"Wait and see," Duncan said, folding his plump hands in his ample lap. He could never understand how it was that old age, which had brought him serenity, had brought Violet only an aggressive frustration. He felt guilty about it. He knew he should never have brought her back to live in such close proximity with Mathilda. It was like placing a daisy beside an orchid and inviting comparisons.
She scowled at him. "You can be so infuriating at times. If we wait and see, it'll be too late to do anything. I think we should demand that something be done before it's sold."
"Have you forgotten," he reminded her gently, "that we were only able to afford this house in the first place precisely because there was no soundproofing and Mathilda agreed to a five thousand pound discount when the surveyor pointed out the deficiency? We're hardly in a position to demand anything."
But Violet hadn't come in to discuss demands. "Fishwives," she said again, "screaming at each other. The police now think Mathilda was murdered, apparently. And do you know what Ruth called her mother? A whore. She said she knew her mother was a whore in London. Rather worse, in fact. She said Joanna was," her voice dropped to a whisper while her lips, in exaggerated movement, mouthed the words, "a fucking whore."
"Good lord," said Duncan Orloff, startled out of his serenity.
"Quite. And Mathilda thought Joanna was mad, and she tried to murder Ruth, and she's spending her money on something she shouldn't and, worst of all, Ruth was in the house the night Mathilda died and she took Mathilda's earrings. And," she said with particular emphasis, as if she hadn't already said "and" several times, "Ruth has stolen other things as well. They obviously haven't told the police any of it. I think we should report it."
He looked slightly alarmed. "Is it really any of our business, dear? We do have to go on living here, after all. I should hate any more unpleasantness." What Duncan called serenity, others called apathy, and the hornets' nest stirred up two weeks ago by Jenny Spede's screams had been extremely unsettling.
She stared at him with shrewd little eyes.'"You've known it was murder all along, haven't you? And you know who did it."
"Don't be absurd," he said, an edge of anger in his voice.
She stamped her foot angrily on the floor. "Why do you insist on treating me like a child? Do you think I didn't know? I've known for forty years, you silly man. Poor Violet. Only second best. Always second best. What did she tell you, Duncan?" Her eyes narrowed to slits. "She told you something. I know she did."
"You've been drinking again," he said coldly.
"You never accused Mathilda of drinking, but then she was perfect. Even drunk, Mathilda was perfect." She tottered very slightly. "Are you going to report what I heard? Or will I have to do it? If Joanna or Ruth murdered her they don't deserve to get away with it. You're not going to tell me you don't care, I hope. I know you do."
Of course he cared-it was only Violet for whom he felt a numbing indifference-but had she no sense of self-preservation? "I don't imagine Mathilda was killed for fun," he said, holding her gaze for a moment, "so I do urge you to be very cautious in what you say and how you say it. On the whole I think it would be better if you left it to me." He reached past her to switch up the volume on the television set. "It's the weather forecast," he pointed out, gesturing her gravely to one side, as if tomorrow's atmospheric pressures across the United Kingdom were of any interest to a fat, flabby old man who never stirred out of his armchair if he could possibly avoid it.
Ruth opened the door to Jack with a sullen expression in her dark eyes. "I hoped you wouldn't come back," she said bluntly. "She always gets what she wants."
He grinned at her. "So do I."
"Does your wife know you're here?"
He pushed past her into the hall, propping the canvas of Joanna against a wall and lowering the hold-all to the floor. "Is that any of your business?"
She shrugged. "She's the one with the money. We'll all lose out if you and Mum put her nose out of joint. You must be mad."
He was amused. "Are you expecting me to lick Sarah's arse so that you can live in clover for the rest of your life? Forget it, sweetheart. The only person I lick arse for is myself."
"Don't call me sweetheart," she snapped.
His eyes narrowed. "Then don't judge me by your own standards. My best advice to you, Ruth, is to learn a little subtlety. There is no bigger turn-off than a blatant woman."
For all her outward maturity, she was still a child. Her eyes filled. "I hate you."
He studied her curiously for a moment, then moved off in search of Joanna.
No one could accuse Joanna of being unsubtle. She was a woman of understatement, in words, dress and action. She sat now in the dimly lit drawing-room, a book open on her lap, face impassive, hair a silver halo in the light from the table lamp. Her eyes flickered in Jack's direction as he entered the room, but she didn't say anything, only gestured towards the sofa for him to sit down. He chose to stand by the mantelpiece and watch her. He thought of her in terms of ice. Glacial. Dazzling. Static.
"What are you thinking?" she asked after several moments of silence.
"That Mathilda was right about you."
There was no expression in her grey eyes. "In which particular respect?"
"She said you were a mystery."
She gave a faint smile but didn't say anything.
"I liked her, you know," Jack went on after a moment.
"You would. She despised women but looked up to men."
There was a lot of truth in that, thought Jack. "She liked Sarah well enough."
"Do you think so?"
"She left her three-quarters of a million pounds. I'd say that was a pretty good indication she liked her."
Joanna leant her head against the back of the sofa and stared at him with a disconcertingly penetrating gaze. "I assumed you knew Mother better than that. She didn't like anyone. And why ascribe such a mundane motive to her? She would have viewed a bequest of three-quarters of a million pounds in terms of the power it could buy her, not as a sentimental hand-out to someone who had done her a small kindness. Mother never intended that will to be her last. It was a piece of theatre, made for Ruth and me to find. Money buys power just as effectively if you threaten to withhold it."
Thoughtfully, Jack rubbed his jaw. Sarah had said something very similar. "But why Sarah? Why not leave it to a dogs' home? It would have achieved the same purpose."
"I've wondered about that," she murmured, her eyes straying towards the window. "I think perhaps she disliked your wife even more than she disliked me. Do you imagine Ruth and I would have kept quiet if we'd seen that video while Mother was alive?" She stroked her hand rhythmically up and down her arm as she spoke. It was an extraordinarily sensuous action but she seemed unaware that she was doing it. She brought her head round to look at Jack again. Her eyes were strangely glassy. "Your wife's position would have become untenable."
"What would you have done?" asked Jack curiously.
Joanna smiled. "Nothing very much. Your wife would have lost all her patients within six months once it got out that she had persuaded a rich patient to make over her entire estate. She'll lose them anyway."
"Why?"
"Mother died in suspicious circumstances and your wife is the only person to benefit from her death."
"Sarah didn't kill Mathilda."
Joanna smiled to herself. "Tell that to the people of Fontwell." She stood up and smoothed her black dress over her flat stomach. "I'm ready," she said.
He frowned. "What for?"
"Sex," she said matter-of-factly. "It's what you came for, isn't it? We'll use Mother's room. I want you to make love to me the way you made love to her." Her strange eyes rested on him. "You'll enjoy it far more with me, you know. Mother didn't like sex, but then I presume you discovered that for yourself. She never did it for pleasure, only for gain. A man's humping disgusted her. She said it reminded her of dogs."