‘I look after Mrs Vernal.’
‘Her nurse, you mean?’
‘And other things besides.’
The hall smelled musty, but had been dusted. Carpenter asked him if he wanted some tea.
‘Please,’ he answered, following her into the drawing room. It boasted a huge bay window. Imogen Vernal’s chair had been placed so that it faced the garden to the side of the property.
‘You’ll forgive me if I don’t get up,’ she said. Fox introduced himself and shook her hand. Her ash-blonde hair was thin and wispy, and there were lesions on her cheeks and forehead. Her skin was almost transparent, the veins showing. Fox reckoned she couldn’t weigh more than seven and a half stone. But her eyes, though tired, were lively enough, the pupils dilated by recent medication.
There was a dining-room chair to one side of her, and Fox seated himself. A book was open on the floor – a hardback copy of a Charles Dickens novel. Fox presumed one of Eileen Carpenter’s tasks was to read to her employer.
‘Quite a house,’ Fox said.
‘Yes.’
‘Did you live here with your husband?’
‘My parents bought it for us – a wedding gift.’
‘Great parents.’
‘Rich parents,’ she corrected him with a smile.
There were framed photographs of her husband on the mantelpiece. One looked familiar: the orator in full flow, fist clenched as he addressed his audience.
‘I wish I’d heard him speak,’ Fox said truthfully.
‘I think I have some recordings.’ She paused and raised a finger. ‘No,’ she corrected herself, ‘I donated them to the National Library – along with his books and papers. People have done their PhDs on him, you know. When he died, an American senator wrote an obituary for the Washington Post.’ She nodded at the memory.
‘He was quite a character,’ Fox agreed. ‘In public.’
Her eyes narrowed a little. ‘Charles told me about you, Inspector. Such a pity about the other man, the one who passed away…’ She paused. ‘Is Charles outside the gates?’
‘Yes.’
‘He’s very protective.’
‘Was he one of your lovers?’
She took her time answering, as if wondering how to respond. ‘You make me sound like a Jezebel.’ Her voice was becoming more noticeably Scottish.
‘It’s just that he seems to have a great deal of affection for you.’
‘He does,’ she agreed.
‘And there were always the rumours that your marriage had been stormy.’
‘Stormy?’ She considered the word. ‘Not a bad description.’
‘How did the two of you meet?’
‘Manning the barricades.’
‘Not literally?’
‘Almost – a sit-in at the university. I think we were protesting against Vietnam.’ She seemed to be thinking back. ‘Although it could have been apartheid, or Rhodesia. He was already a lawyer; I was a student. We hit it off…’
‘Despite the age gap?’
‘My parents didn’t approve at first,’ she conceded.
‘Was Mr Vernal a nationalist back then?’
‘He was a communist in his youth. Then it was the Labour Party. Nationalism came later.’
‘You shared his politics?’
She studied him. ‘I’m not sure what it is you want from me, Inspector.’
‘I just felt we should meet.’
She was still mulling this over when Eileen Carpenter arrived with a tray. The teapot was small, and there was just the one bone-china cup and saucer. It was loose-leaf tea, accompanied by a silver strainer. Fox thanked her. She asked her employer if anything else was needed.
‘We’re fine, I think,’ Imogen Vernal replied. ‘You might want to let Charles know.’ Then, for Fox’s benefit: ‘He’ll be waiting for her to send him a message.’
A little colour was rising to Carpenter’s cheeks as she left the room.
‘She’s not a spy, exactly,’ Imogen Vernal told Fox. ‘But Charles will keep fussing…’
Fox poured tea for himself. ‘You know why he hired Alan Carter?’ he asked.
‘To clear up my husband’s murder.’
‘You’re sure in your own mind that it was murder?’
‘Pretty sure.’
‘Did you say as much at the time? I don’t recall the newspapers mentioning it.’
‘To be quite honest with you, I was a little bit afraid.’
Fox accepted this. ‘But all you have are suspicions – no actual evidence?’
‘No more than you’ll have gleaned,’ she conceded, placing her hands on her lap.
‘And suicide…?’
‘Not an option: Francis was too much of a coward. It’s something I’ve been thinking about recently. I told them I was coming off the chemo and everything else – it was too, too much. There’s morphine for the pain, but you can still feel it, just beyond the cotton wool. Suicide had to be considered, but that particular course of action takes a certain bravery. I’m not brave, and neither was Francis.’
‘He wasn’t ill, was he?’
‘Strong as an ox.’
‘Despite the cigarettes?’
‘Yes.’
‘Had there been a falling-out?’
‘No more so than usual.’
‘That stormy relationship again?’
‘Stormy rather than rocky. Has anyone used the word “firebrand” in connection with him?’ She watched as Fox nodded his reply. ‘I’d be disappointed had they not – that was Francis, you see: in his life, his work, his politics. He didn’t care if you were for him or against him, so long as you had fire in your belly.’
‘There’s a cairn near where he died…’
‘Charles had it placed there.’
‘And the yearly bouquet?’
‘From me.’
Fox leaned forward a little. ‘Who do you think killed him, Mrs Vernal?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘The period leading up to his death… had he been worried about anything?’
‘No.’
‘He thought he was being watched.’
‘That pleased him: it meant he was “getting to them”.’
‘Who?’
‘The establishment, I suppose.’
‘And how was he getting to them?’
‘His speeches. His power to change people’s minds.’
‘The polls suggest he wasn’t changing too many minds.’
She dismissed this with a toss of her head. ‘Everyone he met… he had an effect on them.’
She paused and watched Fox bring out the photograph of her husband with Chris Fox.
‘Do you know this man?’ he asked her.
‘No.’
‘His name’s Chris Fox. He died in a motorbike crash, a few years before your husband. It happened near Burntisland.’
She considered this. ‘Not so far from where they killed Francis. You think there’s a connection?’
‘Not really.’
‘He shares your surname.’
‘He was my father’s cousin.’
She looked at him. ‘Did he know Francis well?’
‘I’ve no idea.’ Fox studied the picture again before returning it to his pocket. He took another sip of tea. ‘I’ve heard break-ins mentioned…’
‘Yes – here and at the office. Two in as many weeks.’
‘Reported to the police?’
She nodded. ‘No one was ever caught.’
‘Was much taken?’
‘Money and jewellery.’
‘None of your husband’s papers?’
‘No.’
‘Did Francis ever discuss breaking the law himself?’
‘How do you mean?’ She seemed to be focusing on the view from the window, even though it was now dark and the garden was invisible.
‘He was said to be close to certain groups…’
‘He never spoke about it.’
‘But it’s not exactly news to you?’
‘He knew a lot of people, Inspector – I dare say one or two wanted to take the struggle that bit further than the law of the time would allow.’
‘And he would have supported that view?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Do any names come to mind?’
She shook her head. ‘You’re thinking,’ she said, ‘that political friends sometimes turn into foes. But if Francis had enemies – real enemies, I mean – he kept them to himself.’
‘But you know he supported paramilitary groups? Mr Mangold seems to think you’d no inkling.’
‘Charles doesn’t know everything.’
Fox took another sip of tea and placed the cup and saucer back on the tray. The room was silent for the best part of a minute. He got the feeling that when she was left alone, this was how she sat – calm and still and waiting for death, staring at her reflection in the window, the rest of the world lost somewhere beyond. He was reminded of his father: I don’t sleep… I just lie here…