with it and used it in all sorts of patent medicines. All this was well known. It was just a fact of life in Victorian England. But Marion seemed to want to make more of it.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘She had very firm ideas about the way the Pre-Raphaelite women were used by their men. She thought they were exploited and oppressed.’
‘You didn’t agree?’
‘Oh, there was a lot in what she said, but I felt the relationships were more nuanced than that-the triangle between William Morris, Jane Burden and Dante Gabriel Rossetti was a very interesting case in point. But where she really lost me was in claiming that arsenic was an integral part of this oppression, deliberately used to keep women sickly and docile.’
‘Really?’
Sophie Warrender shook her head sadly. ‘I gathered that Dr da Silva thought this was nonsense. She was quite scathing about him. But when I cast doubts on the line she was taking she stopped talking about it and became more secretive. And now this. If it weren’t so tragic one would say it was a triumphant vindication of her theories.’
‘Are you suggesting that Dr da Silva might have given her arsenic?’
‘Oh, no.’ She looked acutely embarrassed. ‘That would be a shocking thing to suggest. No, it was just such a strange coincidence
…’
‘Too strange?’ Brock asked.
She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, then again offered him a coffee. This time he accepted, and followed her out to the kitchen, obviously freshly re-equipped and decorated, with the maker’s sticker still on the oven door.
Sophie opened a large stainless-steel fronted fridge-freezer and groaned. ‘Oh dear, no coffee. We may have to make do with tea, I’m afraid.’
Just then a man came in carrying a large cardboard box filled with groceries. He was powerfully built, late fifties, face red with exertion. He swore and dumped the heavy box on the table, then noticed Brock. ‘Hello, who are you?’
‘Dougie, this is Detective Chief Inspector David Brock, from the police.’
‘Oh?’ He drew himself upright. ‘How d’you do.’
Brock offered his hand. ‘Mr Warrender?’
‘That’s right. What’s the problem?’
‘It’s about Marion Summers, darling,’ Sophie said.
‘You called the police?’
‘I thought I should.’
He frowned and said dubiously, ‘Yes, quite right.’
‘Did you know Marion, Mr Warrender?’ Brock asked.
‘Hardly at all. Shocking thing, of course. I suppose you come across it every day.’ He looked around distractedly. ‘Where’s Rhonda? Can’t she sort out this mess?’
‘She’s my secretary, darling, not our housekeeper.’
‘She managed to look after the builders for the past month, didn’t she? Can’t she lend a hand?’
‘She’s gone home. You know she doesn’t usually work on a Saturday. Did you get coffee?’
Her husband grunted. ‘Bugger coffee. I’m opening a bottle of the Nielluccio.’ He bent over a case in the corner and pulled out a bottle of red wine. ‘You’ll join us, Chief Inspector? Corsican, fresh from the vineyard.’
‘Thank you. Perhaps I will. This is a wonderful house. How long have you been here?’
‘Over forty years, would you believe.’ He began opening cupboards, all empty. ‘Where are the fucking glasses?’
‘I think they’re all in the dining room, darling.’
Douglas Warrender stomped out to fetch them and Sophie went on, to Brock, ‘It is a wonderful house, isn’t it? Built at about the same time that Morris and Company started up in business. That was one reason I was drawn to write about Janey Morris. When I walk through the house I can imagine her here, advising the first owners on wallpapers and fabrics. Dougie’s parents bought it when they came back from India in the sixties.’
They heard an exchange of voices, then Douglas returned with a tray of glasses, followed by an elderly woman and a teenage girl, both dressed in thick coats and scarves. ‘Sophie, Joan and Emily want to go out. Tell them it’s lunchtime, for God’s sake.’
‘I can’t stand another minute in the house,’ the older woman said imperiously. ‘The smell of paint is making me quite ill. Emily and I are going out for some fresh air. If we feel hungry we’ll get something ourselves.’
‘Joan, can I introduce you to Detective Chief Inspector David Brock,’ Sophie said. ‘From Scotland Yard. This is Dougie’s mother, Lady Joan Warrender, and our daughter Emily.’
‘A policeman! What have you done now, Dougie?’ the old woman cried. ‘Stealing from your shareholders? Plundering the vicar’s collection box?’
Warrender gave a pained smile. ‘It’s about that research assistant of Sophie’s, Mother. You heard, didn’t you?’
‘Oh yes!’ Lady Warrender was instantly contrite. ‘I’m so sorry. How awful. And you’re leading the investigation into her death?’
‘An inspector of mine is the senior investigating officer on the case. She’s away at the moment, and I answered Mrs Warrender’s call. Did you know Marion?’
‘Only to say hello to. Emily knew her better, didn’t you, dear? She helped you with your school assignment.’
The girl nodded. She was a plainer, awkward version of her mother. ‘I liked Marion a lot,’ she said softly.
Douglas poured the wine into three glasses as Joan and Emily left, then announced that he would take a sandwich up to his study and go through his mail. Sophie and Brock returned to her office in the conservatory room.
They sat, Brock admired the wine, then said, ‘You mentioned William Morris’s arsenic mine in Tavistock. Could Marion have gone to visit it?’
‘Not that I know of. It closed down many years ago. I shouldn’t think there’s much to see there now. Why?’
‘We’re puzzled by where the arsenic that killed Marion might have come from.’
‘But surely that will follow when you discover who gave it to her. Do you have a suspect?’
‘The forensic evidence seems to point to Marion having deliberately mixed and taken a poisoned drink herself. We found arsenic in her kitchen.’
‘What?’ Sophie looked bewildered.
‘You find that hard to believe?’
‘Yes, I do. I would never have imagined Marion was suicidal. Did anything drastic happen to her while we were away?’
‘We’re trying to find that out. Were you aware of a man in her life?’
‘No, she never spoke of one. In fact she never said much about her private life.’ She frowned, thinking. ‘I have absolutely no idea where she could have got the arsenic from.’
‘Did she ever talk about the place where she was living?’
‘It was a student flat in Southwark, I believe.’
‘She moved from there about three months ago. She never mentioned a house in Hampstead?’
‘No. It seems I didn’t really know her at all.’
‘Earlier you seemed guarded when you were talking about her tutor, Dr da Silva.’
She sighed. ‘Yes, I suppose I was. He’s a highly respected scholar of international standing, and the author of the definitive book on Rossetti. But I felt from what Marion said that the relationship between them wasn’t as it should have been.’
‘Really? In what way?’
‘I was only getting one side of the story of course, but from Marion’s odd remarks, she seemed to feel that he was an oppressive figure.’
