She thought there’d been enough talk. They all liked talk. Talk and coffee and buns saved them having to go out there and mix it with real people.
She stood up, made sure she had their attention. ‘The first priority is to make some link between the victims. Something that places them together, a person they have in common.’
They sat, staring up at her.
‘Well, go on, then,’ she said, raising her voice, teacher again. ‘You’re not going to find it in here, are you?’
Chapter Sixteen
It was Saturday and the sun was still shining, but at Fox Mill there were no preparations for the picnic Felicity had been planning as an extra celebration for Peter’s birthday. Everyone had stayed the night and they ate a late, subdued breakfast in the kitchen. The four men seemed preoccupied and washed out. Perhaps they were suffering from a collective hangover. Even James was unusually quiet and mooched back to his room to watch children’s television.
She was glad when the guests left before lunch. Peter tried to persuade them to stay, but they must have realized she wanted them out of the house. Today even Samuel was no comfort. In the afternoon Peter locked himself in his office. He had a grand project. A book about the effect of weather on the movement of seabirds. One of the larger natural history publishers had expressed a vague, polite interest, but no firm offer had been made. They’d have to see the completed work, they said. Peter’s theories had grown more complex as he analysed the material. There were days when she thought she would never see it finished.
Felicity went into the garden and began weeding the beds at the front of the house. She enjoyed the methodical, mindless activity, the instant result. There was the sound of a car in the lane. She ignored it at first. Walkers sometimes parked on the verge before setting off on the footpath to the coast. Then she could tell it had turned into the drive and she straightened, pulling off her gloves, tucking her shirt back into her jeans, preparing to meet the visitor. She had thought it might be Samuel. He would have realized she was upset. It would be like him to think the matter over and come back to check that she had recovered. She was already planning the words she would use to him, the apology for being so crabby, so inhospitable. The lie. You know I didn’t mind you being here. It was the others. Just too much.
But it wasn’t Samuel. It was a car she didn’t recognize. She felt a sudden disquiet, then saw the big female detective from the night before struggle out from the driver’s seat. There was the moment of quiet superiority she always felt when she saw a woman of around her own age who had let herself go. The detective’s face could even be attractive if she made more effort. Her clothes were shapeless, her hair badly cut. Did she really not care what she looked like? Felicity couldn’t understand it. Somehow it made Vera Stanhope invulnerable. She’d always enjoyed being admired. She couldn’t imagine not caring what other people thought.
‘Inspector’ She checked that her hand was clean and held it out. The woman took it with a brief, sharp grip, but her attention was on the garden.
‘This is lovely,’ she said. ‘It’ll take a lot of work.’
‘Oh,’ Felicity knew she was being flattered but was still pleased. ‘We have help, of course. An elderly man from the village.’
‘Of course,’ the detective said.
Felicity heard the sarcasm, wasn’t sure how to respond.
‘Can I help you?’
‘Just a few more questions. You know how it is. Things come up.’
How can I know how it is? Felicity thought. I’ve never found a body before.
‘Your friends have gone?’
‘Yes, they had to get away. I think Gary is working tonight.’ She felt awkward standing there, grubby and unprepared.
‘What do they do? Gary told us, but what about the others?’ Vera had moved into the shade of the house and Felicity followed.
‘Samuel’s a librarian. Also a rather fine writer. Short stories, mostly. Clive works as an assistant at the Hancock Museum. The natural history section.’
‘Does he? I loved it in there when I was a kid. My dad used to take me. It had a smell all of its own. I haven’t been there for years.’ Vera seemed lost for a moment in the memory. ‘Is your husband at home?’
‘He’s in the office,’ Felicity said. ‘Come through.’
‘Is he working too?’
‘On his research, yes.’
‘I understand he’s a botanist. That must be useful when it comes to gardening.’ The voice was jolly, impressed. Felicity didn’t know what to make of it. She decided not to explain about the seabird book. It might be considered a hobby, not work at all, and she wanted the detective to take Peter seriously.
‘We often stop for tea at about this time. Perhaps you’ll join us? I’ll give Peter a shout.’
Felicity wouldn’t have been surprised if the detective had insisted on disturbing Peter in his office, but it seemed she’d decided to be conciliatory.
‘Why not? I’m gasping.’
‘We could sit outside, make the most of the sunshine.’
‘I’d rather not, pet. I have this allergy. Direct sunlight. Makes me come out in lumps and blotches.’
So they sat up to the kitchen table. Felicity had made to take the tea things through to the living room on a tray, but Vera had touched her arm to stop her. ‘Eh, we don’t want any fuss. I’m more the hired help than visiting gentry.’
Felicity knew the detective was playing with her and wasn’t quite sure how to take it. She just nodded her agreement, sliced the scones she’d fetched out of the freezer the afternoon before and spooned homemade jam into a pot. When Peter came out from his office, Vera had her mouth full, and spattered crumbs over the table as she tried to speak. Felicity wanted to say to Peter: Don’t be taken in by this woman. She wants you to believe she’s a clown. She’s brighter than she looks. But she could tell that Peter had already dismissed her as a fool. As she choked and coughed and swilled tea, he raised his eyes to the ceiling.
At last the pantomime was over and Vera began to speak.
‘I got interrupted last night,’ she said. ‘There are a few questions. You’ll understand. Formalities.’
‘Of course.’
‘You work at the university, Dr Calvert? Miss Marsh was a student there. On the post-graduate education course. You’re sure you didn’t know her?’
‘What did she take for her first degree?’
‘English. She did that at Newcastle too.’
‘However, I never met her, Inspector. My subject is botany. Our paths never crossed. I’m afraid it must be a coincidence. Her teaching our son, enquiring about accommodation and then our stumbling across her like that on the shore.’
A random occurrence, Felicity thought. Like sea watching. Like birds flying past just when you’re there to see them. Except, of course, it wasn’t chance which connected the birders and the birds, as Peter had described it in the watch tower the night before. They took steps to make sure they were there at the right time. They listened to the shipping forecast every night to hear which way the wind was blowing. They consulted tide tables.