‘A bit. You say you’re researching Kennet Lovell?’
Jean nodded. ‘Would your family have any of his papers?’
Jan Benzie shook her head. ‘None.’
‘You’ve no relatives who might...?’
‘I really don’t think so, no.’ She moved an arm towards the occasional table next to her chair, lifted her cigarette packet and eased one out. ‘Do you...?’
Jean shook her head and watched Jan Benzie light the cigarette with a slim gold lighter. The woman seemed to do everything in slow motion. It was like watching a film at the wrong speed.
‘It’s just that I’m looking for some correspondence between Dr Lovell and his benefactor.’
‘I didn’t even know there was one.’
‘A kirk minister back in Ayrshire.’
‘Really?’ Jan Benzie said, but Jean could tell she wasn’t interested. Right now, the cigarette between her fingers meant more to her than anything else.
Jean decided to plough on. ‘There’s a portrait of Dr Lovell in Surgeons’ Hall. I think maybe it was executed at the minister’s behest.’
‘Is that so?’
‘Have you ever seen it?’
‘Can’t say that I have.’
‘He had several wives, Dr Lovell, did you know that?’
‘Three, wasn’t it? Not so many, really, in the scheme of things.’ Benzie seemed to grow thoughtful. ‘I’m on my second husband... who’s to say it’ll stop there?’ She examined the ash at the end of her cigarette. ‘My first committed suicide, you know.’
‘I didn’t.’
‘No reason why you should.’ She paused. ‘Don’t suppose I can expect the same of Jack.’
Jean wasn’t sure what she meant, but Jan Benzie was studying her, seeming to expect some reply. ‘I suppose,’ Jean said, ‘it would look a bit suspicious, losing two husbands.’
‘And yet Kennet Lovell can lose three wives...?’
Jean’s thinking exactly...
Jan Benzie had risen to her feet, walked over to the window. Jean took another look around the room. All the artefacts, the paintings and framed photographs, candlesticks and crystal ashtrays... she got the feeling none of it belonged to Benzie. It had come with her marriage to Jack McCoist, part of the baggage he brought.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘I’d better be going. Sorry again to have...’
‘No trouble,’ Benzie said. ‘I hope you find what you’re looking for.’
Suddenly there were voices out in the hall, and the sound of the front door being closed. The voices began ascending the staircase, coming closer.
‘Claire and my husband,’ Jan said, sitting back down again, arranging herself the way an artist’s model might. The door burst open and Claire Benzie stormed into the room. To Jean’s eye, she bore no physical resemblance to her mother, but perhaps that was partly down to her entrance, the way she crackled with energy.
‘I don’t bloody care,’ she was saying. ‘They can lock me up if they want, throw away the bloody key!’ She was pacing the room as Jack McCoist walked in. He had his wife’s slow movements, but they seemed merely the result of fatigue.
‘Claire, all I’m saying is...’ He leaned down to peck his wife’s cheek. ‘What a bloody awful time we’ve had,’ he informed her. ‘Cops crawling over Claire like lice. Is there any way you can control your daughter, darling?’ His words died as he straightened and saw they had a visitor. Jean was rising to her feet.
‘I really should be going,’ she said.
‘Who the hell’s this?’ Claire snarled.
‘Ms Burchill is from the Museum,’ Jan explained. ‘We’ve been talking about Kennet Lovell.’
‘Christ, not her as well!’ Claire tossed her head back, then dropped on to one of the room’s two sofas.
‘I’m researching his life,’ Jean explained for McCoist’s benefit. He was pouring himself a whisky at the drinks cabinet.
‘At this time of night?’ was all he said.
‘His portrait’s hanging in some hall somewhere,’ Jan Benzie told her daughter. ‘Did you know that?’
‘Of course I bloody did! It’s in the museum at Surgeons’ Hall.’ She looked at Jean. ‘Is that where you’re from?’
‘No, actually...’
‘Well, wherever you’re from, why don’t you piss off back there? I’m just out of police custody and—’
‘You will not speak like that to a guest in this house!’ Jan Benzie yelped, springing from her chair. ‘Jack, tell her.’
‘Look, I really should...’ Jean’s words were swamped as a three-way argument started. She backed away, heading for the door.
‘You’ve no bloody right...!’
‘Christ, anyone would think it was you they interrogated!’
‘That’s still no excuse for...’
‘Just one quiet drink, is that too much to...’
They didn’t seem to notice as Jean opened the door, closing it again behind her. She walked down the carpeted stairs on tiptoe, and opened the front door as quietly as she could, escaping into the street, where, finally, she let out a huge breath of air. Walking away, she glanced back towards the drawing-room window, but couldn’t see anything. The houses here had walls so thick, they could double as padded cells, and it felt like that was just what she’d escaped from.
Claire Benzie’s temper had been something to behold.
13
Wednesday morning, there was still no sign of Ranald Marr. His wife Dorothy had called Junipers and spoken to John Balfour’s PA. She was reminded in no uncertain terms that the family had a funeral to see to, and that the PA didn’t feel able to disturb either Mr or Mrs Balfour further until some time thereafter.
‘They’ve lost a daughter, you know,’ the PA said haughtily.
‘And I’ve lost my fucking husband, you bitch!’ Dorothy Marr spat back, recoiling ever so slightly afterwards as she realised it was probably the first time she’d used a swearword in her adult life. But it was too late to apologise: the PA had already put down the phone and was informing a lesser member of the Balfour staff not to accept any further calls from Mrs Marr.
Junipers itself was full of people: family members and friends were gathering there. Some, having travelled far, had stayed the previous night, and were now wandering the many corridors in search of something resembling breakfast. Mrs Dolan the cook had decided that hot food would not be seemly on such a day, so her usual vapour trail of sausage, bacon and eggs or pungent kedgeree could not be followed. In the dining room sat an array of cereal packets and preserves, the latter home-made but not including Mrs Dolan’s blackcurrant and apple, which had been Flip’s favourite since childhood. She’d left that particular jar back in the pantry. Last time anyone had eaten some, it had been Flip herself on one of her infrequent visits.
Mrs Dolan was telling her daughter Catriona as much, as Catriona comforted her and handed over another paper handkerchief. One of the guests, sent to inquire whether coffee and cold milk might be available, put his head round the kitchen door, but withdrew again, embarrassed to be witnessing the indomitable Mrs Dolan brought low like this.
In the library, John Balfour was telling his wife that he didn’t want ‘any bloody police thickos’ at the cemetery.
‘But, John, they’ve all worked so hard,’ his wife was saying, ‘and they’ve asked to be there. Surely they’ve as much right as...’ Her voice died away.
‘As who?’ His voice had grown less angry, but suddenly colder.
‘Well,’ his wife said, ‘all these people we don’t know...’
‘You mean people I know? You’ve met them at parties, functions. Jackie, for Christ’s sake, they want to pay their respects.’
His wife nodded and stayed quiet. After the funeral, there would be a buffet lunch back at Junipers, not just for close family but for all her husband’s associates and acquaintances, nearly seventy of them. Jacqueline had wanted a much smaller affair, something that could be accommodated in the dining room. As it was, they’d had to order a marquee, which had been installed on the back lawn. An Edinburgh firm — run by another of her husband’s clients, no doubt — was doing the catering. The lady owner was busy out there now, supervising the unloading of tables, cloths, crockery and cutlery from what seemed a never-ending series of small vans. Jacqueline’s small victory so far had been to widen the circle of invitees to include Flip’s own friends, though this had not been without its awkward moments. David Costello, for example, would have to be invited, along with his parents, though she’d never liked David and felt he held the family in mild distaste. She was hoping they would either fail to turn up, or would not linger.
‘Silver lining, in a way,’ John was droning on, hardly aware of her presence in the room. ‘Something like this, it binds them all to Balfour’s, makes it harder for them to make a move elsewhere...’
Jacqueline rose shakily to her feet.
‘We’re burying our daughter, John! This isn’t about your bloody business! Flip’s not part of some... commercial transaction!’
Balfour glanced towards the door, making sure it was closed. ‘Keep your voice down, woman. It was only a... I didn’t mean...’ He slumped on to the sofa suddenly, face in his hands. ‘You’re right, I wasn’t thinking... God help me.’
His wife sat down next to him, took his hands and lowered them from his face. ‘God help both of us, John,’ she said.