Miller sat there in silence for a moment, thinking about it, and then got to his feet. He held out his hand. “You’ve helped us a great deal, Mr. Henderson.”
“Anything else I can do don’t hesitate to get in touch,” Henderson said.
Outside, the pale afternoon sun picked out the vivid colours of the mosaic in the concrete face of the new shopping precinct on the other side of the road and Miller paused at the top of the steps to light a cigarette.
Jack Brady looked up at him, eyebrows raised, and Miller sighed. “And now comes the unpleasant bit.”
St. Martin’s Wood was on the edge of the city, an exclusive residential area not far from Miller’s own home. The houses ran very much to a pattern, turn of the century mansions in grey stone, each one standing in an acre or two of garden. The house they were seeking stood at one end of a quiet cul-de-sac behind a high stone wall. Miller turned the Cooper in through the gates and drove along a wide gravel drive, breaking to a halt at the bottom of a flight of shallow steps which led to the front door.
The bell push was obviously electronic, the sound echoing melodiously inside, and after a while the door was opened by a pleasant-faced young maid in a nylon working overall.
“Yes, sir?” she said to Miller.
“Is Mr. Craig at home by any chance?”
“Colonel Craig,” she said in a tone of mild reproof, “is in London at the moment, but we’re expecting him home tonight.”
“Who is it, Jenny?” a voice called and then a young woman appeared from a door to the right.
“The gentlemen wanted to see the colonel, but I’ve told them he isn’t at home,” the maid said.
“All right, Jenny, I’ll handle it.” She came forward, an open book in one hand. “I’m Harriet Craig. Is there anything I can do?”
She was perhaps twenty-two or — three and nothing like her sister. The black shoulder-length hair framed a face that was too angular for beauty, the mouth so wide that it was almost ugly. And then, for no accountable reason, she smiled and the transformation was so complete that she might have been a different person.
Miller produced his warrant card. “I wonder if we could have a word with you, Miss Craig?”
She looked at the card and frowned. “Is anything wrong?”
“If we could go inside, miss,” Brady said gently.
The drawing room into which she led them was beautifully furnished in excellent taste and purple and white hyacinths made a brave splash of colour in a pewter bowl that stood on the grand piano. She turned, a hand on the mantelshelf.
“Won’t you sit down?”
Miller shook his head. “I think it might be a good idea if you did.”
She stiffened slightly. “You’ve got bad news for me, is that it?” And then as if by intuition, “Is it my sister? Is it Joanna?”
Miller produced one of the photos from his inside pocket. “Is this her?”
She took the photo from him almost mechanically and her eyes widened in horror. When she spoke, it was in a whisper. “She’s dead, isn’t she?”
“I’m afraid so,” Miller said gently. “She was taken out of the river at dawn today. To the best of our knowledge, she committed suicide.”
“Suicide? Oh, my God.”
And then she seemed to crack, to break into a thousand fragments and as Miller’s arms opened to her, she lurched into them, burying her face against his chest like some small child seeking comfort and strength in a world she could no longer understand.
Jack Palmer lifted the sheet and for a brief moment Harriet Craig looked down on the dead face of her sister. She swayed slightly and Miller’s grip tightened on her elbow.
“All right to use your office for ten minutes, Jack?”
“Help yourself.”
It was warm in the tiny glass office after the cold outside. Miller sat her in the only chair and perched on the edge of the desk. Jack Brady leaned against the door, notebook and pencil ready.
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you some questions,” Miller said.
She nodded, gripping her handbag so tightly that her knuckles gleamed white. “That’s all right.”
“Were you aware that for the past three months your sister was living at a house in Grosvenor Road under the name of Joanna Martin?”
She shook her head. “No — in fact it doesn’t make sense. We understood she was in London. We’ve had three letters from her and they were all postmarked Chelsea.”
“I understand there was some trouble at the College of Art?” Miller said. “That she had to leave? Could you tell me about that?”
“It’s rather difficult to explain. Joanna was always a sweet kid. Very talented, but a little naive, that’s why my father thought it would be better to let her attend the local college and live at home instead of going away.”
She took a deep shuddering breath and when she continued, her voice was much stronger. “And then, about four months or so ago she seemed to change overnight. It was as if she’d become a different person.”
“In what way exactly?”
“Her whole temperament altered. She became violently angry on the slightest excuse. It became almost impossible to handle her. She came home drunk a couple of times and then she started staying out all night. Naturally my father didn’t like that, but he’s often away on business and in any case, she was hardly a child.”
“How old was she?”
“Twenty last month. After a while, there was trouble at the college. She behaved so badly that she was asked to leave.”
“What happened then?”
“She had a furious row with my father and ended by packing her bags and leaving. She said she intended to continue her studies at one of the London colleges.”
“What about money? Did your father agree to support her?”
“There was no need. She had some of her own. Just over a thousand pounds. A legacy from an old aunt a year or two ago.”
“What about boy friends? At the college, for instance?”
“In the two years she was there, she never brought a single one home. As I’ve said, until that sudden dreadful change in her she was a shy, rather introverted girl, very much bound up in her work.”
“Did she ever mention a man named Max Vernon at all?”
Harriet Craig frowned slightly. “Not that I recall. Who is he?”
“Just someone who apparently knew her, but it’s of no consequence.” Miller hesitated and went on, “Your sister was a drug addict, Miss Craig. Were you aware of that fact?”
His answer was plain in the incredulous horror in her eyes as she looked up at him sharply. Her head moved slightly from side to side, her mouth opened as if to speak, but no sound was uttered.
Miller stood up as she buried her face in her hands and broke into a storm of weeping. He patted her gently on the shoulder and turned to Brady.
“Take her home, Jack. You can use my car.”
“What about you?”
“I think I’ll have another little chat with Monica Grey and this time I’ll have some straight answers. You can catch up with me there.”
He went out quickly, fastening the belt of his trenchcoat as he moved along the corridor, and the expression on his face was like the wrath of God.
