The Red Dahlia

shine you can get.'

Anna smiled, but kept her attention on her notebook, not wanting to get into any further discussions about polishing. 'Do you recall the ninth of January this year?'

'Oh I couldn't say; what day would that be?'

Anna spent a good five minutes waiting as Mrs Hedges yet again removed her gloves and went to a wall calendar. She huffed and puffed, patting her pockets, then taking out a pair of glasses. 'I was here, as usual.'

'Could you tell me about the day itself, if there were any visitors, if Mr Wickenham was here?'

'Which one? Mr Charles or Edward?'

Anna sipped her tea as Mrs Hedges went through her day's routine: how she planned each menu ahead, when the cleaners came in, when the linen was changed, etcetera etcetera. She could not recall anything out of the ordinary happening on that specific day, or any house guests staying, as it was mid-week. She said she did not cook as Charles Wickenham was dining in London. She could not recall what time she saw him return, as she was usually in bed by nine-thirty.

'Unless we have guests and there's dinner, but we get help in for me, you know, to serve and clear. I mostly just run the house day to day. I have done for fifteen years. Before him I worked for his father, so all in all I've been here for forty years.'

'So Mr Wickenham entertains a lot?'

'Yes he certainly does; well, a lot more so in the past, when Mrs Wickenham was here. It was most weekends then, and we needed extra help most of the time. She liked to have big dinners. They used the barn when it was converted: there's a big entertaining room there now. The dining hall here is not that big and really only seats twelve comfortably.'

'So these dinner parties were a regular weekend occurrence?'

'Oh yes, we've eight bedrooms. The guests would arrive on a Friday afternoon, leave sometimes on Sundays or even Monday morning.'

'And the extra help, did they stay as well?'

'Yes, in a staff flat above the stables.'

'Did you serve the guests?'

'No, well, I'm getting on; like I said, I go to bed early. My room is right at the back of the house. It's very quiet; well, if it wasn't, I'd not get much sleep.'

'Why is that?'

'Well all the comings and goings and the music, and in summer they use the pool and the spa, and then there's the stable boys, they have to exercise the horses, and that's always around seven in the morning when they start arriving.'

'So they don't live in?'

'No no, they're local lads, they do all the mucking out and grooming. Mr Charles is very particular.'

Anna nodded, and then opened her file. 'I am going to show you some photographs to see if you recognise anyone. Would you look at them for me?'

'Yes dear but, you know, I don't get to meet his guests. Like I said, I prepare the food sometimes then I'm off to my bed.'

'But not when Mrs Wickenham was here?'

For the first time there was just a flicker of unease. 'No, well, she was quite a handful; she was very keen on getting in caterers. She didn't like my offerings — said they were 'meat and potatoes' — they wanted this nuvo cuisine. Well, to be honest, I was happier cooking for the children than running around after the people she had down here.'

'You didn't like them?'

'I never said that; they were just not my type of people. The children were always my priority, and Mr Charles. You see, before I worked for him, I was cook for his father. I've been working at the Hall since I was in my thirties, and I'm seventy-two years old now.'

'That's a long time.'

'It is. My husband died in an accident on one of the farms, so I came to work here. No children of my own, so I really enjoyed…' There was a strange unease about her body language: she seemed to twist and turn in her chair as she rubbed at the silver. 'I loved them like they were my own.'

'So you know Danielle, Mrs Wickenham's maid?'

'Yes, yes I do, she was here for years and thank God she was, because I couldn't have run after her ladyship the way she had to. Mrs Wickenham had a right temper on her, she could be a handful to deal with.'

Anna first showed Louise Pennel's picture. Mrs Hedges shook her head; she also didn't recognise Sharon Bilkin. Anna was disappointed. She took out the photographs of the sex games in the sauna, which had been doctored so that only the faces of the men they were trying to identify were visible. Although Mrs Hedges was unable to recall his name, she said she thought that one of them was Spanish, a well-known artist.

'He was not a very nice man; he used to stay many times, always over at the barn. He used to paint there sometimes.'

'Was this before it was converted?'

Mrs Hedges hesitated.

'Edward Wickenham's wife committed suicide in the barn, didn't she?'

Mrs Hedges took a deep breath and then wafted her hand. 'Yes yes, terrible, very sad.'

Anna was not expecting Mrs Hedges to continue, as the mention of the suicide had obviously distressed her very much, but she leaned forward and lowered her voice. 'Things have gone on in the house. I've learned over the years to do my job and go to my room. What the eyes don't see…'

'But if you thought these things were bad, why did you stay?'

Mrs Hedges picked up a polishing cloth and started buffing up a silver goblet. 'My husband died young, he left me in some financial trouble and old Mr Wickenham helped me out. This is, I suppose, the only real security I have ever had. I've no family, so the girls and even Edward have been like my own. They look after me, treat me very well.'

'So you must have been very concerned about Emily?'

Bingo. At last Anna had hit a target that Mrs Hedges could not polish away, and she became tearful.

'I made excuses, because of the way he was treated. But not over Emily; that was unforgivable.' Her voice was hardly audible. 'I knew there had to be a reason why you were here. If I tell you what I know, and Mr Charles finds out, then God knows what he'll do to me. But I've saved all my money, I can go somewhere.'

Anna reached out and gently stroked the elderly woman's hand, encouraging her to continue. She clasped Anna's hand tightly. 'I should have done something when I knew what was going on.'

Charles Wickenham was fending off every question like a master duellist. He parried and queried and never at any time appeared fazed or ashamed when asked about his sexual proclivities; in fact, he seemed to relish discussing his house parties. When Langton brought up the accusation of his relationship with his own daughters, he dismissed it with a waft of his hand.

'Not this again. I have already discussed my daughter's problems and her overactive imagination; we have doctors and therapists who can also verify that Emily is a dreadful little liar. I did not have a sexual relationship with my daughter.'

'What about the pregnancy?'

Langton watched Wickenham closely. There was not so much as a flicker.

'It was all in her mind. Of course, I questioned the staff: you know, the stable boys and gardeners, whether any of them had been having sexual intercourse with her, obviously I did, as she was underage, but there was no truth in it; all in her addled little mind.'

'She claims that she had an abortion.'

He sighed, shaking his head. 'Claims! Well, if you have any evidence of this abortion then I would dearly like to know about it, because it is a total fiction!'

'So you did not operate on your daughter?'

'Me! Good God, what do you take me for? I am her father! This is a very serious allegation. You know, I really do think that I should have someone here to listen to all this.'