‘Yes. I don’t think anyone else used his mobile. Her number was also scribbled on his scratch pad, sir, along with the others he called. No names. She lives up on The Heights.’
‘Yes, I know. Right. Thanks again, Gerry. You’ve done a terrific job. Maybe you can do a bit of digging tomorrow morning, if you can spare a bit of time from HOLMES, and find out all you can about Lady Veronica Chalmers. But tread softly. We don’t want to set off any alarms. And it might be best if we keep her name to ourselves, just for the time being.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Chapter 4
Brierley House stood in the area of Eastvale called The Heights, or what the locals knew as ‘Millionaires’ Row’, a short stretch of ten grand houses widely spaced along the hilltop that crested the town to the north, above the bend in the river. All built of local limestone, though in varying styles, most of them had high stone walls and wrought-iron gates. Most of the gates stood permanently open, though some were locked and linked by intercom with the houses themselves.
The gates to Lady Veronica Chalmers’ house stood open, and as Banks drove down the winding gravel drive, past manicured lawns, flower beds and an ancient copper beech, he felt like Philip Marlowe going to visit Colonel Sternwood, though he doubted that he would find Lady Chalmers sitting in a hothouse. He parked next to a beautifully maintained old MG sports car. A red one.
It was ten-thirty in the morning. As yet, neither Banks nor Gerry Masterson had told anyone about Gavin Miller’s phone call. Banks had considered ringing Lady Chalmers after he had heard the news from Gerry the previous evening, but had decided against it. Though he couldn’t imagine that she was involved in any way with Gavin Miller’s death, he didn’t want to give her too much time to think, or worry, before his visit. Those first impressions could be so important.
There was a brass bell push beside the panelled yellow door, and when Banks pressed it, he heard the chimes ring inside. Nothing happened for a few moments, then he thought he heard a muffled voice followed by the click-clack of high heels across an uncarpeted area. When the door opened, a beautiful young woman with straight dark hair down to her shoulders, a flawless olive complexion, full lips and big loam-brown eyes smiled and asked him who he was and what he wanted. She had the merest hint of an accent, which Banks thought might be Greek or Italian, but he could have been wrong. In her early thirties, Banks guessed, she was casually but smartly dressed in a navy skirt and a buttoned white blouse, tucked into the waistband.
Banks showed her his warrant card and said that he would like to see Lady Chalmers on a private matter. The young woman invited him to step into a spacious reception area with a marbled chessboard floor, high ceiling and a large fireplace, and bade him wait there while she went into one of the rooms, taking his warrant card with her. As she walked away, he noticed not only her fine figure, but that she wasn’t wearing high heels, just shoes that made a lot of noise on the floor. She returned a moment later and led Banks through another door. ‘Please make yourself comfortable,’ she said. ‘Lady Chalmers is on the telephone at the moment, but she will be with you in a short while.’ Then she turned and closed the door behind her.
He was standing in a light and airy room with a number of interesting paintings on the walls, most of them abstract or impressionist in style. One interested him in particular, a striking contemporary portrait of a man and a woman standing some distance apart in a room not entirely unlike the one he was in. He thought he recognised the style, though not the actual painting, and when he walked closer to examine the signature and saw he was right, he swallowed and stared again.
He turned his attention next to the large sliding glass doors and saw once again why these houses commanded the high prices they did. The doors led out to a flagged patio area, complete with white garden furniture and an expensive barbecue and outdoor dining set up. They wouldn’t have got much use out of that this summer, he thought. Stone steps led down to a lower garden, a lawn edged with shrubs and flowers, and more garden furniture. Bay trees, rose bushes and fuchsia stood against the drystone walls of the neighbouring houses, giving the garden a private, cosy feeling. The only flora showing any colour were the teardrop flowers of the fuchsia, still reddish-purple, like a fresh bruise.
The view, of course, was stunning. Looking directly ahead to the south, Banks took in the vista of the town centre cupped in its hollow, the Norman church, the cobbled market square, the Swainsdale Centre and bus station, and the castle ruins up on their hill. Beyond, Hindswell Woods straggled up the slope on the other side of the valley and thinned out towards the summit, above whose ridge spread the ever-changing sky, dark and threatening where it seemed to rest on the line of the ridge itself, but lightening and showing gaps of blue higher up. Below the castle, the terraced gardens stepped down to the river and its waterfalls, which these days were running at full capacity. Banks could hear their deep rumbling even through the double-glazing. Across the river, slightly to the left, lay The Green, another desirable, if not quite as expensive, residential area of Eastvale, with its old trees, green space and ordered streets of Georgian semis.
Banks sensed rather than heard someone enter the room and turned to see a woman standing there, smiling and holding out his warrant card. He took it and shook her hand. It felt warm and delicate in his. ‘Veronica Chalmers,’ she said with the slightly challenging smile of someone obviously aware of both her position and her effect on men. ‘My friends call me Ronnie.’
Banks felt tongue-tied for a moment. He didn’t feel that he could call her Ronnie, but Lady Chalmers was a bit of a mouthful. He resolved to try not to use her name at all.
Lady Veronica Chalmers was a remarkably beautiful woman. Banks put her age at mid-forties, only because of crinkling crows’ feet around her eyes, which he thought added to, rather than detracted from, her beauty. She was simply dressed in thigh-hugging designer jeans and a pale blue scallop-necked top. Her tousled blonde hair fell down over her shoulders in lustrous waves, and a shaggy fringe covered most of her forehead. She had a heart-shaped face and unusual green eyes flecked with amber. Her teardrop pendant and matching earrings, which he could just see among the shadows of her hair, echoed their colours. So here he was, in a house up on The Heights, surrounded by beautiful women. A man might think he had died and gone to heaven.
Lady Chalmers gestured to a winged armchair, which sat at an angle to its partner in front of a low glass table. Facing the view, of course. ‘Do sit down. I’ve asked Oriana to bring us tea. I hope that’s all right?’ Her voice was naturally posh, educated, but not in any way patronising or arrogant. When she sat down opposite him and relaxed, crossing her legs, he noticed how smooth and pale her skin was. Alabaster came to mind.
‘Perfect,’ said Banks. ‘It’s an unusual name, Oriana.’
‘Yes. Oriana Serroni. It’s Italian, of course.’ Lady Chalmers looked towards the sliding doors. ‘Normally, I’d take tea outside,’ she said. ‘Even at this time of the year. But... well... you know what it’s been like lately.’
‘The deluge,’ said Banks.
‘Indeed.’
‘It’s a beautiful house.’
‘Thank you. We’re very lucky. Of course, it’s far too big for us, but Jem does do a lot of entertaining here.’
‘I take it that Jem would be Sir Jeremy, your husband?’
‘Yes. I’m afraid he’s away in New York at the moment, working on yet another a new production. He’s away a lot.’
‘I should imagine so,’ said Banks.
He knew that Sir Jeremy Chalmers was a theatrical producer of international reputation, and a man of influential friends, including the chief constable and the local Member of Parliament, who also happened to be a cabinet minister, which made Banks more than a little nervous about his visit. What a theatrical producer actually did, though, and who he did it for, Banks had no idea. He had always assumed it was a euphemism for a wheeler and dealer, the money-man, what they used to call an ‘impresario’, but he was willing to admit there might be more to it than that. Sir Jeremy was known for his multi-million dollar musical productions along the lines of Les Mis and the Andrew Lloyd Webber spectacles. He had a reputation for taking on odd choices of source material — even odder than Sweeney Todd or The Phantom of the Opera — so much so that the joke was that his next production was likely to be The Texas Chainsaw Massacre III — The Musical, or the rather more highbrow Remembrance of Things Past, Part I. It hadn’t happened yet, but Banks wouldn’t be surprised if it did. Whatever Sir Jeremy did, it had made him a lot of money, which had bought him a beautiful wife and home, not to mention a knighthood.