The interior of the house in Barnes might have come from the pages of a more contemporary lifestyle magazine. Money from the royalties and international sales of Stray Leaves in Autumn had been poured unstintingly into the pockets of interior architects and designers. There was no feeling of an individual stamp on anything. Al Sinclair, Jude recalled, like many writers, had been almost completely unaware of his surroundings, so any personal touches must have come from his new wife. Looking around the house, Jude reckoned that Persephone, thrilled with the unlimited budget she’d been given, had just opted for the most expensive of everything.
This was reflected in the brand-new BMW sports model parked outside the house. His and Hers Beamers.
The kitchen was further evidence of conspicuous consumption. It was an archipelago of islands, of marble, granite, glass and brushed steel. Every appliance was state-of-the-art. Its antiseptic cleanliness made even the kitchen at High Tor look welcoming.
Having taken their coffee orders and set the state-of-the-art machine in motion, Persephone volunteered to Carole and Jude that she had worked in the publicity department of the firm which published Stray Leaves in Autumn. ‘Still working there. Well, haven’t been in there the last week, obviously. Work under my maiden name. Persephone Sackwright-Newbury.’ As this would suggest, her voice combined the tinkle of cut glass with the crackle of fifty-pound notes. ‘The idea was that I would continue working until …’ Her dark blue eyes glazed with tears.
They were meant to complete the unfinished sentence in their minds. Until she became pregnant, they both surmised. They were also meant to complete the implication, that it now would be Persephone’s tragedy never to carry Burton’s child. Jude, not a habitual cynic, suspected that, just as he had with Megan, the author would once again have put off permanently the creation of any rival to his pre-eminence in his own household.
Persephone did not seem to need any prompts to continue her heartbreaking narrative. ‘We got to know each other when I was looking after Burton on the publicity tour for the hardback of Stray Leaves. We just clicked.’
In some hotel in Manchester, Jude surmised. Or maybe Glasgow, or Leeds. Two people thrown together by work – a fifty-something author of waning charms and wandering hands, a beautiful younger woman impressed by his success and watching her twenties drift away. A few drinks at a talk and book signing, more drinks in the hotel bar, then the minibar in one or other of their rooms – it was not difficult to fill in the details of how the affair started. The only surprise, really, was that it had gone the distance into marriage.
‘Presumably,’ said Carole, feeling it was about time they got down to the business of investigation, ‘the police have talked to you about your husband’s death?’
‘Oh yes,’ Persephone replied in tragic mode. ‘It was from them that I first heard about it. I hadn’t worried about Burton not coming back on Tuesday night. He’d left it open whether he’d come home or stay in a hotel.’ (Softening his new wife up for when he embarked on future infidelities, thought Jude cynically.) ‘But then on Wednesday morning … The knock on the door that you’ve heard so often on television dramas, but which you never thought would be for you. It was terrible.’
‘It must have been,’ Carole agreed briskly.
‘Just so appalling … the idea that Burton will never write another book like Stray Leaves.’
Jude could think of a lot of little old ladies in Fethering who would agree with that sentiment. She thought she herself would probably manage to survive the tragedy. But she felt one of them ought to show a little sympathy for the girl and, not expecting it to come from Carole, said, ‘It must be terrible for you, Persephone, to be widowed so early into your married life.’
‘It is,’ the girl acknowledged with a devout lowering of her head. ‘I will never get over it. I will never love again.’
Entirely appropriate sentiments for a woman not a week widowed, but somehow Jude suspected that Persephone was young enough to bounce back. She’d got the impression that one of the attractions of marriage had been the prospect of starting a family, and felt sure there were plenty of young men out there who’d be more than happy to have such a beautiful mother for their children. Jude also wondered whether Persephone’s parents might not be happier with a new son-in-law nearer their daughter’s age than their own. She did not think the girl’s future would be wholly grim.
Carole was still keen to get on with the business of detection. ‘Apart from the police’s notifying you of your husband’s death, they have presumably also interviewed you about how it happened?’
‘Oh yes. Of course, I was in a terrible state of shock, but I tried to answer their questions as well as I could.’
And you enjoyed every minute of it, thought Jude. She was slightly surprised that the girl brought out such deep cynicism in her. Maybe it reflected the ambivalence she’d always felt towards Burton himself. She had a feeling that, in his marriage to Persephone, shallow had called to shallow.
‘Presumably,’ Carole persisted, ‘you were told that your husband died from anaphylactic shock after ingesting something with walnut in it?’
‘They told me that, yes.’
‘And you were aware of his walnut allergy?’
‘Of course. It was heavily marked up on his notes. When we were touring the country promoting Stray Leaves, I had to check the menu for literary lunches, that kind of thing. And also ensure that he never went anywhere without his EpiPen.’
‘He did have it with him when he left here on Tuesday for Fethering?’
‘Oh, certainly.’
‘Where would he carry it?’ asked Jude. ‘In his jacket pocket?’
‘Most of the time. If he was driving, he’d put it in the glove compartment of the car.’
‘So it’s possible that’s where he put it on Tuesday?’
‘Yes. He definitely did. The police told me so. That’s where they found it. Though why he couldn’t get to it in time when he felt the anaphylactic shock coming on, I’ll never know …’ Once again, she dissolved into self-regarding tears.
‘Where did Burton usually carry his car keys?’ asked Carole suddenly. ‘In his trouser pocket?’
‘No. He always said he didn’t like to spoil the line of his trousers by having more than a handkerchief in the pockets.’ Persephone let out a tragic little chuckle. ‘I’m afraid even someone like Burton did have his little vanities.’ They were the main component of his personality, thought Jude, as the widow went on, ‘He always put his car keys in his jacket pocket. And his wallet. And his small change, come to that.’
Carole and Jude exchanged looks. They were both thinking the same thing: that the author’s leather jacket had been left in the Fethering Library staff room, from where his car keys could have been extracted by anyone who wanted to get into his ‘Beamer’.
The mention of the car’s glove compartment started a new thought in Jude’s mind. ‘Back when I spent time with Al … Burton,’ she began tentatively, ‘he used to drink quite a lot.’
Persephone chuckled. ‘Occupational hazard for writers. For publishers too, come to that. Friend of mine once described publishing as “an industry floated on a sea of alcohol”. Certainly, Burton and I always used to bond over a bottle of wine … or two.’ The recollection brought a catch to her throat. With an effort, she continued, ‘Anyway, Burton concentrated so ferociously when he was writing, that when he stopped he always needed what he called “a couple of stiff ones”, to bring him back into the real world.’