‘Have you come to join us? It’s only three quid a session and you get tea and biscuits for that as well as the tuition.’
This must be Veronica, Holly’s informant.
‘Ah, pet, I haven’t got an artistic bone in my body. I’m Vera Stanhope, Detective Inspector. You spoke to one of my colleagues in the pub yesterday.’
‘You’re a Stanhope?’ The woman was more curious about any relationship with the family in Brockburn than about Lorna’s murder.
Vera waved her hand. She wondered how often she’d have to explain. ‘A very distant relation to your Stanhopes. I understand that Lorna was a member of your group.’
‘She came occasionally if she could persuade Thomas to time his nap to coincide with the sessions. Then she’d wheel him across in the buggy and join us.’
‘Constance Browne is one of your members?’
‘Oh, Connie’s our leading light,’ Veronica said. ‘The group was her idea. She’s usually here by now to help set things up.’
‘What needs doing?’
‘It’s just a case of putting out the furniture. Some of us have our own easels, but everyone else uses the folding tables and they’re stored under the stage. We could set up in our sleep now.’ Veronica hadn’t stopped moving while she was talking to Vera. Now she plugged in the urn and began to root in a cupboard for cups.
‘And Josh Heslop? I suppose he gets here early too?’ Vera had been hoping to speak to the tutor before the session started. Overnight, she’d formed the questions she’d have been unable to ask in front of his family.
‘Nah, he rocks up just before we start. I don’t think he takes us very seriously. It’s not the most glamorous of gigs, is it, for an up-and-coming artist? Or maybe he thinks shifting tables is beneath him. I suspect he only does the class because Connie twisted his arm. And for the cash, I suppose.’
The other members of the art group started drifting in. Vera realized that her presence had lowered the average age in the room considerably. Most were in their sixties and seventies; a few were much older. No wonder Lorna only wandered in on occasions. What could she have in common with these elderly people with their chat of bargain cruises and brilliant grandchildren? Why had she attended at all? Perhaps she had felt some form of obligation to Constance Browne. Or, if Josh Heslop was her lover, it provided an excuse to see him without the rumour machine firing into action. Then Vera thought this gentle group of people probably provided her with the kind of warmth that her parents had seemed unable to give.
Josh Heslop came in, just as a couple of the students were starting to mutter disapproval about his being late. He was flustered, apologetic, full of excuses about his car not starting. Vera thought the group had probably heard it before, but they were indulgent. Really this was a social, rather than an educational, activity. A few of them were already working on a painting and he encouraged them to continue. ‘I’ll come around and take a look.’ He set an earthenware jug, containing bare twigs and a spray of holly, on the table in front of him. ‘Shall the rest of us start on this?’
Vera saw it would be impossible to talk to him now. The artists would feel short-changed if she dragged him away. She’d come back at the end of the class.
She stood behind Veronica, who was sketching out a landscape from a photo propped on the top of the easel. ‘The view from my kitchen window. Isn’t it joyous?’
Vera supposed it was, but this was her home, this space and these skies, and she took it for granted. ‘Have you heard from Constance?’
‘No. I tried phoning but I don’t have any signal in here. Perhaps she didn’t feel she could come so soon after Lorna’s death. They were very close.’
Vera nodded, but decided she’d find out what had kept the teacher away. Connie would have decent coffee and home-made biscuits, and Vera was interested to know why the woman hadn’t mentioned Lorna’s attendance at the art class or her friendship with Josh Heslop. She must have understood that the information would be important. ‘I’ll be back before you finish.’
They were all so focused that she didn’t think any of the others had noticed her leaving.
She left her car outside the hall and walked back to the village. There was ice on the river still and the wind was from the north again. Perhaps the bairns would have snow back for Christmas after all. She’d forgotten her gloves and kept her hands in her pockets, tried to pull her hat down over her ears, before realizing that her head was too big. Or that the hat was too small.
The curtains were open in Constance Browne’s bungalow, but looking through the window, Vera saw the woman wasn’t in the living room. Vera rang the bell. No answer. She tried the door. As she had expected, it was locked. She was about to turn away when she remembered she’d taken the car keys from Constance’s car when she’d found it on the Friday night. The automatic response of a police officer. There had been other keys on the ring. Connie hadn’t needed them and Vera had intended to pass them over to Billy Cartwright to go to the lab. She had her work bag with her and, pulling on a pair of nitrile gloves, she tried the keys one by one in the lock. At last the door opened.
Vera stood inside the door and shouted. Perhaps the woman was in the bath or
