He shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t expect you to understand.’
‘What about Friday?’ Ashworth asked. He gave the impression that he too was irritated by Vera’s comments and questions, that he didn’t want to be here all day. ‘What did you do before you went to Fox Mill for dinner?’
‘I met Peter for lunch.’
‘Another birthday celebration?’
‘No, nothing like that. We meet most Fridays. Just a pint and a sandwich. When we were more active ringers that’s when the weekend would start. I work flexi so I could take the time off, we’d have lunch then Peter would give me a lift up the coast to the observatory. The others would join us later. We don’t go out so much now, but still have lunch when we can.’
Vera thought sadly that it was probably the highlight of his week. Lunch with an ageing, self-obsessed man who only wanted an admirer.
‘How was Dr Calvert?’
‘Fine. Like always. Looking forward to the weekend.’
‘What did you talk about?’
‘I’m not sure…’
‘You must remember. You have a brilliant memory. Detail. It’s what you do.’
‘He’s writing a book. We talked about that.’
‘And after lunch?’
‘I went home to spend a couple of hours with my mother.’
‘What about Dr Calvert?’ Ashworth said. ‘Where did he go?’
‘Back to the university. At least, I presume that’s where he went. He didn’t say, but he walked off in that direction.’
‘How did you get to Fox Mill?’
‘Gary gave me a lift.’
‘He picked you up from home?’
‘No, he was running late and coming straight from work at the Sage, so we arranged to meet in town. I got the metro.’
He picked up the scalpel again, turned over the dead bird on the board, ran his finger over the skull. ‘Really, I should be getting on with this. I don’t understand the need for all these questions. I was there when a body was found. That was all. I’d never met either of the victims.’
Vera looked over at Ashworth to see if he had anything else to say. He shook his head. ‘We’ll leave it at that, then,’ she said. ‘For the time being.’
‘I’ll show you out.’ Clive dragged his attention away from the little auk, walked ahead of them down the corridors, through the dust caught in shafts of sunlight from the long windows. He opened the door which separated the staff territory from the public domain, hesitated as if reluctant to go further. Vera stopped too and faced him.
‘Would you tell us if you suspected one of your friends of committing these murders?’
He answered immediately. ‘Of course not. I trust them. I know that if they’ve done something as appalling as commit murder, they must have a good reason.’
He turned and walked away, leaving Vera and Joe staring after him.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Felicity wandered back from the garden. She was holding a colander of beans for supper, too many she realized. There would be only the two of them this evening; James had arranged to be out with a friend. In the kitchen she had a moment of unease as she imagined herself and Peter, sitting at opposite ends of the table, eating dinner. She wasn’t sure what they’d say to each other. She imagined Lily Marsh there too. A beautiful ghost, coming between them.
It was ridiculous the effect the death of a stranger was having on her. She told herself not to be hysterical. But this life she’d spent years creating – the house, the garden, the contented family – suddenly seemed very fragile. She had a picture of Vera Stanhope shattering it with her loud, intrusive voice, her big feet, the heavy hands slammed against the table. With her questions, Vera would wreck it all.
She glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall. There were pictures of birds instead of numbers and their calls marked the hours. It was a joke present from Clive to Peter for one of his birthdays. She hated it but Peter had insisted on putting it up. It would soon be two o’clock. There were at least four hours before Peter would be home. She ran upstairs, changed from trousers into a skirt, put on lipstick and a splash of perfume. As the wren finished calling she snatched up the car keys from the hall table and almost ran outside.
She had never visited Samuel at work. She wasn’t even sure where he would be. Certainly, she thought, he would disapprove of this unplanned meeting. He kept his life in separate boxes. But she couldn’t stay at home fretting. She had never made demands before. He would understand that the pressure was intolerable.
She drove along the straight, narrow roads, impatient when she had to slow down for a tractor. It was an old car, without air conditioning, and she had the windows open. The sun shone hot on her arm and shoulder. In the town she slid into a parking space in the street next to the library. Now she sat for a moment thinking again that this trip had been a terrible mistake. Samuel was a clever man. If he’d thought it sensible for them to meet, to discuss strategies, he would have suggested it. He would consider this a rash, foolish gesture. In the end her desire to see him made her give up on reason. She shut the windows and got out of the car. She was a member of the library after all. She had every right to be there.
Inside the building it was cooler. A couple of students and an elderly man were hunched over their public- access computers. Behind the desk was a thin, rather untidy young woman in crumpled linen trousers and a white cotton blouse. She caught Felicity’s eye and smiled at her. She looked familiar. Felicity thought vaguely that she might be the daughter of one of her book group friends.
The book group had brought her and Samuel together. She loved the company of the group, the excitement of trying a book new to her, and when she had been a member for a year, she had persuaded him along to give them a talk. A real published author. The group had read his most recent anthology beforehand and hadn’t known quite what to make of it. The stories were so depressing, they said. Well constructed but twisted and rather horrible. One woman said they gave her nightmares. Generally they preferred happy endings. When he visited, though, they were more positive. They sat him in the big armchair in front of the fire. They were meeting for this session in the home of a large, capable woman who worked as a physiotherapist. Her husband was a surgeon and the room was quite grand. Green walls covered with paintings, large, old furniture. It was February, cold, and the curtains were drawn against the chill weather outside. The audience was wholly female. They drank white wine from tall glasses. Samuel had charmed them, speaking as if their opinions were important to him. He talked about the structure of the stories. These days people were obsessed about character, he said. Character was important, that was a given, but anyone could write faithfully about people like themselves, or people they knew. He was more interested in ideas. His themes were reflected in the construction of his plots. He wasn’t so interested in portraying reality, but in creating a world where the most unlikely events were possible.
‘It’s the only way one has to play God,’ he said.
One woman asked if that made him more like a poet than a novelist. He smiled, delighted, and said perhaps it did. Felicity had thought it all went way above her head. She worried about what she might say to him when they were alone.
‘But wouldn’t you make more money writing real, long books?’ This came from a farmer, who read voraciously but understood nothing of literary snobbery. She never bothered with reviews or award lists. There was a moment of silence. The other women were afraid that he’d been offended. But it seemed that question had pleased him too.
‘If I wrote a novel I’d get caught out,’ he said. ‘I’m not that good an author. I can’t keep going for more than five thousand words.’ He turned towards Felicity, giving her a look of complicity. The light from the fire caught his face. The women in the room laughed. She could tell that they all admired him.
