‘Was Emily here?’
‘Yes, she and Lady Joan didn’t want to go to Corsica, so they stayed here, more or less camping in their rooms in the middle of all the mess. Emily was helping Marion with her research most days, and Joan got out in the garden when she could. Look, I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you wait in the office, and I’ll tell Emily you’re here?’
‘Fair enough.’
Kathy walked down the short corridor to the room at the end where Rhonda and Sophie worked. The tall sash windows filled it with light, and the shelves of books gave it the appearance more of an elegant library than an office. She was examining the books on Sophie’s desk when Rhonda returned.
‘We’re considering Alice Kipling for the next book, after Janey Morris is done with,’ she said. ‘Rudyard’s wife, one of the MacDonald sisters. Her sister Georgiana was married to the Pre-Raphaelite painter Edward Burne-Jones and got very chummy with William Morris, commiserating over the fact that both their spouses were unfaithful.’
‘All these Victorians seem to be interconnected,’ Kathy said.
Rhonda laughed. ‘Too right, you need a bloody good database to sort them all out.’
‘Lovely room to work in.’
‘Yes. Have you been up to the belvedere yet?’ She nodded to the spiral staircase in the corner.
‘No. Is it interesting?’
‘I think so.’ She said it with an emphasis that made Kathy pause. ‘Why don’t you pop up now? Emily’s getting dressed.’
‘Okay.’
She mounted the stairs, arriving in the corner of the square tower room which Joan’s husband Roger had converted into his eyrie. The original owner of the house had an interest in astronomy, and built it as an open loggia to house his telescopes, but Roger had enclosed it, leaving narrow windows in each of the corners with views out over Notting Hill, and with timber bookcases and a desk filling the walls between. The room had a lingering smell of cigar smoke, which had thoroughly permeated the wood. The ceiling and floor were both polished timber, so that the room had the feeling of a large cigar box.
Kathy sat in the red leather antique office chair, feeling the snug fit of the room around her, a sanctuary for contemplation. A thick leather-bound tome lay on the desk in front of her, and she read the title in gold letters on the front, British Pharmaceutical Codex.
There was a place marker, a piece of folded, stained paper, and when Kathy opened the book and removed the paper she found that it was a piece of old wallpaper, faded green in colour, with a pattern of swirling leaves. It marked a section headed with the title Arsenic.
She read for a moment, then heard feet on the stairs behind her. She turned to see Emily’s pale face appear.
‘What are you doing?’ The girl reached the top of the stair and took in the open book on the desk, the unfolded piece of wallpaper. ‘Oh!’ She bit her lip. ‘I put that away! How…?’
Kathy held her eyes, saying nothing, and suddenly Emily gave a little wail. ‘You know, don’t you? You know!’ Tears started from her eyes and she sank to her knees, wrapping her arms around herself, and began to sob.
•
Suzanne found Joan waiting on a seat in a quiet shady spot at the side of the church. She was wearing an overcoat and hat against the cool breeze, and had a large bag on her knee.
‘Ah, there you are,’ she cried, and Suzanne shook her hand and sat beside her.
‘Thank you so much for agreeing to see me. I did feel awkward about approaching you.’
‘Yes, well, in view of Sophie’s sensitivity on the subject, I think it best if we don’t mention it to anyone.’
‘Yes, but you see, it was because of those sensitivities that I thought I should talk to you about this.’
Joan frowned. ‘About what Angela said about Dougie in India? So what did she say?’
‘I don’t know if you remember, but Angela and Jack were very close in those days, and she said that he’d told her that the reason you all left India and returned to the UK was because of a scandal about Dougie getting a girl pregnant-the daughter of one of your servants, actually.’
Suzanne was aware of the elderly woman at her side becoming very still.
‘I’m sorry, this is probably distressing for you, and I’m sure utterly mistaken, but I thought if you could tell me the truth of the situation I could put Angela straight, and stop her repeating the story.’
‘Was there anything else?’
‘Well, yes, there was actually. She said that the girl took poison and died, and there was a fuss. You see, I’m afraid that if Angela were to read something like the report in last week’s Observer, which mentioned that Marion had been working for the writer Sophie Warrender, she might… well, I don’t know, start talking to other people about it.’
Joan was silent for a moment, then said quietly, ‘I see. And you didn’t tell her about that connection?’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘And have you discussed this story with anyone else?’
‘Not a soul.’
‘Good.’ Joan took a deep breath and went on, ‘You did the right thing to speak to me. Because there is not a shred of truth in it. It sounds like some kind of fanciful tale that Dougie must have told Jack to make our days in India seem more interesting and exotic. I remember him telling Jack another ridiculous story about the elephant’s foot, about how he shot the beast, quite absurd. Good Lord, Dougie was only sixteen when we left!’
That didn’t seem an altogether conclusive argument to Suzanne, and there was something else about Joan’s explanation, a kind of resentful, defensive tone that seemed out of key. But she said cheerfully, ‘Oh good, I thought it must be something like that.’
‘So you’ll tell Angela this?’
‘I will.’
‘If she’s not convinced, you can tell her to look up the diplomatic papers for the period at the National Archives in Kew. They’re accessible to the public now. Emily looked them up, when she was helping Marion. There’s not a whiff of scandal, but plenty of glowing praise for Roger’s splendid service. I can give you the references if you like.’
‘Oh, thank you.’ Again there had been a defensiveness about Joan’s reply, almost as if it were a prepared defence, but then, Suzanne thought, she had probably been deeply offended by the suggestion that their time in India might have been soiled by any kind of scandal. ‘I am relieved. I’ll tell Angela in no uncertain terms, and I’d better tell my friend, Chief Inspector Brock, as well, so he knows, in case it ever comes up.’
‘What? No! Certainly not. You mustn’t do that.’
Suzanne was startled by the vehemence of the other woman’s words, and felt that she was suddenly seeing a younger, more abrasive version of Lady Warrender, imposing her will on those around her.
‘I think it would be sensible to tell him.’
‘No, do you hear? You’ll do no such thing!’
Suzanne flushed and turned away. It had been a long time since anyone had spoken to her like that. ‘Well,’ she said slowly, ‘that’s really for me to decide, Lady Warrender.’
The old woman gave a strange, guttural growl and hunched away. There was a moment’s awkward silence, and then she let out a deep sigh. ‘Oh dear,’ she said, her voice now frail again and winsome. ‘I’m afraid it is one of the tragedies of old age that one can so often see the wise and safest course, but is unable to summon up the ability to persuade others. You really must do whatever you see fit, my dear. Please, we mustn’t quarrel about it.’
‘No,’ Suzanne said with relief. ‘I don’t want to do that.’
‘Now look, see what I’ve brought.’ She opened the bag on her lap and drew out a gold cardboard box. Opening the top, she showed Suzanne the chocolates inside. ‘I’ve been busy this morning. The kitchen is my refuge these days, and one of my great joys is making treats for my family and friends. Do you like liqueur chocolates? Of course you do, everyone does. And what are your favourites? I have made them all-rum raisin, cumquat brandy, creme de menthe. They’re all here. Come now, let’s be friends. Take your pick.’
Suzanne smiled. She didn’t really want a chocolate, but she could hardly refuse. She chose a rum raisin. She bit into it and its syrupy heart oozed into her mouth and down her throat.
‘Good?’
