‘Did you talk about Amelia Wood?’ he asked. ‘She was a trustee at the Grace Darling and there must have been stories to tell about a woman like that.’
‘Maybe,’ she conceded, ‘but we didn’t see enough of her at the Centre to find out.’
‘Had you heard that she’d been murdered?’ he asked quietly.
She shook her head and for a brief moment he thought he saw her mouth turn up in a strange lopsided grin. Was it shock? Embarrassment? Or the pleasure in having information which he needed and which she was not prepared to share?
‘She was strangled,’ he said more sharply. ‘Like Gabriella.’
‘When?’ The question surprised him. He had expected some expression of regret.
‘Yesterday evening,’ he said. ‘At some time after six.’ He paused then asked deliberately. ‘What were you doing then?’
She seemed pleased to have gained accurate information from him and answered almost absentmindedly.
‘I was at home with Mam. There was no work. The Centre was closed for the day.’
‘You didn’t leave the house all evening?’
She shook her head and looked up at him, a challenge. ‘Ask Mam,’ she said. ‘She’ll tell you.’
Oh, yes, he thought. I bet she will.
‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘Why did Gabriella leave home?’
She looked straight at him, not caring whether or not he believed her.
‘I’ve told you,’ she said. ‘ It was her age. She just got fed up with us.’
‘She fell out with your mother,’ he said.
‘Aye. It was something like that.’
‘What was the row about?’
She smiled maliciously. ‘ You’ll have to ask Mam,’ she said. ‘ Won’t you?’
Ramsay did not answer. They both knew that Alma Paston would give little away.
‘Look,’ Ellen said. ‘ I should get back. I’ve work to do.’
‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘ I’ll clear it with Mr Lynch. And I’ll take you back myself. There’s just one more question…’ He looked directly at the hunched, ungainly figure sitting on the chair on the other side of the desk. ‘Gabriella had eight hundred pounds in a building society account. Do you know where she got the money?’
Ellen gave a hard laugh and he could have sworn that her astonishment was genuine.
‘The mean little madam,’ she said. ‘And she still took money off me!’
The resentment was directed not at the fact that Gabriella had money, but that Ellen had known nothing about the account.
Joe Fenwick heard the news of Amelia Wood’s death on the transistor radio he kept behind the reception desk to liven up the duller moments of the day. The afternoon was always quiet. There were a few old ladies in the small lounge for a reminiscence session, sharing stories of their childhood in the twenties, but Joe thought that most of them were so deaf that they would not be disturbed by the strains of Radio Newcastle coming from the lobby. There was an extended report of the murder during the two o’clock news and Joe thought the information was too interesting to keep to himself.
He found Prue Bennett and Gus Lynch in the theatre. They were arguing in an irritable, petulant way about the following week’s rehearsal of Abigail Keene. Prue thought the whole production should be cancelled or at least postponed. How could they go on with the rehearsals, she said, pretending that nothing had happened? The information, given by Joe, that Amelia Wood had died only strengthened her argument. They must cancel now, she said. They couldn’t go ahead when both a member of the Youth Theatre and a trustee had been killed. Besides the question of taste it was a practical matter. They couldn’t encourage young girls to come out after dark. Not at a time like this. The parents wouldn’t stand for it.
‘If the parents don’t like it,’ Gus Lynch said crossly, ‘they can arrange to bring the kids to the square and pick them up after the rehearsal. It’s not beyond the wit of man to organize some sort of rota.’
His reaction to Amelia Wood’s death surprised Prue. She was shocked and frightened- it seemed to her that everyone connected with the Grace Darling was a potential target-but Gus seemed overtaken by a terrible excitement. He talked about the murders all the time and became feverish and restless, insisting even more strongly that the production should go ahead. ‘The publicity won’t do us any harm,’ he said. ‘It’ll ensure a full house at least. And the press will certainly be there.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘It’s terrible. We don’t want that sort of publicity.’
‘There are lots of parallels with the play when you come to look at it. Sam Smollett was accused of murder. He just never got caught.’
‘But who’ll play Abigail?’ Prue cried, hoping that a discussion of the practical details would make him calmer, give her a chance to make him see sense.
‘Anna, of course,’ he said, as if Prue were a fool. ‘She’ll make a perfectly adequate understudy.’
‘Look,’ Prue said. ‘I’m not sure she’s up to it. Not after all this strain.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ he said impatiently. ‘ Of course she’s up to it. It’s a group piece. She won’t be on her own. Besides, shouldn’t you ask her, before making up her mind for her?’
‘Yes,’ Prue said. ‘I suppose I should.’
But Gus had walked away without waiting for an answer and she was left in the theatre alone. She shivered with a sudden panic and was tempted for a moment to phone Stephen Ramsay. But what would she tell him? That she was concerned by her boss’s reaction to the news of Amelia Wood’s murder, that he seemed under some psychological strain? The call might give her fears more weight than they deserved. It might even give the impression that she saw Gus Lynch as a murderer.
She was still in the theatre when Ramsay arrived at the Grace Darling. He left Ellen Paston in the lobby and went to look for Prue, wanting to get the most awkward interview over first. She heard the door bang and watched him walk across the polished wood floor to join her. In the unnatural light of the theatre she saw him as a stranger and wondered even if she would have recognized him that first evening if he had not given his name.
‘I’m sorry for the intrusion,’ Ramsay said. ‘ You’ll have heard about Mrs Wood?’
She nodded. She was wearing the jeans and sweater of the night before and her face was tense and strained. He wanted to comfort her and to make her smile.
‘I’m afraid I have to ask you some questions about your movements yesterday evening,’ he said.
She did not answer.
‘What did you do after I left?’
‘I went to see a friend,’ she said. ‘Anna wasn’t very good company and I needed someone to talk to.’
‘I’ll need the name of the friend,’ Ramsay said apologetically. ‘You do realize we’ll have to check.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘ Of course. Her name’s Judy, Judy Delaney. She’s a solicitor. She lives in a flat just round the corner from me.’
‘You won’t mind if someone goes to speak to her?’
‘Not at all. She’ll love the drama. She’s quite a character, great fun.’ She paused. ‘I needed fun,’ she said. ‘Last night.’
‘Was Anna left in the house on her own?’ Ramsay asked.
‘Of course. She’s not a child. I tried to persuade her to come with me to Judy’s but she said she wanted to be on her own. In fact she practically begged me to go out. She had a bath and went to bed early. When I got back she was already asleep.’
‘Did you take your car to visit your friend?’
‘No. I’ve told you. It was just around the corner. Otterbridge isn’t New York.’
‘Does Anna drive?’
She looked at him, horrified. ‘What are you saying?’ she demanded. ‘That Anna drove my car to Martin’s Dene and strangled Amelia Wood? You must be mad!’