by Sabina Manea
‘A bold move, and prone to so many screw-ups,’ remarked Carliss wryly. ‘You showed me the trick – it’s childishly simple if you keep calm and know what you’re doing. And what about Adam? Where does he fit in?’
‘Adam was collateral damage, not to mention Emilia must have hated him – the adopted child that took her place in the Professor’s admittedly short-lived affections. Nina’s psychological assessment is most likely correct. He was sleeping with Emilia, so sooner or later he was bound to come across something incriminating. He found the doll, and from there he dug around until he uncovered the truth. With his professional connections, he must have been in the perfect position to pull plenty of strings to get access to the incriminating paperwork. He may have even confronted Emilia. He must have deduced she had a very strong motive for the Professor’s murder, which is why Emilia had to get rid of him. The fact that he was a cocaine addict made it ridiculously easy. She had kept back some poison, just in case, which she now deployed. It was an even more audacious move than the Professor’s murder, as Emilia could have been a prime suspect, but by then she was desperate and running out of time. On the other hand, you could say she hedged her bets. She had worked out that the police had Adam down as the Professor’s killer, so guilt-induced suicide fitted the bill. He was a known drug user, after all.’
‘What escapes me, Lulu, is how she messed up and left foundation on the inside of the tin,’ asked Nina.
Lucia recalled the glitch. ‘The foundation tube was cracked. She must have kept in her bag the disposable gloves that she used to open the tin. A little foundation got smeared on the gloves, which in turn was transferred to the inside of the tin as she reached to collect the poison. Another small, but this time fatal error.’
‘And Glover?’ the inspector asked curiously.
‘I would venture to say that he and Emilia seem closer than first impressions would suggest. For all we know, Emilia could have confided in him when she found out about the Professor’s real past. What’s to say that the connection to Belarus didn’t bring back the memory of his fiancée’s death? It can’t have come as a surprise that the maths faculty in Minsk was a hotbed of KGB spies. Then he remembers the brooch, and suddenly it all falls into place.’
‘The Professor died as she lived – malicious, scheming, self-obsessed,’ concluded DCI Carliss. ‘She seemed to leave a trail of destruction wherever she went.’
Aside from Adam, cut out of Professor Kiseleva’s life on a selfish whim, just like Emilia had been, Lucia also thought of John Walker, the blackmailed barrister, and of Mrs Byrne, the long-suffering housekeeper.
‘How did you know it wasn’t Glover?’ said the policeman.
Lucia smiled victoriously, even though she had exhausted her last reserves of energy. ‘His stiff fingers you mentioned after you met with him at his surgery. Most likely arthritis. He can’t have easily got the poison out of the tin – it was quite an effort to open that lid, as I now know for myself – nor spray the film on the coupe and remove it fast enough for nobody to notice.’
‘You’ve done enough. You need to rest, Lulu,’ decreed Nina as she signalled to Carliss that they should leave their friend in peace.
Chapter 35
Saturday, 17th October
(six weeks after the murder)
The weather forecast of an Indian summer over the weekend had been received with universal disbelief. Cafes and restaurants opened their doors cautiously, not daring to populate the pavement with tables and chairs lest the unyielding rain they had endured over the past week wouldn’t subside. As the sun rose at seven seventeen, it became apparent that the prediction might hold after all.
Lucia pushed up the sash window and breathed in the damp but unmistakably warming morning air. Hampstead High Street was just starting to wake up. The establishment across the road was already doing a roaring trade in freshly baked baguettes and countless varieties of milky coffee. She had just recently finished the course of painkillers that the hospital had sent her home with. Aside from the occasional dizzy spell and largely ignored instructions to cut down on caffeine and alcohol, she was back to normal.
The time she had spent recuperating in the comfort of the Chanlers’ Belgravia home had been the equivalent of a no expenses spared holiday. The butler and the housekeeper had waited on her hand and foot, and Nina had barely left her side as they read, talked, and remembered. Without the aid of illicit chemicals or drink, Lucia finally slept with the wantonness of a small child, as if the concussion had reset her brain. She would have been unlikely to reclaim her freedom and go home had it not been for an unexpected phone call from Mrs Byrne.
‘Hello, Lucia.’
‘Mrs Byrne.’ The Irish lilt rang like an alien language in her ears. She hadn’t recognized the number of the Beatrice Hall landline.
‘How are you, child? I heard they let you leave hospital.’ The voice was tinged with genuine concern, but there was something else at play, as if a fog had lifted.
‘Better, thank you.’ Lucia surmised the police, and by implication Detective Chief Inspector Carliss, would have been in and out of the Hall. Emilia had been arrested and duly charged with the murders of Olga Galina, also known as Professor Alla Kiseleva, and Adam Corcoran.
‘Oh, I’m so glad to hear it. It’s like the world has suddenly turned upside down. Emilia, of all people…’ The horrified shudder at the housekeeper’s end of the line was palpable. ‘What the Professor did to her… I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead. It’s a heartless thing to say, but I can’t help thinking Alla Kiseleva got what she deserved.’
It hadn’t taken long for the papers to get wind of the sensational affair – not just the red tops, but even the customarily serious publications couldn’t get enough of the sordid details. The irresistible combination of drugs, death, false identities and a Cold War spy caper made for journalism of minimum efforts and maximum returns.
Mrs Byrne continued with an invigorated tone. ‘I didn’t know whether you’d heard, so I thought I’d give you a ring myself. That Society’s inherited the house, and they want to keep me on as a caretaker.’
So that was the source of the audible spring in her step, thought Lucia.
The housekeeper wittered on. ‘I said yes straightaway, of course. I was dreading having to leave and fend for myself, after all these years. The place might look like a museum, but it’s my home. The thing is, they’ve put me in charge of the place, and they want the redecorating to resume. I thought, well… depending on how your recovery is going… that you might want your old job back. Thought I’d give you first dibs, in any case.’
It couldn’t have come at a better time. Before breathlessly accepting, Lucia paused to wonder at the discovery. ‘How did the house end up in the hands of the Collaborative Mathematical Society, Mrs Byrne?’
‘Adam left it to them in his will.’ The voice was lowered furtively, even though there wouldn’t have been anyone to eavesdrop. ‘I’m not really supposed to know this, but the solicitor was here the other day – nice man, that Mr Platt, and the baby’s thriving, from what I hear – gathering papers and whatnot, and he let it slip, you see. When Adam was appointed executor of the Professor’s will, she said she would only leave him Beatrice Hall if he in turn made a will leaving it to the Society. He hardly had much choice in the matter, did he? They’re looking to turn it into a new library, they said. They would have liked to name it after the Professor, but, given the circumstances, they thought it might be a tad… inappropriate. Either way, here I am, with a roof over my head.’
Mrs Byrne sounded like she was suddenly years younger. Lucia was pleased for her. It provided some degree of equitable reparation for the housekeeper’s unenviable existence.
‘I’d be delighted to carry on with the work. Thank you for thinking of me,’ Lucia replied. She needed to jumpstart her life – the torpor she had been forced into was making her itch with boredom. She would start first thing on Monday. The prospect
of returning to Beatrice Hall with no portentous events hanging over her head was cause for joy. At last, the place was truly her own canvas, to craft into whatever she chose. The project would be her masterpiece, and with the last lick of smooth paint the grisly memories would be gone.
Chapter 36
The unseasonable weather had continued past the weekend, with nothing but blue skies. Bathed in the bright sunrise, the menacing turrets of Beatrice Hall were tamed, as if bent under the unrelenting whip of a higher entity. The van zig-zagged to a familiar spot, and Lucia marvelled at the temporary stillness – far from her to be superstitious, but she couldn’t shake off the feeling that the house had been released from an evil spell. She heard steps approaching the outer gate and involuntarily readied herself. Mrs Byrne kissed her fondly on the cheek like a long-lost relative.
‘Come in, Lucia. It’s so good you’re here.’ The housekeeper was changed – something in her demeanour, a sureness that hadn’t been there before. The house was hers to rule as she pleased, but it wasn’t arrogance or entitlement – it was the knowledge of being settled. She wore a blue Liberty patterned dress, tightly cinched at the waist, and strands of her hair still glistening with the remnants of the old auburn shade fell softly on the shoulders. She looked younger, prettier, more like the photo Lucia had glimpsed in her room.
Inside, Lucia worked until she could no longer bear the stifling heat that permeated the fabric of the building despite the open windows. She went downstairs for a break and found that most of the garden was mercifully sheltered from the sun. She could hear Margaret’s voice on the other side of the fence. The only plausible explanation for the continued clattering and scraping was that they were having work done to the house. Lucia decided to investigate.
‘Margaret, hi,’ she shouted over the fence.
‘Oh, hi, Lucia. Sorry for the noise. The removal people are here, and it’s total pandemonium. Come round the front.’
Intrigued, Lucia did as she was told. The bay outside the Walkers’ front door was occupied by a lorry that was methodically swallowing up their worldly possessions. Margaret stood in the doorway, hair tied up, apron on, issuing instructions.
‘You’re leaving?’ exclaimed Lucia. Clearly, Beatrice Hall wasn’t the only place in the neighbourhood where major change was underfoot.
Margaret grinned with tired eyes. ‘Yes, moving on to bigger and better things. Or at least out of here. Come in, Lucia. I’ll tell you all about it over a cuppa.’
The kitchen chairs had already been packed up, so they sat, somewhat awkwardly, on the floor. There was nothing left of the Walkers’ home, as the off-white walls waited patiently for another family’s life.
‘I meant to call, but… well, you can see for yourself.’ Margaret smiled wearily. ‘After the horrors next door… I heard you weren’t well.’ Her voice trailed off, as if she had forgotten how to make small talk. ‘But you’re better now?’
‘Don’t worry, I’m fine. It’s all behind us now. What’s happening with you?’ Lucia saw that the other woman wanted to talk, and she definitely wanted to listen.
Margaret’s brown eyes narrowed as if to suppress a tear, but nothing came out. She ran her fingers through her ponytail and began. ‘John was having an affair. I’ve known for quite some time. I might look like a trophy wife, but I didn’t leave my brain at the door when I quit my job to be the good little woman.’ She said this matter-of-factly, with no bitterness attached. ‘He couldn’t just jump the clerk or his pupil, like everyone else. It had to be bloody Frieda Alexander.’
Margaret stopped, on the verge of explaining, when Lucia cut in. ‘I know who she is.’ She debated for a split second whether to go further and opted for partial honesty. ‘The police got wind of the affair. They also knew the Professor was blackmailing your husband. It put him on their list of suspects. I’m sorry, this is awful, but you deserve to know.’
Margaret pursed her lips and nodded in acquiescence – it obviously wasn’t news to her. ‘Once he knew the police was on to him, John told me everything. Shame that he couldn’t keep it in his pants – two careers down the pan, and for what?’ The sigh was not one of despair, but rather of dogged determination. ‘I’m not walking away. He’s not a bad man, just monumentally stupid, and I owe it to the children.’
‘What are you going to do next?’ asked Lucia. She wondered what it was that Margaret did before she became a housewife.
‘We’re moving to the States. South Carolina, to be precise. I always fancied living in Charleston. I’ve got a job offer, and the visas are already in the pipeline.’ Margaret’s eyes lit up, and she laughed with unbridled delight. ‘After all these years, the tables have finally turned. He’ll have to be the stay-at-home husband and start from scratch before he can make something of himself. A fitting punishment, I think.’
‘It’s quite the fall from grace. And what’s your line of work, Margaret?’
‘Forensic accountant. In fact, it turns out Adam worked at my old firm. He was long after my time – our paths didn’t cross then. It’s a small world, eh?’
Small world indeed, pondered Lucia. Very occasionally, coincidences did just happen. She marvelled at the change in Margaret – under the misleading shell of vacuity hid an intelligent and tenacious woman. ‘Listen, if you need a hand when you get there – anything at all – I’ve got a good friend who hails from Charleston. They’d be more than happy to help.’ Lucia was sure the Chanlers would go out of their way to give a leg-up to someone in need.
‘Thanks, Lucia. I could do with support, that’s for sure.’
Chapter 37
Later that day, standing in front of her bedroom mirror, Lucia was faced with a pleasant existential dilemma. Nina had planned an evening at the Savoy to celebrate the successful conclusion of the double murder investigation. ‘And David will be there, of course – if that’s what will tempt you out of your den, Lulu.’ Lucia was amused that Nina and the inspector were newly on first-name terms.
Lucia was tempted, except that she didn’t know what to wear. She settled for a black silk jumpsuit which, like the rest of her minimal wardrobe, walked the fine line between demure and beguiling. Sat in the taxi, she watched the darkening city whizz past and savoured the anticipation.
They were waiting for her, ensconced in one of the histrionic gold-leaf alcoves of the Beaufort Bar. It had always been Nina’s favoured watering hole, so much that she emulated it in her own home. It was the detective’s first visit, and he had scanned the place incredulously as he followed Nina to the best table in the house. The waiting staff acknowledged her presence with a bow of the head – she was a good customer.
When Lucia arrived, the drinks had already been ordered, a crisply cold vodka martini as her placeholder. The blue eyes narrowed and crinkled into a broad smile. Carliss had made a special effort for the occasion. She could smell the freshly polished leather brogues, and his well-cut blazer was beyond reproach. Nina had helpfully taken the lacquered armchair, leaving Lucia no option but to sink into the black and gold patterned sofa alongside the policeman.
‘Looking good, Detective.’ She rested her fingers on the elegant glass. It was a million miles away from broken lives, convoluted motives, and the resulting dead bodies.
‘So are you. I’ve done very well for myself tonight, haven’t I?’ He smiled at Nina, who shimmered in a pink metallic minidress that only she would have dared to wear so cavalierly. His eyes lingered on Lucia. They made a striking trio.
‘Cheers. To our victory. First martinis, then champagne with dinner, then… who knows?’ rejoiced Nina. She was in her element, with her blonde curls catching the low, theatrical light that reflected off her hazel eye, like a cat in the dark. Lucia wouldn’t have been surprised if they’d named a cocktail after her.
Lucia took a long sip and leaned back, as if resting in an ancient Egyptian sarcophagus. All the other times that she and Nina had been here, they had drunk at the bar on the old cabaret stage, blinded by the
mirrors and the possibilities. The alcoves were for lovers, or secretive businessmen striking opaque deals. Her mind wandered. She was loath to bring up the unpleasant subject of the murders but knew she couldn’t find peace until she did. ‘I wonder what gave Emilia the idea of the 1080.’
‘Oh, Lulu, just leave it be,’ Nina groaned. ‘We’re here to forget.’
‘She probably just found it under the sink by accident, and that gave her the perfect means of killing the Professor,’ Carliss said, stifling a bored yawn.
Lucia stubbornly ignored the signals that her friends weren’t in the mood for talking shop. ‘Perhaps. Someone whose job is to kill could have put the idea in her head.’
‘Who? Glover? We can’t prove it, and she confessed,’ interrupted Nina impatiently.
‘What do you think he got up to in Belarus? People like him have extensive knowledge of poison. And the Professor’s murder was so audacious. The poison was in plain sight – anyone could have done it. You just had to keep your cool and nobody could prove it was you. And the clingfilm – that was very smart. He couldn’t have done it himself – not with those stiff fingers. But, in the end, Emilia couldn’t quite deliver – she made two tiny errors. She must really love him to go to prison for him. No man is worth giving up your freedom for.’