He grinned. ‘It’ll cost you a pint or three.’
She nodded her agreement to the deal. ‘Cheap at the price, Ernie.’ Then she got Joe Ashworth on the phone.
Chapter Thirty-Five
WAITING FOR VERA TO TURN UP, Juliet was feeling rattled and indecisive. She hadn’t felt able to confide in Mark, though he was back in Brockburn, still giddy with the triumph of his play. He’d arrived earlier than Juliet had expected. She’d hoped to talk to Harriet before he got home, to prepare her for Vera’s visit, but the afternoon had passed without Juliet quite finding the courage for the confrontation. Then Mark was there, elated and beaming. Usually she’d have been happy for him. She enjoyed basking in the reflected glory of his professional successes. She’d never been very good at anything and admired his confidence, felt somehow that his competence rubbed off on her. Today, though, his first words on coming through the door seemed to strike the wrong note:
‘It’s a sell-out all week. The website crashed this morning because so many people were after tickets. We got a review in the Guardian and it went crazy after that.’
Nothing about the killings. No anxiety about Juliet, knocking around in this house with a murderer not yet caught, out of her mind with worry. He’d heard about Connie, though:
‘I saw about it on Twitter and then the phone calls started.’ A little chuckle. ‘Perhaps we should start running Murder Mystery weekends before we get the theatre project up and running. With all this interest we could make a bomb.’
‘I really don’t think this is something to joke about.’ Tension made Juliet’s reply sharper than she’d intended. Part of her suspected he wasn’t joking at all. Perhaps he did see the killings as a money-making opportunity, a chance to get even more publicity for his projects.
Mark looked immediately chastened, a schoolboy reprimanded by a favourite teacher.
‘You’re right, of course.’ He took her into his arms and held her for a moment. ‘That’s in very poor taste. Constance was a sweet old thing and I know you were very fond of her. It’s so sad and we’ll all miss her. Do the police have any idea what might have happened?’
‘They’re still trying to discover the identity of Thomas’s father.’ Juliet paused, looked at Mark for a reaction but there was none. She pushed away the moment of suspicion. Of course Mark couldn’t be the boy’s father. ‘Vera will be here in half an hour. She might have more information then.’
‘Vera’s some sort of relative, right? The one who looks like a bag lady. Do they really think she’s competent to run the investigation?’
Why do you think she might not be? Because she’s a middle-aged woman who doesn’t dress to please men?
But Juliet said nothing. She didn’t have Vera’s courage to be herself. ‘I need to speak to Mother before Vera arrives. I’ll be down in a moment. Dorothy’s gone home but she’s left a casserole in the Aga for dinner.’
Mark seemed not to hear. He was looking at his phone, smiling as he scrolled through the admiring tweets and messages from his theatrical friends.
Juliet knew that Harriet was in her room. She knocked on the door and went in, was hit by a blast of heat.
‘It’s very cosy in here.’ Resentment made Juliet braver than she might have been.
‘Darling, you know I’m not like you. I can’t do the cold.’
‘Vera will be here soon and I need to speak to you before she gets here.’
‘Oh, Vera!’ Harriet dismissed the woman with a wave of her hand. ‘She reminds me of dreadful Hector every time I see her. One of her subordinates was here this morning. Rather brighter than her boss, I thought.’
‘She’s a clever detective, Mother, and you need to listen.’ Juliet sat on the other comfortable chair in the room. Mark must have switched on the lights on the cedar. She saw them through a gap in the curtains, thought they made the tree look ridiculously inappropriate, almost flighty, like a flashily dressed woman at a funeral. She took a breath. ‘I know about the letter Father wrote to you about Lorna Falstone.’
Harriet’s only reaction was to straighten her back and raise her chin a little. ‘I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about.’
‘He showed it to me before he died.’ Juliet had planned the lie as soon as she’d realized this conversation was inevitable. And it was only half a lie. After all, her father had hinted about the content of the letter. She thought Vera would go along with the fib, but that would mean getting to the inspector first to explain. No way could Juliet confess to Harriet that she’d been snooping in this room in her mother’s absence.
There was a silence, as icy as the temperature in the rest of the house.
‘That was unfortunate,’ Harriet said at last. ‘I’d have thought he’d have had more decency. More honour.’
‘You didn’t have the decency to carry out his wishes.’ Juliet had raised her voice and felt suddenly liberated from a lifetime of politeness.
‘How could I,’ Harriet said, ‘without telling the world our business?’
‘Well, I’ve told the police. I thought they had the right to know.’
‘You did what?’ Now Harriet was seriously shaken. She was on her feet. The colour had drained from her face.
Juliet thought her mother might faint, but the sense of power was intoxicating and she continued almost joyously. ‘I met Vera this morning and I told her. Two women have died.’ A pause. ‘Besides, she’d already guessed that Crispin was Lorna’s father, though she was a little surprised that you hadn’t carried out his last wishes.’
There was another silence, while Harriet regained her composure. She returned to her seat and stared at Juliet.
‘What is this about? You never previously had any sisterly feelings for Lorna Falstone. I don’t recall your suggesting that she should share your inheritance. When she was ill, you didn’t visit or invite her to Brockburn to recuperate. So why these
