‘. . . and when I told you I was doing the exhibition at the Cornelian Gallery,’ Denzil was protesting, ‘you still didn’t say anything.’
‘Why should I have said anything then?’ asked his father. ‘It wasn’t as if you didn’t know Bonita. You’d seen her lots of times when you were with Giles.’
‘That’s not the point, Dad! None of those times did I know that she was screwing my father.’
‘Look, there’s no way I could have told you earlier, Denzil. Not while Philomena was still alive.’
‘Oh, you think now Mum’s dead, that changes everything, do you?’
‘Of course it does. She can no longer be hurt.’
‘But you were hurting every time you screwed Bonita.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. Philomena didn’t know that was it was happening.’
‘And you think that makes it better? It was still deceit on a massive scale.’
‘I think it’s pretty rich, you criticizing my morals. Your own track record with women hasn’t been particularly distinguished, has it?’
‘Maybe not, but I’ve never married any of them, have I?’
‘What difference does that make?’
‘If you don’t know the answer to that, then there’s no bloody hope for you. Mum said you were still a Catholic.’
‘Well, I am a kind of Catholic.’
‘Then you should know about the sanctity of marriage. Has it ever occurred to you, Dad –’ Denzil Willoughby managed to put a lot of sneer into the monosyllable – ‘that the reason why I haven’t got married is that I still have some respect for marriage. I wouldn’t go into it with the firm intention of screwing someone else.’
‘That is not how it happened.’
‘Oh, no? You were deceiving Mum, that’s all I know.’
‘But I did it discreetly. I didn’t hurt her. Would you rather I’d gone public and put your mother through the humiliation of a divorce?’
‘Yes, I think I would. In many ways that would have been less deceitful.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ Addison Willoughby was by now almost beside himself with fury. Throughout his marriage, at great personal cost, he had done everything he could to avoid divorce and now, instead of being praised as a good Catholic, he was being condemned for his behaviour. By his son!
‘All you need to know, Denzil,’ he thundered, trying without success to control his anger, ‘is that I am now free to marry Bonita. And that is exactly what I’m going to do.’
‘Fine! By all means go ahead. Marry the woman who killed my mother!’
‘Bonita did not kill Philomena.’
‘Oh no? I’d be a bit more sure of my facts before I made a statement like that, Dad.’
‘Bonita would not dream of killing Philomena. She would not commit murder.’
‘Oh no?’ Denzil Willoughby’s mouth curled into even more of a sneer as he spat out the words, ‘It wouldn’t be the first time.’
THIRTY-TWO
Jude had considered various subterfuges before she rang Ingrid Staunton’s mobile number. She knew that a good way of getting through to an artist was to pretend to be interested in commissioning a work from them. That would generally get them listening and even agreeing to meet.
But she would have felt rather shabby, raising someone’s expectations of paid work and letting them down, so in fact when her call was answered, she just said, ‘Hello, my name’s Jude. You don’t know me, but I believe you used to tutor Fennel Whittaker.’
‘Yes, I did.’ The voice was cultured and intelligent, but also anxious. ‘Why, has something happened to her?’
‘I’m afraid it has.’
‘Suicide?’
‘It looks that way,’ said Jude, choosing her words carefully.
Ingrid Staunton sounded genuinely shocked by the news. Jude gave very little of the background, just the fact that the death had occurred at the Whittakers’ home, and the woman needed no urging to agree to meet. She had a class to teach at two o’clock that afternoon, but would be free by three thirty. She suggested a wine bar in Theobald’s Road as a rendezvous.
Before the art teacher arrived Jude was already ensconced with a large Chilean Chardonnay in front of her. She had switched off her mobile. The imminent encounter was important, and she didn’t want any interruptions.
There was something in the trim build and manner of the woman who entered the wine bar that was reminiscent of Bonita Green. Her eyes were brown but the hair was short spiky blonde. On the other hand, Bonita’s hair had been dyed black for so long that perhaps it once, too, had been fair.
Ingrid Staunton was probably late forties, which would have put her about the right age to be Giles Green’s sister. And she wore a wedding ring, which might explain the change of surname.
But Jude was not going to start with the woman’s family history. Nor, had that been her plan, would she have been allowed to. Having checked she was talking to the right person, Ingrid Staunton immediately said, ‘I’ve been thinking about Fennel ever since I got your call. She was such a talented girl. This is really tragic news. Has it only just happened?’
‘A couple of weeks ago.’
‘I’m surprised I haven’t seen anything in the press.’
‘Her parents have worked quite hard to keep the news quiet.’
‘Oh yes, I remember the Whittakers. They’re good at that.’
‘They certainly are. Let me get you a drink.’
‘Something white, please. What’s that you’ve got?’
‘Chilean Chardonnay.’
‘Sounds good.’
Once they’d both got drinks, Jude gave Ingrid an edited version of events surrounding Fennel’s death. She noticed a definite reaction when she mentioned the Cornelian Gallery, but didn’t pick up on it. Ingrid also recognized the name of Denzil Willoughby.
‘I taught him for a while. Very talented, but a distinct attitude problem. More concerned about his image than the art he produces. Denzil has more natural talent for drawing and painting than anyone I’ve taught. But that wasn’t the way he wanted to go, he took the route into conceptual art, which I think is a bit of a cul-de-sac.’
‘For everyone?’
‘No, for some of them it’s good. For Denzil, though, I’m sure it’s the wrong direction. With his conceptual stuff he’s never going to be in the first rank, whereas with his drawing and painting he could be. Maybe he’ll see the light at some point, start following his instincts as an artist rather than just leaping on to the latest bandwagon.’ Ingrid Staunton sighed. ‘But I’m desperately sorry about Fennel. She had a breakdown, I know, and didn’t finish her course at St Martin’s, and I did hear a rumour that she’d made a suicide attempt back then, but I rather hoped she’d been cured. Depression is a wretched illness.’
‘Yes.’ Jude judged the moment was right for a change of tack. ‘There has been some suggestion that Fennel’s death might not have been all it seemed.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘There’s a strong feeling among some people – and I’m one of them – that she might have been murdered.’
Ingrid’s hand was instantly at her mouth. ‘Oh my God! What evidence do you have?’
Jude retold the story of the suicide note and the missing mobile phone. ‘I’m not sure that either of those is proof that would stand up in a court of law, but it’s enough to convince me.’
‘Me too.’ Ingrid Staunton took a thoughtful sip of Chilean Chardonnay. ‘You say Fennel made a scene at the Denzil Willoughby Private View. What exactly did she say?’
Jude recapped the outburst as accurately as she could and watched the other woman’s reaction.