The letter was written in pencil. There were a number of crossings out. Some words had been scribbled out so fiercely that it was impossible to see what had been written underneath. It was not signed.
‘Kath wrote it,’ Claire said. ‘It’s her handwriting.’
‘But she didn’t send it?’
‘Well, she wouldn’t have sent this. She always wrote her letters in fountain pen. Not pencil. She said even biro was crude. This was a practice, wasn’t it? That’s how I came to find it.’
‘Where did you find it?’
‘There’s a bucket by the grate in the back room. We put our waste paper in there, then we use it to light the fire. It was with the newspapers and Marilyn’s rough homework.’
‘When did you find it?’
‘Early on the Saturday morning. The day she died.’
‘So it was written on the Friday?’
‘Or some time earlier that week. It was right at the bottom of the bucket.’
‘Why did you keep it?’ Ramsay’s voice was bland. He didn’t want Claire to think he was accusing her of prying.
‘I meant to ask her about it later in the day. I didn’t want her making a fool of herself. Or me.’
‘You?’ Hunter raised his eyebrows, gave that slightly lecherous smile.
‘What?’ She realized what he was implying, and blushed. ‘Don’t be daft! I wasn’t carrying on with Mr Taverner. But it affected me, didn’t it?’
‘In what way?’
‘It’s obvious, isn’t it? She was accusing Mr Taverner of having an affair with Mrs Coulthard. Of course that affects me. They’d want to know where she got her information for one thing. The last thing a nanny’s supposed to do is tittle-tattle.’
‘And did you? Tittle-tattle?’
‘I didn’t start the gossip,’ she said defensively. ‘Mr Taverner was there on the day. Kath went up to clean. And then Bernard made it worse.’
‘Bernard? What would he know about what was going on at the Coastguard House?’
‘He went up there one evening to talk about his magic act. Mrs Coulthard wanted an entertainer for her kiddies’ party. You know about that. He found them together then.’
‘And he came home and talked about it?’
She nodded.
‘What about you? Did you talk about Mr Taverner and Mrs Coulthard to Bernard and Kathleen?’
‘They asked what was going on. I said Mr Taverner was around a lot, especially when Mr Coulthard was working late. But I didn’t accuse him of anything.’
‘And that was enough for Mrs Howe to write a letter like this?’ Hunter demanded.
‘You didn’t know her. Mr Taverner was a teacher, wasn’t he? One of Marilyn’s teachers. She couldn’t have had her darling Marilyn corrupted. Besides, when she got suspicious I expect she kept an eye on the place, looked out for his car. I wouldn’t have put it past her. It certainly wouldn’t have occurred to her that it wasn’t any of her business.’ She looked at them, trying to make them understand. ‘She was like that. She thought she had a right to interfere.’
‘Do you know if she ever sent this letter?’
‘Never got the chance to ask her, did I? I came home at lunchtime especially to have a word, to tell her to keep her nose out, but she wasn’t there. And I never saw her again.’
‘And what’s your feeling?’ Hunter leant forward so that their heads were almost touching over the coffee table. ‘Were they having an affair? You’d know, if anyone would.’
‘Well, I never caught them in bed together if that’s what you mean.’
‘We’re not talking about evidence,’ Ramsay said patiently. ‘As Gordon says, it’s your feeling we’re interested in.’
‘I’d say they were very close. The way they spoke to each other, laughed. As if they shared a joke which no one else could understand. A sort of… intimacy.’
‘I see,’ Ramsay said. ‘And do you think Mr Taverner ever received this letter? Tell me, Claire. What’s your feeling on that?’
‘Put it this way. Since that party he’s never been near the house. Not to my knowledge.’
Chapter Twenty
‘What do you reckon, then?’
Hunter and Sal Wedderburn sat across the table from him waiting for an answer. Ramsay sipped from his pint. He suspected they had formed an uneasy alliance to push him into action. He had known they were plotting when they both asked, separately, if he fancied a pint after work. It was the day after their meeting with Claire Irvine.
Then Hunter had brought them to this place. An old man’s pub sinking into bankruptcy, as the customers who came to huddle over their dominoes died off one by one and the landlady drank away the profits. Not a place Hunter would choose for a social evening but somewhere he knew they would not be overheard.
‘Well?’ Hunter demanded. Sally, who was brighter than he was, had let him be spokesperson. ‘What do we do now? Confront Taverner with the letter?’
‘Not until we understand more about it.’
‘What else is there to know?’
‘The identity of the person referred to.’
‘Christ man, we know that already.’
‘No,’ Ramsay said calmly. ‘We know who Claire Irvine believes it refers to, but we can’t be certain, can we? Mrs Coulthard isn’t mentioned by name.’
‘So who else could it be?’
Before they could answer, the door swung open and a tiny old lady came in. She scuttled across the stone floor and hoisted herself on to a bar stool with the agility of a child.
‘Bottle of Mackeson please, pet,’ she said to the landlady who was obviously an old friend.
‘Sorry, Kitty hinnie. You won’t believe it but the brewery’s on strike. They didn’t deliver.’ No one did believe it. The days of brewery strikes were over. The landlady opened the till with a clatter and took out a five-pound note. She waved it towards the youngest of the domino players.
‘Nip over to the supermarket, Doug, and fetch Kitty a couple of bottles of Mackeson.’
The man went out and the room returned to silence. Hunter’s question still hung in the air. He looked at each of them then answered it himself.
‘What about Kim Houghton, the single mam at number six? You saw the inside of her house. She didn’t furnish that on Income Support and the whole neighbourhood knows she takes strange men back there. She’s classy. I bet she doesn’t come cheap. Mark Taverner could be one of her regular callers. Kath Howe might have seen him go in. Like Claire said, she’d probably have recognized his car.’
‘Hardly worth killing for, though, is it?’ Sal Wedderburn objected.
‘What do you mean?’ Hunter turned on her. Any understanding between them had disappeared.
‘Well, he’s free, a widower. She’s divorced. Who could object to them spending the night together? Even on a regular basis and even if he slipped her a few quid to buy her fancy curtains. Kath Howe might not have liked it but even if she’d informed the school, who would care?’
Ramsay thought that Taverner would care. He was a fastidious man, a churchgoer, head of religious education at the high school. News that he had paid a prostitute would be more than an embarrassment. The school with its pretensions to traditional values wouldn’t like it much either.
‘I’m sorry,’ Sal Wedderburn was continuing, ‘I just don’t see it as sufficient motive for murder.’
‘But if he was having it off with Emma Coulthard, and Mrs Howe threatened to make the affair public, you think it would?’ Hunter demanded. ‘Be a good enough motive for murder, I mean. Just because the woman’s married?’
‘No,’ Ramsay said. ‘Not just because Emma’s married. But because she’s married to Taverner’s friend, probably his only friend. If that is how it happened.’
Sally, twisting the glass in her fingers, hardly seemed to be listening.