‘I see.’ Barnaby glanced over at the small, pretty house. ‘Hasn’t someone already visited you?’
‘Oh yes. A very efficient young man if somewhat fussy about his clothing.’ She had watched Constable Phillips standing at her gate for ages, frowning crossly and picking balls of pale fluffy stuff off his uniform trousers. ‘I’ve told him my ideas though I’m not sure he quite appreciated the wide range of my knowledge and experience.’
‘Would that be in some special subject then?’ asked Sergeant Troy politely.
‘Personal relationships,’ replied Evadne, beaming at them both. ‘The ebb and flow of emotion in the human heart. And really, isn’t that what all your investigations come down to in the end?’
During this conversation the Pekes had been lunging about and Evadne had lunged with them, hanging on to her trilby as best she could.
‘I’ll certainly keep what you say in mind, Miss Pleat,’ muttered Barnaby. ‘Now, if there’s nothing else ...?’
‘Not at the moment. But if there is anything specific you need help with, you only have to ask. Say goodbye to the nice policemen,’ instructed Evadne.
Although they had not stopped barking since the conversation started, the dogs now redoubled their efforts, yapping and leaping and tumbling about and getting their leads mixed up.
‘What are they called?’ Sergeant Troy lingered and heard an irritated snarl somewhere in the region of his left ear.
‘Piers, Dido, Blossom, Mazeppa - don’t do that, darling. Then there’s Nero and the one right at the back is Kenneth.’ She indicated a tiny white chrysanthemum, squeaking and jumping straight up and down into the air.
Troy had to run halfway across the Green to catch up the chief.
‘You’re a fast mover, sir.’
‘I am when I want to get away from something.’ Barnaby approached the car with feelings of relief. ‘How does she ever hear herself think?’
‘They were only being friendly.’
Barnaby gave him a look to turn the milk. They got in the car. Troy switched on the ignition and tried to think of a conciliatory remark to jolly up their homeward journey.
‘Unusual name, Evadne Pleat.’
‘You think so?’ Barnaby could afford to sound superior. He was recalling the occasion, some years back, when he and Joyce had visited her brother in America. Colin, exchange teaching in California, was living in an apartment owned by a woman called Zorrest Milchmain. You had to get up early to beat that one.
Joyce was laying the table. A pretty blue-and-yellow Provençal cloth, honeysuckle in a tall crystal vase, narrow elegant wine glasses.
Everything except the soup (carrot and coriander) was cold tonight. Joyce had popped into Fortnum’s on her way to Marylebone station and had set out wild smoked salmon, steak and chestnut pie, artichoke hearts and Greek salad.
She had been to London for lunch at the National Theatre. Nico’s audition was at eleven thirty. Joyce and Cully met him in the Lyttelton foyer. They sat for a while listening to a flute, viola and piano trio playing a Fauré romance then went up to the Olivier restaurant where Joyce had booked a table.
Everyone had a glass of champagne because, although Nicolas wouldn’t know the results of the audition for at least another week, it had still been a wonderfully exciting day. He had auditioned for Trevor Nunn on the Jean Brodie set and was high as a kite simply on the strength of having stood on the same spot and walked the same boards as the greatest theatrical names of the century: Scofield and McKellan; Gielgud, Judi Dench and Maggie Smith. This was the place where Ian Holm had played King Lear. Had Joyce seen Lear? It was the most breathtaking display of bravura ... ohhh ... heartrending ... you just couldn’t believe ...
Joyce smiled, content to let him run on. That was one of the comfortable things about actors. They were so easy. You were never short of a subject for conversation.
She watched Cully kiss her husband’s cheek, raise her glass, happy and excited. But having a daughter in the business had made Joyce sharply aware of the vagaries of the artist’s life. Up one minute, down the next. And she knew Nicolas, too, quite well enough to understand that by the evening doubts would gradually be breaking the surface of all this sparkling ebullience. Even now having just said that Trevor Nunn seemed really encouraging, he added, ‘Of course, seemed ...’
Joyce looked out of the window at the sun glittering on the river and at London’s great iron bridges and sighed with pleasure. She had the gift of always knowing she was having a wonderful time while she was actually having it, not just in retrospect like so many people. It would be such fun telling Tom. When he came into the kitchen she was still lost in reverie.
‘I say!’ He was staring at the table. ‘This looks a bit of all right. What’s that?’ He pointed to a spectacular pudding.
‘Pear Charlotte. You can just have the pears.’
‘Where d’you get all this?’
‘Fortnum’s.’ Then, when her husband looked puzzled, ‘I’ve been to London.’
‘What for?’
‘Tom, honestly.’
‘Don’t remind me.’
‘I’m not going to.’
‘There’s some Chardonnay in the hall that would go a treat with this. D’you mind, love?’
When Joyce returned from the wine rack, a bottle of Glen Carlou in her hand, Barnaby said, ‘Nico’s audition.’
‘You looked at the calendar.’
‘Has he got in?’
‘I’ll tell you all about it over supper.’ She opened the wine. ‘The Gavestons cancelled, by the way.’
‘Jolly good. So ...’ he waved his hand at the crystal and glasses and flowers. ‘What’s all this for?’
‘It’s for us.’ Joyce gave him a glass of wine and a brisk kiss on the cheek.
‘Mm.’ Barnaby drank deep. ‘Very nice. A cheeky little number with a warm undertow and a steely backbone. Reminds me of someone not a million miles away.’ He started to sing ‘The Air That I Breathe’ quietly, under his breath. It had been their song, years ago, played at their wedding. ‘ “If I could make a wish I think I’d pass ...” ’
Joyce passed him a napkin.
‘Remember that, darling?’
‘What?’ She had started eating.
‘The Hollies?’
‘Mm. Vaguely.’
Chapter Eight
It was nearly ten the following morning when Ann Lawrence regained consciousness. No way could you call it simply ‘waking up’. The Hoover on the landing outside her room buzzed faintly at first, no louder than a bee. Gradually the level of the sound increased. There was knocking as the machine banged against the skirting board.
Ann felt as if she was swimming up from the depths of the ocean. On and on she swam, struggling through dark layers of muddy mind swamp until finally somehow heaving back her swollen eyelids. She found herself in semi-darkness. For a moment, lying on the pillow, she stared at the uncertain outlines of heavy furniture. It all looked completely unfamiliar. Then she made the mistake of trying to lift her head.
‘Ahhh ...’ A searing pain flared behind her eyes. Gasping from the shock of it, she closed her eyes and waited for the agony to pass. Then, keeping her head very steady and pressing down weakly on the mattress, Ann levered herself up the bed until she was leaning against the headboard and rested there, absolutely still.
The vacuum cleaner had been switched off. There was a very gentle tap at the door. Hetty Leathers put her head round then came cautiously into the room.