By the time I made my way back to the house, both Marina and Charles were in the kitchen, munching on toast and marmalade.
‘Beginning to think you’d left me,’ said Marina.
‘Never.’
‘Where have you been?’ she asked.
‘For a walk,’ I said. ‘I went down to the bridge over the canal.’
‘Didn’t feel like throwing yourself in, I hope?’ said Charles helpfully.
‘Not today,’ I said. ‘Far too cold.’
Mrs Cross had made me scrambled eggs on an array of inch squares of toast and I gratefully wolfed down the lot.
‘My,’ said Marina, ‘that walk has given you quite an appetite.’
It certainly had and not just for food. I was now itching to get back on the trail of a killer.
After breakfast Marina and I went up to pack our bags, which we put in the car ready for our quick get-away after lunch.
‘Are you sure you want to go back to Ebury Street?’ I asked her.
‘Sure,’ she said. ‘I am absolutely certain. I’m not going to hide for the rest of my life so I’m not going to do so now. And another thing, I want you to take me to the races in future.’
‘OK, you’re on.’
We went to join Charles for a pre-lunch drink in his expansive drawing room with its large open fireplace. He had lit the fire and was standing in front of it, warming his back.
‘Ah, there you are,’ he said. ‘Have a glass of bubbles.’ He gave us one each from a tray.
‘Lovely,’ said Marina.
‘To you two,’ said Charles, raising his glass.
‘To all of us,’ I said, raising mine.
‘Now, when are you two going to get married?’ asked Charles.
Marina nearly choked on her champagne.
‘We haven’t discussed it,’ I said.
‘You haven’t discussed the date?’ he persisted.
‘We haven’t discussed whether.’
‘Oh, sorry. I’m a bit premature then.’
‘You could say that.’
I am sure that Charles had been a great sailor but, as a diplomat, he still needed lessons.
‘I just thought,’ Charles went on, digging himself deeper into trouble, ‘that you might want to get married from here.’
‘We’ll talk about it, thank you,’ said Marina. ‘It’s a very kind offer.’
We all smiled at one another, lost for words.
Then, into this domestic tableau as we were discussing whether and where Marina might become the second Mrs Sid Halley, walked the first.
CHAPTER 12
‘Hello, Sid,’ said Jenny. ‘I wasn’t expecting
You neither, I thought. Surely she wasn’t due until much later? Not until after Marina and I had left for London.
‘Ah, hello, Jenny,’ said Charles all of a fluster. ‘I thought you were coming for dinner.’
‘Well, we are, but also for lunch. Mrs Cross knew. I spoke to her about it yesterday.’
I wished Mrs Cross had told us.
‘Anyway,’ said Charles, ‘you’re here now. Lovely to see you. Where’s Anthony?’
‘Getting our things out of the car.’
He went over and gave her a peck on the cheek. Charles and Jenny had never really enjoyed an intimate relationship. He had been away at sea for long periods during her early childhood and even the untimely death of Jenny’s mother had not brought them close.
Jenny was looking at Marina.
‘Oh, so sorry,’ said Charles. ‘Jenny, can I introduce Marina van der — ’ He tailed off.
‘Meer,’ I said, adding to Charles’s state of unease.
‘Yes, that’s right, Marina van der Meer — Jenny Wingham, my daughter. Marina is Sid’s friend,’ he added unnecessarily.
Jenny’s eyebrows lifted a notch.
Whilst Charles and I had become somewhat used to the state of Marina’s damaged face, to Jenny, on first seeing the ugly black eyes and the still swollen lip, it must have appeared shocking.
‘I hope Sid didn’t do that,’ she said.
‘Oh, no,’ said Marina with a nervous little laugh. ‘Car accident.’
‘Who was driving?’ asked Jenny.
Unfortunately both Marina and I said ‘I was’ at the same instant into the sudden small silence.
‘Really?’ said Jenny sarcastically. ‘Collided with each other, did we?’
Thankfully, Anthony arrived at that moment and the matter was dropped.
Sir Anthony Wingham, Baronet, was something in the city, something in banking. I never had been sure what, nor cared. He had inherited pots of cash which is why, I thought cynically, he had proved so attractive to my ex- wife.
Introductions were made and, as usual, Anthony was distinctly cold towards me. I couldn’t think why. On our brief and infrequent meetings, he tended to treat me as the enemy. Jenny and I had been separated for many years before she had met him and, whilst it was true that we had actually divorced in order for her to be free to marry, he had absolutely not been the cause of our break-up so I found his attitude somewhat odd. I certainly did not reciprocate it and shook his offered hand with a smile.
The coldness he showed me was more than made up for by the warmth and concern he showered on Marina.
‘My dear girl,’ he said in a most caring tone, ‘what dreadful bad luck.’
That won’t endear him to Jenny, I thought, and I was right. Jenny glared at him.
It transpired that they had always been coming to lunch but Charles had forgotten. Mrs Cross, habitually one step ahead of her employer in domestic matters, had laid the table for five and I found myself seated next to Jenny, opposite Anthony.
It was not a memorable occasion with dull, forced conversation. True sentiments were unspoken but communicated, nevertheless. Only Marina had no previous form in this family.
Inevitably, in such circumstances, the discussion tended to be predictable and about Marina: where do you live? what do you do? brothers and sisters? and so on. What I really wanted to ask Jenny and Anthony would have been more interesting: how much is your house worth? how much do you earn? how’s your sex life?
‘Where did you study?’ Anthony asked Marina.
‘I was at high school in Harlingen in the Netherlands. That’s my home town in the Friesland province, in the north, near the sea. Then I went to university in Amsterdam. I did my doctorate at Cambridge.’
That shut Jenny up.
‘And you?’ Marina asked back. So diplomatic.
‘I went to Harrow and Oxford,’ replied Anthony. It rolled off his tongue, a much-repeated couplet.
‘Harrow?’ asked Marina.
‘Yes, Harrow School. It’s a boarding school in north-west London. I went there when I was thirteen.’
‘So young to be away from home,’ said Marina.
‘Oh no,’ he said, ‘I went away to boarding school when I was eight.’
‘Didn’t your mother hate you going?’
