‘She’s a sweetie,’ Tess told Bernice as they sheltered beneath the nursing home’s front porch. ‘Totally with it. Her memory’s better than mine.’
Bernice laughed. She felt lighter in spirit after their meeting with Moran, a lightness that even Collingworth’s boorishness during the morning briefing had failed to dispel. He’d wanted to veto Tess’s suggestion to revisit Mrs Harrington, but Moran had overruled him, and Bernice had wanted to cheer – as had everyone else if the expressions on their faces had been anything to go by.
The atmosphere in the Incident Room had lightened even further as, for the first time, the team sensed a narrowing of the search criteria. First up had been Moran with the forensic results from the grease, which suggested an automobile company as the substance’s origin. Second came DC Schlesinger with an unexpected update regarding Levi Cambridge’s testimony, which pointed, potentially at least, to a new POI and a link with a minicab company. Predictably, Collingworth had tried to dismiss both as unlikely candidates for further investigation, but only, Bernice knew, because they cast doubt on the validity of his own fixation with the Potter and Manning vehicles. After a heated discussion, Collingworth had announced that he intended to continue his line of enquiry until both vehicles had been declared forensically clean, and abruptly left the briefing. As the door closed behind him, the assembled officers heaved a sigh of relief. In closing the meeting, Moran tasked George and Bola with contacting local cab companies while Tess and herself had been given the green light to reinterview Mrs Harrington.
‘Hello. Can I help?’ A smartly-uniformed lady appeared on the threshold. Her name badge read: Mary Elvey – Manager.
They showed Mrs Elvey their warrant cards, and Tess confirmed that she had met Mrs Harrington on a previous visit.
‘That’s fine. If I can just get you to sign in? Mrs Harrington’s in the lounge. I’ll let you find your own way – we’re rather busy this morning with two new residents, it takes a while to get them settled.’
Mrs Harrington was seated in the same chair as before. There was no sign of the grumpy TV resident anywhere, but there were several elderly ladies Tess hadn’t seen on her last visit gathered in a corner of the room, some dozing over Sudoku puzzles, some conversing in low voices, the remainder just content to sit and observe. Tess led Bernice through the maze of chairs, tables and parked walking frames until they arrived at Mrs Harrington’s side.
‘Morning, Mrs Harrington. It’s me again.’ Tess rested her hand on Mrs Harrington’s shoulder.
‘Oh! Hello, dear.’ Mrs Harrington stirred from her reverie. ‘And you have a friend with you today, I see.’
‘This is DC Bernice Swinhoe,’ Tess said. ‘We’re working on the case together.’
Mrs Harrington’s wrinkled face broke into a smile. ‘Nice to meet you, young lady. It’s wonderful to see you bright young things showing the men how it’s done.’
‘We do our best.’ Bernice returned the smile.
‘I’m quite sure.’ Mrs Harrington beamed. ‘But, please do have a seat – there, that’s right. Now, what else can I help you with?’
‘You were telling me about Reyka Szarka, how she struggled with the piano. And how Marika was so proficient.’
‘Yes, yes. It was a shame for Reyka. And Marika, of course, would always get a great deal of male attention. That didn’t help, either.’
‘She was prettier?’ Bernice asked. ‘Than her sister?’
Mrs Harrington paused. ‘Marika was pretty, yes, but I think it was more a case of temperament. She was so sweet-natured. The boys loved her.’
‘But she never married,’ Tess said.
‘Oh, wait! I remember now, Reyka did have an admirer for a while, but it didn’t last. She broke it off and went to stay with a friend in Scotland – or was it the Lake District?’
They waited patiently as Mrs Harrington sifted through her memory’s dimming corridors.
‘Anyway,’ she continued at last, ‘wherever it was, she seemed to get over it. I’m sure it was all about the music for both girls, you see.’
‘And Marika’s paramours?’
‘She never married. As I said, both sisters were married to their music and, of course, there was the mother to deal with.’
‘She looks rather strict in the photographs we’ve seen,’ Bernice said.
‘You have photographs? Oh, I would love to see those.’
‘The mother – Leila?’ Tess prompted. ‘You told me that she worked both girls hard.’
‘Oh yes, she did indeed, especially poor Reyka. But you see, Reyka’s problem was simple, but it was something she couldn’t fix.’
‘Oh? And what was that, Mrs Harrington?’ Bernice asked.
‘She was a girl. You see, Leila had wanted a boy – after the miscarriage.’
‘Miscarriage?’ Bernice prompted.
‘Yes. The first child was stillborn. A boy – it’s always so sad, isn’t it? I don’t believe mothers ever get over something like that, do you?’
‘I suppose not,’ Bernice agreed. ‘But then Reyka came along?’
‘Yes. She came next, but by all accounts Leila never warmed to her.’
‘That must have been hard for Reyka.’
‘Yes. I believe it was. She could never please her mother enough.’
A clattering in the corridor announced the imminent arrival of the tea trolley. The chatter in the corner of the lounge tailed off in anticipation of its arrival.
Tess said, ‘You also mentioned a tutor?’
Mrs Harrington’s expression darkened. ‘Miss Keane.’ She fell silent and closed her eyes. When she reopened them, they were clouded by a thin film of moisture. ‘She was an ex-nun. We heard that she was dismissed from her order because she couldn’t live peacefully within the sisterhood. There was a rumour of abuse, a hint of scandal. But she seemed to rise above it, turned to teaching privately – perhaps because no schools would take her. Beatrice Keane.’ Mrs Harrington’s gaze was focused on the grey skies outside the window. ‘She was Reyka’s nemesis. And I saw the evidence with my own eyes.’
‘What evidence was that, Mrs Harrington?’ Tess caught the look in Bernice’s eye. There was something here worth uncovering.
‘Oh, look, call me Jean, please. I can’t abide formality, can you?’
‘All right,’ Tess agreed. ‘But here’s the tea trolley. Can I get you something?’
‘I’ll have a milky coffee, please dear. It’ll keep me alert.’ The eyes twinkled again.
‘I’ll get it,’ Bernice offered. ‘Tess?’
‘I’m OK, thanks. You go ahead.’
When Mrs Harrington had been given her coffee and a chocolate digestive, she continued. ‘All the students who went to her were frightened. Thank the Lord I wasn’t one of them.’ She munched her biscuit and crumbs fell unheeded onto her tweed skirt. Tess and Bernice waited patiently for her to finish as she sipped her coffee and then set the cup down on the arm of the chair. ‘Beatrice Keane was an unpleasant woman. I remember catching a glimpse of Reyka’s wrist after a lesson. She’d been crying, I could see.’
Tess felt a wave of revulsion. ‘What was wrong?’
‘It was red and sore. Miss Keane used a steel ruler. I imagine Reyka still bears the scars to this day.’
‘That’s terrible.’ Bernice looked horrified.
‘It was.’ Mrs Harrington lifted her teacup and took a sip. ‘But do you know, years later I discovered something very interesting about Miss Keane. I hadn’t been in contact with the sisters for a decade or more but then I saw an obituary in the paper. Keane had made a name for herself in the classical music world, you see, and someone felt that she merited a few lines in a national. No one had ever come forward to complain about her – I imagine they were all too frightened to say anything. Anyway, there was a photograph. I recognised it; it was her all right, but the obituary told a different story to the one we’d been familiar with.’
Tess and Bernice had unconsciously moved closer so they could hear Mrs Harrington above the clink of teaspoons and the encouraging chatter of the care worker as she distributed her wares. ‘Go on,’ Tess said.
‘Whoever wrote the obituary had obviously done their homework. It turned out that Keane wasn’t her real name at all. She was from an Irish background and had a rather chequered past. She had a daughter out of wedlock at a very young age and had to leave her hometown in disgrace, taking the baby with her. It was either that or incarceration in a Magdalen laundry, and give the baby up to the church’s ministrations. So she came here, and, well, of course she couldn’t manage, in a strange country with a child to support. So eventually she gave the baby up for adoption on the understanding that the child retained her surname. Shortly after that she joined the convent. It must have affected her mind, the way she’d been treated by her family, the stress of it all. When I read the obituary I finally had a sense at last of what might have caused her bitterness, why she’d had to take out her anger and frustration on her students.’
‘Do you recall her real surname, the one from the obituary?’ Tess asked.
‘I do. It was an unusual name…’ Jean Harrington knitted her brow. ‘Oh, dear, can you believe it? It’s gone. I had it there on the tip of my tongue.’
Bernice looked at Tess with a what can you do? expression.
‘Have some more coffee and think about something else,’ Tess advised her. ‘That’s what I do.’
But ten minutes later there was still no progress. Mrs Harrington’s mind had gone blank.
‘We’ll pop in another time,’ Tess told her with a sympathetic smile. ‘It’s no bother. It’s probably not important, but you never know.’
‘I’m so sorry, my dear. I hope I’ve been of some use.’
‘You most certainly have, Mrs Harrington.’ Bernice took her hand and shook it gently. It was cold and dry. ‘We’ll see you soon.’