During the drive to Broadminster, Claudia’s mind had been circling round and round the state of her marriage. The crisis had developed so suddenly that she could still hardly believe it; it was almost as if Abbie’s innocent remark over lunch that day had precipitated disaster – though if her present suspicions were correct, her marriage had never been the happy, trusting relationship she’d imagined.
For she was now as sure as she could be that Harry and Eloise were having an affair – if a relationship which had presumably lasted twenty years could be so described. The vaguely unsettled feeling of the last week had crystallized last evening when, ashamed of her stilted behaviour on Sunday, she had phoned Eloise to apologize.
Her apprehension about phoning was on more than one count; she’d seen Monica that afternoon, who, when Claudia inquired after her headache, had told her Eloise was now suffering from one and she was standing in for her at a business dinner that evening.
However, anxious to clear the air before the View, Claudia went ahead with her call, intending to tell whoever answered not to disturb Eloise if she were resting.
She was considerably surprised to learn that in fact she had gone out. Then, with a terrible understanding, she remembered the phone call which Harry had taken during dinner, and his hasty departure after the meal ‘to attend to a crisis at the Gallery’.
She had made some stupid, incoherent reply to Theo, who was still waiting for her message, and put the phone down. Almost she was tempted to go straight down to the Gallery on the pretext of offering help. But she didn’t dare. Suppose she did find them together, what could she say? She was no good at scenes, inclined to burst into tears rather than stand her ground and give as good as she got. And suppose, after all this time, it would be a relief for them to end the deceit? Was she prepared to let Harry go? What of Abbie? And Justin and the boys? Had she the right to precipitate the disruption of so many lives?
On the other hand, perhaps Justin already knew? Yet he gave no hint of it, always so pleasant and welcoming whenever they saw him. He had probably been duped as much as she had.
By the time Claudia reached Broadminster her mind was no clearer than when she left home, and she continued to debate the problem while automatically negotiating the familiar streets. She had been born in the town and lived there until, when she was nineteen, the family moved to Shillingham and she had met Harry: Harry who, two years previously, had been jilted by Eloise Tovey.
It was as well, she thought as she turned into her friend’s drive, that she had this lunch engagement today; hanging about at home with her worries would have been insupportable. She remembered Eloise’s casual offer to help with the hanging, and smiled grimly to herself. Once this evening was over, she’d decide what to do.
A passing car recalled her to her surroundings, and she realized she was still sitting in the driveway clutching the steering-wheel. Hastily she released it and, gathering up her handbag and the potted plant she’d brought as a gift, she got out of the car.
Tony Reid, manager of the Carlton Gallery, was distinctly on edge. He was the one who held the can on such occasions, and if anything went wrong, the blame would be laid squarely at his door.
In his early thirties, he was a presentable young man with a slightly artistic air that went down well with customers. He was also very ambitious, which appealed to Harry. He’d set his heart on owning his own gallery, and every penny he earned was salted away to that end. He was unmarried, but whether his interests lay in other directions, Harry neither knew nor cared. With his acute brain, his deferential manner, and his willingness to stick his neck out when necessary, he was ideal for the job.
During the morning they had worked methodically hanging the paintings and sketches. Having performed the task many times together, they worked well as a team and had almost completed it. Now, in the lunch hour, they’d gone across the road to the wine bar.
‘Relax, Tony,’ Harry advised, noting the younger man’s tension. ‘We’ve done all we can; it’s in the lap of the gods now.’
‘Trouble is, the gods are a fickle bunch, and quite likely to throw mud in your eye for no good reason.’
‘Wine all organized?’ Justin’s firm was supplying it, as always on these occasions.
‘Yes, they’re delivering it at five, so the white will stay cool as long as possible.’
‘And the caterers? No problem there?’ It was the first time they’d used Home Cooking, having previously relied on a couple of girls from the wine bar they were now patronizing.
‘I phoned to confirm, and got the bloody answering machine. Probably means they’ve fitted in another job before us.’
‘Well, we haven’t exclusive claim on them. They’re dependable, though; I’ve been to several dinner-parties they’ve masterminded, and they were superb.’
Probably at Mrs Teal’s, Tony thought morosely. He resented the way she made herself so much at home at the Gallery simply because she belonged to the same Arts Society as the Marlows. If that was the reason, he reflected darkly. Not like Mrs Marlow, who never interfered but was always pleasant and polite. Nice lady, Mrs Marlow.
‘I told them they could use the offices,’ he said. ‘That’ll be all right, won’t it?’
‘Yes, I’ll clear my desk when we get back. How about upstairs? I’ve not been up this morning.’
‘All in place. It looks very impressive.’
‘Good. Well, drink up. We’d better get back and finish the final check. After that, all we can do is say our prayers and hope it goes off all right. And,’ he added with a smile, fishing out his credit card, ‘that your fickle gods aren’t in the mood for mud slinging.’
‘Hannah?’
‘Hello, David. How’s the case going?’
‘Chugging along. A few facts are slotting into place, but nothing of significance.’
‘Did the van-driver show up?’
‘Yes, and he seems to be in the clear. Which means we now haven’t even got a suspect. Look, it’s five-thirty and my brain’s ground to a halt. I think I’ll take an evening off and come back to it fresh tomorrow. Are you free? I thought we could eat somewhere cheap and cheerful and perhaps take in a film.’
‘Oh, David, I’m sorry, I can’t. I’m going to the Carlton Gallery with Gwen and Dilys. Monica wangled us invitations.’
‘Just my luck. Well, have a good time with all those VIPs. Incidentally –’ his voice quickened – ‘the Gallery was on the Whites’ window-cleaning list. It wouldn’t hurt to keep your eyes and ears open.’
‘With two hundred-odd people milling about? Even if they were up to something, it’d be under wraps this evening.’
‘You’re probably right.’
‘I’m sorry I can’t join you; in this weather, I don’t relish the prospect of masses of people in a confined space.’
‘What you mean is, you’d rather spend the evening in my scintillating company.’
‘Exactly!’
‘Enjoy yourself,’ he said, and rang off.
Poor David, Hannah thought; he’d probably have enjoyed the View more than she would. Modern art was not really her scene.
Since Harry wanted to be back at the Gallery by six o’clock, it was arranged that the Teals should call for Claudia and Abbie.
Hearing the car arrive, Claudia went to the door in time to see Justin opening the back and lifting a case of wine out of the boot.
‘This is for Harry with my compliments,’ he said as he carried it up the path. ‘It’s the Chablis he particularly enjoyed last week.’
‘Oh, Justin, that is kind of you.’ Her voice shook, and he glanced at her in surprise.
‘It’s no big deal. He’s a good customer, and this is just a way of saying thank you.’
There was a lump in Claudia’s throat as she watched him lay the box down in the hallway. Just how grateful would he be to Harry by the end of the week, if she carried out her intentions?
And now she had to face Eloise: who was, as usual, looking striking, her flaxen hair like a curtain of silk, her large spectacles complimenting rather than detracting from her appearance. Claudia, climbing into the back of the car with Abbie, said lightly, ‘Head better?’
‘Clear as a bell, thank you.’
‘Did Theo receive his invitation?’ she asked, for Abbie’s benefit.
‘Yes, he’s going along with Jeremy and Primrose.’
There was a continental air about Shillingham that evening. Bar customers were standing outside, glasses in hand, and where space permitted, chairs and tables had been set up on the pavements. Girls in thin, pretty dresses strolled along chatting to their shirt-sleeved companions, and sun blinds were in evidence on several buildings.
‘If this is the greenhouse effect, I’m all for it!’ Abbie remarked.
‘You wouldn’t be if you had to water the garden every evening,’ Justin rejoined. He parked in his own firm’s car park, which was only a few hundred yards from the Gallery, and as they turned the corner into Carlton Road they were met by the swelling hum of many voices.
‘Sounds as if it’s already in full swing,’ Justin said.
When they reached the Gallery, the noise which greeted them was overwhelming. Well-dressed people holding wine glasses were thronging the room and the atmosphere was stifling, despite the open door at the far end which gave on to the courtyard. Almost immediately they caught sight of Monica and her mother, standing in front of a striking painting of a Provençal village.
Justin said in Monica’s ear, ‘I took it upon myself to ask the Clériots to look in. They’re not flying back till tomorrow and were at a loose end. I’m sure Harry won’t mind. Let me know if you catch sight of them.’ He looked about him. ‘George not with you?’
‘No, his mother collapsed this morning. She’s in the General, in Intensive Care.’
‘Oh dear,’ Justin said, and Monica knew he was wondering how she’d feel if the old lady were to die. She was wondering herself; as long as Mrs Latimer was alive, she herself was under no pressure to marry George, but it was tacitly assumed their wedding would take place soon after her death. Certainly any grief on her part would be short-lived; the old lady had been consistently rude and unpleasant to her, and bullied poor George mercilessly. Her main concern was for George himself, who had been such a devoted son. She hoped very much that he wouldn’t expect his wife to take over the role of matriarch.
Abbie, meanwhile, had caught sight of Theo with his brother and Primrose, and made her way over to them. Theo looked very dashing, she thought, in a blue linen jacket and fawn trousers.
‘Hello, Abbie. Exams looming?’
She pulled a face. ‘Don’t remind me! I’ve just seen Miss James and Miss Rutherford, and I should be at home revising. But it’s too hot to study, it stews your brains.’
‘In my opinion, exams are a waste of time,’ Primrose said in a bored voice. ‘They don’t prepare you for real life, do they?’
‘Depends what you consider real life, my sweet,’ Jeremy replied.
Though Abbie agreed with Primrose, she played devil’s advocate. ‘It also depends what you want to do; I –’ She broke off. A middle-aged man was approaching them, leading by the hand the girl Theo had met in the park. Oh sugar! she thought. Just when things were going so well!
The couple reached them and the man said breezily, ‘Sorry to butt in; Theo, I’d like you to meet Christine Chase. She works for Darley Smythe, but we’re on neutral ground here.’
Abbie waited for Theo to say they knew each other, but to her surprise he and the girl were shaking hands as though they’d never met.
‘Always delighted to meet the opposition!’ Theo said with his charming smile. ‘How do you do? Can I get you a refill?’ And, putting a hand under the girl’s elbow, he steered her away.
‘Smooth operator, my brother!’ Jeremy remarked, almost by way of apology. ‘What about you, Abbie? What are you drinking?’
‘White wine, please.’ What were they playing at? she wondered. If she could get Theo alone, she’d jolly well ask him.
Monica, glancing towards the door, noticed the Clériots standing there, and as she couldn’t immediately see Justin, made her way over to them.
There was a double entrance to the Gallery, the door that opened off the street giving on to a short passage which ended in a flight of stairs leading to the room above. The Gallery itself was approached through a glass door immediately on the left, and it was here that the two Frenchmen were standing. They greeted her with relief, overwhelmed by so much English being spoken at such volume. In order to make herself heard, Monica gestured them back into the passage, where a welcome breath of air was coming through the open street door.
‘And they say the English climate is cold and wet!’ the senior Clériot marvelled, mopping his brow.
‘We have our moments! Once you’ve recovered your breath we’ll go in search of some wine. There are some very interesting paintings; I think you’ll enjoy looking at them.’
They continued chatting in French, and after a moment or two Monica became aware that someone was hovering behind her. She turned to see Harry’s manager, Tony Reid.
‘Excuse me, madam, may I have a word with these gentlemen?’
She smiled and nodded, then realized with a jolt of surprise that he was waiting for her to leave them. Hiding her embarrassment, she said to the Clériots, ‘I’ll bring you some wine,’ and pushed her way back into the Gallery. What extraordinary behaviour! She’d have a word with Harry about that young man. In any case, whatever could he have to say to the Frenchmen that she might not hear? Perhaps, she thought suddenly, he’d discovered they weren’t on the invitation list? But surely he wouldn’t be so ungracious as to ask them to leave?
Prepared to argue their case, she manoeuvred her way back to the door, but as she reached it they reappeared, looking bewildered.
‘That was most bizarre,’ the younger one told her. ‘It seemed he wished us to go upstairs – I do not know for what reason.’
‘How peculiar. Did you go?’
‘We started to, but then another gentleman approached and said there had been an error.’ And he shrugged eloquently at the ways of the English.
Monica was equally puzzled, but by this time Justin had caught sight of them, and was approaching with glasses of wine. Leaving the Clériots in his care, she went in search of her mother.
At eight o’clock the catering team started serving refreshments, stressing that food and wine were available in the courtyard. People obediently drifted out there, and, able to move more freely, Monica took the chance to study the paintings. A partition had been erected, forming two walkways, and as she moved along she could hear murmured comments from the other side of the screen. Then her attention was caught by a woman speaking softly but volubly in French. Curious, she quickened her step and, coming to the end of the aisle, rounded the partition and looked down the adjacent one. It was the couple who had spoken to them at The Gables. The Entente Cordiale was certainly being observed, she thought, and wondered if they, too, were uninvited guests. Not wanting to become involved in conversation with them, she returned to her own aisle and her perusal of the paintings.
Abbie spotted Theo at the far end of the courtyard, filling a plate with a selection of canapés. She went purposefully towards him.
‘Why did you pretend not to know that girl?’ she asked bluntly.
He turned, a startled look on his face, but asked lightly, ‘What girl? What are you talking about, young Abbie?’
‘Christine Chase, or whatever her name was.’
‘But I didn’t know her,’ Theo protested, popping a twist of smoked salmon into her mouth. ‘Whatever made you think I did?’
‘Because I saw you with her in the park,’ Abbie said through the smoked salmon.
Theo looked at her consideringly. ‘Did you, indeed?’
‘Well?’ she prompted.
‘All right. Look, there are reasons, but I can’t go into them here.’ He hesitated. ‘Are you going to school tomorrow?’
‘Just in the morning.’
‘Suppose we have lunch then, and I’ll explain?’
Abbie stared at him, a tide of colour flooding her face. Lunch with Theo – it hardly seemed possible.
‘Is that OK?’
She nodded, not trusting her voice.
‘Good girl. And in the meantime, I’m sure I can depend on you not to say anything. You’ll understand why when I explain.’ He patted her arm. ‘The fair Primrose is waiting for sustenance – I must go. Twelve-thirty at the Maypole?’
She nodded. ‘Right. Thanks,’ and stood looking after him as he disappeared into the throng. Thank goodness she hadn’t stayed at home with her history books, she thought fervently.
‘Tulie darling, how good to see you!’ Eloise slid an arm round the narrow, black-encased shoulders and planted a swift kiss on the highly rouged cheek.
‘Good evening, Mrs Teal.’
‘Have you had something to eat?’
‘No, I haven’t fought my way to the refreshments yet.’
‘Jeremy’ll get you something.’ Eloise signalled to her elder son half-way down the room, and in dumb show made her request known. He nodded and set off for the courtyard.
Miss Tulip said approvingly, ‘I’m glad you chose the lilac for this evening. It’s most becoming.’
‘Thank you; I’m very pleased with it.’ Miss Tulip had played a large part in moulding Eloise’s dress sense, and she remained deeply grateful. ‘I hear you’ve had quite an exciting time lately, with visits from the police?’
Miss Tulip shot her an apprehensive look. ‘It was Miss Monica they came to see.’
‘I know, but upsetting for you just the same.’ Perhaps, Eloise was thinking, that accounted for Tulie’s rather strained expression. ‘Apart from that, is all going well?’
Miss Tulip paused before replying. Was Miss Eloise, as she still privately thought of her, merely making conversation, or was she fishing? And if so, what had put her on the track? Perhaps the policemen’s visits had something to do with her after all.
‘Tulie? Is something wrong?’
Miss Tulip took a wisp of lace handkerchief out of her black clutch bag and patted her mouth. ‘No, my dear, nothing other than the heat.’
‘Yes, it is overpowering. Would you like to sit down?’
‘I spend my life standing, Mrs Teal, as you know. I’m perfectly all right.’
Jeremy was shouldering his way back with a plate piled high with titbits and a glass of wine. Miss Tulip’s eyes softened. They’d been such lovely little boys, he and his brother. Many was the time she’d pushed their pram round the town while their mother tried on dresses. He stooped to give her a kiss and she felt herself relax. She was being over-sensitive – there’d been nothing hidden in Mrs Teal's remarks. But the sooner this police business was cleared up, the easier she’d be. Delicately, like a robin at a bird-table, she began to eat.
Hannah was uncomfortably sticky and her new shoes were pinching her feet. She glanced at Gwen, who also looked hot and bothered, spraying hairpins with every movement as strands of hair detached themselves from her French pleat.
‘How about slipping away and relaxing somewhere with a salad and a long cold drink?’
‘Sounds wonderful, if you don’t think Monica would mind.’
‘She might even join us; I’m sure Dilys will.’
Monica when approached accepted with alacrity. She was finding the Clériots heavy going and George was increasingly on her mind. She was anxious to phone him to inquire after his mother.
Eloise being quite agreeable to dropping off her mother on the way home, the four friends thankfully escaped from the mêlée and strolled across the road to the wine bar. It too had a courtyard behind it, filled now with people sitting under brightly coloured umbrellas.
While the others found a table, Monica went to make her phone call. But it was Betsy who answered; George was still at the hospital and there was no further news. Monica left an appropriate message, said she’d ring again in the morning, and went out to join the others.
Their orders taken and their drinks served, they settled down to talk over the evening.
‘Buy anything, anybody?’ Gwen inquired.
‘I’ve reserved a couple of prints,’ Monica said. ‘I’ll pop in and have another look at them tomorrow.’
‘I wonder what was going on upstairs?’ Dilys mused, as the waiter set their salads on the table.
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, I went out into the passage for a breath of air and was pretty smartly escorted back again.’
‘Who by?’ Hannah asked, mindful of Webb’s instructions.
‘One of the officials, I suppose – a young man with longish hair. He was very apologetic and said they had to keep the exit clear, but I could hear voices up above and it sounded as if someone was about to come downstairs. So, being of a curious turn of mind, I hung around near the door, and sure enough a couple appeared from that direction and came into the Gallery. They were talking French.’
Monica frowned. ‘Two men?’
‘No, a man and a woman.’
‘That’s odd,’ she said, and related the episode with Tony Reid and the Clériots.
‘An illicit game of roulette, no doubt,’ suggested Dilys, and there, having no better explanation, they let the matter rest.
When Hannah arrived back at Beechcroft Mansions an hour or so later, she took the lift beyond her own floor and knocked on Webb’s front door. He opened it in shirt-sleeves.
‘Ah, the reveller’s return! How did it go?’
‘Interesting. Can you spare a few minutes?’
‘Do you have to ask?’
She walked through to his living-room. A lamp was lit in one corner, but most of the room was in shadow. Mozart was playing softly on the stereo and Webb’s old leather chair had been pulled over to the wide-open window.
‘I was trying to get some air. Drink?’
‘I’d love a gin and tonic. I’ve been on wine all evening.’
He pulled a chair over for her and she sat down, relaxing into its sagging embrace.
‘Well,’ she began, accepting the glass he handed her, ‘I kept my ears and eyes open as instructed.’
‘And?’
‘And there was something rather puzzling.’ She repeated what both Dilys and Monica had told her about the apparently out-of-bounds area upstairs. ‘The strange thing was that both couples involved were French.’
Webb smiled, thinking of Jackson’s comment about sinister foreigners. Perhaps he’d been nearer the mark than either of them realized.
‘You think the first couple was mistaken for the second?’
‘It rather looks like that.’
Webb tipped his glass, letting the ice clink against the sides. ‘Any idea what they could have been up to?’
‘Not the remotest.’
‘Or if anyone else went up?’
‘No.’
He said reflectively, ‘I know the manager, I’ve chatted to him once or twice. Not Marlow, though. Have you met him?’
‘No, but Monica sometimes speaks of him.’ She paused. ‘Are you wondering what the Whites saw through those upstairs windows?’
‘I certainly wouldn’t mind a look up there. Well done, love, you’ve opened another line of inquiry, and at this stage of the game it’s more than welcome.’
At three minutes to twelve that night, Ethel Latimer finally released her hold on life and slipped peacefully away.