Eventually, he cleared his throat. ‘What do you think he was doing on that particular road?’ he asked.
‘Politically, you mean?’
He smiled at the error. ‘No, the road between Anstruther and St Andrews.’
‘It was the weekend,’ she said, her voice fading a little. ‘He often spent weekends in Fife.’
‘On his own?’
‘Not with me.’
He knew from her tone what she meant. ‘Other women?’ he suggested. She gave the slightest of nods. ‘Many?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘He used the weekend house?’
‘I suppose so.’ She looked down at her lap and brushed something from it, something Fox couldn’t see.
‘And Anstruther…?’ he prompted, waiting her out. Eventually she gave a sigh and took a deep breath.
‘That’s where she lived.’ She fixed him with a stare. ‘I was quite a catch when Francis met me, but maybe you know what it’s like.’
‘A little,’ he offered, since she had waited for his response.
‘She was a student too. Alice Watts – that was the name.’
‘He told you?’
She shook her head. ‘Letters from her. Hidden in his office desk. It was months before I came across them – there was so much to be gone through.’
‘She lived in Anstruther?’
Imogen Vernal was staring at the window again. ‘She was studying politics and philosophy at St Andrews. He gave a talk to the students and she met him afterwards. I suppose you’d call her a groupie.’ Her voice dropped almost to a whisper. ‘I’ve not told anyone about her.’
‘Charles Mangold?’
She shook her head.
‘So Alan Carter wouldn’t have known either?’
‘I suppose Charles might have known,’ she said. ‘He was Francis’s friend, after all. Men sometimes talk to one another, don’t they? When they’re out drinking.’
Fox conceded that they did. The temperature in the room had dropped a few degrees – the thick floor-length curtains should be closed and the gas fire turned on.
‘I want to thank you for seeing me and for being so open,’ Fox said. ‘Maybe we can talk again?’
But Vernal’s widow wasn’t finished with him. ‘I went looking for her, you know. I felt I needed to see her – not talk to her, just see her. I had her address from the letters. But when I went there, she’d packed up and left. The university told me she’d quit her course.’ She paused. ‘So I suppose it’s just possible she may have loved him.’
‘Do you still have those letters, Mrs Vernal?’
She nodded. ‘I wondered whether you would ask.’ She reached down the side of her chair and produced them, still in their envelopes. They bore neither addresses nor stamps. Hand-delivered, then.
Fox turned them over in his hands without opening them. ‘You were prepared,’ he stated. ‘Why am I the first person you’ve told?’
She smiled at him. ‘You insisted on coming here alone,’ she explained. ‘You stood up to Charles. That speaks to me of a certain something… a quality.’
‘You know some of the rumours of the time?’ he felt able to ask. ‘The papers hinted that you’d had a string of lovers, and maybe one of them had…’
‘You don’t believe that,’ she stated. ‘Francis was the only man I loved – and I still do. Goodbye, Inspector. Thank you for coming.’ She broke off, and thought of something else. ‘You asked me earlier who killed him. In a sense, I think we all did. But if I were to place a wager, I’d say the odds favoured your own kind.’
‘Meaning the police?’
‘Police, Secret Service – you’ll know better than I do. But take heed, Inspector: the man Charles employed ended up dead. You’d best be careful.’
‘Why do you think Mangold hired him in the first place?’
‘I thought I’d already answered that. Why do you think he did?’
‘To solve the mystery while you’re both still alive to hear it.’
She considered this, then shook her head slowly. ‘Perhaps.’
‘What other reason?’
‘Charles wants me to think less of Francis, so I’ll think more of him.’
‘He wants to prove that your husband consorted with bombers as well as women?’
She gave a thin smile. ‘Leading to my deathbed conversion. I recant and clasp Charles to my bosom – metaphorically speaking or otherwise.’
‘That sounds unlikely to me.’
‘Please don’t misunderstand: Charles has been a good friend, loving and loyal.’
‘But not as reciprocal as he would like?’
‘No.’
‘And adding your maiden name to his law firm…?’
‘Part of the wooing,’ she agreed. ‘Should I feel flattered, do you think?’
Fox had no answer to that. As he left the vast and underfurnished drawing room, he could see her reflection in the window, just as she could see his.
Fox lay in bed that night thinking of Imogen Vernal. She had given up on the chemo, but hadn’t given up on life. She still loved her husband. She was loved, in turn, by Charles Mangold. He wondered whether the widow was rich – an inheritance from her parents; money left by her husband – or whether Mangold was paying for Eileen Carpenter and everything else. He thought of his own father, fighting hard against dementia, regular visits from son and daughter, trips to the seafront at Portobello, ice cream on his chin until a handkerchief could be produced…
The letters from Alice Watts to Francis Vernal were more like essays – lengthy, discursive, political. There were moments of emotion too, but no purple prose, no drawings of hearts pierced by arrows – and no rows of kisses at the end. Fox couldn’t tell if Vernal had ever written her letters of his own. It was obvious he was a regular visitor to Anstruther, but the letters were not dated. Judging by the few contemporary events she mentioned, they had to be from 1984 and ’85.
His phone was charging on the bedside cabinet. When it rang, he had to unplug it before answering. It was Evelyn Mills, calling him at eleven p.m.
‘Evelyn?’
‘Did I wake you?’
‘What’s up?’
There was silence on the line for a moment. ‘Funny, isn’t it?’ she eventually answered, her voice slightly nasal. ‘You coming into my life again. Coming into my life right now, I mean.’ Fox realised she had been drinking.
‘Things are a bit shaky at home?’
‘No… not really.’ She seemed to recall the lateness of the hour. ‘I should have waited till morning.’
‘It’s fine.’
‘Freddie’s a lovely man, you know.’
‘I’m sure he is.’
‘If you met him, the two of you would hit it off. Everybody likes Freddie.’
‘That’s good.’
There was more silence on the line. ‘I’ve forgotten why I was calling you,’ she admitted.
‘Maybe just for a chat.’
‘No, hang on, I remember now. Paul Carter’s been talking to Scholes.’
‘Oh?’
‘He seems scared, and not sure who to trust. He as good as asked Scholes if he’d had something to do with the uncle’s death.’
‘What did Scholes say?’
‘Told him he was off his head.’
‘They seemed to be talking freely?’
‘Nothing to suggest they think there might be a tap.’
‘Have you told this to Kaye and Naysmith?’
‘Not yet. Should I be giving them the recording?’
‘They’re the ones on the ground.’ He paused. ‘Any news from the Alan Carter inquiry?’
‘The wheels are turning.’
‘How close are they to charging the nephew?’
‘Nobody knows if we’re even calling it a murder.’
‘“The death is being treated as suspicious”?’ Fox said, quoting the exact words the media would have been given.
‘Advice is being taken from the Procurator Fiscal,’ Mills commented. ‘Everything all right at your end?’
‘Feet up, relaxing.’
‘Lucky you.’
‘Lucky me,’ Fox echoed.
‘I should go.’