‘Waiting for the right man,’ Isaac said.
‘She’d have you convinced that she was, but I doubt it. She had a notion of eternal love, no such thing nowadays.’
‘These days they want the honeymoon before the wedding.’
‘They always did,’ Wendy said. ‘It was up to the woman to control the situation.’
‘Guilty, I’m afraid,’ Amelia said. ‘I’ve been known to have the occasional one-night stand. I doubt if Matilda had.’
‘Let’s come back to the current situation,’ Isaac said. He enjoyed talking to the woman, refreshingly open, no doubt a lot of fun. ‘Barry, her brother, you knew him?’
‘Very well.’
‘How well?’
‘If you want to know whether I slept with him, then you’d better ask.’
‘Miss Bentham, did Barry Montgomery and you have an intimate relationship?’
‘Infrequently, but yes. Matilda disapproved, not that she ever mentioned it, and it didn’t affect my friendship with her. Matilda was not always at home, and if Barry was there, and I was free, then we’d hook up. A few drinks, an early night. Nothing serious, and not love. He was a philanderer, a man who liked to put it about.’
‘A jogger?’
‘At 5 a.m. sharp, every day, rain or shine, whether I was in his bed or he was in mine. I’d joke with him that he was wasting his energy on running while I was around.’
‘His reaction?’
‘He’d just smile, and it never stopped him running.’
‘Matilda, any signs of obsessive-compulsive behaviour?’
‘The jars in the cupboard, nothing in the fridge past its use-by date?’
‘Yes.’
‘She was always cleaning, even when I was over there. It wasn’t irritating, but she had the symptoms.’
‘And Barry Montgomery?’
‘The 5 a.m. jogging, rain or shine, when there was meat on the plate?’ Amelia gave a smile. ‘What do you think?’
‘Barry died not long ago. Did you know about that?’
‘Not until your sergeant told me. And you think that Matilda did it?’
‘Logically that would be the conclusion. The sister, grief-stricken, dwells on the enormity of what she’s done, sits in her house, her mind churning over, impossible thoughts, disturbing thoughts, and then in a fit of remorse kills herself.’
‘I always thought she was stable, more stable than me. But she was young and without a man, who knows? Maybe she was frustrated, maybe she had an unhealthy relationship with her brother.’
‘Incestuous?’
‘I’ve never considered it, but who knows what goes on behind closed doors.’
‘Miss Bentham, have you someone to be with you?’
‘It’s not needed, not now. Wendy’s been a dear. My mother is arriving in thirty minutes. I’ll go home for a few days.’
‘I’ll take you to where you can meet her,’ Wendy said. ‘The uniforms will be restricting access to the street for some time.’
‘I’ll pack a bag. Just drop me off at Starbucks, up the road.’
‘Your address, mobile number, email?’ Isaac said.
‘I’ve already got it,’ Wendy said. ‘Miss Bentham’s been an ideal witness.’
***
Matilda Montgomery’s body was finally taken down and transported to the mortuary at ten in the evening. The floodlights which had illuminated the house were extinguished at eleven.
The old man who had spoken to Larry earlier in the day, before the woman had been found, had complained that the police were disturbing his sleep with their constant noise. Larry had dealt with the public relations and ensured him that he was an invaluable help to the investigation, and the woman that he had expressed a fondness for, too young for him, he had admitted, had died a sad and lonely death. It was a time for forbearance and forgiveness. In the end, the old man had wandered back to his house. Others in the mews had been interviewed, their details taken. No one had a bad word to say about Matilda Montgomery, all saying that she was quiet, no loud parties, no strange men.
The owners of two houses had made mention that Amelia Bentham, well-connected with a titled father, was not as quiet and that she had the occasional man over. Not that the latter observation came as a surprise, as the woman had admitted to Isaac and Wendy that she wasn’t a shrinking violet.
In a comfortable room at Challis Street, the parents of Matilda and Barry Montgomery sat. ‘Our daughter, we’d like to see her,’ the father said. He was in his sixties, his hair greying, signs of baldness on top. An upright posture and he was tall, even taller than Isaac.
‘You’ve been made aware of the situation?’ Isaac asked.
‘We have,’ Mr Montgomery said. Wendy looked for signs of emotion from the man but couldn’t see any.
‘After we’ve spoken, gathered a few facts, we’ll go to where your daughter is.’
‘Now look here, Inspector Cook. I’m not used to waiting, and she’s our daughter. I demand to see her.’
‘Your daughter has died under tragic circumstances. Surely you don’t want us to hurry our investigation?’
‘No, of course not,’ the father blustered. ‘But I don’t want lamebrained excuses, either.’
‘May I ask your profession?’ Isaac said.
‘Senior civil servant, Home Office.’
Short and sweet, Isaac noted. The man had said all he intended to, and he had no intention of revealing more about his life.
The mother of the dead siblings sat demurely. Compared to her husband, she was a small woman.
‘Mrs Montgomery, I’m sorry for your loss,’ Wendy said.
‘I’ll speak for us,’ her husband said. ‘There’s a chain of command here, and I’ll communicate with DCI Cook, he will communicate with me.’
Wendy was not sure if it was male chauvinism, misogyny, or just pig-ignorance, but decided that it was the latter, as the man, tall as he was, had a roundish face, eyes that were too close to one another, and a flattened nose, almost pig-like. It was a character assassination, she knew it, and if she had said it out loud to
