‘Your husband?’ Amelia asked.
‘He died young, dementia at the end.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘No need to be. He was difficult during the last few months, and now I’m sharing the house with Bridget, one of the ladies in Homicide. There’s enough money between the two of us to go on holidays twice a year.’
‘The silver spoon?’ Geoffrey reiterated.
‘In the countryside, I didn’t see it much, but when I got to Sheffield, there they were, the late teens, the twenty-somethings, with their pockets flush with cash, partying, getting drunk, drugged, not caring who got in their way. It just seemed unjust, and then there was Margaret Thatcher attempting to bring to heel anyone who opposed her. Good people suffered. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a storm the Bastille socialist. It’s just that I feel that people should be treated better, a fairer division of wealth. The rich helping the poor.’
‘I’m a socialist,’ Geoffrey said. ‘Small “s”, though. When Denise and I were first married, and before I inherited the title, before Amelia was born, we were doing it tough. We’ve experienced the other side, not that we ever want to go back.’
‘You’ve all been very hospitable,’ Wendy said. ‘I could get used to this.’
‘Then enjoy your time here. There’s another wine I’d like your opinion on.’
‘I still need to talk to Amelia,’ Wendy said.
‘There’s all night. Enjoy your meal and your wine,’ Amelia said. ‘We will go into the other room later. There’s a log fire in there.’
***
It was two in the morning before Wendy and Amelia finally had a chance to sit down and talk. The retreat to the log fire, the heat it gave off, the subdued music playing in the background, and Wendy, the worse for wear after a good meal and more wine than she had drunk in a long time, slept for three hours, her feet on a stool in front of the chair where she was sitting.
‘I left you to sleep it off,’ Amelia said when Wendy finally stirred. ‘I’ve brought you a pot of black coffee. I hope that’s alright.’
Wendy got up, slightly embarrassed because she had visited the Benthams on official business, not to indulge herself.
‘Mum and Dad don’t socialise much,’ Amelia said. ‘They’re not into foxhunting and hanging out with the local gentry.’
‘Foxhunting’s banned, isn’t it?’
‘They still have their hunts, make out they’re tracking an animal-based scent. Fox urine, usually, and they’ve still got the hounds. It’s proof, that’s the problem. Even now, there are attempts to overturn the ban in Parliament.’
‘Matilda?’ Wendy said as she drank her coffee.
‘What can I tell you that I haven’t already?’
‘We know from her mother that her father bought the house for her.’
‘She never spoke about her father. Not even her mother from what I can remember.’
‘According to the mother, a nervous, timid woman, very much brow-beaten and controlled, she used to meet with Matilda on an occasional basis.’
‘As I said, Matilda never spoke about her parents, always changed the subject. Sorry, I can’t help you there.’
‘We know that Matilda’s father was, still is, a controlling individual. Off the record, the man’s a horror. He must have subjected his daughter to untold mental anguish.’
‘Physical abuse?’
‘It’s not been proven one way or the other. We’ll continue to check, but we don’t believe that he did. He gave the house in Pembridge Mews to Matilda with no conditions, and the family home is attractive and well maintained. His wife has also been cared for, although not a life that you and I would enjoy.’
‘Man, the provider; woman, the child bearer and homemaker? Her father’s view of how the world should be?’
‘It’s more than that. According to Inspector Hill, the woman was locked in her room. Not neglected or maltreated, far from it. The room was luxurious, and the woman wanted for nothing.’
‘Except her freedom.’
‘The one thing that she had been conditioned not to want. It was subtle brainwashing, that’s for sure. But Matilda must have been affected by it, though.’
Amelia put another log on the fire before continuing.
‘We’ve spoken about this before. Matilda never opened up about her life, and whereas she’d go out and enjoy herself, she’d never get drunk or take a man home with her.’
‘And then she commits suicide. If she had murdered her brother, the most likely scenario, what’s the reason? We know she was close to him, but did it transcend sibling love into something else?’
‘It could have, but why? Barry was interested in other women, including me. I can’t see why he’d want to be sleeping with his sister.’
‘Amelia, take your head out of the sand for a minute,’ Wendy said, sounding awfully close to a preaching mother, she thought. ‘You have kind and loving parents, a good life, not only here, but an interesting career. Matilda had a strict upbringing as a child, no horses to ride, no freedom to make mistakes, to sleep with the wrong boy or man, to get drunk. Nothing that you and I take for granted, apart from the horse.’
‘You grew up on a farm,’ Amelia said.
‘Okay, a horse that worked on the farm, pulling a cart, my father riding it to check around the place. I saw your horse; it wasn’t a nag.’
‘Do you ride?’
‘When I was younger. We’re digressing. Let’s talk about Barry. You slept with him on a few occasions.’
‘Three, from what I can remember.’
‘Remember or know?’
‘It was more than three. Once after a night at the pub, and another time when Matilda was asleep, and he crept over, used my key under the flowerpot and climbed in with me. The other times when the opportunity presented itself.’
‘You didn’t suspect it was someone else coming into the house?’
‘I don’t make it a habit of letting
