Kathy rose to her feet. ‘Thanks for the lunch, Donald. Keep in touch while you’re in London. Let me know how you get on, and I’ll update you if we get any more information.’
She left him pondering on the bench in the shadow of King Billie. When she got back to her office she found a note with the answer to one of the lines she’d been following up: the present owner of 43 Rosslyn Court was registered as Marion Summers, as of the twelfth of January. Kathy read the paragraph several times, her pulse quickening. How was this possible? How had a penniless student come to own an expensive house in Hampstead?
Her request for access to Marion’s known email account had not been as successful. It was an MSN Hotmail account, and the data would have to be released by Microsoft in the USA, subject to approval by the FBI, and with all the recent terrorist investigations, delays were expected. thirteen
S uzanne caught the tube to Notting Hill Gate, then walked briskly down the busy thoroughfare of Holland Park Avenue heading west. It was a fine morning for a walk, a breeze sending the clouds scudding overhead, the pavements damp from an early shower. After a while she turned right into the quieter streets of Notting Hill and began to zigzag to the north and west until she came to the curve of Lansdowne Gardens. It was years since she’d been there, and she was amazed at how it had changed, so much so that she almost stopped and turned back, afraid that the memories she treasured would be ruined by this actuality. It wasn’t that the buildings had been redeveloped, nothing like that-she recognised several of the more distinctive ones as she passed. Rather they had all been buffed and scrubbed and painted, extensions tastefully tucked around, gardens immaculately groomed, security discreetly visible. She remembered how it had been that summer she’d stayed with Angela, forty years before, a scruffy rundown district of old houses in decay, subdivided into bedsits and improvised flats, the warm evenings echoing with the sound of the West Indians’ reggae and the hippies’ Stones. And now look at it. The gloss of evident wealth made her feel vaguely disconcerted, as if the appearance of an old friend had been turned plastic by a particularly exacting face lift.
As she approached the corner with Lansdowne Rise, she hesitated, catching sight of the Italianate tower and the attic windows. Oh Dougie, she thought, fancy you still being here after all this time. Talking to Brock about those days had stirred so many memories that she’d decided to steal a little time to visit the place again before returning home to Battle. But now she felt like an intruder, a thirteen-year-old once again.
Someone was in the garden, a woman with a headscarf stooping to pick jonquils. As Suzanne stared at her, she raised her head and focused, giving a vague smile.
‘Good morning.’
It was Dougie’s mother! What was her name again? Jean? Jan? Suzanne opened her mouth to say good morning in reply, and before she could stop herself said, ‘It’s Lady Warrender, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’ The elderly woman frowned, straightening stiffly and looking at Suzanne more closely. ‘Have we met?’
‘Well yes, we have, actually. A very long time ago, in the sixties. I was a friend of Angela Crick, who used to live next door.’
‘Angela? Why yes, of course, I remember Angela. And you are.. .?’
‘Suzanne. Suzanne Chambers.’
The frown deepened on Joan Warrender’s face and then suddenly cleared into a delighted smile, a twinkle in her eye. ‘Of course! Little Suzanne! Such a pretty girl, and-I’m not wrong, am I?-rather taken by my Dougie?’
Suzanne felt herself blush. ‘No,’ she smiled, ‘not mistaken.’
‘I’m afraid he’s not here at the moment, but I’m about ready for a cup of tea. Won’t you come in and join me, if you have the time?’
‘Well… I’d love to.’
Suzanne stepped through the wrought-iron gate and followed Joan Warrender around the garden to the back of the house. At the kitchen door the older woman kicked off her wellingtons and stepped into a pair of slippers, carrying the flowers to the sink.
‘I was just thinking how much the neighbourhood has changed since I was here with Angela,’ Suzanne said, and Joan laughed.
‘Oh my goodness, when we arrived from India, we thought we’d landed in a slum. Roger bought the house from a highly misleading photograph and information sent by a local agent desperate for a sale. We weren’t here long as it happened, before Roger took the job in New York, but we hung onto the house, and look at it now.’
‘You had an elephant’s foot for an umbrella stand in the hall, didn’t you?’
‘You’re right! Shockingly incorrect now, I dare say. I’m afraid it didn’t survive our various travels. Poor Hathi. He was practically a family pet in India-the elephant, I mean. Dougie was heartbroken when he died. How clever of you to remember his foot.’
Suzanne could barely picture Dougie’s tall, rather severe-looking father. ‘Is Sir Roger here too?’
‘No, he passed away fifteen years ago. I have my own little apartment now. Come and see.’
Suzanne picked up the tray of tea cups and biscuits and followed the other woman out along a passage to a small sitting room with a view over a mass of daffodils leading down to the shared private garden at the back of the house.
‘I have my bedroom through that door there, and my own bathroom, so I’m quite independent.’ She talked about the other members of her family. Dougie was something big in finance, his only daughter, Emily, waiting to take her place at Oxford that autumn. ‘And you may have heard of Dougie’s wife, Sophie. She’s a well-known author.’
‘Yes, I’m a great admirer of her books. As a matter of fact she’s the reason I happened to come by this morning. She contacted a friend of mine a couple of days ago, and he came here and when he told me about his visit it brought back memories and I was curious to see the house again after all this time.’
‘I see. But who was this friend of yours?’
‘He’s a detective, with Scotland Yard. He came to speak with Sophie about the girl who worked for her, who was poisoned.’
‘Oh, that was shocking.’ But Joan Warrender looked more intrigued than dismayed. ‘Did he tell you the inside story? What do they think really happened to her?’
‘I’m afraid he didn’t say.’
‘Oh, but you must find out and tell me. I’m quite fascinated.’ She gestured at the TV sitting in the far corner of the room. ‘I watch all the crime and forensic shows.’
‘Well,’ Suzanne said, wanting to give her something, ‘he’s obviously intrigued by the case. There seem to be some strange features, apart from the poisoning itself.’
‘Oh yes? Like what?’ The elderly woman was leaning forward avidly.
Suzanne would never normally have shared Brock’s comments with anyone else, but Joan’s relish was hard to resist. ‘Why arsenic, and where did it come from? And it seems that she had money that is hard to account for.’
‘Yes! I remember noticing a ring one day. I asked her about it and she wouldn’t say. As for the arsenic, well, I suppose they have that sort of thing in universities, don’t they?’ She raised an eyebrow suggestively, her eyes bright and alert.
Suzanne looked at her, trying to read the innuendo. ‘Lady Warrender,’ she said slowly, ‘what are you saying?’
‘Joan, dear. Call me Joan, please. I’m only stating the obvious. The fact that I saw her once in the company of a certain rather debonair older man who happened to be at the university is purely coincidental.’
‘Well, she was a student-perhaps he was her tutor.’
‘He was.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I asked her afterwards. She seemed rather coy about it.’
‘There’s nothing wrong in a student meeting with her tutor, surely?’
‘Getting into a taxi in Covent Garden, holding hands?’
‘Well… You should speak to David-Chief Inspector Brock, my friend.’
‘Oh no.’ The intensity of Joan’s manner suddenly evaporated and she burst out laughing. ‘I’m no Miss Marple. It was probably perfectly innocent. I couldn’t even be sure that they were holding hands. I think I convinced myself of that to make things more interesting. Sophie would be appalled at me spreading tittle-tattle.’
