A surprised Andrew opened the door to Clara’s knock. She bit back a giggle as she saw the state he was in. His auburn hair was sticking up at jaunty angles and his arms and legs protruded from the too-small pyjamas like those of a teenage boy who’d just had a growth spurt. The landlady’s husband was obviously a considerably smaller man than Andrew. The buttons of the shirt strained across his chest and the trousers … well, best Clara avert her eyes from there.
‘Clara! What are you doing here? Is everything all right?’
‘Yes, I’m fine,’ she said, in a half-whisper, pulling her cardigan closed around her, ‘it’s just that I want to talk to you about something.’
He looked across the small landing to the other two occupied rooms and whispered in return: ‘And it couldn’t wait until morning?’
‘No,’ said Clara quietly but firmly, and stepped into the room and closed the door behind her.
Andrew ran his hand through his hair and rearranged the angles. Then grinned, sheepishly. ‘Not exactly dressed to welcome a lady.’
She chuckled, gesturing to her own unflattering garb. ‘And I look like a sack of potatoes. Not to worry, fashion isn’t on my mind.’
‘Then what is?’ he asked, indicating that she take a seat on the bed, while he sat opposite her on a dressing table stool.
She took a deep breath and then went on to tell him everything she’d been thinking about regarding her uncle’s death and the Whittaker case.
His eyes grew wide. ‘Are you telling me that Bob might have been murdered?’
Clara bit her lip. Then said: ‘Yes, I think I am. Now, I might be completely wrong – I hope I am – and so far I have no hard evidence to back up my suspicion, but the fact that both Dr Malone and I had the same concern, completely independently of one another, rings alarm bells for me. Do you know Dr Malone personally?’
Andrew nodded, thoughtfully. ‘Yes. I know him and his father quite well. Charlie and I were at school together. And with Roger Jennings too. The three of us, and a few others, all went on to serve in the Northumberland Fusiliers together. Some of them never came back. But Charlie, Roger and I did.’
‘I’m very glad you all did,’ said Clara.
He smiled gently, and Clara’s heart skipped a little beat. But she took herself in hand and turned the conversation back to her suspicions about Bob’s death. ‘So, that’s one of the reasons I wanted to come to Holy Island today. Yes, it was partly to do with trying to ascertain if Jane Hobson was telling the truth about being in a romantic relationship with Bob, but after meeting with Dr Malone this morning, it became clear that if Bob had been overdosing on barbital then Hobson was best placed to have been doing it. So, I needed to find out if she’d lied about Holy Island. And if she’d lied about this, then she could be lying about everything.’
Andrew leaned back, resting his elbows on the dressing table. ‘So, you and Charlie think that Mrs Hobson might have been drugging Bob?’
‘We think that if he had been overdosed, and he hadn’t done it himself – and the doctor didn’t mention that he thought that was the case – then Hobson is the most obvious suspect.’
‘Why?’
‘Why?’ asked Clara, thinking it was obvious why, and was surprised that Andrew had asked. ‘Well, because she was the one who had the most intimate access to him. She was the one who went into his house, cooked for him, did his laundry, and so forth. And she was the one who picked up his prescriptions.’
Andrew took his elbows off the dressing table and leaned forward. ‘But was she the only one with intimate access to him? What about his lover? This male lover you believe he had. Who may or may not be J. Smith. Wouldn’t he have been close enough to administer the drugs?’
Clara pulled up her knees under her nightdress and rested her chin on them, as she wrapped her arms around her shins. ‘Now that is a very interesting thought. Yes, he would have.’
‘And you have no idea who he is?’
Clara shook her head. ‘I don’t. I did find a photograph of the man in Bob’s darkroom.’
‘Oh?’ said Andrew, sitting upright. ‘You never told me that.’
Clara shrugged, apologetically. ‘No, I didn’t. I was trying to protect Bob’s privacy. Even posthumously. But now you know about J. Smith in this hotel …’ she looked at the bed, wondering if it had been in this very place ‘… then I might as well tell you.’
‘So, you know what he looks like then.’
‘Unfortunately not. He was lying on his stomach. Asleep.’
‘Do you have the photograph here?’
‘No. I don’t. But I’ll show you when we get back to Newcastle, if you like.’
Andrew shook his head. ‘No, there’s no need. You’re right in respecting Bob’s privacy. I have no need to know who it is. Unless …’ he said, seriously ‘… unless the man is in some way a danger to you.’ He reached out his hands and took Clara’s. They were warm and enveloping. ‘I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to you.’
Still holding hands, Clara lowered her knees and leaned towards him until their faces were almost touching. ‘That makes two of us,’ she whispered.
He closed the final distance and found her willing lips.
And then, just to make sure he didn’t pull away like he did the night in Uncle Bob’s kitchen, Clara wrapped her arms around him and pulled him towards her. He did not object. Together, they lowered themselves onto the bed.
Clara awoke to the caw of a kittiwake. She could see the first glow of pre-dawn seeping through the cracks in the hotel room curtains and she guessed that it was around half-past five. Andrew lay silent and naked beside her, his arm gently draped across her middle. She snuggled in, enjoying the feeling of flesh on flesh and the steady rise and fall of his chest against her back. She smiled to herself, remembering their exquisite union last night, so different from her first fumbled encounter back in Oxford. Neither of them had been drunk and both were, if not experienced, at least not absolute novices. After the first throes of passion, before which Andrew still had the gentlemanly wherewithal to check that she was willing to continue – which she very much was – they had enjoyed exploring one another’s bodies under the cover of darkness, giving and taking with mutual care.
Clara reminded herself that she needed to be careful if they were to continue with their sexual encounters. She remembered what Marie Stopes advised about using a Dutch cap. She would need to try and get her hands on one, although that might require some subterfuge as they were generally only given to women who could prove they were married. A visit to another town, and the purchase of a ring, might prove necessary. She was relieved to remember that it had only been a couple of days since the end of her monthly period, so her chances of conception were greatly reduced. But not entirely gone. She would, like the last time, worry until her next period. But this time, with more knowledge, she knew she would worry less.
She felt Andrew stir beside her. She turned to face him as his eyes blinked open. He looked at her, startled for a moment, then gently smiled.
‘Morning,’ he said sleepily. ‘So, it wasn’t a dream.’
‘No, it wasn’t,’ she said, and kissed him gently on the lips. His body surged. She was tempted to respond, but then realised that it would soon be light and the hotel would be waking up. She needed to get back to her room.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Smith, but I should go. Before anyone sees us.’
His face folded in disappointment, but then he pursed his lips and nodded. ‘I’m sorry too, Mrs Smith, but you’re right. Will I see you at breakfast?’
‘Of course.’ She smiled then kissed him briefly again before throwing back the covers and getting up. She found her nightdress and cardigan and pulled them on, but couldn’t find her underwear.
‘Have you seen my knickers?’ she asked.
He chuckled. ‘I’ll have a look.’ He turned on the bedside light and leaned over the side of the bed, revealing his naked back.
Clara gasped. On Andrew’s right shoulder was a tattoo of a crescent moon on a full sun.
Andrew pulled back up and turned to face her, with a pair of silk knickers dangling over his index finger. He grinned, and asked: ‘Is this what you’re looking for, Mrs Smith?’
She stood stock-still.
‘Well, here you go, Mrs Smith, better put them on.’
She still didn’t move.
‘Clara, what is it?’
‘That, that tattoo. I – well – I didn’t know you had it.’
‘Well, why would you?’
‘Have you had it long?’
‘Oh, years. Don’t you like tattoos? I’m sorry, there’s not much I can do about it.’
‘No, no, it’s not that, it’s …’ But Clara didn’t know how to continue. She needed some space and time to think. She needed to get away from Andrew.
‘I – I’ll see you later,’ she said, snatching the underwear from his hand and heading for the door.
‘Clara, are you sure you’re all right?’
‘Yes, of course,’ she said, over her shoulder. Then she fixed a smile on her face. She didn’t want him to think anything was wrong. She didn’t know how he would react if he knew that she knew who he really was. And that he’d hidden it from her. And that he had even suggested last night that Bob’s lover might have killed him …
‘Goodbye,’ she said, the smile fixed until she opened the door and closed it behind her. She looked across the landing then towards the stairwell. She could hear some movement on the stairs. She quickly opened her own door and closed it firmly behind her. Then she locked it.
‘Oh, dear God,’ she said, out loud, ‘what am I going to do?’