“It’s a policeman,” the woman said to him. “A detective.”
1 7 0 P E T E R
R O B I N S O N
“I’m sorry to intrude like this,” Banks said, feeling awkward.
“No matter,” said the woman. “I’m Mrs. Townsend, by the way.
You can call me Edith. And this is my husband, Lester.”
Lester Townsend looked over his newspaper and grunted a quick hello. He seemed less than happy to be disturbed.
“Pleased to meet you,” said Banks.
“Sit yourself down,” Edith said. “I’ll just go and put the kettle on.
Lester, put your newspaper away. It’s rude to sit and read when we have guests.”
Edith left the room and Townsend put his newspaper down, staring suspiciously at Banks before reaching for a pipe on the table beside him, stuffing it with shag and lighting it. “What is it we can do for you?” he asked.
Banks sat down. “Can we wait until your wife comes back with the tea?” he said. “I’d like to talk to both of you.”
Townsend grunted around his pipe. For a moment Banks thought he was going to pick up his newspaper again, but he just sat there smoking contemplatively and staring at a spot high on the wall until his wife returned with the tea tray.
“It’s not often we get visitors,” she said. “Is it, darling?”
“Hardly ever,” her husband said, glaring at Banks. “Especially po-licemen.”
Banks was beginning to feel as if he had wandered onto a film set, a period piece of some kind. Everything about the place was old-fashioned, from the f lower-patterned wallpaper to the brass andirons.
Even the teacups with their tiny handles and gold rims reminded him of something from his grandmother’s china cabinet. Yet these people were only perhaps ten or fifteen years older than he was.
“I really am sorry for interrupting your evening,” Banks said, balancing the teacup and saucer on his lap, “but this address has come up in connection with a case I’m working on back up in North Yorkshire.” It wasn’t entirely true, but the Townsends weren’t to know that Superintendent Gervaise had technically closed down the investigation and sent him packing.
“How exciting,” said Edith. “In what way?”
“How long have you lived here?” Banks asked.
A L L T H E C O L O R S O F D A R K N E S S
1 7 1
“Ever since we were married,” her husband answered. “Since 1963.”
“Do you ever rent out the house?”
“What a strange question,” Edith said. “No, we don’t.”
“Do you rent any of the rooms or f loors as f lats or bedsits?”
“No. It’s our home. Why would we rent any of it?”
“Some people do, that’s all. To help pay the bills.”
“We can manage all that perfectly well by ourselves.”
“Have you been on holiday recently?”
“We took a Caribbean cruise last winter.”
“Other than that?” Banks asked.
“Not recently, no.”
“Did you use a house sitter?”
“If you must know, our daughter drops by every other day and takes care of the place. She lives in West Kilburn. It’s not far away.”
“You haven’t been away even for only a few days over the past month or so?”
“No,” she repeated. “Lester still works in the city. He should have retired by now, but they say they still need him.”
“What do you do, Mr. Townsend?” Banks asked.
“Insurance.”
“Might anyone else have . . . er . . . used your house, say, while you were out one evening?”
“Not to our knowledge,” Edith answered. “And we don’t often go out in the evenings. The streets are so unsafe these days.”
Banks put his cup and saucer down on the table beside his chair and reached for the envelope in his pocket. He took out the photographs and passed them first to Edith. “Do you recognize either of these men?” he asked.
Edith examined the photos closely and passed them to her husband.
“No,” she said. “Should I?”
