‘What was that?’
‘In the middle of the night again. I woke up suddenly and… I thought… I thought there was someone standing at the end of my bed.’
She was trembling now and Kathy moved to her and put an arm round her shoulders. ‘I think we should get the doctor back,’ she said quietly to Brock.
‘No, dear, don’t worry. I’m all right,’ Peg whispered, and took a deep breath.
‘You didn’t report this before, did you, Mrs Blythe?’ Brock asked.
She shook her head. ‘It was only the night before last. And I wasn’t sure. I closed my eyes and when I opened them again there was nothing. Do you think it could have been… him, Inspector?’
‘I don’t know, Mrs Blythe. But perhaps you might feel more comfortable, once you’re fit enough to get up, if we found you a nice hotel room for a few days, rather than staying here. Would you like us to arrange that?’
‘Oh yes, yes. I think I would like that, Inspector. How kind of you to think of that. I just haven’t known what to do.’ She beamed relief at them like a fearful child rescued by a grown-up.
‘There are a couple of things more we need to ask you just now, if you’re strong enough.’
‘Yes, Inspector.’
‘Has anyone from the company that’s rebuilding Jerusalem Lane had any contact with you or Eleanor recently?’
‘After Meredith died, a young man did come to see us. He offered us ten thousand pounds each if we would agree to move away and sign a document. He was quite pleasant, although we refused straight away. He told us what was going to happen in the Lane, when the other side of the street would be knocked down, and when they would start building the tower monstrosities they’re planning.’
‘Would you remember the young man’s name by any chance?’
‘Oh, I’m not sure. Something from Walter Scott, I think…’
‘ Quentin Durward?’ Kathy suggested at last.
‘That’s right! Quentin.’
‘Quentin Gilroy.’ Brock nodded.
‘Didn’t you ever think that perhaps it would be better to move away from the Lane when everyone else did?’ Kathy asked.
‘Oh no, dear,’ Peg said with surprising firmness. ‘Eleanor and I have never been afraid to go our own way, to believe what we understand to be right, and to act upon it.’
‘Another thing, Mrs Blythe. Has anyone approached you to buy books or papers that you might have?’
‘Well now,’ she said slowly, thinking, ‘that does ring a bell. I do believe that Eleanor said that someone had contacted her about something like that, about Christmas time I think it was, wanting to buy her books or something. She was quite annoyed about it. She’s very attached to her library.’
‘So she didn’t agree to sell anything?’
‘Not as far as I know. No. I’m sure she wouldn’t have.’
‘Were some of the books signed by Karl Marx?’
‘Yes. How clever you are to know that, Inspector! They were Eleanor’s treasures. She was so proud of them.’
‘Do you know where they are now?’
‘Well, in her bookcase, I suppose.’ She saw Brock shake his head. ‘Well… I have no idea… You mean they may have been stolen by the murderer?’ She clutched her bag more firmly to her chest.
‘It’s possible. But are you certain that Eleanor still had them during the last six months?’
‘The last six months? Since Meredith…?’ Peg was looking confused. ‘I don’t really know… She had so many books…’
‘But original editions of books signed by Karl Marx would have been very valuable, wouldn’t they, Mrs Blythe? Eleanor must have known that? And you too, surely?’
Peg stared up at his face, uncomprehending. ‘Valuable? They meant a great deal to Eleanor, certainly. But in money terms, I have no idea, Inspector.’
Brock straightened up. ‘Well, we’ll leave it at that for today. If you think of anything else that might help us, here is our telephone number.’
‘Oh…’ Peg looked suddenly anxious again, and her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Are you going to leave me alone in the house
… with him?’
‘We have to speak to him now. We’ll wait until Mrs Winter returns. Will that be all right? Then we’ll send a policewoman down with a car this afternoon to take you back to a hotel, somewhere near Jerusalem Lane.’
Her face brightened, and some of the former colour returned to her cheeks as she settled herself back into the pillows.
‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘You are so kind.’
‘Oh, one last thing.’ Brock paused at the door. ‘After the crime prevention officer came to see you, did you get the locks to your flats changed?’
‘No. He said they were good locks, although they were quite old.’
‘And who has keys?’
‘Mrs Rosenfeldt has a set. That’s all.’ She thought a moment and then her face dropped. ‘Oh… and he does, of course. He has his mother’s set.’
Winter was sitting forward on the edge of the sofa when they returned to the living room, giving the impression of someone who didn’t really belong there. Kathy suspected that he probably wouldn’t have known where things were to make them a cup of coffee, even if he had wanted to.
‘Well?’ he scowled at them.
‘She’s quite upset, Mr Winter, as you said. She feels she should be nearer her home in Jerusalem Lane, and I’ve said we’ll arrange a hotel room for her. Someone will call for her this afternoon. We’ll make sure someone keeps an eye on her for a few days.’
Winter stared at him in surprise, and it took him a few seconds to respond. He started to frame some objection, but Brock abruptly cut in.
‘What were your movements on Tuesday night, then, Mr Winter? Here with your wife?’
Winter looked away. ‘No, no. If you must know, Caroline and I have split up. I only stayed here last night because of Aunt Peg.’ His eyes strayed over to the blankets in the corner.
‘Ah. With Ms McArthur, then?’
Winter hesitated. His thinking processes seemed to have slowed down, and the cockiness they’d experienced six months before had gone. He raised his chin slowly, in some gesture of defiance perhaps.
‘I have my own place s’matter of fact.’
‘Really? You’ve broken off with Ms McArthur, have you?’
Winter’s jaw had locked, and he was speaking through his teeth. ‘No. We’re still good friends. We’re just reassessing the situation, that’s all.’
‘So, where were you on Tuesday night then, from, say, 9.30 p.m. through till the following morning around 7.30?’
‘I was at my flat, 3d Rye Gardens, Peckham, next to Peckham Rye Common, all that time.’
‘Alone?’
‘No. I had a friend with me.’
‘Name?’
There was the sound of a key in the front door and Winter’s speech suddenly speeded up. ‘Shirley Piggott… No. Two “g”s and two “t”s
… She works in my Peckham salon. You can reach her there.’
Kathy got up and went out to meet Caroline Winter and head her off to the kitchen while Brock continued with her husband. ‘I want to talk to you about these disturbances that have been going on around 22 Jerusalem Lane for the past five months or so.’
Winter avoided Brock’s impassive stare. ‘Yeah, sure,’ he muttered, and developed a sudden interest in wiping some carpet fluff from the heel of his shoe.
From his inside jacket pocket Brock pulled out a copy of the print-out Gurney had provided and unfolded it slowly. ‘What’s your theory about these, Mr Winter?’
Winter shook his head. He finished with the shoe and his right hand began to play with the gold rings and Rolex watch that he wore on his left.
‘Kids, maybe. Vandals.’
‘Kids or vandals, you think?’ Brock slowly took his half-lens glasses out of their case and perched them on his nose. He read from the list. ‘“Night of October 12th: water stopcock in yard broken off. Water Board took two days to find the fault and restore water supply. Night of October 16th: dog dirt pushed through letter box. Night of November 2nd: lighted fireworks pushed through letter box…” Pretty sick kids, wouldn’t you say, and unusually persistent? Sounds more like a calculated campaign of intimidation to me. Look at this. Christmas Eve: three abusive phone calls saying this was the last Christmas the old ladies would ever see, plus broken glass left all over the front door step. You must have been pretty worried, weren’t you, sir?’