by Sabina Manea
‘Perfect. See you then. Good to meet you, Adam, and thanks again.’
He gobbled his drink with a trembling hand and got up to leave.
The day after, Lucia circled Beatrice Hall before ringing the bell at the outer gate. The building was a doll’s house of Gothic Revival turrets and Italianate window arches. Close up, the bright red and yellow brick had dulled to a dirty brown, like everything in the city eventually did. It was the housekeeper who opened the door before handing her over to Adam. She introduced herself as Mrs Byrne – glum, bloodless, with a raspy Irish voice. Inside, the overload of porphyry and stained glass jarred, like a silent film set.
As anticipated, the house rested uneasily on its former glory. It had been reduced to a rabbit’s warren of musty corridors and garishly wallpapered, mostly uninhabited rooms. Lucia had never taken on a job that size. ‘It’s a big project. We’ll need to strip the walls and fix the plaster underneath before we can make a clean start. Hopefully, the plaster underneath is sound, and then my guy will only have to skim here and there. It’ll take a month, if not longer. You’re probably looking at ten to twelve grand, not including the new paint and wallpaper. I don’t think any of the lot in here can do better than that.’
‘I believe you, Lucia. I’ve talked it through with Aunt Alla, and she’s given me free rein to get this place sorted. If you’re sure you can do it, the job’s yours. Can you start on Monday?’
‘You’re in luck. I’ve just wrapped up my last commission.’
They shook on it, and Lucia found herself yearning for fresh air. Outside, she stood on the pavement, triumphant. It had been peculiarly straightforward. On the other hand, tracking down decorators was a lot of effort, and having one offer their services must have been a godsend.
She was about to start her van when she heard her name from the other side of the street. Danny Garrett crossed slowly towards her, hatred and disbelief etched into his coarse face. She had taken too many jobs from under his nose to expect friendliness.
‘You’ve been to the Hall then. What’s up?’ He wasn’t one for manners or false politeness.
‘I got the job.’
‘What d’you mean, you got the job?’
‘The painting job. Doing up the Hall. Adam’s given it to me.’
Danny was visibly grinding his teeth. For a moment she was afraid he might hit her. She straightened her back and pulled herself together. She wasn’t going to let a thug like him intimidate her. He backed off, annoyed that his aggression was bearing no fruit. ‘So, you got one up on me, Lucia. I hope you’ve got the stomach for it, if you catch my drift.’
‘I don’t, and frankly I don’t care, Danny. I beat you, and you don’t like it. Live with it.’
‘Well, don’t kid yourself, sweetheart. I’m still the boss around here, remember.’
Lucia laughed and got behind the wheel. She knew she’d rattled him. This called for a celebration. She decided she would treat herself to a meal out – nothing special, just a bowl of noodles and a glass of wine at the Blue Fish.
The restaurant was empty, save for a man huddled at a table in the window, tapping anxiously with slightly yellowed fingers as he waited to be served. Early fifties, fair hair that had been spared the grey, a weathered face that could have been attractive. His shirt and trousers looked averse to the ironing board. Lucia watched him for a while as they ate their respective meals in silence. As she was getting ready to leave, an impulse got the better of her.
‘Sorry to bother you. I’ve been trying to guess what you do for a living. My money’s on police inspector.’
The man’s expression shifted from startled to amused, and his blue eyes narrowed. ‘Near enough. Detective Chief Inspector.’
‘Thanks for indulging me. Have a good evening.’ She turned to leave, feeling smug at this small victory. It was a skill she liked practising in case she might lose it. This hypervigilance had served her well as a lawyer. Noticing the smallest details could give you an edge over the competition.
‘Before you go, tell me how you worked it out.’
‘You’re not dressed for an office job, and you haven’t got the nonchalance of an arty type. You look tetchy and you’re trying not to look at your knackered phone – so you’re on duty. Doctors are reckless with their health, but they don’t tend to smoke. That gives fairly good odds on law enforcement.’
The eyes smiled, and Lucia walked out. The balmy smell of the concrete, the last relic of the sweltering heat just gone, deflected her senses. The street was bathed in a low pink light, and between the buses crawling like fattened red slugs up and down the hill the traffic was thinning out. She felt everything belonged to her alone, and it felt like home.
Chapter 3
The week starting Monday, 31st August
(four days before the murder)
The weekend had gone by as if time were running out, and Lucia had barely slept. On the Monday she stood again outside Beatrice Hall, torn between anticipation and an odd hesitance which she tried to suppress. Mrs Byrne let her in, and the heavy doors shut behind them.
Adam was nowhere to be seen. The place was soaked in a pale, early morning light which did it no favours – it only brought up tiny dust particles and intensified its airlessness.
‘Come into the kitchen, Lucia, and have a cup of tea before you start. The Professor wants to meet you, and nobody can go through that on an empty stomach.’
Lucia followed Mrs Byrne down the stairs into the basement. The kitchen hadn’t changed much during the lifetime of the house. It could have had a certain pared-down, voguish charm, had it not been so downright grotty. At some point in their life the tiled walls must have been white. The butler sinks had grown to an immutable brown, and the red terracotta floor had clearly enjoyed a long existence undisturbed by cleaning devices. Mrs Byrne made two mugs of watery tea and stood there in silence.
‘Have you been with the Professor a long time, Mrs Byrne?’
‘Longer than I care to remember. Must be going on twenty years now.’
When she estimated the housekeeper had finished her vetting, Lucia said, ‘The house is magnificent. Apart from needing some fresh paint, I love how it still has its original features. So many of the buildings around here have been gutted out, which is a shame.’
Mrs Byrne looked newly invigorated, like a tranquiliser had just worn off. ‘Oh, you should have seen this place before I arrived. Like a graveyard, it was. I don’t know how the Professor could live like that. Mind you, if it weren’t for me breaking my back keeping it all in shape, she wouldn’t survive a day. Not that she ever leaves that library. With her head in all those dusty books, she wouldn’t bat an eyelid if the walls fell down around her.’
That was better. For a moment Lucia thought she’d lost her touch. Her eyes had a grave kindliness that compelled people to open up – it was both useful and exhausting.
‘Look at the time. She told me to bring you up to the library at nine.’
Lucia followed the housekeeper. Unusually, the library was on the first floor. Despite its apparent size, the ground floor housed remarkably little living space. The drawing room and the music room were next to each other on the left as you came in through the main door. Straight ahead, across the entrance hall, was the monumental staircase, forking into two at the first landing, and on the right was the rabbit hole descent into the gruesome kitchen.
Mrs Byrne came to a halt outside a pair of panelled doors, which opened into a room overflowing with every type of Victorian feature imaginable – weighty sculptures supporting the bookshelves, stifling purple curtains dragging on the floor and, in the middle, an oppressively carved desk piled high with the equivalent of a university library. ‘Professor, Lucia, the decorator, is here to see you.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Byrne. I’ll call you later if I need you.’ From behind the towers of books came a disembodied voice that was low and imposing, with distinctly Slavic tonality. The Professor waited until the door shut to emerge into the light.
‘Please, sit.’ She gestured to a low armchair next to a side table swamped by reams of handwritten notes. The Professor was in her seventies and moved with practised ease, like a ballerina. A single ornament interrupted the refined plainness of her grey dress – a brooch in the shape of a butterfly, its ample black wings dashed with white. She fixed Lucia with a pair of steely, almond-shaped eyes.
‘You’re not what I expected.’
‘What did you expect?’
‘An Essex fishwife.’
‘You’re not what I expected either. I thought you’d be a batty old woman with bird’s nest hair declaiming Shakespeare.’
The Professor burst out laughing, genuinely amused. ‘That’s a description I have never heard before. Have you always been a decorator?’
‘I used to be a lawyer, in a former life. But I don’t remember having as many books as you do.’
‘Ah yes. My former life.’ The tone ruled this out as a subject open to discussion. ‘Now, Adam has put the idea into my head that I should have the house renovated. I was doubtful at first, though I must confess I rather like having proper heating, for a change.’ The Professor bared her teeth in a condescending smile. ‘That boy’s not daft. I’ve no desire to get involved with choosing colours and that sort of thing. Adam tells me you come highly recommended, so impress me. Just don’t make lots of noise.’
Lucia had done her research and was relieved at the prospect of being left to her own devices. ‘Decorating is a pretty quiet activity. I’ve drawn up some plans, which I’ll leave with you. If you’re happy to let me get on with it, then so am I.’
‘Good. I’m glad we understand each other. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must get back to my work.’ The audience was over.
As Lucia passed the basement stairs, she heard voices from the kitchen. They were faint but unmistakably raised – an argument, but she could only make out broken sentences. As she unloaded her tools from the van, she turned around to glimpse Mrs Byrne standing at the window, wringing her hands. Spotted, the housekeeper scurried away.
The rest of the day as well as the day after were, by comparison, unremarkable. Lucia came and went, working methodically through hardened paint and dried wallpaper. She enjoyed doing this part herself, peeling off each layer to expose another decade of decorative fashion. She liked the 1930s the best. The fine, sharply drawn geometric patterns spoke to her own taste. How ironic, she thought, just when designers had finally shaken off the nauseating burden of the Arts and Crafts, that war should promptly drag them back to floral sentimentality. She saw no one except Mrs Byrne, who dutifully delivered cups of tea on the hour until Lucia begged her to stop. Her face was implacable, bearing no marks of the row. The Professor must have taken meals, though Lucia could not tell when or where. The house was quiet, just as the Professor had asked.
On the third day, as Lucia was scraping away at a particularly revolting wall by the entrance, the doors opened without warning and a woman around Lucia’s age, mid-thirties, strode in with a sure step. Her naturally blonde hair was tied back, revealing a face that looked as if it had been drawn with sharp pencil strokes and then gently rubbed out. She was dressed, unexpectedly, in a tweed skirt suit. On anyone older or less attractive it would have looked like period costume, but it suited her fine features and serious demeanour. She met Lucia’s eyes with a confident gaze; she was clearly at ease with the place.
‘Hello, I’m Lucia.’
‘Emilia Poole. Pleased to meet you. I’m Professor Kiseleva’s assistant. I’m going to have to be very rude and let you get on. The Professor insists on punctuality.’
Emilia disappeared up the creaky stairs, and Lucia heard the library doors open and close. She was no stranger to being looked down upon in her clients’ houses, but she was certain that rudeness wasn’t at play here.
‘Are you sure you don’t want a cuppa? You’ve been at that wall for hours.’ Whatever had upset Mrs Byrne had passed, or at least she had decided to bottle it up.
‘Go on then, Mrs Byrne, this time I’m parched. I’ll have a break down in the kitchen if I’m not in your way.’ Lucia figured that a touch of friendliness laced with information-gathering wouldn’t go amiss. She was itching for some juicy gossip that she could share in the Red Lion and to get up Danny’s nose. ‘I saw Emilia come in just now. She seems nice.’
‘Oh yes, Emilia. She’s a darling. So well turned out, and always with a friendly smile. Some people treat you like a servant, you know, like you’re below them, but not her.’
Lucia felt the compliments didn’t quite paint the whole picture but was loath to interrupt the housekeeper in full flow.
‘The girl’s a saint, putting up with that woman upstairs. She must be bored out of her mind, a pretty young thing like her, spending her days in that musty hole.’
‘What exactly does she do, Mrs Byrne?’
‘Assistant, the Professor calls her. They sit there for hours, the Professor rambling on and on, and Emilia asks questions and writes things down. The Professor’s book, that is. Boring, if you ask me.’
This was a step forward. ‘What did the Professor do? Before she retired, I mean.’
Mrs Byrne shot out a bitter look. She didn’t seem to hold the Professor’s occupation in particularly high regard. ‘She was an academic type. One of the London universities – I forget which – they all sound the same to me. Maths. Stuff that makes no sense and is of no use to anyone.’
The housekeeper paused for breath. There was a passing flash of expectancy in her eyes, but her expression almost instantly glazed over. Something was being left unsaid. Lucia waited.
‘She barely looked at that poor doting husband of hers. He adored her – she didn’t know how lucky she was, and she didn’t deserve it. Planning to leave him, she was, before he saved her the trouble and popped his clogs.’
With this last outburst, the relief was complete. Lucia was certain she wouldn’t squeeze anything else out of the housekeeper, for now at least. She smiled sympathetically, a reassurance that the confidence was safe with her. ‘Thanks for the tea, Mrs Byrne. Best get back to work. That wall isn’t going to scrape itself.’
Lucia worked until her fingers were raw and the dull pain in her back became unbearable. Later, stretched out flat on her living room floor, she gave in to all the garbled thoughts. She dragged herself up and looked out of the window. Hampstead High Street was busy with the usual infestation of commuters swarming out of the tube station. The morning’s hope had been embodied by the freshly washed hair and scrupulously applied make-up, a spring in their step as they walked into the packed metal lifts. By the end of the day, they were covered in fine black dust and crawled home angry and numb, only to wake up and do it all over again. The rumination gave her perverse pleasure as she remembered this was the life she’d left behind.
Chapter 4
Friday, 4th September
(the day of the murder)
The paramedics had bundled up their precious cargo in the hope the Professor might yet be saved. Sensing she was being watched, Lucia turned around. The blue eyes, complete with crumpled chinos, had been on her for some time. It took her a few seconds to place him – the man from the restaurant, the good-looking police inspector.
‘The observant decorator. You’re everywhere these days.’
‘I’d rather not be here, that’s for sure.’ Lucia sat down on one of the garden chairs, all of a sudden light-headed.
‘You’re in shock. Where’s the kitchen? I’ll make you some sugary tea. Guaranteed treatment.’
‘I’ll be fine. There are others in worse shape.’
‘Don’t worry about them. The kindly constables are on the case. Besides, nobody ever thinks of the tradesman. Or woman, in this case.’
Lucia laughed feebly. That much was true. After what felt like an eternity he came back with a mug of tea. He must have emptied the whole bag of sugar into it.
‘Sorry it took so long. That kitchen’s a right mess. I’m Detective
Chief Inspector David Carliss, Metropolitan Police.’ A badge was flashed. ‘And you are?’
‘Lucia Steer. I’m the decorator, but you already know that.’ She wondered what items of interest had kept him busy in the kitchen.
‘I figured as much. Your van’s parked outside and you’re wearing overalls. Can you tell me what happened?’
Lucia neatly packaged the afternoon into a measured, thorough account, the way she’d been trained to do in her previous life. She wondered whether to go further and decided she had nothing to lose.
‘I think the Professor might have been poisoned.’
DCI Carliss, who had been taking copious notes without interrupting, looked up sharply. ‘Why do you say that?’
‘She was fine. Healthy people don’t just collapse. If there had been anything wrong with her, I’d have got a full medical history from Mrs Byrne, blabbermouth as she is. Besides, that glass the Professor was drinking from–’
‘Yes, I’ve seen the glass, thank you,’ interrupted Carliss, clearly irked by the unsolicited deductions. ‘I think we’d better leave the diagnosis to the professionals, don’t you think?’
He put his pen down and patted her on the arm.
‘I think you’ve done more than enough for today. Go home. Have a drink. Have two drinks. I’m certainly going to. Chances are, it could all be very dull. She wasn’t young.’
Lucia got up slowly. She didn’t like the patronizing dismissal, but she could see he was also trying to put her mind at ease. She felt burned out. For all her bravado, the tragic event had got the better of her.
‘On second thoughts, you’re in no fit state to be driving. I’ll take you back in your van.’ The detective marched purposefully ahead, just as she was about to protest. He had a point; she didn’t want to do any more thinking today. She handed him the keys and told him the address. He drove prudently, both hands on the wheel, while she weaved in and out of consciousness.
‘Will you manage from here?’ Carliss said when they had arrived outside her building.