(I had, and I could remember the man's answer verbatim down a crackly line from Riyadh. "I can't help you, I'm afraid. Unfortunately Miss Butts decided I was stealing her money, so I passed her account to my deputy, who died five years ago.")
"Did you think of contacting Sotheby's to find out if they still had a copy of the valuation and why she wanted it?" I asked.
"No, but it wouldn't have made any difference if I had," she said with a dry laugh. "Larry started getting stroppy about the amount of time I was wasting so I put the husband and children first and let Annie go."
I thought about Sam's fury over the policeman in Hong Kong. "It's very irritating, isn't it?"
"What?"
"Doing your duty."
"Yes." She pulled a wry smile. "The worst is yet to come, though."
"How do you mean?"
"Larry's older than I am and he's here under sufferance until I reach pensionable age ... and that's only two years away. Then we retire to his condo in Florida."
"Why?" I asked curiously.
"It's the bargain we made when he took on me and the children." She read my expression as criticism. "We don't have the same sort of marriage as you and Sam. The plan was to return to the States when Larry retired, but he agreed to wait after I was offered this job in Dorset. He said he could tolerate another few years as long we weren't in London." She sighed. "It's a long story ... full of compromise."
"It sounds it," I said sympathetically. "Do you want to live in Florida?"
"No," she said honestly, "but I want lonely old age even less. I've seen too much of it to consider it as an option."
It was a salutary warning, coming from a doctor. "What makes you think Sam's and my marriage is any different?"
She shrugged. "He wouldn't abandon you if you gave him an ultimatum."
I was about to point out that Sam had done it once and there was no reason to imagine he wouldn't do it again. But I realized she was probably right. Somewhere along the line our roles had changed and it was Sam who feared ultimatums now. "He's more afraid of loneliness than I am," I said slowly. "which means I hold the cards in our relationship ... just as Larry does in yours."
She glanced at me in surprise. "That's a very calculated way of looking at it."
"Born out of experience," I said lightly. "I think real loneliness is to be abandoned inside a relationship ... to find yourself questioning your worth all the time. I know what that's like, and I know I can survive it. I imagine the same is true of Larry. He's been there, done it, got the T-shirt ... and you haven't. Neither has Sam. It puts you both at a disadvantage."
"Larry wouldn't know what loneliness was if it smacked him in the face," she protested. "He's the most gregarious creature I know. It drives me to distraction sometimes. I'm constantly being hauled out to social functions when all I want to do is sleep because I'm dog-tired from pandering to the ill all day."
I smiled at her. "That's the whole point. You're leading a fulfilled existence and Larry isn't. He has to go outside to find a sense of purpose. Yours is so strong you just fall asleep and prepare for the next day's challenges."
She propped her arms on the fence and stared across the field. "Is this your way of telling me Annie was your sense of purpose?"
"Part of it."
"You had babies," she said. "Didn't they fill a gap?"
"Did yours?"
"No, but then I had a career. In any case I'm not remotely maternal. I can cope with my patients being totally dependent on me ... but not my children. I expect my children to fend for themselves."
I wondered if she was listening to herself, and whether she'd asked Larry how he felt about the professional/private divide. "Mine just added to the general anxiety," I said, joining her at the fence. "My elder one did, anyway. We moved to Hong Kong while I was pregnant and a child was about the last thing I needed at that stage."
"How did Sam take it?"
"Blindly."
Sheila gave a snort of laughter. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"He had a son," I said dryly. "He was thrilled ... just so long as someone else looked after it." We stood in companionable silence for a few moments, understanding each other. "Do you still have a copy of the list you made of Annie's possessions?" I asked her next.
"Isn't it in the file?"
"No."
She looked doubtful. "I'll have a look when I get home ... the problem is we threw so much out when we moved down here seven years ago. The other thing that's missing is the correspondence I had with the social worker. I remember she wrote a long letter describing the interior of Annie's house, but none of it was in the file when I photocopied it for you. I'm afraid it must have come adrift during the move."
I wondered what else had come adrift and indulged in a few dark thoughts about Larry, who clearly wasn't above a little sabotage to ensure that his needs came first. Shades of Sam? "Could you make another list?"
"I can try. It won't be as detailed as the first. What do you expect to find?"
"Nothing valuable," I said. "Little things that someone might have kept."
"Like the peacock feathers?"
I nodded.
"They could never be used as evidence."
"I know but..." I hesitated, afraid of sounding ridiculous. "It's a stupid idea really but supposing you put on your list the peacock feathers, the silhouette pictures of her grandparents and ... well, other things of little or no value ... a wooden statue, say..." I ran out of ideas. "I just thought that if 1 found someone with a similar combination in their house, I'd at least feel I was on the right track."
She threw me a startled glance. "Does that mean you're going to look?"
I shrugged self-consciously.
"But where would you start, for goodness' sake?"
"Graham Road? There must be someone left who was there in 1978. If I knock on a few doors I might come up with something." I spoke only to give her an answer, not because I had any intention of taking such a scattergun approach. I watched her expression change to one of skepticism.
"But why? It'll just be a lot of hard work for nothing. Larry was right when he said there'd be no prosecution."
"I wouldn't be looking for a prosecution for theft, Sheila; I'd be looking for a prosecution for murder. As the chief superintendent said in his letter to you, it would be different if there were question marks over Annie's death." I smiled. "Well, there are ... and I intend to prove it."
She searched my face intently for a moment. "What really happened between you and Annie that night?" she asked abruptly. "Drury showed me your statement, but you said she never spoke to you."
"She didn't."
"Then ... why?"
"I've got nothing better to do at the moment."
It wasn't much of an explanation but it seemed to satisfy her. "I doubt many of her neighbors will still be there," she warned. "Most of them had moved on even before we left."
"What about the vicar?" I asked. "He was always visiting people in Graham Road."
She pulled on the brim of her hat to shade her eyes from the sun. "I don't think he's there anymore."
I lifted one shoulder in a relaxed shrug. "His successor at St. Mark's ought to be able to tell me where he is. Do you know his name?"
"The new vicar? No."
"What about the one who knew Annie?"
She didn't answer immediately, and I turned to look at her. Her expression was impossible to read because her eyes were still in shade, but the set of her jaw was very grim. "Peter Stanhope," she said.
Letter from Libby Williams-formerly