Holly was there, still in the clothes she’d been wearing in the afternoon of course, but they were smart enough for her not to look out of place. She’d added more make-up and was holding a glass of wine. She was talking to Joanna, who tonight was wearing black. Another statement perhaps. Soon after, Giles Rickard came in. He sported a little bow tie, this time in blue velvet. His movement seemed a bit easier than it had; perhaps he too was relieved at the prospect of leaving the place, of returning to the real world.
But I’m not sure that I am pleased to be leaving, Nina thought. And though she’d considered the place as a prison all week, now she had a moment’s anxiety about going. In some circumstances prison might be comforting. A place of safety.
Miranda was handing out drinks and canapés. She had on a long black skirt and white silk blouse – clothes that, Nina thought, reflected her ambiguous position in the house. The colours of a waitress’s uniform, but in a rather grander style. As Nina took a glass of white wine, Miranda gave a tight smile. ‘I’m so glad we had that little talk this afternoon.’
She moved on before Nina could answer, and the academic was pleased not to be expected to make a reply. What would she have said? In her memory the exchange had been acrimonious and disturbing.
Dinner was more elaborate than on the previous evenings. There were bottles of wine on the table. Alex had changed from his chef’s whites into a shirt and jacket, and after helping Miranda to serve the meal he sat beside her. Usually he ate alone in the kitchen. Again there were flowers and more candles, thick and cream, the sort you might see in a church. Nina sat next to Holly, but during dinner they spoke very little. The young detective’s attention seemed to be on the conversation going on all around her. It seemed she’d taken to heart Vera Stanhope’s advice about listening. But when the dishes were being cleared, Holly turned to Nina.
‘Go on then! Give me the gossip. Who’s sleeping with whom.’
Nina was shocked. ‘Oh, I don’t think anything of that sort is going on.’
‘It’s different from any residential course I’ve ever been on then,’ Holly said easily. ‘A hothouse atmosphere like this and away from the office, a couple too many glasses of Chardonnay and you can believe that you fancy almost anyone. The problem is sitting next to them at work the following week, and realizing what a prat you’ve made of yourself.’ She nodded across towards Alex. ‘He’s fit enough. If I weren’t a police officer, I could be tempted!’
Nina gave a little laugh, but found that she was shocked.
The main business of the evening started during coffee. It was clear that Miranda considered herself the star and the mistress of ceremonies. Any notion that she was there simply to serve them was quickly dispelled. They were still in the dining room, and she took her natural place once again at the head of the table.
‘This has been a disturbing and unusual week,’ she said. ‘And I’d like to thank the tutors and students for their concentration and their focus at such a difficult time. The quality of work produced has been outstanding and, instead of dwelling on the tragedy that occurred here, I think it right to celebrate this evening the fine writing that has been achieved.’
There was no further reference to Tony Ferdinand. Again Nina remembered the pain the woman had expressed when she learned of his death, and she wondered at Miranda’s poise.
‘Tonight we each have the opportunity to share a short piece from work created this week.’ Miranda looked around the table. ‘Do we have a volunteer to begin?’
A number of hands shot into the air. Diffidence, it seemed, was not a problem within the group. The students probably thought interest would wane as the evening progressed and more wine was drunk.
‘Lenny,’ Miranda said, ‘would you like to start us off?’
Lenny got to his feet. He’d shaved since the afternoon and Nina had noticed that throughout the meal he’d only been drinking water. Despite sounding so defeatist at lunchtime, it seemed that he now intended to give this his best shot. As he picked up the sheet of paper from the table, Miranda saw that his hands were shaking.
‘Before I do my reading,’ he said, his accent so broad that Nina wondered if the southerners in the audience would understand him, ‘I’d just like to thank all the people who made this possible for me. The Bartons and the tutors, and the rest of the folk here who’ve given me so much support. It’s been like a dream come true.’
Then he launched into his reading. Nina had expected a piece from the beginning of his novel, an action scene, following two teenage lads racing a stolen car round Blyth housing estate. That was what he’d told her he’d read, when they were discussing it at lunchtime. It was well written, fast, and developed the characters immediately. Instead, he’d chosen something else, something he’d written at her insistence after their first tutorial.
‘This is great writing, Lenny,’ she’d said. ‘But the story’s all told at the same pace. It’s fast and furious from beginning to end. Occasionally the reader needs time to catch her breath and it’s good to change the mood a bit too. Try to write something tender for me. A love scene or a conversation between a parent and child.’
Now he stood, the paper shaking in his hand, like a sail hauled in too close to the wind, and started speaking. His voice was slow and almost without expression, but the tone of the piece was so unexpected, so sad, that he had them hooked from the first words. She stood at the window watching her man walk out of her life.
He read for only a couple of minutes, then he stopped abruptly. Nina wasn’t sure if he’d intended to end the piece there or if he’d become so moved, by his own writing and by the occasion, that he was unable to continue. He sat down to applause and looked around him, confused, as if he’d just woken up.
‘Wow!’ Miranda got to her feet. ‘Well done, Lenny. I don’t envy the person who has to follow that.’ She looked around the table and Nina thought she would ask for another volunteer. She was deciding she might raise her hand herself and get the ordeal over with, when Miranda focused her attention on the ex-policeman, Mark Winterton. ‘Mark, would you like to try?’
He stood up. He seemed unflustered. Nina supposed he’d be used to giving evidence in court.
‘I’m not going to read,’ he said. His face was thin and the small, square spectacles he wore gave him the appearance of a rather pedantic teacher. His words too were clipped and precise. ‘One of the great benefits of the course has been the development of an ability to assess one’s own work. And I’ve realized that my work really isn’t very good at all!’ There was a sympathetic murmur from the other end of the table. ‘I’m not going to put you lot through any of my stuff. But, like Lenny, I want to thank all the staff and students for their support. This was something I had to try. I gave it a go, and it didn’t work out. Maybe I’ll have to find another outlet for my creativity. But in the meantime I look forward to seeing some of your books on the shelves and to telling my friends: I knew them before they were famous.’
He smiled at them all and took his seat. Nina thought this was all going much better than she’d expected. It might not end up as the turgid, smug event that she’d dreaded. She turned to watch Miranda take centre stage once more. She wears too much make-up: all that powder is very ageing. I wonder who she’ll pick on next. Miranda’s gaze moved around the table. Really, the woman’s like a stage medium, looking for an easy target.
‘Joanna,’ Miranda said. ‘I know you’ve not had an easy week, but would you feel up to reading, dear?’