Forty-Six

Juliet was fingering Florence’s notebook, which had been restored to her by the breakfast orderly. Its fall to the floor had knocked the corners of the boards. With her forefinger, Juliet traced the outline of the flower that had been affixed to its padded cover. She encountered a small tear in the thick paper that was almost concealed by the flower. Curious, but not wishing to damage the journal further, she held it up to scrutinise it. The harsh yellow overhead lights in the ward made it difficult to inspect, but, by turning on her bedside lamp and holding the journal close to its gentler, paler light, she was able to see through the tear that the padding under the cover consisted of some dark, ochre-coloured paper. She could see only a tiny piece of it – it measured perhaps half a square centimetre – but on this small section she could clearly see writing, or at least a few inked strokes that had evidently been formed by a pen.

Juliet found herself immediately thrust into a dilemma. She realised that the ochre paper might have no significance at all; it could just be scrap that the manufacturer of the notebook had used to pad out the cover. On the other hand, it might help her to understand what had happened at Laurieston House when Florence Jacobs had been its nominal chatelaine. But neither she nor Katrin owned the notebook. It was the property of Jackie Briggs. She couldn’t inflict further damage on the cover to extract the ochre paper without asking Jackie for permission. She decided to call Katrin.

“I’m happy to call Jackie Briggs and ask her if she minds,” said Katrin. “But I can’t do it today. You obviously haven’t heard from Tim yet. Joanna de Vries was found dead in the cellar at Laurieston House in the early hours of this morning. Tim’s there at the moment, with Kevan de Vries and his son. I think that Mrs Briggs is helping to look after the boy.”

“That’s terrible news! I feel so sorry for the child. And his father: Kevan de Vries isn’t the sort of person you take to immediately, but I’ve never been entirely convinced that he’s a villain, either. But how did Joanna de Vries die? Was it suicide? It’s strange that that cellar has claimed yet another life. It’s as if it’s jinxed.”

“Tim said something like that when he called me. I think he was actually repeating something that Kevan de Vries said to him. I don’t think they know how she died, yet. Stuart Salkeld’s taken the body away to do a post mortem. It could have been an accident. But Tim says that what’s most odd about it is that she was in the cellar at all. Apparently it always gave her the creeps.”

“I’m not surprised! The whole house gives me the creeps. But she couldn’t have known about the skeletons in the cellar until recently. I wonder why she didn’t like it before that?”

“I don’t know – but not everyone enjoys poking about in damp cellars, though I must admit I’ve always wanted to live in a house that had one, myself. I’ve just had another thought about the journal.”

“Go on.”

“It would still need Jackie Briggs’s permission – but why don’t we take it to the Archaeological Society and ask if one of the people who carries out restoration work there can get the ochre paper out from under the cover? They’re likely to damage it far less than we will. They’ll probably be able to stick the outside paper back to the cover so it looks just the same as it did before – they might even re-pad it.”

“You’re a genius!” said Juliet. “How should I return the journal to you? I don’t suppose that Tim will be coming to see me today, given what you’ve just told me. I think they may discharge me tomorrow, so it could wait until then. But I don’t know if they’ll allow me to see you. There may be a slight chance that I’m still infectious. And I’m impatient for us to solve this mystery, if we can.”

“Me, too. Great news that they’re going to let you out. With regard to the journal – Tim told me that there’s a new WPC in his team, who’s still living in Boston. Perhaps she could pick it up. I think her name’s Verity something.”

“Verity Tandy. I’ve met her once and she left a message for me when I was first brought here. I didn’t feel up to answering it at the time. But I agree, she’s worth a try.”

“How are you feeling now?”

“It’s difficult to say while I’m in here. It’s such an odd experience being in hospital: de-humanising, almost. And I’ve been pumped full of antibiotics, which certainly hasn’t helped. I think I’m probably just a bit weak still. And bored. But having Florence Jacobs’ journal to mull over has certainly helped in that respect. But how do you feel? I should have asked before.”

“Still quite sick, but it’s not unbearable. The journal’s helped me, too. But work is boring at the moment – I’ve been looking at all sorts of financial and personnel records from de Vries Industries, for Superintendent Thornton. I don’t know what he thinks I might find, but so far it all seems perfectly above board. I’d better get back to it now.”

After Juliet had put down the phone, she lay back on the pillows for a while, looking at the drip in her arm and the inflamed red skin that surrounded the cannula. It was late morning. In the distance she could hear the clanking of trolleys, the signal that the first of the ward lunches were being served. She knew that Louise Butler would visit while on her rounds later in the afternoon. She’d make an effort to get out of bed after lunch, ask one of the nurses to help her wash her hair. She told herself that it was because, if she were to be discharged tomorrow, she wanted to leave the hospital looking presentable.