Audrey Brierley looked around the door and asked if he would like a drink of something. Almost at the same time Sergeant Troy arrived with Mrs Lyddiard. Barnaby ordered two cups of tea and put his calls on hold. Troy quickly worked out that he was de trop and took himself off to the incident room.
The chief inspector hung up Amy’s coat, offered her the most comfortable chair and came out from behind his desk to sit on the settee. They stirred their drinks in silence, Amy looking round the room with shy interest.
‘This is just an informal chat, Mrs Lyddiard. As we were not able to talk the other day.’
‘Yes, I’m afraid Honoria—’ Amy broke off, realising she was about to be disloyal in front of strangers. She swallowed some tea. ‘This is delicious. Thank you.’
‘What I really wanted to ask about,’ continued Barnaby, when both their cups were empty, ‘were your impressions of that last evening at Plover’s Rest. If you enjoyed it, for instance.’
‘Oh I did,’ exclaimed Amy. ‘It was great to meet a real writer.’
She enthused, as he remembered Mrs Clapton had done, over Jennings’ courtesy, helpfulness and apparently genuine interest in his audience’s accomplishments.
‘I was really sorry when it was over. I think we all felt inspired.’
‘Did you get the impression that Mr Hadleigh enjoyed it?’
‘It’s hard to say. He was very quiet.’ Amy put her cup and saucer carefully on the carpet. ‘Poor man.’
‘Are you aware that he and Max Jennings already knew each other?’
‘Yes. Rex told Sue. He’s been terribly depressed about it all. Feels responsible. Ermm ... have you ... ? That is ... if you’ve exonerated Max - if he’s in the clear - it would help Rex so much. To know, I mean ...’ Amy tailed off, hoping she had not committed some misdemeanour by asking.
‘I’m sure the problem will be resolved.’ Barnaby smiled to soften any suggestion of a rebuff and moved on. ‘After the meeting I understand you and Miss Lyddiard went straight home.’
‘Yes. I made us some hot drinks then went upstairs to work on my book. Honoria took hers into the study.’
‘What’s your book about?’
‘Oh.’ Amy flushed with embarrassment and pleasure at being asked. ‘What isn’t it about? High finance, drug smuggling, lovers lost and found, a priceless black Russian pearl, a kidnapped foundling.’
‘It sounds irresistible.’
‘I’m banking on it.’
Amy, more relaxed now, was sitting back in her chair. Barnaby noticed she was wearing the same shabby trousers and butterfly cardigan that she had had on the other day. Her boots were very worn and one of the seams was splitting. He wondered what her financial position was. Pretty parlous, surely, to be prepared to live at Gresham House.
‘Do you find the writing group a help?’
‘Up to a point. We read our stuff out but then, none of us being very experienced, we’re at a bit of a loss to know what to do next.’
‘What did you think of Hadleigh’s writing?’
‘A bit thin. He worked very hard on his stories but, even after several drafts, there didn’t seem to be anything much in them.’
‘And your impressions of him as a person?’
‘I can’t tell you anything definite, inspector. I just didn’t know him well enough.’
‘Indefinite will do.’
This time Amy paused for so long that Barnaby thought she had decided not to answer. When she did speak it was plainly with great reluctance.
‘He reminded me of a character I saw in a film, a long time ago. An elderly man - the film was in flashback - who had been traumatised as a boy. He had been used by two grown-ups of quite different social classes - this was in Edwardian times - to pass love letters between them and the discovery of this, plus the dreadful aftermath, ruined his whole life. His face, all his movements, had a dreadful, frozen lifelessness. As if every bit of him was mortally impaired.’ Amy frowned deeply, her pretty face marred by pity and distress. ‘Gerald was like that.’
‘How very sad,’ said the chief inspector, meaning it. Then, risking alienation, ‘But how interesting.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Amy, looking somewhat shamefaced. ‘I used to wonder about him a lot. Writers are awful. So nosy. I’d make up different pasts for him. Different histories.’
‘But he was quite forthcoming about his background, I understand.’
‘Oh, I didn’t believe any of that.’
‘Really?’ said Barnaby, leaning very slightly forward.
‘It was so sparse. Like one of his stories. True life’s all muddle and mess, isn’t it? You can’t just list a few neat things and say, “This is who I am”. It was as if’ - Amy tuckered her brows again - ‘as if he’d learnt it.’
Even as Barnaby smiled and nodded he wondered why he was feeling quite so pleased with this conversation, for there was little new in it. He decided it was because he enjoyed looking at, and listening to, Mrs Lyddiard. Her sweet round face and mop of curly hair reminded him of his wife, though Amy was ingenuously friendly where Joyce was tartly subtle.
Amy got up to put her cup and saucer on the desk and noticed the large, leather-framed photograph with its back to her.
‘Do you mind if ... ?’
Barnaby said, ‘Of course not.’
She turned the frame round and said, as everyone, without exception always did, ‘Good heavens. What an absolutely beautiful child.’
‘She’s grown up now.’
‘And that’s your wife?’
‘Yes.’
‘Easy to see which side—’ Amy broke off, crimsoned and covered her mouth with her hand. ‘Gosh, how rude. I’m so sorry. What must you ... Oh dear. I don’t know where to ... Ohh ...’
Barnaby burst out laughing. He couldn’t help it. Her confusion was so overwhelmingly complete it was comical. Then he stopped, for she was clearly genuinely upset.
‘Please, Mrs Lyddiard, don’t be put out. If I had a fiver for every time I’ve heard that remark I could retire tomorrow.’
‘You’re just saying that to make me feel better.’
‘Not at all. The first occasion was the midwife.’
Amy seemed almost about to smile, changed her mind and went back to her chair. More to ease the moment than because he was really interested, Barnaby asked if she had children. Amy shook her head.
‘For a time it didn’t seem important. We were very happy and it seemed enough. Then, when I was in my late thirties, I started having second thoughts. But Ralph dissuaded me.’ She pressed her hands together, the fingers interlocking with tension, tugging against each other. ‘I thought afterwards he must have had some sort of premonition. Perhaps knew, even then, how ill he was and didn’t want to leave me with a young child. But he was wrong. I’d give anything now - anything - to have a part of him still with me.’
Barnaby nodded with a sympathy that was far from feigned. He could not imagine, could not bear to imagine, life without his daughter. They might not see, or even hear from her, for weeks on end, but he had to know that she was out there somewhere. Living, breathing, breaking hearts.
‘He had cancer.’ Amy sounded introspective and so distant she might have been talking to herself. ‘That is, he had chronic hepatitis that wasn’t diagnosed and treated in time. We were so far away from a hospital you see. Or a good doctor.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘All the awful people who live forever. Murderers and terrorists. Army generals who won’t let food trucks through, while Ralph ...’ Tears started from Amy’s eyes and she brushed them fiercely away. ‘The dearest man. It’s so unfair. Honoria blamed me.’