‘Then it’s not admissible.’
‘It’s alright,’ Gwen said. ‘I did meet her one time.’
‘But you’ve always denied it,’ Isaac said.
‘I had hoped to conceal the fact about my husband and Amelia.’
‘Did you confront her?’
‘At the pub, yes. It was the only time, that’s the truth. I knew she was going up there of a night, and I needed to tell her to back off.’
Wendy could see the woman was flustered.
‘Do you believe that your husband was having an affair with Amelia Brice?’ Isaac said.
‘He was still sleeping with her, I know that.’
‘Your husband has always denied it.’
‘My husband is a liar. The man can’t help himself.’
‘You’re husband is the Q that is mentioned in Amelia Brice’s diary?’
‘I believe so.’
‘You’ve denied this in the past. In fact, Mrs Waverley, you have a habit of contradicting yourself. If your husband was having an affair with her, why was she so frightened of him?’
‘That’s Amelia. She was always a little strange.’
‘Tell us about that night at the pub.’
‘I found her there. It was early in the evening, too early for the men she liked to have come in. I went and sat down next to her.’
‘What was her reaction?’
‘She was shocked to see me there. She said nothing at first.’
‘And then after?’
‘For a while, we were old friends again, laughing and joking. Eventually, we got around to Quentin and how I’d stolen him away from her, and how he wanted to go back to her. That’s according to Amelia.’
‘Is it true?’
‘Which part?’
‘Both.’
‘I didn’t steal him. Their romance was on the rocks. I wanted Quentin, always did, so I made sure he was mine. You know the story, so don’t ask me to repeat it.’
‘Did your husband want to go back to her?’
‘She thought so, and no doubt, in the heat of passion, he would have said what she wanted to hear. My husband, DCI Cook, is a philanderer.’
‘And you do not object?’ Wendy said.
‘Of course I object, but men such as Quentin have large egos that need to be fed. He’ll stay with me and be a good father to our children.’
‘But your husband continued to see her. According to her diary, up until just before she died. Mrs Waverley, why did Amelia Brice die? Why did Christine Devon die? What did they know?’
‘This questioning is unacceptable,’ Gwen Waverley’s lawyer said.
‘It’s either here or at Challis Street today. The reason for the two women’s deaths is in this house,’ Isaac said. ‘It’s either Mrs Waverley or her husband, and I don’t know which of the two, if either, is telling the truth.’
Wendy thought that her DCI was pushing hard, a tactic he had used in the past. Rapid-fire questions, trying to break the slow and reasoned answers of the other person, but she knew that Gwen Waverley was unlikely to make a mistake.
It was clear that the woman was uncomfortable with the situation. She looked over at her lawyer, hoping that he could help her. She had nothing to answer to; on the contrary, she was innocent of all charges, bar the one of being ambitious and driven. Gwen Waverley looked over at the two questioning her: one, a woman in her fifties, her accent indicative of her background, the other, a smart, attractive man, not English heritage. She felt that she should be judged and questioned by her peers, not those that she deemed inferior. She thought back to that night in the pub with Amelia, the fascination that her former friend had for the men that came in. The place had repulsed her. It hadn’t in the past, but she had moved on from being rebellious and an easy lay.
To her, Quentin Waverley had been the ideal subject for her to snare: well-educated, well-spoken, a good family, good breeding stock. The fact that he was a man who could lead her father’s bank when he was gone was a benefit. She remembered how she had snared him, knowing that he loved Amelia, but then, how could he not. Gwen knew that Amelia was a woman that men found attractive, a willowy blonde with an approachable personality, whereas she was not.
The two women had met at boarding school: one, the child of an abrasive media personality, the other, the child of a punctilious banker. They should not have been friends, but they bonded from day one. After that, at school and after they had left, where one was, so was the other. When one was getting drunk, or making out with a boy or, in later years, a man, so was the other, and then Quentin came into Amelia’s life, and her friend started to change.
And then the bond that had made Amelia and her almost like sisters was broken.
Gwen had never felt such loneliness, she knew that. Her father was a cold man; a man who would indulge her every whim, but not a man who was capable of showing affection, not even to her mother, who had remained steadfastly in the family home, rarely venturing out, until she had succumbed in her late sixties to cancer.
Her father had battled on, sorry that she had gone, but then he had his personal assistant. Not that it shocked or concerned Gwen, as that was what powerful men did.
After Amelia had spent time with Quentin, even moving in with him, Gwen had confided in her father about her love for the man, the possibility that he may be the solution to the lack of a male heir to take over the bank. Her father would have let her have the chairmanship, but she did not have the necessary financial acumen. It wasn’t a
