The Julia Sterrett Clinic looked simply what it was, a large private house, set back on a side street near the Banbury Road. The only indication of its true function was a discreet plaque set into the brick near the front door. Gemma rang the bell and waited, and after a moment she heard the heavy shuffle of feet and the click of the bolts being drawn back.
“You’re right on time, dear,” the housekeeper said as she opened the door.
Gemma found the stout, little housekeeper a great improvement over the dragon of a secretary that had manned the clinic’s desk that afternoon. “Hello, Mrs. Milton. Is he ready to see me?”
“I’ll take you up straightaway.”
Mrs. Milton toiled up the curving staircase, breath puffing, cheeks pink with exertion, while Gemma followed a little guiltily in her wake. Looking back, Gemma could see the reception room to the right of the front door, and she knew from her afternoon visit that the clinic proper occupied the ground and first floors of the house, while Miles Sterrett retained the top floor for his personal use.
Mrs. Milton tapped on a door in the upper corridor, motioned Gemma in and pulled the door closed smartly behind her. Gemma stood alone on the threshold, feeling a bit like Daniel thrown to the lions. From the receptionist’s ferocious protectiveness, she had expected an elderly man, perhaps bedridden, perhaps in a chair with a rug over his knees, confined to a hospital-like room.
She found herself in a masculine study with book-lined walls, leather chairs, a glowing oriental rug under her feet and a fire burning brightly in the grate. Miles Sterrett sat at an ornate desk, head bent over some papers. He looked up and smiled, then rose and came across the room to greet her.
“Sergeant James.”
“Mr. Sterrett. Thank you for seeing me.” Gemma had to look up as she took his outstretched hand, for Miles Sterrett was tall and slender, with a thin face and fine hair that looked more primrose-yellow than gray in the firelight. He wore a pale yellow pullover jersey, and neatly creased dark trousers. Only the dark hollows under his eyes and a slight hesitation in his movements betrayed any illness.
“Come and sit down. Mrs. Milton’s left us some coffee.” He seated her in one of two chairs near the fire, and himself in the other. On a low table between them stood a tray with cups and a thermos. When he reached for her cup, Gemma saw the faint tremble in his hand.
“Shall I pour?”
Miles sat back, casually clasping the tell-tale hands on his knee. “Thank you.” He accepted his cup, and when Gemma had hers, he spoke again. “Now tell me, Sergeant, just what this is about. Mrs. Milton assures me that Hannah is all right?”
His last statement ended on a faint interrogatory note, and Gemma thought that Miles Sterrett’s natural good manners concealed a very real worry. “Miss Alcock’s fine, sir. But there have been two suspicious deaths at Followdale House in the last week, and we’re naturally very concerned for everyone’s safety.”
“You don’t mean Hannah-”
“No, no, not specifically, but the sooner we get our inquiries cleared up, the happier we’ll all be.” Gemma took a sip of her coffee. Strong and rich, it bore little relation to instant or the marked-down tins in the corner grocer. “Do you know if Miss Alcock had any connection to either Sebastian Wade or Penny MacKenzie?”
He shook his head. “I don’t recall her mentioning either of them.”
“What about any other previous connection with the timeshare? Did she give you any indication why she chose this particular place?”
Miles reached for his cup, and Gemma noticed that he held it only long enough to drink, then returned it to the table. “She didn’t actually say much to me about it at all. It struck me as rather odd, because Hannah and I have been friends for more years than I like to count.” He smiled, erasing the sternness from his thin face. “Hannah came to me almost fifteen years ago-highly recommended, of course-from a university research facility. I’m not a scientist, you know, and the success of our work here,” he made an encircling gesture with his hand, “is entirely due to Hannah’s brilliance and perseverance. Sergeant-” he stopped and stared at Gemma, his brow creasing. “I think that you are much too lovely to be addressed as Sergeant’. Could I call you ‘Miss’, or ‘Mrs.’, or perhaps the unpleasant and ubiquitous ‘Ms.’?”
Gemma, who dealt with catcalls from yobs in the street without turning an eyelash, felt herself coloring at the courtly compliment. It was also rather chauvinistic, she had to admit, but she couldn’t find it in herself to feel offended. “Well, ‘Ms.’ will do, if you like.”
“All right, Ms. James. If you feel you need a character reference for Hannah, I know of nothing the least bit questionable in her past or present. I consider her as both friend and family, and would vouch for her behavior under any circumstances. Hannah is certainly not capable of killing anyone.” His clasped hands moved convulsively as he spoke, and Gemma saw that the trembling had increased.
“Mr. Sterrett, I don’t think the investigating officers seriously consider that a possibility, but we must make these inquiries. You do understand?” Gemma searched for a change of subject to ease his obvious distress. “Is the clinic named for someone in your family, Mr. Sterrett?”
“My wife. She died from Creutz-Jakob disease almost thirty years ago. At the time, very little was known about it, and as I inherited my money, I thought it might as well be put to good use.” He smiled at her again. “Don’t look so unhappy, Ms. James. I’m not still grieving over my dead wife. It was a very long time ago. We had no children-which may have been just as well, considering the family genes. Her only sister was emotionally unstable and my nephew is a pipsqueak.” Sobering, he added, “But I would not want anything to happen to Hannah. Not only for my sake, but this clinic depends on her, and what we do here is worthwhile.”
Miles stared into the fire and finished his coffee, then said, with what seemed to Gemma an effort, “I’m surprised that Hannah hasn’t called me. I suppose she thought it would worry me. It wouldn’t have occurred to her I might be visited by the police, in however attractive a guise.” Both smile and gallantry seemed forced this time, and Gemma thought she had outstayed her welcome.
She drank the last of her coffee, eyeing the thermos a little wistfully, and rose. “I’ve tired you, I’m afraid. Your receptionist would eat me alive.”
Miles chuckled. “It’s her way of staying even with Mrs. Milton. They’ve had a rivalry going for years.” He stood, insisting on seeing her out. At the top of the stairs he took her hand again. “You won’t mind if I don’t come down? Mrs. Milton will unlock the door for you.”
“Thank you, sir. I’m sorry to have troubled you.” It was a stock phrase, but Gemma found she meant it.
She’d booked a room in a small hotel on the edge of the city, and once she’d checked in and unpacked, she spent the rest of the evening dialing Kincaid’s empty suite.
Hannah slept curled on the sofa where Anne Percy had left her, head half buried beneath the cushion, blanket slipping haphazardly to the floor.
In her dream she walked the suburban streets of her childhood, under blossoming cherry trees. Familiar voices she couldn’t quite place called from the gardens, and she increased her pace. Her house seemed always round the next corner-she felt sure she could find it if only the soft, insistent tapping would stop.
The sound nibbled at the edges of her dream, finally rousing her to a sluggish wakefulness. Her first instinctive movement brought a groan-her muscles were already stiffening and her head ached. The panes in the French door reflected her image. It was now fully dark and she couldn’t tell whether she had been asleep hours or minutes. The knocking continued as she made her slow progress to the door, and she heard his imploring voice before she reached it. “Hannah, it’s Patrick. Please, let me talk to you.”