by Joan Smith
When she had finished eating, she wondered what to do next. She might as well try Veronica’s house again, although she was disturbed to find that she was on the same track as hordes of newspaper reporters. Being pestered by the press was hardly likely to put Veronica in the mood for unexpected visitors. But it could not be helped. She returned to her car, and drove back to the Red House.
As she drew abreast of the drive, she saw that a car was parked next to the front door. Two heads swivelled to peer at her, and she recognized the reporters from the pub. She accelerated hastily, and drove on. She was amazed by the men’s persistence. Presumably the house was still empty, and they were staking it out. Loretta decided she would have to abandon her attempt to see Veronica for the rest of the day. As soon as she could find a convenient place to do so, she turned the car and headed back towards’ Hallborough. As she passed Veronica’s house, she noticed that one of the men had got out of the green Maestro and was making his way round the back of the building. Surely they wouldn’t go so far as to break in? She spotted the out-of-order phone box and drew up beside it. She had never before contacted any of the emergency services, and she was surprised by how long the operator took to put her through to the police. Without giving her name, she supplied them with Veronica’s address, and the information that she had just seen two men acting suspiciously in the garden. A patrol car would be sent to the house immediately, a policeman said. Loretta got back into her car and drove off towards Oxford. She hoped the police would give the two journalists the hard time they deserved.
She was woken the next morning by Bridget, who appeared in her room carrying a cup of tea and a copy of the Sunday Herald. ‘Good play?’, Loretta enquired. She had gone to bed by the time Bridget returned from her trip to the theatre the night before.
‘So-so,’ said Bridget. ‘I had my doubts about the woman who played Ophelia. She was too healthy for my liking. But look at this. Your husband’s been having a busy week.’ She passed Loretta the paper. ‘I heard him being interviewed on the news a few minutes ago,’ Bridget added. Talk about a dog with two tails.’
Tracey’s picture byline glared at Loretta from the front page; had he really intended to look so fierce, she wondered, or was it an attempt to hide his embarrassment? ‘Top East German Spy Exposed’, the headline read. So that was what he’d been up to in Berlin,’ Loretta thought. No wonder he hadn’t been keen to tell her about it. He was well aware of her view that spy stories were Boy’s Own Paper stuff, not worthy of a moment’s serious attention. ‘The Sunday Herald has obtained evidence that a British diplomat working in our consulate in West Berlin is a spy,’ the article began. It went on to describe Tracey’s confrontation with the unfortunate man, and his subsequent disappearance, presumably over the border into East Germany. ‘Defence sources in Britain say the man may have done incalculable damage to the NATO alliance before his exposure last week,’ Loretta read. There was even a blurred picture of the man shutting the door in the face of the Herald photographer.
‘Why bother?’ Loretta asked Bridget, shaking her head. ‘We do it, they do it, they’re just a bunch of public schoolboys playing games. And I’d like to know how John got hold of the story in the first place. Talk about trial by newspaper. I just hope his source is more reliable than the Yard chap who told him confidentially that Theo Sykes killed Puddephat.’
‘Talking of Puddephat, there’s an article about him on page five,’ Bridget said. ‘But I don’t think there’s anything in it that we didn’t know already.’
Loretta turned the pages. ‘Nice picture of the college,’ she remarked. ‘Oh, so that’s what Puddephat looked like.’ A close-up of Puddephat’s head was inset into the main picture. It showed a wide face, the cheeks slightly puffy - from overindulgence of some sort? Loretta wondered. The hair was dark and longish, falling forward over one eye.
That’s a rather flattering picture of him,’ Bridget said, looking over Loretta’s shoulder. ‘He usually looked a bit seedier than that.’
‘You’re right,’ said Loretta, a moment later. ‘There’s nothing new here. I’ll have to try Veronica again this afternoon. I just hope she’s in this time.’
Anxious not to interrupt Veronica’s Sunday lunch, Loretta waited until three to set off for Hallborough. On the way, she ran through the speech she had prepared in her mind. It wasn’t as convincing as she’d like, but it would have to do.
Anyway, there was no guarantee that she would find Veronica in. When she arrived at the Red House, a large Citroen was parked at the top of the short drive. It was empty, and there was no other car in sight. Loretta parked neatly behind it, and walked nervously to the front door. She knocked twice. Almost at once, she heard footsteps. The door opened very slightly, and a woman peered out.
‘Mrs Puddephat?’, enquired Loretta.
‘If you’re a reporter, you can just go away!’ the woman said peevishly.
Loretta was horrified. ‘I’m not, really I’m not,’ she said urgently. ‘I am sorry to bother you, and I’m honestly not from a newspaper.’ Was the woman going to shut the door in her face?
‘Who are you then?’ she asked, opening the door a fraction wider. Her tone had softened slightly.
‘My name’s Loretta Lawson, and I lecture in English at London University,’ Loretta explained. ‘I came to see you about some notes I sent your husband. I know if s a terrible time for me to turn up on your doorstep, but I only want to speak to you for a moment. Please,’ she added.
The woman looked her over. ‘You don’t look like a reporter,’ she admitted. ‘I suppose you’d better come in.’ She stood back, allowing Loretta to step into a wide hall. This way.’ Loretta followed heir into a spacious drawing-room, and seated herself in a chair to one side of the tiled fireplace, while Veronica took the chair opposite. ‘Now, how can I help you?’ she asked.
Loretta launched into her story, at the same time covertly taking stock of Hugh Puddephat’s widow. Veronica was in her mid-thirties, she guessed, and her clothes were good rather than fashionable. Her dark blonde hair was cut into a short, feathery style, which had been popular a few years ago. All in all, her appearance was what would be described as ‘classic’ by the type of women’s magazines read by Loretta’s mother. The one exception was her glasses, whose frames were a startling pink - perhaps an attempt to liven up her image? If so, it hadn’t quite worked.
When Loretta stopped speaking, Veronica remained silent for a minute. Then she took a deep breath. ‘How did you get this address?’ she asked.
Loretta was prepared. ‘I rang the college, but they weren’t much help. They said everything to do with your husband was in the hands of the police. I’m afraid I persuaded the woman I spoke to to give me this address. Don’t blame her, it’s my fault for pressing her.’
‘I see,’ Veronica said. ‘You obviously didn’t realize I was separated from my husband?’
Loretta had the grace to feel uncomfortable, if not for the right reasons. ‘I didn’t,’ she mumbled. ‘I’m very sorry. If I’d known…’ She let the rest of the sentence trail off.
‘I’m afraid you’ve had a wasted trip,’ Veronica said. Her tone was surprisingly sympathetic. Loretta wondered what to do next. The only thing she could think of was a request to use the lavatory, but that would tell her little beyond the colour of Veronica’s bathroom suite. Unwittingly, Veronica came to the rescue. ‘The least I can do is offer you some tea before you set off,’ she said. ‘Do you prefer China or Indian?’
‘Indian please,’ Loretta said gratefully.
While Veronica was absent, presumably in the kitchen, Loretta looked about her. Most of the furniture was mahogany, and antique. An upright piano stood against one wall, a row of framed photographs on top of it. Loretta didn’t dare go over and examine them. The upkeep of such a house would require a substantial income, she thought to herself; she remembered that Veronica came from a wealthy family.
At that moment, Veronica returned, setting a tray on a
small table which she moved in front of the fire. She smiled brightly at Loretta and apologized for the lack of food in the house. ‘All I’ve got are these,’ she said, waving one ringed hand towards a plate of Bakewell tarts. ‘And I can’t claim to have made them myself.’ She spoke as if she were admitting to a considerable lapse of manners on her part. Loretta, who could not remember when she had last baked a cake, was quite taken aback. ‘You’ve told me who you are,’ Veronica continued, ‘so I ought to introduce myself properly. My name’s Veronica. Some people shorten it to Ron, my husband mainly, but I can’t say I like it. Ron Puddephat always sounds like the manager of a second-division football club to me.’
The cup and saucer rattled in Loretta’s hand. She was astonished by her own stupidity. It was hard to see why such an obvious solution to R’s identity had never occurred to her. She perched her cup on the edge of the table, thinking hard. What on earth had Hugh Puddephat done to provoke such passionate hatred in this well-mannered woman? That was only one of dozens of questions she wanted to ask Veronica. But she must proceed carefully. Apart from anything else, Veronica - as author of the letter - must now be a prime suspect.
Loretta’s attempt to work out her next move was interrupted by Veronica’s voice. ‘What sort of things do you teach?’ she queried. ‘I do envy you. I used to think about an academic career when I was a student. That was before I got married, of course.’ She spoke as though the two things were entirely incompatible. ‘I was very fond of Jane Austen and Fanny Burney at one time,’ she went on. ‘But then, of course, I met Hugh.’
At one of his lectures on Lawrence, Loretta recalled, thinking back to her afternoon in the Herald library. She couldn’t help thinking that Austen was a lot more up Veronica’s street than Lawrence. Perhaps the marriage had been an attraction of opposites. She wondered which parts of her own teaching schedule might interest Veronica. ‘I’m teaching a course on Virginia Woolf at the moment,’ she hazarded. That’s with the first-years.’
‘Oh, To The Lighthouse,’ Veronica said with a marked lack of interest. ‘I never really got anywhere with her.’
‘Next term I’m going to be teaching part of a course on the influence of gender on style,’ Loretta added, again to little response. ‘And I’m writing a book on Edith Wharton,’ she said desperately, doubting whether Veronica would have heard of her. But she had scored an unexpected success.
‘Edith Wharton,’ Veronica repeated in reverential tones. ‘Do you know, The House of Mirth is my favourite book. Do tell me all about it.’
It was a way of gaining Veronica’s confidence, Loretta thought, launching into a description of the work she’d done so far. She wondered when it would be safe to steer the conversation back to Veronica. ‘Did you ever think about doing postgraduate work?’ she asked, when there seemed to be a suitable lull.
‘Well, no, not after Hugh and I became engaged,’ Veronica said awkwardly. ‘And I don’t suppose I would have been bright enough.’
Oh! thought Loretta. How women lack self-confidence! It was rare to hear a man expressing such views. She was willing to bet Hugh Puddephat had never suffered similar doubts.
Suddenly Veronica’s eyes lit up, and she leaned forward. ‘But I have been thinking about taking a course,’ she said. ‘I haven’t told anyone else yet, but I’d like to do something practical, like social work.’ She hesitated, as if expecting Loretta to pour scorn on the suggestion. ‘I help in a home for handicapped children three days a week,’ she added. ‘As a volunteer, of course.’ So Veronica didn’t support herself, Loretta noted. As if reading her thoughts, Veronica hurried on. ‘I don’t… didn’t, I mean, take anything from my husband,’ she said defensively. ‘I absolutely refused to take a penny from him when we split up. I have a trust fund.’ Loretta waited hopefully, anxious to hear more about Veronica’s relationship with Puddephat. But Veronica had stopped short, perhaps embarrassed by making these revelations to a stranger, and Loretta had a distinct feeling that she was expected to go now. ‘I’m sorry,’ Veronica said, beginning to get to her feet. ‘It’s very rude of me to burden you with my troubles.’
‘Not at all,’ protested Loretta, desperately trying to think of a ploy to delay her departure, and failing.
‘I’m afraid I’m feeling rather low,’ Veronica explained, leading the way to the front door. ‘I’ve been pestered by reporters for days, and it really is getting on my nerves.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ Loretta said, without thinking. ‘There were two of them in your garden when I came to see you yesterday. I was so appalled by their behaviour that I called the police.’ She stopped suddenly. She hadn’t mentioned that she’d paid a previous visit to the house. Wouldn’t Veronica think it suspicious that she had gone to the lengths of calling two days running?
‘You called the police?’ Veronica asked. Her face broke into a smile. Then I’ve got a lot to thank you for. They were here when I arrived, and they’d caught one of those chaps taking pictures through the kitchen window. They took him and his friend off to the police station. I’m very grateful. And I haven’t even been able to help you regain your notes.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Loretta, grateful that her unpremeditated action the day before had made a good impression on Veronica. She took her chance. ‘Look, why don’t I give you my phone numbers?’ she offered. ‘You’re welcome to give me a ring if you’re feeling overwhelmed.’ She was killing two birds with one stone, she thought cheefully: she really did feel sorry for Veronica, and keeping in touch was the only way she’d find out more about the woman’s relationship with her husband. She handed over the numbers, and said goodbye.
As she got into her car, she pushed away the worrying question of what she would do if she found evidence that implicated Veronica in the murder of Hugh Puddephat.
Chapter 9
The wardrobe in Bridget’s spare room had a full-length mirror inside one of its doors. Loretta picked up a straight black skirt from the bed and stepped into it. Peering over her shoulder into the mirror, she adjusted the waistband until the back split was dead centre, and did up the zip. Turning round, she folded up the collar of her black T-shirt experimentally and, liking the effect, fastened a double row of pearls around it. She rummaged in the open jewellery box on the bed, and took out a pair of large drop earrings which she had bought in Liberty’s the week before. Each consisted of a green glass stone in an oval setting. As she passed the wires through her pierced ears, she was aware that the earrings were much heavier than she was accustomed to wearing. Glancing at the mirror, she decided the effect was worth it. She would need all her self-confidence tonight. It had been a difficult afternoon, and she was not sure she was up to an evening of trying to extract information from Jamie Baird. Relaxing a little, she told herself that having discovered the identity of R, it was not so essential to grill him after all; but on the other hand, there was still the matter of the concealed photograph to be explained. Well, she would play it by ear. She looked at her watch: half past seven already. The doorbell had sounded several times while she was changing and, as she descended the stairs, a hum of voices was audible from the drawing-room.
She opened the door and hesitated on the threshold, allowing herself time to take in the scene. She never felt comfortable on entering a room full of strangers, and she hoped Bridget would be near at hand. Instead, Geoffrey Simmons surged forward to greet her, enthusiastically planting a kiss on her cheek. ‘Great to see you!’ he exclaimed, taking her arm and propelling her into the room. He stood back and looked at her. ‘You’re looking pretty glamorous, I must say,’ he said, his voice carrying across the room. ‘Mind you, we didn’t part in very auspicious circumstances, did we? You were looking like a drowned rat after our little foray into Puddephat’s rooms. Bloody hell, we didn’t know what we were letting ourselves in for. There we were, messing around with his things, and all the time he was dead as a doornail in Paris. I wonder if they’re keeping him in the morgue, by the way? I always thin
k there’s something sinister about that expression. The Paris Morgue. It sounds like something out of a horror film. You expect the attendants to look like Peter Cushing. Quite appropriate in the circumstances, of course. The rumour going round college is that the body was in a right old mess.’
At this point, a young woman who’d been sitting on one of Bridget’s sofas jumped angrily to her feet and shouted at Geoffrey. ‘Stop it! Stop it!’ she shrieked. ‘How can you? Have you no feelings?’ She slumped back on to the sofa, burying her face in her hands. Her long blonde hair tumbled artistically about her person.
A figure moved across from the dark corner in which he had been having an earnest conversation with a black boy, and sat down next to her. He rested a hand on her shoulder, and spoke softly, ‘Come on, Gilly, he wasn’t thinking.’ His hair was darker than it appeared in the picture, and he looked older, but Loretta had no difficulty in recognizing Jamie Baird.
‘Well, I certainly seem to have put my foot in it,’ said Geoffrey, breaking the uncomfortable silence that had fallen on the room.
‘Gilly was one of his favourite students,’ said a small woman with an American accent who was standing in front of the french windows. ‘She’s taken it pretty hard.’
‘You haven’t?’ asked Loretta, struck by the woman’s offhand tone. She moved across the room, away from Geoffrey Simmons.
‘I’m a graduate student,’ the woman answered. ‘I’ve seen his type before.’ There was a nicely judged degree of contempt in her voice, Loretta thought; it implied that the speaker had quickly got Puddephat’s measure, and didn’t intend to waste any more of her time on him. The guy was a schmuck, if you want my opinon,’ the woman added.