record.
Her visit to Somerset House yielded the particulars of Lydia Brooke’s birth (in Brighton, to Mary Brooke and William John Brooke, on 16 November 1942) and her marriage (to Morgan Gabriel Ashby in Cambridge, on 29 September 1963).
A phone call to the Yard netted her Morgan Ashby’s present address, and armed with Hazel’s Cambridge guidebook and one of Hazel’s homemade sandwiches, Gemma set off for Cambridge at lunchtime.
All the detail available for Morgan Ashby’s address had been Wood Dene Farm, Comberton Road, and on consulting her map Gemma discovered that the Comberton Road lay west of Cambridge, not too far from Grantchester. She hoped that the farm was easily identifiable, because she didn’t want to call ahead and risk immediate rejection.
She crept carefully along, examining every gate and farmhouse, but when she finally reached the place she had no doubt of it. Sculptures of brightly colored metal hoops occupied the space between the road and the old brick- and-beam farmhouse. To the right of the house, a series of long, low barns were painted a deep sunflower yellow with blue trim, and a sign on the side of the barn nearest the road proclaimed that this was the WOOD DENE FARM ARTS CENTER.
Gemma pulled the car up into the drive beside the farmhouse and got out. Studying the layout for a moment, she decided to try the house first, but there was no answer when she knocked. She started back towards the barns, hoping for better luck there.
As she came round the house, she saw a woman in the back garden hanging out washing on a line. Brilliant white sheets flapped in the breeze, and the woman, clothes pegs in her mouth, struggled against the wayward fabric.
“Hullo,” Gemma called out, going to help, and when they had the sheet secured, the woman turned to her and smiled.
“Thanks for rescuing me. I know I should be glad of the wind on wash day, but it does make it a bit difficult to manage sometimes.” She was, Gemma judged, in her late forties, slightly built, with an open, friendly face bare of makeup and light brown hair drawn back in an intricate plait. “I’m Francesca, by the way,” she said. “Have you come about the studio space?”
“No, I’m afraid not. My name’s Gemma James, and I was looking for Morgan Ashby, actually.”
Francesca’s face clouded and she said warily, “He’s not here. Can I help you?”
“Are you his wife?” Gemma asked, wishing for the easy authority of her warrant card.
“That’s right.” Francesca waited, still without a hint of a smile in her gray-blue eyes.
“I was a friend of Victoria McClellan’s, you see,” said Gemma, and was surprised to find she didn’t feel it was stretching the truth. “And I wanted to ask Mr. Ashby a few questions about his conversations with her.”
“Morgan didn’t have any conversations with Dr. McClellan,” Francesca said flatly. “And he wouldn’t be pleased to see you. He just ran her ex-husband off with his shotgun a few minutes ago. All this business has upset him dreadfully, just when I’d hoped—”
“Duncan was here?” asked Gemma. “Was he all right?”
“Of course he was all right,” said Francesca, sounding surprised. “Morgan didn’t
“But what if… Mr. Ashby comes back?” asked Gemma, feeling a bit wary of the shotgun in spite of Francesca’s disclaimer.
“If I know Morgan, he’s taken the footpath up towards Madingley, and it usually takes him a couple of hours’ walking to simmer down enough to come home.” Francesca looked to the north, where clouds white as the blowing sheets were piling up against the horizon. “And I think the weather will hold that long, at the least,” she added, turning away towards the house, and Gemma followed with attempted nonchalance.
Francesca took her through the back door, into the kitchen, where the aroma of freshly brewed coffee met them like a wave.
“Oh, it smells lovely,” said Gemma, closing her eyes and breathing it in.
“I’d just put the coffee on before I took the washing out.” Francesca deposited the laundry basket beside the door. “Would you like some? It’s a new blend I picked up in Cambridge the other day.”
“Please.” Gemma looked appreciatively about as Francesca filled pottery mugs and set them on a tray It was a welcoming room, with walls the color of tomato soup and a cheerful clutter that reminded her of Hazel’s kitchen. There were even the familiar baskets of knitting wools overflowing onto the worktops and table. She’d noticed Francesca’s jumper, hand-knit chenille in shades of heather. “Did you knit your jumper?” she asked as Francesca peeled the top from a new bottle of milk.
“I’m a weaver by trade,” answered Francesca. “The knitting I do for relaxation. It’s mindless work.” Glancing at Gemma, as if afraid she might have offended her, she added, “I don’t mean that the patterns aren’t sometimes complicated, it’s just that once you know where you’re going with it, you can put your hands on autopilot. It’s a great comfort, sometimes, and a help if you’re trying to work out a problem.” She added sugar and a milk jug to the tray, and started down a passageway towards the front of the house. “Let’s go through to the sitting room.”
Gemma followed her, but paused on the threshold when they reached their destination. The room first struck her as a battleground, physical evidence of personalities in conflict. The walls were pale gray, the better to showcase the framed black-and-white photographs that covered them, but before she could look closer, her eyes were drawn to the threaded loom that stood in the center of the room. She walked over to it, unable to resist touching the cloud-soft fabric forming from the intersecting wools—a loosely woven piece in the autumnal hues she loved.
“What is it?” she asked Francesca.
“A throw rug. They’re bread-and-butter pieces, really—there’s a big market for them—but I love them nonetheless.”
