TWENTY-THREE

Jane was not used to one-to-one teaching. In the past, if she had supervised a single pupil it had been because the child was in detention and, while he or she completed whatever they had been instructed to do, she had marked homework or tests. Eddie never gave anyone detention because nobody misbehaved in her art classes, or if they did she failed to notice.

On Monday, Jane had forgotten all about Arthur’s lesson and on Tuesday evening Willa had phoned, suggesting the tuition was put off for the time being.

‘Until you feel better, Jane.’ Willa had sounded tearful. ‘Until we all do. How do you ever get over something like that?’

Was she thinking about Corinne or herself? Herself, Jane suspected. Willa would have no sympathy for Corinne. She had stolen Noel from her. ‘No, tell Arthur to come on Friday as usual. I find it’s best to try to carry on as normal.’

‘What could have happened?’

‘He must have lost his balance.’

‘Yes.’ Willa sounded as though she had reason to think otherwise. Was she right? Noel’s whispered word, but it could have been air escaping from his lungs. Or Eddie could have been up there, watching him, waiting for her chance. No, that was not how her mind worked. Noel would have been leaning over. Too far, on tiptoe perhaps. And Eddie would have needed little strength, although she was still physically strong enough to tip him over.

Head down, Arthur was scribbling away at the exercise she had given him – a piece of prose that contained several grammatical errors it was his job to spot and correct.

Crossing to a shelf, Jane picked up Eddie’s book about Chagall and began flicking through the illustrations. Her back was turned but she sensed Arthur was watching her. It was hot in the loft – heat rose – and lacked sufficient ventilation. The back of her blouse had stuck to her skin and she feared she might smell of sweat. Super-duper antiperspirants were available, as the ads on television informed you nightly, but they brought her out in rash. The one she used was harmless but less effective.

As she turned the pages, she noticed, to her annoyance, that her hands were shaking. With nerves? How absurd. A child on its own rarely behaved badly. Groups of them, yes, since there was safety in numbers, but even the most disruptive of pupils could be charming if he or she had your whole attention. Not that she had ever had any problems with discipline. Eddie claimed it was because the children were afraid of her, but that was nonsense. She had never raised her voice because she had never needed to.

But her shaking hands, and fast-beating heart, had nothing to do with Arthur.

Turning more pages, she came across a handwritten note. Eddie’s thoughts on an exhibition. Would she still enjoy looking at paintings? No, it was out of the question. Jane had once seen a man throw one of his shoes at a Monet. Supposing the same thought occurred to Eddie. Sadly, Jane reflected, she was unlikely to go to any more exhibitions herself. She avoided television programmes about art too, and was only studying the Chagall book to give her something to do. Lovers in the Moonlight. The Blue Violinist. Two different paintings called I and the Village. I and Faraday Road, she thought, and for a split second rather regretted she had never learned to draw. Gus, with his craggy face and slightly protruding eyes, would have made a good subject.

Her thoughts were interrupted by Arthur noisily pushing back his chair.

‘Finished?’ She replaced Chagall on the shelf.

‘Absolutely.’

He had rushed it. Perhaps the exercise was too easy for him. Perhaps he felt insulted. His handwriting was appalling. Deliberately slapdash, a way of telling her he wished he was anywhere else but in her house?

‘Does your friend live here, the one that did the paintings?’

‘Not now. She used to.’ The question had thrown her. ‘They’re lovely, aren’t they? Do you like art?’

‘Gave it up.’ He was resting his chin on his knuckles and looked perfectly at ease, almost asleep. Because he had diverted her attention away from his work? On second thoughts, he had been relaxed ever since she let him into the house. She was the tense one.

‘I didn’t come before,’ he said. ‘Because of ... you know.’

‘Yes. Thank you. That was thoughtful of you.’

‘I reckon it was harsh, you finding the body. Must have been a shock.’

‘Yes, yes it was.’ Jane had no wish to think about it but if it helped the boy come to terms with the tragedy, it was up to her to let him talk.

Taking two pencils from the jar, he lined them up, parallel with the edge of the table. ‘I reckon he had it coming.’

‘Oh, Arthur, that’s an awful thing to say. What makes you . oh, you mean because he wasn’t always as careful as —’

‘I reckon the cops should have asked more questions.’

‘What kind of questions?’ It was wrong to encourage him but she was unable to stop herself.

‘Like if someone saw someone following him.’ He was smiling to himself. ‘You know my dad?’

‘I do.’

‘Mum was listening to The Archers. She loves The Archers.’

Jane did too. Sometimes she listened to it on her tablet, using her finger to move the recording on, past the farming stuff, until it reached another juicy bit.

‘Anyway, Dad kept interrupting, saying Noel had enemies, and Mum told him to shut his mouth, and Dad smiled, and she hit him.’

‘We’re all upset about what happened.’

‘I’m not.’ He stared at her but Jane remained silent. ‘Dave didn’t like him either. Simmy heard Noel and her dad having an argument.’

She should be telling him off for listening to gossip. ‘When?’

‘Yesterday Simmy asked if her mother had done a crime and Dave went to the bog, I mean the toilet, and slammed the door. Simmy thinks Noel knew her mother was in prison and he was going to tell her, and Dave found out and —’

‘It was an accident, Arthur. A tragic accident.’ She rubbed together her damp palms, picked up his work, and started checking it. ‘You missed an error in the first paragraph.’ She pointed to a word. ‘It should have been an adverb, not an adjective.

‘The lad’s done good.’ He laughed. ‘That’s wrong, isn’t it, but what are they supposed to say? “The lad’s done well” doesn’t sound right, does it? I used to think I’d be a good football commentator.’

‘Perhaps you might.’ She was watching him carefully, but his face rarely gave anything away.

‘Doctors used to be called quacks. Quacking means boasting. The doctor treated his wife badly. “Badly” is an adverb, right? And the stupid doctor treated his wife badly. Stupid’s an adjective because it describes a noun.’ He was spluttering with laughter. ‘You know that parcel you brought to our house?’

Jane pretended to search for something in a pocket. ‘Mum said it was a present for my dad but when it was his birthday she gave him a book about the Lake District. The one you brought round wasn’t a book. People like getting parcels.’

‘They do.’ What was he telling her? That he had found the “patent leather” outfit? Worse, that he had seen his mother trying it on?

‘Mum buys a lot of stuff online, to cheer herself up. Mostly clothes so I expect that’s what was in the parcel.’ He had his tongue in his cheek, literally. ‘Another of those tops people wear so you can’t see how their stomach sticks out. D’you s’pose that’s what it was?’

‘I’ve no idea, Arthur. Now, to get back to the use of adverbs and adjectives ...’ But just now he had no interest in English grammar. And neither did she.

‘Simmy had another idea for a computer game. Murders from the past. Cold cases. I told her there was probably one already but she didn’t care. She’s making a list of motives. Motive and opportunity.’

‘Yes, well why not write two paragraphs on the subject.’

‘Now?’

‘Yes, now.’

He looked up. ‘It’s a hard life. That’s what my dad thinks. “Hard” is an adjective. And the only way to make it better is to buy stuff excessively. Excessively is an adverb. Right? That’s my mum, the buying stuff.’

‘Two paragraphs, Arthur.’ Jane was losing patience. ‘Motive and opportunity, but write it as though it’s the opening to a crime novel. Do you think you can do that?’

‘Dunno. Yes, all right. The characters can be drug dealers, a man and a woman. I reckon most of the people who drive four-by-fours are drug dealers.’

‘That’s ridiculous.’

He laughed. ‘I know. Noel had a four-by-four. I’ve never seen Corinne driving it.’

After he left she went in search of Rousseau. If she could persuade him to sit on her knees, she could stroke him and it might have a calming effect. She found him in the airing cupboard – either she had left it open or he had learned how to open it with his paw – sitting on the bedspread from Eddie’s bed. Her sheets and duvet cover were in the laundry basket, waiting for Jane’s next big wash, but she had put away the blue bedspread as soon as she came back from returning Eddie to The Spruces.

‘Come here, you beastly cat. A nice sunny day, you ought to be out in the garden.’ She was talking to him as if he was a child. He would pick up that she was near breaking point – animals were sensitive to such things. ‘Oh, Rousseau, what are we going do?’

He licked his nose, almost as though preparing to answer her rhetorical question, then sprang from his shelf in the cupboard, and darted down the stairs, and she heard the click of the cat flap.

Now what? Stop thinking the worst. Arthur enjoyed observing the residents of Faraday Road. They were grist to his computer game. He was enjoying speculating about Noel’s accident but it had never crossed his mind Eddie could have had any part in it.

Pushed. The word she had barely heard. But she had heard it. Finding a pad and a ballpoint pen, she started making a list of suspects, anyone who had even the flimsiest of motives.