‘When was this?’ I was shocked.
‘I can’t remember exactly. It would have been about six months after the business here . . . a few weeks after he put his house on the market. He and Teri had also planned to move on. They were thinking of moving to Thailand, believe it or not. Quite a change from Richmond upon Thames! There were interested buyers, but the accident happened before a sale could be agreed. I went to his funeral at Mortlake Cemetery. That was the last time I saw Tom and Gemma Beresford. They were there too. None of us could believe it.’
Nor could I.
I remembered that Strauss had been pushed down the stairs at Richmond station just a couple of days before the death of Giles Kenworthy. And now he might have been pushed again – this time with a fatal result. Andrew Pennington had spoken of an accident, but the two incidents had to be related in some way. Could it be that whoever had attacked him the first time had returned to finish the job – and if so, why? Giles Kenworthy was dead. Roderick Browne had taken the blame. What could possibly be gained by murdering the chess grandmaster?
‘Did the police investigate?’ I asked.
‘Oh, yes. They were definitely suspicious. But I’m afraid the investigation came to nothing. Adam was alone in his room. Teri had gone out for a walk. Nobody saw anything. The railing was quite low and they assumed that he slipped and fell.’
I wondered if Hawthorne knew about this. He had never mentioned that Adam Strauss was dead and there had been nothing in the pages he’d sent me so far. I would have to ask him when I next saw him.
‘So what happened to Teri?’ I asked.
‘She went through with the sale and left. I’m afraid I don’t have a contact for her.’
All of them, one after another. Giles Kenworthy and Roderick Browne. Felicity Browne, May Winslow and Phyllis Moore. Dr Beresford and his wife. Adam Strauss dead. His widow gone. I remembered the title Morton had given me. Close to Death. That was what this place had become.
‘Mr Pennington, can I ask you something about the death of Giles Kenworthy?’
‘Andrew, please. And of course you can. It’s all far behind me now. Water under Richmond Bridge, you might say.’
‘Do you think Roderick Browne killed him? Hawthorne had his doubts – that’s what he told me, and he wasn’t sure about Mr Browne’s suicide either.’
Andrew Pennington took off his glasses and wiped them with a tissue. Then he put them back on again. He had given himself time to think. ‘My opinion hasn’t changed since I spoke to Mr Hawthorne all those years ago. I am quite sure that Roderick did indeed shoot Giles Kenworthy with the crossbow that he kept in his garage. He would have done anything for Felicity and it may be that she was much stronger than she seemed. I wouldn’t have been surprised if she had suggested it to him.
‘It’s also a fact that he threatened to commit the crime. I heard him. So it’s a natural assumption that he took his own life out of guilt and remorse and fear of being arrested. The note he left behind said as much. I hope you’re not trying to reopen old wounds, Anthony. What’s to be gained? I’m still living in Riverview Close. It’s not the place it used to be, but you have to accept change as part of life. At least some sort of peace has returned.’
‘You never thought of leaving?’ I asked.
He smiled sadly. ‘Where would I go? I bought this house with my wife, Iris. We were very happy together and, living here, I still feel close to her. I have friends in Richmond. When everyone else departed, I did think briefly about putting the place on the market, but at the end of the day I couldn’t see any point.’
Andrew Pennington stirred his coffee with a spoon. He had hardly drunk any of it.
‘It’s a strange thing, isn’t it,’ he mused. ‘Living in a place like this, being surrounded by the same people, day in, day out. What are they exactly? They’re your neighbours. They’re not quite your friends, although they’re closer to you than anyone in the world. You live in and out of each other’s pockets and you know everything about them. It was no secret that Adam used to have shouting matches with his first wife or that Gemma Beresford was worried to death about Tom’s drinking. Lynda Kenworthy was cheating on her husband. There were strange men in and out of that house all the time when he was away. May bullied Phyllis and often made her life a misery. And not a single person in the close liked their dog. It really was a terrible nuisance.
‘But that’s human life, isn’t it. We all have our upsets and disagreements, but when we come together as friends and neighbours, they don’t matter so much. It’s a wonderful word . . . a close. Because that was what we all were. Closeness was what we had and I miss it now that it’s gone. I miss the people who lived here. I won’t pretend otherwise.’ He got to his feet. ‘I’m sorry. The older I get, the more maudlin I seem to become. That’s what happens when you live alone. Where are you based?’
‘I’m in a flat. In Clerkenwell.’
‘I couldn’t bear that. You should move to Richmond!’
I had finished as much of my coffee as I could manage. I stood up and we shook hands. ‘Thank you for seeing me.’
‘It was a pleasure. I shall look out for your book.’
He walked with me to the door and I paused for a moment before I went out. ‘I forgot to ask – who bought Riverview Lodge?’ I said.
Pennington looked surprised. ‘Oh. Didn’t I tell you? Lynda Kenworthy and her children are still there! The house is on the market, but she hasn’t managed to sell it yet. She only put it on in the spring. The funny thing is, she’s told me how much she likes Riverview Close. It’s hard to believe, looking back. Maybe it suits her more now that she’s on her own.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘If you’re lucky, you might find her in.’
‘Do you ever talk to her?’
‘Now and then. If we happen to be passing . . .’
We shook hands and he closed the door.
So Lynda Kenworthy was still at Riverview Lodge. I walked up the drive, past The Gables and Woodlands. I rang the bell.
3
I hadn’t written very much about Lynda Kenworthy and that was just as well. She was quite different to the woman I’d described.
She was remarkably attractive . . . much warmer and more welcoming than I’d expected, with a relaxed, easy-going quality that made her easy to like. In my defence, I’d been relying on the descriptions given to me by Hawthorne, who had interrogated her, and her neighbours, who’d disliked her. The police photographers had simply snapped her for the records. It hadn’t been their job to flatter her.
Maybe her changed circumstances, everything that had happened since the death of her husband, had softened her, but she met me at the door and invited me in as if we were old friends. It helped that her children had read my books. ‘Tristram is crazy about Alex Rider,’ she said. ‘He’s seen the film three times and he’ll be furious he missed you – but both the boys are at school. We’re going to have to take a selfie together.’
How could I dislike her after that?
There had been many changes made to the house since the time of the murder. I had written about abstract art, pale carpets and a neatness that was almost oppressive. The artwork had been replaced by original posters in frames – mainly French films by Truffaut and Tati. The carpets were modern and bright (the one in the hall would have had to have been replaced, for obvious reasons) and everywhere I looked I saw evidence of a carefree family life: trainers left by the stairs, jerseys hanging off the bannisters, a basket of laundry on a chair, the dreaded skateboards leaning against the wall by the front door.