‘I can’t say I blame her, really-they were fascinating characters, and their lives were all tangled up in such passionate and complicated ways. I’m working on a biography of Jane Burden, the wife of William Morris, the socialist poet and creator of all those wonderful fabrics and wallpapers and pieces of furniture you can see in the V amp; A. But she was also the very striking model for Dante Gabriel Rossetti, who was infatuated with her and was her lover for years, while his friend William looked helplessly on.’
‘And Dante’s wife was Lizzie Siddal, the model for the drowned Ophelia, who looked remarkably like Marion,’ Brock said.
‘Yes. You have been doing your homework. I’m impressed. I had no idea the Metropolitan Police were so well read.’ She gave a little frown and said, ‘Sorry, that sounds patronising, doesn’t it? I didn’t mean it.’
‘Well, Victorian biographies probably don’t figure high on the reading lists of the Met, though when I think of some of the stuff we have to read I’d say it’s a great pity.’ Brock was trying to recall Kathy’s report. ‘We got the impression that Dr da Silva felt Marion’s interest in these people had a morbid element to it.’
‘He may be right. That’s really what I wanted to speak to you about. Can I ask… Rhonda showed me a report in the Guardian this morning, that there’s a rumour she died of arsenic poisoning. Is that true?’
Brock frowned. ‘We haven’t officially released that information, but yes, it does seem to be the case. Is that significant?’
‘Well, it’s an extraordinary coincidence. You see, in recent months Marion became increasingly interested-I would say almost obsessed-with arsenic poisoning. I found myself trying to deflect her with other topics that I wanted researched, but she was quite stubborn. Once she got her teeth into an idea, she just wouldn’t let it go.’
‘How was it relevant to Jane Burden and the Pre-Raphaelites?’ Brock asked.
‘Arsenic certainly had a big influence on the life of Jane’s husband, William Morris. His father established what was then the biggest arsenic mining company in the world, near Tavistock in Devon, which created the fortune that Morris inherited and which allowed him to finance his other projects. Arsenic also cropped up in several coincidental ways in their story-it was used in dyes and paints, in medicines and make-up. They treated syphilis with it and used it in all sorts of patent medicines. All this was well known. It was just a fact of life in Victorian England. But Marion seemed to want to make more of it.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘She had very firm ideas about the way the Pre-Raphaelite women were used by their men. She thought they were exploited and oppressed.’
‘You didn’t agree?’
‘Oh, there was a lot in what she said, but I felt the relationships were more nuanced than that-the triangle between William Morris, Jane Burden and Dante Gabriel Rossetti was a very interesting case in point. But where she really lost me was in claiming that arsenic was an integral part of this oppression, deliberately used to keep women sickly and docile.’
‘Really?’
Sophie Warrender shook her head sadly. ‘I gathered that Dr da Silva thought this was nonsense. She was quite scathing about him. But when I cast doubts on the line she was taking she stopped talking about it and became more secretive. And now this. If it weren’t so tragic one would say it was a triumphant vindication of her theories.’
‘Are you suggesting that Dr da Silva might have given her arsenic?’
‘Oh, no.’ She looked acutely embarrassed. ‘That would be a shocking thing to suggest. No, it was just such a strange coincidence
…’
‘Too strange?’ Brock asked.
She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, then again offered him a coffee. This time he accepted, and followed her out to the kitchen, obviously freshly re-equipped and decorated, with the maker’s sticker still on the oven door.
Sophie opened a large stainless-steel fronted fridge-freezer and groaned. ‘Oh dear, no coffee. We may have to make do with tea, I’m afraid.’
Just then a man came in carrying a large cardboard box filled with groceries. He was powerfully built, late fifties, face red with exertion. He swore and dumped the heavy box on the table, then noticed Brock. ‘Hello, who are you?’
‘Dougie, this is Detective Chief Inspector David Brock, from the police.’
‘Oh?’ He drew himself upright. ‘How d’you do.’
Brock offered his hand. ‘Mr Warrender?’
‘That’s right. What’s the problem?’
‘It’s about Marion Summers, darling,’ Sophie said.
‘You called the police?’
‘I thought I should.’
He frowned and said dubiously, ‘Yes, quite right.’
‘Did you know Marion, Mr Warrender?’ Brock asked.
‘Hardly at all. Shocking thing, of course. I suppose you come across it every day.’ He looked around distractedly. ‘Where’s Rhonda? Can’t she sort out this mess?’
‘She’s my secretary, darling, not our housekeeper.’
‘She managed to look after the builders for the past month, didn’t she? Can’t she lend a hand?’
‘She’s gone home. You know she doesn’t usually work on a Saturday. Did you get coffee?’
Her husband grunted. ‘Bugger coffee. I’m opening a bottle of the Nielluccio.’ He bent over a case in the corner and pulled out a bottle of red wine. ‘You’ll join us, Chief Inspector? Corsican, fresh from the vineyard.’
‘Thank you. Perhaps I will. This is a wonderful house. How long have you been here?’
‘Over forty years, would you believe.’ He began opening cupboards, all empty. ‘Where are the fucking glasses?’
‘I think they’re all in the dining room, darling.’
Douglas Warrender stomped out to fetch them and Sophie went on, to Brock, ‘It is a wonderful house, isn’t it? Built at about the same time that Morris and Company started up in business. That was one reason I was drawn to write about Janey Morris. When I walk through the house I can imagine her here, advising the first owners on wallpapers and fabrics. Dougie’s parents bought it when they came back from India in the sixties.’
They heard an exchange of voices, then Douglas returned with a tray of glasses, followed by an elderly woman and a teenage girl, both dressed in thick coats and scarves. ‘Sophie, Joan and Emily want to go out. Tell them it’s lunchtime, for God’s sake.’
‘I can’t stand another minute in the house,’ the older woman said imperiously. ‘The smell of paint is making me quite ill. Emily and I are going out for some fresh air. If we feel hungry we’ll get something ourselves.’
‘Joan, can I introduce you to Detective Chief Inspector David Brock,’ Sophie said. ‘From Scotland Yard. This is Dougie’s mother, Lady Joan Warrender, and our daughter Emily.’
‘A policeman! What have you done now, Dougie?’ the old woman cried. ‘Stealing from your shareholders? Plundering the vicar’s collection box?’
Warrender gave a pained smile. ‘It’s about that research assistant of Sophie’s, Mother. You heard, didn’t you?’
‘Oh yes!’ Lady Warrender was instantly contrite. ‘I’m so sorry. How awful. And you’re leading the investigation into her death?’
‘An inspector of mine is the senior investigating officer on the case. She’s away at the moment, and I answered Mrs Warrender’s call. Did you know Marion?’
‘Only to say hello to. Emily knew her better, didn’t you, dear? She helped you with your school assignment.’
The girl nodded. She was a plainer, awkward version of her mother. ‘I liked Marion a lot,’ she said softly.
Douglas poured the wine into three glasses as Joan and Emily left, then announced that he would take a sandwich up to his study and go through his mail. Sophie and Brock returned to her office in the conservatory room.
They sat, Brock admired the wine, then said, ‘You mentioned William Morris’s arsenic mine in Tavistock. Could Marion have gone to visit it?’