‘Very well,’ Isaac continued. ‘We need to move on. Larry, focus on Matilda and Barry Montgomery, much as it upsets the ladies. Wendy, ask Amelia Bentham to confirm one way or the other, and Christine Mason. Are you convinced she’s telling you the whole truth?’
‘She could have still killed him.’
‘That’s what I thought. Push her if you have to. We’ll need to bring her husband in at some time if we don’t get a breakthrough.’
‘If we make an arrest, there’ll be a trial, Christine Mason will be called as a witness. He’ll know then.’
‘Better sooner than later, if that’s the case. If he knew of his wife’s affair… And the woman’s admitted that she used to put it about. She’s probably had other affairs, find out about them. And this lost child? Proven or was it born, adopted? How old would it be if it was still alive?’
‘Late twenties,’ Wendy said.
‘Find out from the woman when and where and how? Backstreet abortion or natural causes?’
‘She’ll clam up if I dig too deep.’
‘We’ve got no time for the niceties, push her.’
‘Bridget, Christine’s teenage love, Gwen’s husband. Find out who he is, where he is.’
***
After a few days, Pembridge Mews returned to normal. It hadn’t been the first murder in the cul-de-sac, although the death of a scullery maid one hundred and fourteen years previously did not concern the team, especially Larry who was back at the scene. The old man with the walking stick, identified as Eugene Smith, had been an impresario in middle age, having worked in the theatre district near Shaftesbury Avenue.
‘Good times, met them all. Even royalty,’ Eugene said. He was sitting in his favourite chair in his house. Larry sat opposite, holding a glass of brandy. The house wasn’t renovated, not in the style of Matilda Montgomery’s and Amelia Bentham’s. It was well-worn, the dividing walls were still in place, the small and dark kitchen at the rear. The main room of the house was warm and homely and smelt of old leather. On two walls, bookshelves, an upright piano hard up against another wall.
‘Great taste,’ Larry said. His wife was all for modern, but somehow the old-fashioned look appealed to him more. Not that he would ever tell his wife.
‘You’re asking about Matilda and Amelia, aren’t you?’ Eugene said.
‘We’re not sure what to make of Matilda’s death.’
‘You’re convinced it’s suicide?’
‘We’ve no reason to doubt that verdict. If someone had been in there, strung her up, there would be evidence, there always is.’
‘Always? No such word.’
‘It’s possible to leave no obvious signs, but you’d need to know what you’re doing. And besides, the woman would hardly have voluntarily stood up there on instructions from someone else.’
Larry gladly accepted a top-up to his glass of brandy, Smith leaning forward with the decanter.
‘She always seemed so well-balanced, and so did he, not that I saw him often.’
‘Amelia Bentham, what about her?’
‘Likeable, attractive.’
‘She’s admitted to a healthy sexual appetite. Did you know about her and Barry Montgomery?’
‘Very vocal, Amelia. I could hear her from here.’
‘Orgasmic raptures?’
‘Not that anyone cared. We’re a disparate bunch, mostly theatricals, entertainers, in one way or the other.’
‘Any parties at her place?’
‘Sometimes. I’d hobble down and have a drink with them. Fifty years ago, I would have been throwing the parties, indulging in the fun.’
‘Was there fun?’
‘Couples pairing off, that sort of thing? I’m sure there was, not that I saw it. I stayed downstairs, had a couple of drinks, then hobbled back.’
‘Any issues with the neighbours?’
‘Not that I know of.’
‘Matilda, did she go?’
‘Never. Not her scene. I don’t know much about what she got up to. I assumed she had the occasional man, but if she did, I never saw him. Only Barry Montgomery.’
‘He went to Amelia’s parties?’
‘Not often, but yes. He and Amelia were friendly, I’ve already said that, but it wasn’t serious, just a roll in the hay. Can’t blame the young man, an attractive woman.’
‘More attractive than Matilda?’
‘No way. Matilda had an innocence about her. Quite unique in her way.’
‘Yet she had had a troubled childhood. Did you ever see her parents here?’
‘Once, her mother. Not that I was introduced.’
‘How long ago?’
‘Three weeks, more or less. I don’t think she was there long. I asked Matilda afterwards about it.’
‘What did she say?’
‘She shrugged it off, said it hadn’t been anything important.’
‘Which you interpreted as…?’
‘I didn’t think any more about it. Not everyone gets on with their parents, and Matilda was an adult. The house was in her name, I know that.’
‘A lot of money for a woman her age.’
‘Maybe, maybe not. It depends on how she earned it, who she had inherited from.’
Eugene Smith had drunk two large brandies. He was asleep. Larry topped up his glass, gulped it down in one go, and left the house.
***
A wrought-iron gate, firmly closed, prevented Wendy from progressing. To her right, an intercom. She pressed the button, a voice with a Yorkshire accent answering.
‘I’ve come to see Amelia Bentham,’ Wendy said.
‘Is she expecting you?’ the voice said.
‘Yes. I’m Sergeant Wendy Gladstone, Homicide, Challis Street, London.’
‘Drive to the front of the house and ring the bell. I’ll
