The room was much as it had been when Joe had looked in earlier, though the trays of desserts had disappeared. Alex Barton was pouring coffee from a filter machine into pots.
I should have checked about the knife when I was here before. Joe was feeling foolish, knew this was a mistake Vera would never have made. But I thought Joanna was the killer. I thought there was no urgency.
‘If you want to go into the dining room,’ Barton said, ‘I’ll bring the coffee through in a minute.’
‘It smells fabulous, pet,’ Vera said. ‘But I’m not here for the coffee. Show me where you keep your knives.’
Alex set the jug back on the filter machine and stood for a moment looking at her. Joe couldn’t make out what the man was thinking, or even if he recognized the implications of the request. Alex pointed to a chef’s block on the bench. ‘My mother gave it to me when I graduated from college. They’re the best you can get.’ Again the voice was flat, and Ashworth found it impossible to tell whether he was proud of the gift or resented it.
Vera walked over to the bench. ‘There seem to be a few missing.’
‘Of course some are missing.’ Now Barton did sound impatient. ‘I’ve been cooking with them.’ He nodded towards the draining board, to a pile of dirty pots and cutlery.
‘I know you’re busy,’ Vera said. ‘But can you check that they’re all there. It shouldn’t take more than a moment.’
‘You think Joanna stole a knife from here to kill Tony?’
‘I don’t think anything at the moment, Mr Barton. Not until I understand the facts.’ Vera gave a thin little smile. ‘Are guests allowed into the kitchen?’
‘We don’t encourage it,’ Alex said. ‘Hygiene regulations. But the room’s never locked.’ He seemed about to ask another question of his own, but thought better of it and nodded. ‘Just let me take this coffee through before it gets cold, then I’ll check for you.’
When he returned he pulled three knives from the draining board, wiped each with a white cloth and slotted it into a hole in the wooden block. ‘There’s one missing,’ he said.
Vera had stood, watching. ‘You’re sure?’
‘Of course I’m sure. They’re the tools of my trade. I work with them every day.’ He paused, frowning. ‘I hope I’ll get it back. It’d cost a lot to replace.’
It seemed to Joe that Alex wasn’t troubled so much about the cost of the knife as about the fact that one of the set was missing. ‘Can you describe it?’ Joe leaned forward.
‘Like this, only with a finer blade.’ Barton took out a wedge-shaped knife.
‘Not serrated?’
‘No! Not serrated. The only serrated knife here is the bread knife, and that’s over there.’ Barton nodded towards a breadboard in the corner. A black-handled knife lay across it, taunting them.
‘Has it been here all afternoon?’ Vera asked.
‘Yes! I used it at lunchtime and made myself a sandwich this afternoon.’
‘You and your mother were here, drinking tea,’ Vera said. ‘Just before she found Professor Ferdinand’s body.’
‘How did you know that?’ Barton looked at her as if she were a witch.
Vera smiled at him mysteriously. ‘I’m a great believer in traditional detective work,’ she said. ‘It always pays dividends. Isn’t that right, Sergeant?’
But Joe wasn’t listening. He was thinking that the knife with which Joanna had been found had most likely come from the Writers’ House kitchen. Not the murder weapon, though. That was still missing.
‘Thank you for your help, Mr Barton,’ Vera said. ‘Perhaps now we could talk to your guests.’
She stood for a moment outside the door of the dining room and composed herself. Watching her, Joe thought she was like an actress preparing to play a major role. She shut her eyes briefly, then walked inside. He followed. Always in her shadow, he thought. But maybe that’s the way I like it.
Vera walked the length of the table, just as Miranda Barton had done earlier. Joe closed the door and stood with his back to it. On these occasions Vera preferred him to be unobtrusive. You’re my eyes and my ears, Joe. I’m a simple soul; I can’t talk and observe at the same time. So he watched the reaction of the people sitting at the table. There were twelve of them plus Miranda Barton, fewer than he’d thought when he’d seen them parade into the room after the dinner gong had been struck. Did people with big personalities and big egos take up more space? Because there was nobody here who was ordinary. The voices were louder than Joe would have expected and the gestures slightly more dramatic. Even Lenny, the working-class guy from Ashington, seemed to be playing a caricature of himself.
The desserts had been eaten, the glass bowls pushed to one side and napkins rolled into balls on the table. Alex had returned from the kitchen with a second pot of coffee. He set it down for the diners to help themselves. Vera waited at the head of the table until everyone was served. Biding her time. Eventually the conversation faded and she had their full attention.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, I’m sorry to have disturbed your dinner like this.’
No reaction. The audience didn’t notice the sarcasm. Perhaps dinner was as important to them as the fact that there was a man upstairs with his throat cut. Even Miranda Barton, who had created the disturbance when she saw the body, had managed to eat all her pudding and now reached out to take a chocolate from the plate that was circulating with the coffee.
Vera continued, ‘I’m sure you appreciate that our investigation will cause some disruption to your programme. Obviously we’ll need to take statements from you all, and we’d like to begin that this evening, while your memories are fresh.’ She looked around her and gave the fixed, icy smile that terrified her team more than her anger. ‘Are there any questions at this point?’
Ashworth saw that the assembled writers had underestimated Vera. They despised her for her ill-fitting clothes and badly cut hair. It showed in their posture as they slumped over the table or back in their chairs. They saw no danger in her, certainly not in the smile.
‘What’s happened to Joanna?’ It was a woman, with very short black hair and striking red lipstick. Joe found it hard to tell her age. Her face was angular and ageless. Mid-thirties, perhaps?
‘And who are you?’ Vera’s smile flickered for a moment, then returned. Ashworth almost expected her to add dear to the question. That was one of her tactics, to play the maiden aunt. Concerned, but a little simple. A tad patronizing.
‘Nina Backworth. I’m one of the tutors on the course. I’m an academic specializing in women’s writing and short fiction.’
‘A colleague of Professor Ferdinand’s then?’
‘No!’ The woman sounded horrified at the idea. ‘He supervised my work briefly when I was a postgraduate student, but now I’m based in Newcastle. I’m sure you know that Tony set up the creative-writing MA in St Ursula’s College, London. The course has achieved international fame. Any student accepted there has a head-start in finding a publisher.’
And what about you? Did you find a publisher after being taught by him? But Vera kept that question to herself. ‘Any good, was she? Joanna Tobin? As a writer, I mean?’
‘I thought she showed great potential.’ Nina paused. ‘I don’t believe she would have attacked Tony Ferdinand without good cause. I hope you’ll treat her with some sensitivity.’
‘Are you saying Professor Ferdinand deserved to die, Ms Backworth?’
There was a sudden tension in the room, a spark of excitement or energy. The audience was more attentive. The woman regarded Vera warily. ‘Of course not. Nobody deserves to be killed like that. I want to alert you to the fact that there could have been an element of self-defence in what happened here today.’