at home, after about half past six, that is. Earlier, I went to see my sister with a present for my nephew, who's in hospital at the moment. I came home and watched TV for a while, then went to bed early to read. I heard Maggie come in about ten but she has her own key and went straight to her room.'

‘Maggie?' Mayo said, when Abigail had noted the relevant times. ‘Would that be the girl who let us in? Does she work for you?'

‘No, she's a friend, a painter who uses the attic floor as a studio. Sometimes, when I'm away, she lives in the house. As she is doing at the moment.'

‘I'd like to have a word with Maggie.'

‘She's gone out again, didn't you hear her bang the door? Today's her day for teaching at the Poly. And now –' she glanced at the tiny gold wristwatch hiding among the bracelets and rose to her feet in one lovely, fluid movement ‘ – if that's all, Chief Inspector, I do have an appointment to have my hair washed in a few minutes. It's only round the corner but André doesn't like his clients to keep him waiting.'

‘Thank you, Mrs Lawrence. We'll be in touch later but I think that
is
all for the moment.'

‘Well, certainly, if you think there's anything else I can do, please don't hesitate to contact me.'

Her smile was bright, brittle, social.

How to be the gracious lady in one easy lesson. Like dismissing the bloody gardener, Mayo thought, as they walked back to the cul-de-sac where they had parked, furious with himself for minding. He thought he had lost that kind of sensitivity with his constable's boots, but some people still had the ability to get under his skin. He'd accepted the dismissal because for the moment, there wasn't anything more to be gained from questioning Sophie Lawrence. He felt very strongly that the real woman hadn't been much in evidence, that the sophisticated veneer concealed a woman who was maybe unsure but maybe not. Certainly more than a little frightened. That most of what she'd told them and been rehearsed, that there were several things she hadn't told them, and the only thing to do would be to come back when she was less prepared.

‘As a woman, what's your impression of Mrs Lawrence?' he asked Abigail.

Abigail thought for a moment. ‘As a woman, I'd say she's not very happy. Perhaps because she's not living up to her potential.' She flushed slightly, grinned and said, ‘In words of one syllable, she's nobody's fool, is she?'

‘Quite the opposite.'

‘And all she's doing with her life is frittering it away.'

‘As far as we know,' he said, giving her a sharp look.

‘As far as we know,' she agreed evenly.

When they reached the car, he said, ‘Radio for another car, Abigail, to come and pick me up, then you can drive down to the Poly and see what you can get from this girl Maggie.'

Oundle's Bookshop was a good place to be on a miserable early afternoon, the sort of shop where customers were actually encouraged to browse by a scatter of comfortable chairs set about at strategic points. The interior was warm, and the books on offer were interesting. Classical music tapes played unobtrusively in the background. In addition, the rear of the shop sported a well-patronized small coffee corner which sold Viennese pastries, homemade biscuits and slices of pie. It had been run for the last eight or nine years by a husband and wife called Conran. It was one of Alex Jones's favourite places for relaxing when she was off duty. She was known as a good customer and greeted with pleasure by the Conrans. She had just brought a couple of paperbacks and a travel book and was sitting back with a cup of the most delicious coffee to be found in Lavenstock. Alex hadn't Mayo's ear for music; she wasn't passionate about it, but under his tuition her musical tastebuds were coming alive and she was learning to savour classical music rather than gulp it down as medicine. She was surprised and delighted to recognize the Beethoven string quartet in a minor key that was being played ... and to be able to put a name to it, what was more: F minor, Opus 95. Its slightly melancholy strains were perfectly in tune with the damp, grey day. She was flicking through one of her new acquisitions, making the most of not being in any hurry, wickedly indulging herself with a slice of delicious
Sacher-torte,
when she looked up and saw Abigail Moon come in and order herself coffee.

‘Come and join me,' Alex invited from her corner as the young WDC turned with her hands full and began to look for a table.

Abigail put down her plate and cup, took stock of what she could see of the rest of the shop and sat herself down on the same side of the table as Alex. ‘Better sit here, where I can keep a weather eye. I've been following the woman who's just gone into the back premises.'

‘Who is she?' Alex asked.

‘Name of Sophie Lawrence. Earlier this morning we interviewed her, in the course of which she told us a fib about having an appointment with her hairdresser. Maybe it was just to get rid of us – the DCI was getting a bit too near the mark for comfort as far as she was concerned – but when I saw her in front of me at the traffic lights a few minutes ago, I knew she hadn't had time to get her hair done. It's nearly as long as mine,' she said, tossing the thick chestnut plait that hung between her shoulders. ‘So I decided to follow her, since I'd also just found out she'd lied to us about something else, from a girl who lives with her.'

Abigail had found the girl alone in the art room at the Poly, in a thick fug of turps fumes and tobacco smoke, enjoying an illicit drag before her class began. Her name was Maggie Renfrew.

‘Yes, I was out on Tuesday evening, from quarter to seven to about ten,' she confirmed, stubbing out her cigarette and throwing the windows wide. ‘I run a couple of evening classes here every week, as well as this one.'

‘So you wouldn't know if Mrs Lawrence was home all evening?'

Maggie regarded Abigail steadily. ‘What does
she
say?'

‘It's just a matter of confirmation. She says she was.'

‘Well, then, she was.' Examining a clutch of brushes which had been stuck in a jar, the girl added, ‘Anyway, she would be at home, wouldn't she, when she was entertaining a gentleman friend? Oops, not quite what I meant!'

‘Who was this? Someone you know?'

‘Couldn't say. I never actually saw him – only heard his voice when I passed the drawing-room door. How it was, I got half way here on my bike and then found I'd forgotten something ... actually it was the written assessments of my students' work. They're a bind to do but the Poly decrees they must have them and the pupils are apt to get a bit shirty if I forget.' Squatting in front of a low cupboard, she began extracting piles of drawing paper, speaking over her shoulder. ‘So even though it was raining cats and dogs, I shot back and that was when I saw the car outside and realized Sophie had a visitor.'

‘What time would that have been?'

Maggie sat back on her heels and considered. ‘It didn't take me more than a minute to dash upstairs for my papers and be off again, but I only just made it back here for half past, so it must've been about ten past, quarter past seven. The car wasn't there when I got back again, though, just before ten.'

‘Was it one you'd ever seen there before?'

‘No,' Maggie replied, standing up. ‘But I don't clock in all her callers. None of my business.'

‘Don't suppose you know what kind it was, either?'

‘Well, I can't say I know much about cars, a bike being the most I can aspire to for the foreseeable future, and I was in a big rush, but I reckon even I know a Jag when I see one.'

‘What about the number?'

‘Not a hope. I'd never notice that, I'm numerically illiterate. I can tell you the colour, though – that's something I always notice! It was that lovely dark racing green. It might have been one of the newer models – or on the other hand, just in good nick, I wouldn't know.'

It was only a few minutes after leaving Maggie Renfrew, when Abigail was halted at a red light, that she had seen Sophie Lawrence a couple of cars ahead in the red Datsun which had been parked outside her house, and realized that she couldn't have been to the hairdresser in the time – so she'd either failed to keep the appointment, or been fibbing about having one in the first place. The lights changed and on impulse she had followed her into the car park, through the shopping centre and had finally seen her enter the bookshop, have a word with Liz Conran and go straight into the back quarters.

‘I'm beginning to think I've over-reacted and she's here quite legit, but I might as well have some lunch while I'm here,' she said to Alex, tucking into a large wedge of quiche.

‘A man went through to the back about fifteen minutes ago,' Alex offered. ‘Then when the woman arrived Liz took coffee and cakes in for two.'

‘What was he like?' Abigail was suddenly hopeful again. ‘Big chap, reminded me of someone.'

‘You couldn't hazard a guess who?'

‘Sorry, it was only a fleeting glimpse. Someone you're interested in?'

‘Could be – especially if he came in a dark green Jaguar.' She didn't expect Alex to have seen it, though, since there were double yellow lines in the street outside.

‘Unlikely,' said Alex. ‘He was carrying a crash helmet.'

‘Oh. Oh well, I suppose she's a right to arrange her assignations here if she wants. He might even be her accountant! She owns this place, did you know?'

‘No, though I knew the Conrans didn't. Does she really? She looks a bit young for that sort of caper.'

‘She's older than she looks, and anyway she has money, left her by her parents. She bought it as an investment, or so Nick says.' The pause was barely perceptible. ‘Nick Spalding, I mean, he's married to her sister,' she said, a little too casually.