Martha looked through the window. And now here was the original Martha Gunn herself.
She pushed open the door. Cley was sitting down, reading a book. Although the shop bell jangled he did not look up but continued reading. She cleared her throat. He inserted a bookmark, closed the book and finally turned round. ‘Martha,’ he said. ‘I’ve been expecting you. Somehow I thought that little jug would tempt even you inside.’ He stood up. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m fine. You?’
He looked at her searchingly. ‘You seem a bit… on edge.’
‘It’s been a difficult day,’ she said. ‘And I expect more of the same tomorrow.’
She smiled and walked across to the window, picking the Martha Gunn jug up. It had a price tag of £1,800 on it. ‘An expensive lady,’ she said.
‘I can manage a small reduction,’ Cley said smoothly, playing the antiques dealer to perfection.
She turned. ‘How much of a reduction?’
‘It depends.’
‘On what?’
‘On whether you understand.’
She stared at him. He was a charismatic character, with long, curling hair, too long for current fashion, one pirate earring swinging against his ear lobe. He was in his early thirties and had a very public school accent. He puzzled her, seeming to always have a secret message. She had thought it was simply her name but now she realized there was more to it than just that. Still holding the jug she sat down. ‘Why don’t you stop playing games, Finton,’ she asked softly. ‘It is you, isn’t it?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Message for Martha,’ she said.
He eyed her for a moment as though wondering. ‘Why don’t I stop playing games,’ he repeated softly. ‘Why don’t I? Why don’t I tell you the truth, Martha? I’ll tell you why, shall I?’
She waited, starting to see things more clearly now, as though frosted glass had suddenly become clear.
When he spoke again it was both soft and hard. ‘You like stories, Martha Gunn?’
He drew in a deep breath. ‘So why don’t you sit down? Have a cup of tea and listen to the story I have to tell.’
He began. ‘My father’s name was William. William Cley.’ He looked at her curiously. ‘Does the name mean anything to you?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I don’t think so. And yet…’ She paused. ‘I have heard it before but I don’t know in what connection.’ She hazarded a guess. ‘Work?’
‘Interesting, isn’t it,’ Cley said. ‘The name means practically nothing to you and yet you virtually destroyed his family.’
‘What?’
‘My father died twelve years ago. Unfortunately he had left a note stating his intention.’ Cley met her eyes without flinching. ‘His life insurance specifically excluded suicide so my mother and sister were left without any money. I had been at public school so of course I had to leave and was bullied fairly mercilessly at state school for my posh accent and eccentric clothes. My mother, you may be interested to know, went to pieces. She’s dead now and my sister became very depressed and an alcoholic. There was no money for me to go to university. I could have become a lawyer or a doctor, just like you, but instead I had to support my family, both financially and mentally. That was what happened to William Cley’s family after you brought in a verdict of suicide, Martha Gunn.’ Then quite suddenly he erupted. ‘Why didn’t you simply say accidental death?’
‘If he left a note,’ she said quietly, ‘I had no choice. Your father would have known what he was doing and the consequence of his actions.’
Cley’s face crumpled. ‘I know that,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t make me feel any better.’
‘Finton, I’m sorry about your father,’ she said, ‘but I was simply doing my job. You can’t blame me.’
He did not reply but stared ahead of him, his dark eyes sad.
She bought the jug anyway.
TEN
Sunday
The lunch invitation had been extended to Sukey and Agnetha so they drove in Martha’s car out towards the black and white half-timbered manor house where Simon had lived with Evelyn. Armenia and Jocasta had never really lived there as it had been bought after they had left home. Martha didn’t know if Simon had ever realized, but Evelyn had never really liked it. Bought as a status symbol, Evelyn had found it spooky and too big even with an army of cleaners and gardeners.
The place was immaculate. They drove down the gravelled drive, taking in the manicured lawns bordered by topiary yew bushes and beyond that the little stone archway which led to Evelyn’s favourite spot – the rose garden. Martha couldn’t see Christabel having much of an interest in roses. Still – you never knew. She pulled up outside the oak door and tugged at the bell.
Armenia opened the door, rolling her eyes. ‘What a bloody…’ she exploded then remembered her manners. ‘Hello, Martha. Lovely to see you. Sorry you’ve been dragged into all this.’
She was her mother in some ways, slim and elegant, but she lacked Evelyn’s soft warmth. Armenia was as brittle as glass. She was, though she would have denied it hotly, a clone of her father. Tough, stubborn, very determined, she was a force to be reckoned with.
She looked past Martha and gave a shriek. ‘Sukey Gunn,’ she said. ‘You’ve quite grown up. Right behind my back.’ She gave her a hug and Agnetha too. ‘Thank goodness you’re here,’ she said. ‘It’s been dire. My father. Oh.’ She threw her hands up in the air. ‘It’s ridiculous. I’m ashamed of him. Bloody little gold-digger. Thinks we can’t see right through her? Come on into the lions’ den.’
Martha followed her into the panelled hallway hung with a few ancient portraits. Nothing to do with Simon – he had come from humble beginnings – and they weren’t anything to do with Evelyn either. They had been bought at various salerooms up and down the country. Simon had a friend who was a clever and knowledgeable art dealer and he had purchased most of these through him. But the portraits had the desired effect. They made the house look like an old family seat which was the look Simon wanted.
Armenia was joined by her sister, Jocasta, who looked every bit as fed up as her sister. ‘Hi,’ she said gloomily. ‘Join the happy family – I don’t think.’ She led them into the sitting room.
Simon and Chrissi were sitting side by side on the sofa and frankly Chrissi looked terrified. Simon shot Martha a despairing look and stood up. ‘Glad you’re here,’ he said.
Chrissi gave her a swift smile. ‘Hello again,’ she said in her little girl’s voice.
Simon had a housekeeper, Hannah Scholz, a woman in her thirties who had come from what had once been East Germany. She had been a real find, very tidy and organized, a terrific cook and it seemed to Martha that she did the work of three women, keeping the house immaculate. She was also blessed with common sense and looked after Simon as she had looked after Evelyn right up until her end, adding nurse to all her other roles.
Hannah called them in to Sunday lunch, roast beef with all the trimmings. The distraction of serving food and eating, plus the usual conversation, did lighten the atmosphere at the table. Hannah kept her gaze away from Martha which probably meant that she did not want to join in on the condemnation of Christabel.
Afterwards they sat and talked and Martha began to see Christabel not as a young lovely woman or even a gold-digger but as a person, and she decided then that she would ring Simon later in the week and talk to him. She had a few thoughts to share with him.
DI Randall and PC Roberts had a couple of hours to walk around Malaga, which proved to be an interestingly ancient and historic city. Then they made their way back to the airport and boarded the plane. They spoke a little about their meeting with the Godfreys but Alex was anxious to speak to Martha.