‘Is that all?’ demanded Peterson.
Hall was reluctant to be dismissed – could imagine the solicitor’s “and-I-took-no-nonsense” dinner-table anecdotes that night – but there wasn’t anything else about which he wanted to satisfy himself. ‘I’m sure you’ll help me further if something else comes up that I want clarifying.’
‘Are you going to the house?’ asked Hughes.
Hall shook his head. ‘I didn’t intend to.’
‘We’re still having to keep officers there all the time. And it’s not just all the media people who’re hanging around for Mrs Lomax to come back. There’s a lot of souvenir hunters now. The house nameplate has gone and we caught a family three days ago digging up plants, to take home and put in their own garden. We’ve charged them. The gardener says he’s lost some tools.’
‘What is it you want, Inspector?’
‘A private security firm. We’ll perform a police function but we’d like the general protection taken over by someone else.’
‘I’ll arrange it,’ promised Hall.
Elspeth Simpson lived just two miles along the same road as the village policeman, who hadn’t exaggerated the woman’s house-proudness. Even the garden flowers were in order of colour and in regimented lines and inside everything looked as if it were arranged soon to be packed away for safekeeping. The tiny, bird-like woman was as neatly packed as her belongings, her white hair tightly netted, the white collar of her uncreased paisley-patterned dress hard with starch. She appeared relieved that Hall refused tea but looked anxiously at a man of his size occupying one of her best-room chairs. He did his best not to ruffle the protective loose covers on the arms.
For the first time that day he discerned no attitude at all towards him. Elspeth chattered like a bird and he let her, eager for the gossip of which he quickly guessed she was the self-appointed village archivist. Jane Lomax’s death had been a tragedy, awful. Poor Mr Lomax had been very brave. They’d been devoted. There was a sniff at how quickly he had married again and at Jennifer’s name but it wasn’t for her to criticize. The second Mrs Lomax had fitted every bit as well into the village and local life, apart from the church, although she supported its events and had put money towards the new organ. She didn’t understand how the murder (‘that awful thing,’) could have happened but thought everything in court had been all wrong (‘no disrespect to you, of course, sir,’) because ghosts weren’t natural (said without a suggestion of a smile) and it wasn’t God’s way. There was only one ghost, the Holy Ghost. Perhaps it wouldn’t have occurred if the second Mrs Lomax had gone to church, not that she was criticizing, of course.
‘Why didn’t you stay on as housekeeper to the second Mrs Lomax?’
‘George, my late. He was ill, before they got married. I had to leave to look after him all the time. Emphysema. Mr Lomax was very good to me. Gave me?1,000 when I left and?500 for the funeral. And the second Mrs Lomax used to call by sometimes to see if I was all right. By then Alice – that’s Mrs Jenkins – had been engaged so there wasn’t any cause for me to go back.’
‘You made a statement after the first Mrs Lomax’s death but you didn’t give evidence at the inquest?’
‘I went but the policeman – not Harry Elroyd, the one who organized it all – said the coroner didn’t want me because I hadn’t been there that day.’
‘Why was that?’
‘It was my day off, a Friday. Mr Lomax always came home early on a Friday, so Mrs Lomax wasn’t too long alone.’
‘Because of her diabetes.’
‘Yes. And they were devoted, like I said.’
Lomax must have been a consummate actor. ‘You knew she was a diabetic?’
‘Of course. That’s why I couldn’t understand a lot of what was said at the inquest.’
Hall breathed, deeply. ‘What exactly didn’t you understand, Mrs Simpson?’
‘Mr Lomax saying she was careless with her treatment. She never was, as far as I was concerned. She’d always done it, you see. It was automatic, like washing her hands.’ As if in reminder the woman checked her own to ensure they were clean.
‘Didn’t you tell anyone at the time?’
‘Harry Elroyd. He said I couldn’t really know, which I suppose was right. I mean she never did it in front of me. Always in the bathroom attached to the bedroom. But she always said something when she went to do it. She had to do it twice a day, you see. Morning and night.’
‘Said something like what?’
‘“Pin-cushion time.” That’s what she called it.’
‘None of this was in your statement. I’ve read it.’
‘I wasn’t asked.’
And if you don’t ask you don’t get, thought Hall. ‘What about something else Mr Lomax said at the inquest, about Mrs Lomax’s drinking?’
‘I didn’t understand that, either,’ the elderly woman chirped at once.
‘Tell me why,’ encouraged Hall.
‘I’d never seen her drink, hardly at all. There used to be church council meetings at the house… did you know she was on the church council…?’
‘No.’
‘She was. And used to let there be meetings at the house midweek, on the nights Mr Lomax was in London…’ There was a pause. ‘… I thought sometimes she was lonely, in that big house all by herself.’
‘Tell me about the meetings.’
‘I was on the church council myself then. Mrs Lomax was very generous: they both were. She used to serve drinks, before the meeting started. All sorts of drinks, anything you wanted. She always had sherry, as if she was joining in, but usually I’d see she never finished it.’
‘Never finish one glass?’
The woman nodded. ‘I asked her about it. She said it wasn’t good for her to drink.’
‘You used to stay behind on church council nights?’
‘Always. George wasn’t so bad then.’
‘But on the other days what time would you come back here?’
‘Five usually. Certainly in the week when Mrs Lomax was by herself although I used to stay later when the mister was home and they had people in. I thought that was only fair for the way they let me go early other times, because of George.’
Hall patiently let her finish. ‘I don’t want to talk about the nights when people were in: not even when the church council met. After a night when Mrs Lomax had been by herself and you arrived the following morning, did you ever find empty wine bottles like the one Harry Elroyd discovered, after Mrs Lomax was found in a coma?’
She shook her head. ‘Not that I can recall.’ Her small, sharp-featured face creased into a frown. ‘Is there something wrong? About what happened, I mean?’
‘No,’ said Hall, quickly. ‘It’s just that everything is so unusual. It’s got to be gone into more thoroughly than usual. You understand that, of course?’
‘Of course,’ agreed the woman, invited into a confidence.
Hall looked around the polished-for-approval room in obvious admiration. ‘You’ve got a very nice house, Mrs Simpson. Perfectly kept.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘You kept Mrs Lomax’s house like this?’
‘Of course!’
‘What about Mrs Lomax?’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘As far as you were concerned she wasn’t careless about her medication. Did she rely upon you to keep her house like this…’ Hall swept his hand admiringly around the room. ‘Or was she messy?’
‘Never!’
‘How often did you arrive in the morning to find the remains of a dinner like the one described at the inquest?’
‘Never. Not even when there’d been a party. They always brought in caterers, so nothing was ever left. Sometimes things were put away wrongly in the kitchen. Mrs Lomax would tell me about it the following day. How she’d had to put it in the right place.’
‘In the right place,’ echoed Hall, letting his thoughts coalesce. ‘Did you come into the house on the Saturday, the day after the tragedy?’
‘Not the day after. The same day. Mr Lomax came to the house the night it happened. Asked me to come in to clear up. Actually drove me there in his car.’
Momentarily Hall closed his eyes in despair. Thar would have been what time.’