It was the last week of classes before Christmas, and Max had, some years previously, begun the custom of serving wine and mince pies at the end of each one. Since Rona wasn’t interested in baking – or cooking of any description – he made them himself, and had spent Sunday afternoon, while she was out at the Tarltons’, enveloped in a spicy aroma producing this year’s batch.
At least, he thought, as he set out glasses for his Wednesday class, he needn’t worry about Adele turning up. She wasn’t likely to show her face after their last encounter, and in view of the subsequent embarrassment with first Charlie and then Rona, he could only be thankful. He was therefore completely dumbfounded when, with a shy smile and a nod of the head, she emerged from the stairwell and took her accustomed place at her easel.
He cleared his throat and, avoiding her eye, addressed the class in general as he explained what he hoped they’d achieve from the display before them – predictably, an arrangement of poinsettia, holly and candles.
‘It doesn’t have to be an exact representation,’ he told them. ‘Use it as a basis for your imagination – what Christmas means to you personally, perhaps. Or you might like to adopt one of the styles we’ve been discussing this term – cubist or post-Impressionist, for example. If you need any help, let me know, otherwise I’ll leave you to get on with it.’
He settled down at his own easel, glad of the screen it provided between himself and Adele. Thank heaven this was the last class of term; by January, she’d either have dropped out, or he’d have put the embarrassment behind him.
He sketched rapidly, his mind only half on what he was doing. Rona seemed on edge about this Tarlton business, he mused. Too bad they’d been on the spot when that girl keeled over; it had made her feel involved. When he was home this evening, he’d try to talk some sense into her. He must give his father a ring, too. Perhaps arrange to fly up there again in the New Year; Cynthia had said there was a bed for him any time.
The studio clock struck three, and he hastily switched on the kettle for the half-time cup of tea. This was always a welcome break, and everyone took the chance to stand up and move about, often going to look at each other’s work and pass judicial comments. Max took the opportunity to do the same. As usual, there was a wide divergence of form and structure. Some of them had followed up his suggestion of other styles, Dorcas Madden producing a very creditable attempt at surrealism. Adele’s offering, however, was an almost photographic reproduction of his display.
‘I didn’t feel I could improve on your creation,’ she said, with a flutter of lowered lashes, and Max felt an unworthy spurt of irritation. Her work was meticulous as always, each brush stroke with its own weight, adding to the overall picture.
‘It’s very good, Adele,’ he said a little grudgingly, ‘but I’d rather you’d attempted a more individual interpretation.’
‘Why?’ she challenged him. ‘So you could get into my mind?’
He stared at her in surprise. This was the most she’d volunteered in class since she’d joined it the previous summer. He was aware, too, of turning heads.
‘You flatter me,’ he answered shortly. ‘I’m a mere artist, not a psychologist.’ And, mug in hand, he moved on to the next easel. He was, nevertheless, glad when it was time to resume their places. Damn it, he’d never before felt uncomfortable in one of his own classes, and he resolved not to lay himself open to the possibility again.
Since there was only half an hour between the end of this class and the beginning of the next, he ended it twenty minutes early, to allow time to partake of the wine and mince pies. There was a general atmosphere of bonhomie as people discussed their plans for Christmas, and Max was presented with a bottle of whisky that the class had clubbed together to buy for him. Having thanked them all, he was completely taken aback when Adele produced a brightly coloured package and pressed it into his hand.
‘Another little present for you,’ she said. ‘Happy Christmas, Max.’
There was a sudden silence as everyone turned to look at them. What was her game? he thought furiously.
‘Thank you,’ he said abruptly. ‘I’ll keep this one till Christmas Day.’
‘Oh, but I want to make sure you like it,’ she persisted. ‘And I’m sure everyone wants to see it.’
She looked round at them, and there was a subdued murmur of agreement. Willing himself to keep his temper, Max fumbled with the ribbon and tore off the wrapping, to reveal a little blue sugar bowl.
‘It’s – very pretty,’ he said after a minute. ‘Thank you.’
‘I noticed, when I came to tea those times, that you didn’t seem to have one.’
Max stared at her, aware, now, that his face was flaming, though with rage rather than embarrassment, and that the whole class was gazing at them in amazement. Silent, timid Adele, and Mr Allerdyce? Well, still waters certainly ran deep!
‘I hate to hurry you,’ he said, ‘but time’s moving on, and I have to set up the next class. Happy Christmas, everyone, and I look forward to seeing you in the New Year.’
They hastily put down their glasses, crammed the last of their mince pies into their mouths, and collected their things together. Then, with a chorus of ‘Happy Christmas’, they clattered down the stairs and out of the house, Adele among them.
Max turned and looked at the sugar bowl, smug and shining on his desk. Then he picked it up and hurled it across the studio, where it crashed against a chair and shattered into fragments. If only the speculation it had caused could be disposed of so easily.
All that week, the local news bulletins carried the story of ‘The Skeleton in the Well’. DNA tests on the bones had confirmed that it was indeed that of Velma Tarlton, who had disappeared in September 1980, telling her husband she was leaving him for good. That juxtaposition disturbed Rona; it did not seem to bode well for Robert. Though she longed for first-hand news of the investigation, she felt unable to contact Kate. At best, it would be intrusive; at worst, she could be taken for a journalist after a story. And how accurate would that have been? she wondered wryly.
Her downbeat mood was not helped by Max, who’d been monosyllabic on Wednesday evening, and whose phone calls since hadn’t been much better. In response to her query as to what was wrong, he’d muttered something about the calendar not going well, and changed the subject.
Adding to her restlessness was the fact that she’d nothing to work on. Having wrapped up the parent series, she could scarcely begin interviewing the Tarltons at the moment, and the Fairfaxes, second on her list, would be far too busy, with the approach of Christmas, to grant her any time. There was nothing for it but to resign herself to putting everything on hold until the New Year.
The phone interrupted her musings, and at the sound of her sister’s voice, Rona brightened. But Lindsey’s first words rang a warning bell.
‘Well, sister mine, what do you think of our very own local murder?’
Hurriedly, Rona tried to remember if she’d mentioned her proposed series to Lindsey, and realized with a sense of disbelief that she hadn’t. Though they’d spoken on the phone a few times, it had been on other matters, and they’d not seen each other since Pops’s retirement party.
This conclusion was confirmed by Lindsey’s next comment. ‘At least this is one you haven’t had a finger in!’
She said obliquely, ‘It seems a long time since I’ve seen you.’
‘That’s why I’m ringing. Are you free for lunch?’
‘Oh, Lindsey, I am!’
Lindsey laughed. ‘My, my! That sounded heartfelt!’
‘Actually, I was feeling a bit down. Where shall we go? The Gallery or the Bacchus?’
‘The Gallery, I think. I could do with a bit of old-fashioned gentility.’
One fifteen saw them settled at a table and studying the menu.
‘So what have you been doing since I saw you?’ Lindsey enquired idly.
‘Finishing off that last series, among other things.’
‘Any thoughts on the next project?’
‘Max wants me to do another bio,’ Rona said. True, if not the answer to the question.
‘So you should. You’re good at them, and something in hard cover must be more rewarding than articles that, once read, are thrown away.’ She put the menu down. ‘I’m going for the quiche. How about you?’
‘I’ll join you, with a salad on the side.’
The waitress brought their bottle of wine, and took their order.
‘Heard from Pops lately?’ Lindsey asked.
‘I dropped in to see him last week, on the spur of the moment.’
Lindsey raised her eyebrows. ‘A long drop, wasn’t it?’
Rona smiled. ‘Not really; I was up that way making a delivery.’
‘How was he?’
‘He seemed OK. He’s hoping to invite us all to dinner soon.’
‘With or without Her Ladyship?’
‘Does it matter?’
Lindsey shrugged. ‘Perhaps not. It’s a fait accompli, after all. Incidentally, Hugh bumped into him the other day, at the pillar box in Talbot Road.’
‘Did sparks fly?’ Rona asked with amusement.
‘No, there was a civil exchange, according to Hugh.’
Rona said flatly, ‘You’re seeing him, then?’
‘Of course I’m seeing him. You saw us at Serendipity, didn’t you?’
‘I mean regularly?’
‘You mean,’ Lindsey corrected, ‘am I sleeping with him?’
‘And are you?’
‘It’s none of your business, but as it happens, no, not yet.’
Rona digested this rider. ‘What about Jonathan?’
Lindsey flashed her a glance. ‘I’m seeing him, too. And to save you the trouble of asking, yes, I am sleeping with him. Shocking, isn’t it?’
‘I hope you know what you’re doing. It could all blow up in your face, you know.’
‘A regular little prophet of doom, aren’t you?’
Their food arrived, saving Rona from answering. Feeling that a change of subject might be wise, she asked, ‘Are you going to the Grants’ party tomorrow?’
Lindsey shook her head. ‘I only know them through you and Max.’
It was odd, Rona reflected, that she and Lindsey moved for the most part in different social circles. Lindsey had a lot of legal friends, and was still on visiting terms with people she’d known during her marriage to Hugh. Only where old friends were concerned did the two of them attend the same parties.
‘Have you spoken to Mum recently?’ she asked, feeling a stab of guilt at her own dereliction.
‘Yes, actually; she’s full of beans, interviewing plumbers and builders for this conversion she’s planning. And she’s very chuffed to have received several party invitations for the next few weeks. She thought she’d be out on a limb without Pops, but not a bit of it, apparently.’
‘That’s great. I must give her a ring – I’ve been meaning to, but …’
‘The road to hell?’ Lindsey supplied.
‘Exactly.’
‘But you’re doing the decent thing over Christmas. It was good of Max to grasp that nettle.’
‘Yes; he booked the table weeks ago, without saying anything. He knew if he waited till we’d all made up our minds, the place would have been fully booked.’ Rona hesitated. ‘Like to come to us on Christmas Eve, and stay over? We could open stockings together, like old times.’
‘Oh, Ro, I’d have loved to, but I promised I’d go to Mum’s. She’ll be all alone for the first time.’
‘Of course. It was just a thought.’
Her first New Year Resolution, Rona decided, would be to keep in regular touch with both her parents.
Tom Parish sat in front of his television, along, no doubt, with most Marsborough residents who were home at lunchtime, watching the latest reports on the gruesome findings. Velma Tarlton, that bubbly, laughing girl he remembered seeing about town all those years ago, murdered: he’d known her by sight before either he or she were married, and, truth to tell, had had the odd fantasy about her. Unbelievable that she should have met such a grisly end. The family must be going through hell, though apparently they were still open for business. Putting a brave face on it, he supposed.
Well, good for them. He hadn’t intended looking there for Christmas presents, but he and Avril had patronized the firm all their married life, and they deserved a bit of loyalty. He’d go in this afternoon; see if he could find something for Catherine. Show a bit of support, if the chance arose. Heaven knew, there was little else he could do.
There were a lot of people Rona didn’t know at the Grants’ party. Simon, like Max, was an artist, and so, she gathered, were the majority of the guests. Max seemed to know quite a few of them, but their names jumbled up in her head, and she knew she’d never remember them. Glad to see familiar faces, she gravitated, as soon as politeness allowed, towards Georgia and Patrick Kingston. The woman they were talking to turned as she approached, and smiled at her.
‘It’s Miss Parish, isn’t it? From Chase Mortimer?’
Rona smiled back. ‘Right name, wrong sister. Lindsey’s my twin.’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry! I don’t know her well, but you’re terribly alike, aren’t you?’
‘So we’ve been told.’
‘Allow me to remedy the situation,’ Patrick put in smoothly. ‘Rona Parish, meet Carol Hurst.’
By an effort of willpower, Rona held her smile in place. Jonathan’s wife! Then he’d be here as well. How would he react to seeing her?
‘It must be lovely to be a twin,’ Carol was saying. ‘I was an only child, and always felt I missed out. Are you a solicitor, too?’
‘No,’ Georgia answered for her, ‘Rona’s a writer.’
‘Oh dear! Should I have heard of you?’
‘Not unless you read biographies or Chiltern Life.’
‘Neither, regretfully. I’m not much of a reader, I’m afraid; I never seem to have the time. I have two children, and since we live outside town, I’m always having to ferry them to after-school activities or friends’ parties. When I am able to relax, I promptly fall asleep! My husband despairs of me!’ She turned back to Rona. ‘Whose biographies have you written?’
‘Arthur Conan Doyle, Sarah Siddons and William Pitt the Elder,’ Rona replied. ‘A motley crew, aren’t they?’
‘Are the books in the library? I promise to take one out and educate myself.’
Rona laughed. ‘I won’t hold you to that.’
She liked her, she realized with a pang. This attractive, friendly woman believed she was happily married, and all the time—
‘Ah, there you are, darling!’
The remembered voice. Rona turned, saw his eyes widen in shock. Perhaps he, too, had in that first instant mistaken her for Lindsey.
‘Jon, this is Rona Parish. She’s a writer, but I’m afraid I mistook her for her sister. My husband, Jonathan.’
Rona hesitated, but Jonathan acted swiftly, holding out his hand with a bland, unrecognizing smile. ‘How do you do? Rona, is it? Is your sister here?’
Briefly, Rona considered teasing him, but thought better of it. ‘No, she doesn’t know the Grants very well.’
‘They are alike, aren’t they, Jon?’ Carol said again.
‘In appearance, certainly,’ Jonathan agreed smoothly. ‘It must lead to a lot of misunderstandings.’ A dig there. Before she could react, he had taken his wife’s elbow. ‘If these good folk will excuse us, there’s someone I’d like you to meet,’ he said, and, with a general smile of apology, led her away.
‘Suave devil,’ Patrick commented.
More than he realized. Though to be fair, Jonathan couldn’t have admitted to knowing her; it would have involved telling his wife that they’d had dinner together, along with his mistress, that self-same twin. She must find Max and warn him not to give the game away.
‘Another drink, Rona?’ Patrick was saying.
‘Oh.’ She saw with surprise that her glass was empty. ‘Thank you, yes.’
‘Rona!’
Magda and Gavin were approaching, and Magda gave her a quick hug. She looked very exotic, with her dark hair pinned up and held in place by a red rose, complementing her chiffon dress.
‘I must say, you’re a good advertisement for your boutiques!’ Georgia told her. ‘I love the scalloped hemline.’
‘Available in red or black,’ Magda replied, ‘and a bargain at the price!’
They all laughed, and under cover of it, Magda said in Rona’s ear, ‘I gather all’s well with Max again?’
‘Yes, thankfully, though he’s been a bit grouchy this last week.’
‘So has Gavin. It’s the time of year. They see the joint bank account rapidly diminishing.’
The evening wore on, and Rona was introduced to a group of people from Woodbourne.
‘What’s all this about skeletons in wells?’ one man asked jovially, helping himself to a canapé. ‘Makes a change from closets, I suppose.’
‘Yes, you’ve been hitting the headlines, haven’t you?’ a woman cut in. ‘And I always thought Marsborough was such a quiet, respectable place!’
‘She means dull!’ said someone else.
‘Do you know the people involved?’ the first man asked curiously, and to Rona’s relief, Max materialized at her side.
‘They’re the town’s best jewellers,’ he said. ‘We’ve been in the shop countless times.’
‘Reckon any of them could be a murderer?’
The woman laughed in embarrassment. ‘Really, Pete! That’s enough!’
‘They’re a very pleasant family,’ Max said firmly. ‘I’m sure none of them has anything to hide.’
The man called Pete shook his head. ‘I shouldn’t bet on it,’ he said with owlish solemnity. ‘It usually turns out to be the nearest and dearest.’
Across town, Tom and Catherine were also discussing the murder.
‘You actually knew her, when you were all young?’ Catherine asked with interest.
‘Not knew, exactly, but I saw her around, and we were at some of the same parties.’
‘What was she like?’
‘To look at, gorgeous – no denying that. But she was the kind of girl who flirted with every man she met, and getting married didn’t stop her.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘I even saw her try it on once with her brother-in-law. It must have been hard on her husband.’
‘Some husbands like to think other men fancy their wives.’
‘I doubt if that applied to Tarlton. When she was carrying on, he used to look as if he could murder her.’ He broke off with an embarrassed laugh. ‘Forget I said that.’
Catherine topped up his coffee. ‘But do you think he could have done?’ she asked calmly.
Tom stared at her for a minute. ‘Good God,’ he said slowly. ‘You read about murders all the time, don’t you, but you never expect them to happen to anyone you know, even vaguely. Nor do you expect to look at someone who’s been around for years in the light of a potential killer.’
He drank his coffee. ‘Is a crime passionnel a let-out in this country? I think perhaps it should be. It’s possible, in certain circumstances, to be driven to extremes.’
‘You didn’t answer my question,’ Catherine reminded him. ‘Do you think her husband could have killed her?’
‘Let’s just say I shouldn’t like to be in the jury box,’ Tom replied.
Lindsey said, ‘I told Rona the other day that I wasn’t sleeping with you.’
Hugh looked at her sharply. ‘We could soon remedy that; though what the hell it has to do with your sister is beyond me. Don’t be influenced by her,’ he added, refilling her wine glass, ‘she’s never liked me.’
‘I’m not influenced by anybody,’ Lindsey said lazily.
He sat down on the couch opposite her. ‘Can we stop playing games? You know how much I want you, and what’s more, you want me, too.’
She shook her head.
‘Then why break your own rule and come here this evening?’
‘Because I’ve never seen your flat, and wondered if it was like Pops’s. Not that I’ve seen his yet, either, but Rona says an invitation’s imminent.’ She glanced across at him. ‘I’m sorry if you took my arrival as the green light.’
‘What else was I to think? God knows, we’ve spent a fair bit of time together over the last month or two. It’s a natural progression, surely?’
‘Not with us. Remember what happened last time.’
‘We’ve both grown up a bit since then.’
‘But I enjoy things as they are, Hugh; dinner, goodnight kisses – fine, but I don’t want things to get too heavy.’
‘They needn’t.’
‘But they would, you know they would. With us, once the touchpaper’s lit, it’s a question of “retire immediately”.’
‘To bed?’ he asked with a faint smile. ‘That’s what I’m suggesting.’
‘You know what I mean; when we get together, we’re dynamite. We’ve blown our lives apart once; let’s not risk it again.’
‘But it worked well, all those months I was in Guildford, and came up at weekends.’
‘That’s because it was finite. I knew you’d be going back on the Sunday.’
‘Well, thanks very much!’ He stared down into his glass. ‘You’re seeing someone else, aren’t you?’
‘I don’t have to answer that.’
‘Is it the chap I saw you with at the pub that time?’
‘I haven’t said there is anyone.’
‘Oh, there is, all right. If there weren’t, you’d be more amenable to my advances.’
She laughed lightly. ‘You sound like something out of Jane Austen!’
‘You’re a heartless little devil, aren’t you, Lindsey? You enjoy keeping me dangling – it suits your vanity. Well, I warn you – I’ll only dangle for so long.’
She shrugged. ‘You’re a free agent.’
He stood up abruptly, seized both her wrists and pulled her to her feet. ‘One of these days,’ he said unevenly, ‘you’ll get more than you bargained for. That’s what happens to teases.’
And as she stared at him, suddenly uneasy, he started to kiss her savagely. Immediately, as always happened with Hugh, her body responded and her passion rose to match his. Just, she thought incoherently, what she’d wanted to avoid.
With an immense effort of will, she tore herself free of him and they stood looking at each other, both of them breathing heavily.
‘Thanks for the drinks, Hugh,’ she said shakily. ‘Don’t worry; I shan’t break the rules again.’ She picked up her coat and let herself out of the flat, leaving him standing in the middle of the room, looking after her.
Sunday morning, and as usual they were still in their dressing gowns. Max had cooked a full English breakfast, including fried bread and sausages, and they were now reading the papers while they finished their coffee.
‘I see our murder’s made the Sundays,’ he observed, ‘albeit only a paragraph on an inside page.’
‘Is there any hope of finding who did it, do you think, after all this time?’
‘I doubt it, unless the murderer jumps out of the woodwork and confesses.’
‘I’d love to know how the investigation’s going.’
He looked up. ‘Oh, no you don’t!’ he said firmly. ‘It’s in the police’s hands, you keep well away.’
‘I haven’t much option, have I? But that doesn’t stop me wondering.’
She returned to her portion of the paper, and Max glanced at her surreptitiously. Should he, he wondered, have told her about Adele’s behaviour last Wednesday? He’d learned to his cost that it wasn’t wise to keep such things from her; someone was bound to say something, and it would be much better coming from him. But how to explain why he’d not told her at once? She’d realized he had something on his mind.
He sighed. This awkwardness always arose when Adele’s name was mentioned. Still, it would be as well to take the bull by the horns, and now was as good a time as any.
He cleared his throat, and as she looked up at him expectantly, the doorbell chimed.
He frowned. ‘Who the hell can that be, at this time on a Sunday morning?’ Not, please God, Adele! He wouldn’t put anything past her.
‘I’d better go,’ Rona said. ‘I’m marginally more respectable than you, and it might be Lindsey.’
She ran up the basement steps and opened the front door, surprised to see two uniformed policemen on the step, one of them Archie Duncan, a former student of Max’s.
‘Archie!’ she exclaimed.
He did not return her smile. ‘Good morning, Mrs Allerdyce. Is your husband at home?’
‘Well, yes, but he’s—’
‘Could we have a word, do you think?’
‘Yes, of course, but I’m afraid he’s not dressed, either. We had a late night last night, and we’re—’
‘If you could just tell him we’re here?’
Rona frowned, belatedly apprehensive. ‘Is something wrong?’ she asked sharply.
Neither man replied, and with a frustrated click of her tongue, she turned and went to the head of the stairs. ‘Max,’ she called, ‘Archie Duncan’s here to see you.’
A minute later Max came barefoot up the stairs. ‘Archie! You’ve caught me déshabillé, I’m afraid. There’s some coffee downstairs …’ His voice trailed off as his eyes moved to the other policeman, silent at Archie’s side.
‘It’s not a social call, sir.’ Archie was unusually stiff, not meeting their eyes.
Max frowned. ‘Then what the hell is it?’
‘Mr Allerdyce, I’m arresting you on suspicion of assault on Mrs Adele Yarborough. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something you later rely on in court.’
‘What?’
‘I’d be grateful if you’d accompany us to the station for questioning. We’ll wait in the car while you get dressed.’
And the two policemen turned in unison and went back down the steps. Max stepped forward and slammed the door behind them.
Rona was staring at him in shock. ‘They can’t do that, can they?’
‘It seems they already have,’ he said grimly. He started up the stairs, and she ran after him.
‘I’ll come with you.’
‘No, you most definitely won’t. God knows what garbled story they’ve got hold of, but I don’t doubt we can sort it out. It might take time, though, and I don’t want you hanging around the station all day.’
She stood helplessly in the bedroom, watching him dress.
‘I don’t see how they can possibly—’
‘She must have fabricated something. She was behaving very oddly at the last class. I – meant to tell you.’
‘But you didn’t,’ Rona accused, her apprehension deepening.
‘Well, I’m telling you now.’ He pulled on a sweater. ‘She intimated to the whole class that we’d been meeting over cups of tea—’
‘Which you had.’
‘Not at my instigation. And then, if you please, she gave me a Christmas present.’
Rona stared at him. ‘What did you do with it?’
He smiled grimly. ‘When they’d all gone, I hurled it across the room and it shattered in pieces. It was a sugar basin.’
‘A sugar basin?’
‘She said she’d noticed I hadn’t got one. God, Rona, I wish I’d listened to you in the first place. She’s a manipulative little devil, all right. Lord knows what game she’s up to now, but don’t worry, darling. I’ll be back soon.’
He gave her a swift kiss and went downstairs to the waiting policemen. In the silence of the bedroom, she heard the car drive away.