‘So, your father thinks that you deliberately upset your mother by sending a trunkload of clothes down to their house. He thinks you were sending back Angel’s things, although he doesn’t know what’s in there. Alternatively he just thinks that you’re using the family home as free storage, violating their space. Actually, he doesn’t know who sent the stuff.’
She nodded. ‘Neither do I. I was just shocked by the anger. It’s not like him. He’s never shouted. He’s a quiet man. I can’t believe I just handed the phone to you. I’m sorry. The least I can do is find you a suit. Are you sure you want to carry on with this? You don’t have to, you know, you really don’t. I don’t know why you volunteered. Why are you so good at calming people? Is that legal training?’
‘Am I? Three questions in one. Bad cross-examination technique, unless you want to confuse. I spoke to your father because I hate anyone shouting. I shall go there tomorrow because I’m intrigued and I fancy a day by the sea. And having a calming influence doesn’t come from legal training, which teaches you how to wind people up, it probably comes from being the middle one of five children.’
She propped her elbows on the table, rapt with attention.
‘Really? Fantastic. Lucky you. Brothers? Sisters?’
‘Two brothers, two sisters. Lots of hand-me-down clothes. I could have come out as a cross-dresser.’
Now she laughed. ‘I’m sure it can be arranged,’ she said. ‘We’ve got to find you a suit, haven’t we?’
‘It’d save me going home to fetch the one I have,’ he said. ‘You heard my boss, dear Thomas, giving his opinion that this gentleman I have to see this evening would be unlikely to give the time of day to anyone improperly dressed.’
‘I bet Thomas is wrong, but he pays your wages, I suppose.’
‘He might, if we ever find Marianne’s things. Anyway, I have to respect his opinion. He isn’t a fool.’
He had described Thomas and Thomas’s dilemmas on the long way home, when they had both been talking like trains running. Everything. The unfolding of the skirt, the attitude to Rick Boyd, words tumbling out. Not only talking, but also comprehending, Peter thought, still slightly amazed at himself for volunteering to act as family conciliator in a disagreement, the nuances of which were beyond him. Yet. They moved down to the dressing-room floor, which, like the kitchen, enchanted him. It almost made him wish he could sew. Become a tailor, sitting cross-legged, working in isolation in a warm room full of cloth. No confrontations, no problems other than unpaid bills and a shortage of thread.
‘Some of my male clients give me things and I can never resist men’s shirts,’ Hen was saying. ‘A good suit’s great for recycling. Better cloth than you usually get in the average female fashion item, the best wool seems to go to the gents. We could send you out like a peacock. Smoking jacket? Maybe not. A suit is advised and a suit it shall be. Try this.’
She was half hidden behind the row of what looked like black. He took a suit from her hand. ‘Put it on,’ she said. ‘I’ll stay here.’
The suit was charcoal grey, far kinder than black and it did not fit, either perfectly or at all, but it still transformed him. At least the trousers were a trifle long, better than the oddness of being too short. His existing white shirt would do. Hen also found a tie from stock.
‘I love ties,’ she said. ‘I take them apart and plait them into belts. Yes, you’ll do. Miss Shearer’s paramour might recognise quality.’
In you, she wanted to say. Kind, impulsive, calming, curious you. You look delicious. Instead she suggested a further cup of tea. It was late in the afternoon by now, dark outside and the colours of the room in the spotlights made it difficult to leave. Peter hitched up the trousers of the suit with exaggerated care as he sat down at the work table, touching the rough surface of it with enjoyment. A person could get to like good clothes.
‘Are you sure about tomorrow? I’ve given you the address? What will you do when you get there?’
‘I don’t know. See what gives. See what’s the matter. Bring the stuff back with me, if that’s necessary. I can’t help thinking this all connects.’
She was spooning sugar into his tea as if she wanted to fatten him up, ignoring the last remark. He was not sure if that was deliberate.
‘You could kill two birds with one stone. You know my father has a storage business? Of course not, why should you? Anyway, he does. He’ll also have a list of just about every other storage place in the south east. Things get shifted around, they work together and talk to each other. You could get the information somewhere else, for sure, but he’d know best. He can preach sermons on the subject of storage. Then your Thomas Noble could ring round the lot and see if Shearer deposited stuff.’
‘Thomas is convinced she left everything with a friend,’ Peter said. ‘Possibly the Lover.’
‘Hmm. It would take a good friend, and secret lovers don’t make good friends. He’d have to hide it, wouldn’t he? Don’t you think she’d rather rely on someone she paid? Look, are you really sure you want to do this tomorrow? You’ve got so much to do.’
He grinned. ‘As you said, I can make it part of my investigations. Ask your dad.’
‘He likes a problem. Don’t have a bad impression of him,’ Hen said, anxiously. ‘He’s the nicest man in the world really. Out of his depth, sometimes, with all these women around.
‘He’s an innocent. He can’t believe people can be as bad as they are. He should have talked everything through with a man, but neither of them could talk to anyone else.’
‘Could have done with a son, then?’
She smiled. ‘I wish. Of course, what father wouldn’t? But in their case, if they wanted children, they had to take what was available at the time. Those were the rules. Look at the time. You’d better go. Can’t be late for the Lover.’
‘Regroup tomorrow evening?’
She saluted. ‘Yessir. Watch out for that suit. Are you going straight there? No deviations to parade your finery?’
‘Nope. What do you mean, “what was available?”’
‘Nothing.’ She was hurrying him out. ‘Tomorrow? Come for supper? I can cook, a bit. Least I can do.’
Yes to that. He would love to eat a meal in that kitchen. There was a brief hesitation on his part. He had talked too much, perhaps presumed too much. He felt as if she could hear the other questions buzzing in his head.
How do you get blood out of a fifty-year-old silk skirt?
And why did you send a copy of Angel’s post-mortem report to Marianne Shearer?
‘Thank you,’ she said, touching his arm. ‘Thank you from the bottom of my heart.’
‘For what?’
‘For telling me things. Trusting me with that damn skirt. Doing this. You don’t know what it means.’
I might try water first. A little liquid detergent, over a clean towel. But I’ll take a tiny piece out of the hem and test for colour fastness. Lemon juice. I don’t know, but I’ll get it out.
After the front door closed, she hurried back upstairs to the attic kitchen. Damn, damn, damn. He had been alone in there with the carpet bag she had left behind for the very first time today, a day she had vowed to travel without it. The bag that went everywhere, like an extra coat, because she did not dare let it out of her sight.