The Glass Room (Vera Stanhope 5) (17 page)

‘How can I help you?’ Nina assumed this would be something about course content, about how to attract more students. She was a professional after all, with useful contacts in the university. She found her dislike of the woman was almost like a taste or a smell, so unpleasant that she felt compelled to keep her distance. She stood on the sandy path a couple of yards away from Miranda and tried to analyse the antipathy.

‘It’s about the murder,’ Miranda said. Then she broke off. ‘Why don’t you come into the cottage? I’ll make us tea. We can talk there, where it’ll be warm.’ Miranda lived with her son in a cottage in what must once have been part of the farm’s outbuildings. Students and tutors were never invited inside. Miranda made a big issue of her privacy:
Living on the job, I can only survive if I have my own space.
Nina supposed she should feel honoured to be asked in, but still something about the woman made her reluctant to agree.

‘I was hoping to do some work on my story before supper.’

‘Please come.’ Miranda was almost pleading, and Nina remembered her howling when Ferdinand’s body was found. She shouldn’t be so hard on the woman; her dislike was irrational and unkind.

‘All right,’ Nina said. ‘Why not?’

The door from the old farmyard led straight into the kitchen and the heat seemed suffocating after the late-afternoon chill. There was a cream Aga, with a pile of underclothes airing on the covered plate. Nina found the sight of Alex’s pants and his mother’s bras faintly embarrassing and turned away, but Miranda just lifted the clothes onto the wide windowsill, raised the cover and put the kettle on the hotplate. The edge of the beach closest to the water was visible from the window. The thin white strip of shingle showed as a shallow crescent in the last of the light. From upstairs the view would be clearer. The idea that she’d been watched from Miranda’s lair made Nina uncomfortable and she hoped the conversation would soon be over. But now that she’d secured Nina’s presence, Miranda seemed in no hurry to explain why she’d asked to speak to her.

‘Ordinary tea or herbal?’

‘Neither thanks, I really do want to look at my story before this evening.’ Nina felt trapped. Why didn’t the woman just come out with what she wanted? Had she heard that Ferdinand had been drugged? Was it just a prurient curiosity that had got her outside on a cold October afternoon?

‘What’s the significance of Joanna’s reappearance?’ Miranda had turned from the Aga to ask the question. The cold had made her eyes water and her mascara had smudged. Or perhaps, Nina thought, she’d been crying again. Still, she found it hard to feel sympathy for the woman. Miranda was frowning. It seemed that Joanna’s return to the house had bothered her.

‘I’m not sure I understand what you mean.’

‘Well, the fact that’s she’s free to come and go at will, does that mean the police don’t believe she killed Ferdinand after all?’

‘I have no idea!’ Nina tried to give a little laugh. ‘Inspector Stanhope doesn’t confide in me any more than she does in you.’

‘She’s a strange woman, Vera Stanhope. Don’t you think so?’ Again the question was asked with an odd intensity. The kettle whistled and Miranda moved it off the plate, but didn’t bother to make herself tea.

‘I think she’s more intelligent than she’d like us to think,’ Nina said carefully. ‘If she believes Joanna’s innocent, then she’s probably right.’

There was a moment of silence. A large tabby cat appeared through an open door at the far side of the kitchen and wound itself round Miranda’s legs. ‘This is Ophelia,’ the woman said. ‘With my name, I have an affection for Shakespearean heroines.’ She looked at Nina as if expecting a response, but Nina didn’t know what to say. Miranda scooped up the animal and held it under one arm. With the other she opened the fridge door, took out an already-open can of cat food and spooned it into a bowl on the floor. The smell made Nina feel like retching.

Miranda set down the cat and straightened up. ‘So the killer might still be here!’ she said. ‘Do you see?’

So this, Nina thought, was what had unsettled Miranda. This was why she had lurked in the garden waiting for Nina to approach. Had it really just occurred to her? Had she been so certain Joanna had committed the murder?

But we were all certain.

‘I suppose that was always a possibility,’ Nina said. She was sitting in a rocking chair, which had been covered in a patchwork shawl. The cushions were soft and she felt overcome now by lethargy. She’d lost her initial impetus to get out of the cottage as soon as possible. She looked up and saw that Miranda seemed lost in thought. ‘Do you think you know who the killer might be?’

‘I
thought
it was Joanna.’ The woman’s voice was almost petulant. It was as if Joanna had let her down.

‘But if it’s not?’ This time Nina’s words were sharper. She still felt tired and thought if she were to go to her room now, there was a chance that she might sleep for an hour before dinner.

‘I’m not sure.’ Miranda was leaning with her back to the Aga. The cat had stopped eating. It had climbed onto the windowsill, settled on the pile of clothes, and was snoring. She looked sharply at Nina. ‘You have no idea? I wondered if it might relate back to his old St Ursula days.’

‘How could it?’

Miranda shrugged. ‘I thought the police might have told you something. I’ve noticed the way that young sergeant looks at you. He’s obviously smitten.’

‘Nonsense!’

‘I had to walk round the house this morning and I saw the three of you in the chapel. Believe me, he couldn’t take his eyes off you.’

Nina again had the feeling that Miranda had been spying on them all. She knew the building so well that she could move around it almost unnoticed. If the group at the Writers’ House had the atmosphere of a country-house party, the director’s social status was ambiguous. She might be a partner in the company, but on these occasions she was not quite gentry and not quite below-stairs staff. Like a Victorian lady’s companion, Nina thought. Or a governess. And that made her strangely invisible.

‘That’s ridiculous,’ Nina said. ‘Sergeant Ashworth is a professional and I’m a suspect. As I suppose we all are.’ She summoned the energy to lift herself out of her chair. ‘And in any event the police have given me no more information about the identity of the killer than they’ve given the rest of you.’

The women stood for a moment, looking at each other. ‘This is a difficult time,’ Miranda said. ‘It’s the police’s role to pry, and we all have secrets. We’ve all done things of which we’re ashamed.’

It was such an odd thing to say that for a moment Nina couldn’t move. Then without a word she opened the door and went out into the cold. Crossing the yard, she wondered what Miranda could have meant. Were her words a confession? Had she hoped Nina would make a sympathetic response, so that she could unburden herself further? Or were they a threat?

Walking into the house from the yard, Nina almost bumped into a strange woman. She recognized her at once as a possible ally in the Writers’ House, at least as different from Miranda as it was possible to be. The newcomer could have belonged to Nina’s gym; she was smart, confident, and gave the impression that she’d be at home in the city. The woman looked at Nina, took in the style of the clothes and the quality of the haircut, and seemed to have the same response. The same recognition of a kindred spirit. She smiled.

‘I’m sorry,’ Nina said. ‘It’s freezing outside and I just wanted to get indoors. I should have looked where I was going.’

‘No problem.’ The woman held out her hand. ‘DC Holly Clarke.’

‘Ah,’ Nina said. ‘Part of Inspector Stanhope’s team.’

‘And you must be Nina Backworth.’

‘Oh dear.’ Nina pulled a face. ‘It’s a bit worrying that you recognized me so easily. How did they describe me? Uppity academic. Wears black. Red lipstick.’

‘I’m not sure,’ Holly said, ‘that the inspector notices lipstick.’

They both grinned.

‘Can I help you?’ Nina was suddenly anxious. Had they sent this pleasant young woman to arrest her? Had the results from the lab on her sleeping pills come back already?

Holly shook her head. ‘I’ve been taking more witness statements. Routine. You know how it is. The youngest member of the team . . .’

‘. . . and a woman! I know, it’s just the same in the university. Everyone thinks things have changed, but sexism lives on.’ Here, Nina was on safe and familiar territory. ‘You’ve got a female boss, though. I’d have hoped that might make things a bit different.’

‘It doesn’t always work like that, does it?’ Holly said. ‘A woman climbs to the top, then hauls the ladder up behind her. She doesn’t want the competition.’ She paused and gave a sly, conspiratorial smile. ‘Not that I’m saying Inspector Stanhope would operate in that way.’

‘Of course not!’ Nina said in mock horror. They stood for a moment in comfortable silence, then she added, ‘Are you finished for the day? On your way home?’

‘I’m not sure. I’ve done all the interviews, but I wondered if I might stay here for a while. Stanhope’s a great one for picking up the atmosphere. She says that listening is the best skill a detective can have.’

‘So you hope to earn a few brownie points?’

‘Yes,’ Holly said. ‘Something like that.’

‘Why don’t you stop for dinner?’ Nina thought the evening ahead would be less daunting with a sympathetic companion. She imagined the amusing whispered comments they might pass between them after the less-inspired readings. And it would be reassuring to have a friend on the inquiry team. Someone who might put Nina’s case to Inspector Stanhope. ‘There’s probably even a spare room here, if you can’t face a long drive at the end of it. We can ask Alex. He’ll be in the kitchen preparing the meal. He’s in charge of most of the domestic arrangements.’ Nina didn’t want to go back to the cottage to ask Miranda. ‘Unless there’s something you need to get back for?’

‘Nothing and nobody.’ Holly grinned. ‘And that way, at least I’ll be able to have a couple of glasses of wine!’

The last comment made Nina even more relaxed. Police officers didn’t drink on duty, did they? This would be just as Holly had said: unofficial overtime to allow her to understand the place and the residents better. Nina could have nothing to fear from her. She knocked on the kitchen door and spoke to Alex about Holly spending the night. He nodded as if there was no problem, even giving the impression that the whole thing had already been arranged as he handed over a key to an empty room. Nina could see that he was preoccupied with his cooking and that he wasn’t really listening.

‘Sorry about that,’ Nina said. ‘He’s a perfectionist. But the food here is
very
good.’ It was as if she were recommending a fancy new restaurant in Jesmond.

They all gathered in the lounge for pre-dinner drinks. Even Lenny had made an effort and was dressed in a dark suit. Nina thought it had probably last been worn at a funeral. The trousers were painfully tight at the waist and his belly hung over his belt. The room too was dressed for the occasion. There were flowers, huge dahlias and chrysanthemums – the colours, Nina thought, of fire. Candles on the window ledges and the mantelpiece. Nobody mentioned Tony Ferdinand at all. It was as if he’d never been here, never given his ego-laden lectures, never sat in one-to-one tutorials making promises he was unlikely to keep, or assessing the possibility that he might persuade a student into his bed. Tonight the residents pretended that they were at a fashionable book launch; for most, after all, this was the nearest they’d get to the real thing. Nina, who had attended a couple in her time – her own and her friends’ – thought they’d be disappointed by the reality. Here, the wine was a great deal better.

She’d prepared carefully for the evening. There’d been a bath, her favourite oil, a cup of camomile tea within easy reach. Then make-up. Perfume. Long silver earrings. A red dress. Her students would be shocked to see her in colour. She was known for wearing black. A moment to read through the paragraphs she’d chosen for the presentation. Then shoes and a small evening bag. Halfway down the stairs she’d gone back to check that her room was locked. She was still troubled by the recurring image of an intruder. When she’d arrived in the drawing room most of the students had been there already, though she’d been the first of the tutors. She’d walked into the room to a little round of applause.

Holly was there, still in the clothes she’d been wearing in the afternoon of course, but they were smart enough for her not to look out of place. She’d added more make-up and was holding a glass of wine. She was talking to Joanna, who tonight
was
wearing black. Another statement perhaps. Soon after, Giles Rickard came in. He sported a little bow tie, this time in blue velvet. His movement seemed a bit easier than it had; perhaps he too was relieved at the prospect of leaving the place, of returning to the real world.

But I’m not sure that I am pleased to be leaving,
Nina thought. And though she’d considered the place as a prison all week, now she had a moment’s anxiety about going. In some circumstances prison might be comforting. A place of safety.

Miranda was handing out drinks and canapés. She had on a long black skirt and white silk blouse – clothes that, Nina thought, reflected her ambiguous position in the house. The colours of a waitress’s uniform, but in a rather grander style. As Nina took a glass of white wine, Miranda gave a tight smile. ‘I’m so glad we had that little talk this afternoon.’

She moved on before Nina could answer, and the academic was pleased not to be expected to make a reply. What would she have said? In her memory the exchange had been acrimonious and disturbing.

Dinner was more elaborate than on the previous evenings. There were bottles of wine on the table. Alex had changed from his chef’s whites into a shirt and jacket, and after helping Miranda to serve the meal he sat beside her. Usually he ate alone in the kitchen. Again there were flowers and more candles, thick and cream, the sort you might see in a church. Nina sat next to Holly, but during dinner they spoke very little. The young detective’s attention seemed to be on the conversation going on all around her. It seemed she’d taken to heart Vera Stanhope’s advice about listening. But when the dishes were being cleared, Holly turned to Nina.