by Joan Smith
‘I suppose I ought to be making tracks as well,’ said the classics don. ‘I’ve got a department meeting at nine o’clock tomorrow morning.’
In a very short time, the only relics of Bridget’s party were the empty glasses perched on every horizontal surface in the drawing-room, and Geoffrey Simmons, who was displaying not the slightest inclination to leave. Bridget flopped on to a sofa, stretched her legs out, and groaned. ‘What a mess!’ she said, surveying the scene. ‘Did they really have to trample crisps into the carpet?’
‘Why don’t you sit there and have a rest, while I clear up?’ suggested Loretta.
Bridget sat up straight. ‘I won’t hear of it,’ she said. ‘You and Geoffrey are my guests. I’ve got a very nice bottle of dessert wine I put in the fridge an hour ago -I know you like Muscatel, Loretta. Come and get some clean glasses. You two can have a quiet drink while I sort through the debris.’ Loretta was about to protest at this arrangement - she had not yet recovered from her irritation with Geoffrey - but decided it would be more diplomatic to follow Bridget into the kitchen. Although Geoffrey appeared to be absorbed in a book he had picked up, she had no doubt that he had at least one ear open to the conversation. As she left the room, it struck Loretta that he was being uncharacteristically quiet; perhaps he had had too much to drink?
Closing the kitchen door, she turned to Bridget. ‘Look, I know Geoffrey’s a friend of yours,’ she began, ‘and I admit he’s been very helpful, but I’m really quite angry with him. His behaviour earlier on was absolutely awful. I didn’t even have time to say hello before he was telling the whole room about us breaking into Puddephat’s rooms. And then he made all sorts of tactless remarks about the state of the body. So it would be much better if you left the washing up to me, and went and had a drink with him yourself.’
Bridget was looking affronted. ‘I think you’re being a bit harsh,’ she objected. ‘I know he’s indiscreet, but he doesn’t do it out of malice.’
‘Maybe not,’ said Loretta. ‘But that doesn’t affect the outcome. There was quite an unpleasant scene before you came in with the punch. You were lucky to be in the kitchen at the time.’
‘From what I heard afterwards,’ Bridget said dismissively, ‘Gilly was behaving like a drama queen. Right over the top. After all, she didn’t know Puddephat that well.’
‘Well, I’m giving her the benefit of the doubt,’ said Loretta. ‘If one of my lecturers had been murdered, I wouldn’t like to hear someone gloating about the details.’
‘Now you’re overreacting,’ Bridget said. ‘I’m sure Geoffrey wasn’t gloating. It was just thoughtlessness.’ She adopted a more conciliatory tone of voice. ‘You and Geoffrey got on very well last time you met. He can be very amusing, you know. You could do a lot worse.’
In a flash, Loretta realized what was going on. ‘Is this your own idea, or is Geoffrey in on it?’ she demanded. ‘The trouble with you, Bridget, is that you can’t help interfering. If I want to start an affair with someone, I’m perfectly capable of doing it without your assistance!’ She stopped suddenly, wondering if she was being unfair to Bridget. If it had been Jamie Baird who was waiting for her in the drawing-room, would she have been so angry? She pushed the idea away. It was preposterous. What about the difference in their ages? Geoffrey Simmons was evidently not the only one who had had too much to drink. Irritated with herself, she took her annoyance out on Bridget. ‘I suppose this is the real reason why you wanted me to come to your party?’ she asked.
‘Not at all,’ Bridget said coldly. ‘If you cast your mind back, you’ll remember that it was your idea to come to Oxford this weekend. I just happened to know that Geoffrey was keen to meet you again, and you do seem to be at a loose end at the moment. I though I’d kill two birds with one stone.’
Loretta saw the justice of what Bridget was saying, but was able to respond only with ill grace. ‘All right,’ she muttered. ‘I dare say you meant well. But I’d rather you didn’t try to run my love life.’ What on earth had got into her, she asked herself? Bridget was one of her closest friends. Leaning forward, she kissed the other woman lightly on the cheek. ‘It was a nice party,’ she said, more grudgingly than she intended.
In the hall, she paused at the bottom of the stairs, torn between her desire to escape and good manners. Good manners won. She opened the door to the drawing-room, hoping there was not going to be another scene. Her anxiety was unfounded. Geoffrey was slumped in an armchair, head on chest, a book about to fall from his hands. From the sound of his rhythmic breathing, Loretta could tell he was fast asleep. Her good humour somewhat restored, she stifled a laugh: however much he had wanted to see her again, Geoffrey’s enthusiasm had not lasted the course of the evening. Closing the door gently, she went upstairs to bed.
Chapter 10
The next morning was an absolute disaster. Loretta’s hopes of a conciliatory chat with Bridget over breakfast were dashed by the fact that she had set her alarm clock for half an hour later than she had intended. There was time only to grab a piece of burnt toast before jumping into her car and setting off for London.
As soon as she drew up to the roundabout at the top of Woodstock Road, she found herself in traffic which stretched as far as the eye could see, and when she switched on the car radio, she discovered that the only sound it would make was an assortment of squeaks and crackles. Fiddling with the tuning knob made no difference, and a glance to the left told her what had happened: someone had stolen the aerial. She let out a sigh of impatience. It had not occurred to her that the car would be vulnerable while parked in Bridget’s front garden. It was a bad start to the morning, and the rest of the day lived up to its promise.
She arrived in central London so late that she had to park in the street outside the English department, with not a free parking meter in sight. By the time she finished her lecture and came out to move it, one of the wheels had been clamped. The rest of the morning was wasted on the business of getting the car released, and paying through the nose for the privilege. The car spent the afternoon in a car park nowhere near her office, and she arrived home reflecting that her weekend in Oxford had been an expensive one. What she needed, she decided, was a chat with Bridget. She would apologize for her behaviour the previous evening, and ask her advice on what to do next. She had, after all, been successful in making contact with Veronica Puddephat, although the meeting had raised as many questions as it had answered. What had Puddephat done to his wife to provoke the loathing expressed in her letter to him? And when had the letter been written? Loretta was convinced it was recent. Why would anyone keep such a letter unless they were still considering a response to it? And, above all, did it have anything to do with his death? They were not the sort of questions she could ask on so brief an acquaintance, but she was unable at present to think of an excuse that would allow her to get to know Veronica better.
And then there was the business of Jamie Baird - no, she thought, that was something she didn’t feel able to talk to Bridget about. He had nothing to do with the case, and in the cold light of day she was rather ashamed of her unexpected fascination with him. She would eat first, she decided, dropping her bags and coat on the sofa, and then ring Bridget at home. She picked up the phone to ring the Chinese takeaway in Caledonian Road, and discovered the line was dead. It seemed a fitting end to the day.
It proved impossible to get British Telecom round to fix the phone until Thursday afternoon. Loretta decided to put off her chat with Bridget until it was mended - it might be a lengthy conversation, and she preferred to have it out of office hours. On Thursday, she left a key with her downstairs neighbour, and arrived home to find the key and a note on her kitchen table. The phone was working again, the engineer had scribbled on the back of an envelope, and he was very sorry he had broken the table lamp standing next to it on the coffee table. Loretta let out a wail, and rushed to the drawing-room. Her favourite lamp, a white Art Deco figure of a woman, had been reduced to a neat heap of pottery shard
s. She sat down and was about to indulge in a fit of angry tears when the phone rang. ‘Yes?’ she demanded, snatching it up. There was a moment’s silence, and then she heard an unfamiliar voice.
‘I’m sorry, I think I may have a wrong number,’ it said. ‘I wanted to speak to Dr Lawson, Dr Loretta Lawson.’
That’s me,’ Loretta said, in a friendlier tone. It wasn’t the woman’s fault that her lamp had been broken.
This is Veronica, Veronica Puddephat. You came to see me on Sunday,’ she added, in case Loretta had forgotten.
‘I’m so sorry, Veronica, you caught me at a bad moment,’ Loretta said apologetically. Her heart was beating fast. She was not going to have to invent an excuse to ring Veronica after all. The phone’s been out of order all week, and the man who came to mend it has broken a lamp I was very fond of.’
‘Aren’t they the giddy limit!’, Veronica sympathized. ‘The trouble I’ve had with British Telecom … but that’s not the reason I phoned.’ She hesitated. ‘Look, I know this is the most awful cheek, but you did say I could ring you. I do hope you won’t mind me asking you.’
‘Go ahead.’ Loretta encouraged. Things could not be going better.
‘I’ve got to come up to London to see yet another policeman,’ Veronica explained. ‘A French one this time. Some terribly important person from the Sûreté - is that right? I don’t understand the French police system. At any rate, it’s apparently vital that I see this chap. He did offer to come to Oxford, but I said I’d rather do it in London. It’s the thought of going through it all again, you see, it’s so upsetting … And I wondered if you’d be very kind and have tea with me afterwards. I’m sure you’re very busy, and I know I shouldn’t really ask you, but we could meet somewhere near your office…’ She tailed off. I
‘What a good idea,’ Loretta said warmly, trying to keep the excitement out of her voice. Here was her chance to find out exactly what the police were up to - it sounded as if they might have a new lead. Why else would a senior French policeman come all the way from Paris to see Puddephat’s wife? The Oxford police must have interviewed her several times already. And, she thought with relief, if new evidence had turned up in France, it might mean that Veronica had had nothing to do with her husband’s death. The best possible solution, as far as Loretta was concerned, would be for a total stranger to be revealed as the murderer. ‘When do you have to see him?’ she asked.
‘I’ve provisionally arranged it for tomorrow,’ Veronica answered. ‘I tried to get hold of you last night, but the phone wasn’t working. And I didn’t want to trouble you at work. But I can probably change the appointment, if it’s inconvenient.’
‘Not at all,’ Loretta assured her, running through Friday’s timetable in her mind. ‘I’m free in the late afternoon, if that’s any good. Or in the evening.’
‘Why don’t we have tea at the Waldorf?’ Veronica suggested. ‘Would four thirty suit you?’ Loretta said that it would, and Veronica rang off.
The Waldorf, Loretta thought to herself. It was a name she associated with 1930s tea-dances. What a strange world Veronica inhabited. And a lonely one, she reflected. How sad that Puddephat’s widow should have no one to turn to at a time like this. Surely she must have some friends? Or was a separated woman still an outcast in Veronica’s circle? What she needed was the support of close women friends - a women’s group, in fact. Perhaps she should buy a copy of Spare Rib, and see if it still carried adverts for consciousness-raising groups. She smiled to herself. The idea of Veronica Puddephat joining any sort of feminist group was entirely incongruous. On the other hand, some women were capable of the most startling changes.
Loretta paused. She had been on the verge of persuading herself that her motive for seeing Veronica was simple altruism. It wasn’t. Sorry as she might feel for her now, she had contacted Veronica with the aim of finding out more about her husband’s killer. And, at this stage, it would be quite wrong to rule her out as a suspect. She sighed, and remembered she had been on the verge of phoning Bridget when Veronica called. It would be good to talk over her feelings about Veronica Puddephat with her friend - and she still hadn’t apologized for her bad temper on Sunday night. She dialled Bridget’s number, and let the phone ring for ages. There was no reply. She would have to try again later.
Bridget was out all evening, and next morning something happened which drove thoughts of her out of Loretta’s head. An envelope, addressed in handwriting she didn’t know, arrived in the post: inside, she found a photocopied article from a back number of an American academic journal, and a postcard reproduction of a painting by Klimt. Turning the postcard over, she saw Jamie Baird’s name and college address printed in capitals above a short handwritten message. ‘I came across this today, and thought it would interest you,’ it said. It was signed simply Jamie’. The article, which she had not seen before, appeared to be an attack on Fern Sap and, by extension, most female English dons. It looked, she thought, very much like an excuse to get in touch with her. He must have got her address from Bridget. Perhaps her behaviour on Sunday night had not been so foolish after all. A sensation she had not felt for months - of muted excitement and expectation - went through her. After all, where had caution and convention got her? She had had a husband arid lovers older than herself, and each affair had been fraught with problems. Wasn’t it possible that a man of Jamie’s age might be more able to cope with her feminism, her academic success?
Loretta paused. She was reading an awful lot into one small postcard. Yes, it did reveal an interest in her, but was she right in thinking it was a sexual one? She ought to proceed with care. She put the card down, and pondered as she made a pot of tea. Perhaps the best way to go about it was to take his message at face value. She could send him a proof of the article on the Holocaust she had written for Fern Sap. Then it would be up to him to make the next move. A moment’s thought led her to reject this course of action. That was precisely what women had done in the past - sit back and wait for men to make the running. There must be some way she could make an approach without incurring too great a risk of rejection.
She was pouring a cup of tea when the solution came to her. As a member of the editorial collective of Fern Sap, it was part of her job to commission occasional articles. She could ring Jamie and suggest that he write something for it. Apart from providing her with an excuse to respond to his card, the idea in itself was a perfectly good one. His attitude to those languid undergraduates at Bridget’s party, and to writers, was not a conventionally masculine one. She would do it that very evening.
Loretta arrived first at the Waldorf that afternoon, and was astonished to find a the dansant in full swing to the strains of the Palm Court orchestra. After being shown to a seat on the balcony, she spent a fascinated five minutes watching three couples on the sunken dance floor. She had had no idea that such events still took place. No one else seemed to find the scene incongruous, and Veronica passed no comment on it when she arrived.
‘I’m sorry I’m late,’ she said, taking a seat opposite Loretta. ‘I’ve had the most frightful afternoon.’ She rummaged in a Gucci handbag and took out a small bottle of aspirins. ‘My head is absolutely pounding. Tea for two, and a glass of water,’ she commanded, catching the eye of a passing waiter. ‘You do want something to eat?’ she asked, turning to Loretta as if she had just remembered her manners. ‘They do very good sandwiches.’
It was too late to refuse. Loretta watched in awe as the waiter returned with plates of muffins, scones, and cucumber sandwiches with their crusts cut off. It was, she thought, like taking part in a TV adaptation of an early Agatha Christie novel. ‘How did you get on?’ she prompted, when Veronica showed no sign of referring to her visit to Scotland Yard. ‘Have there been any developments?’
Veronica put down the knife she was using to butter a muffin, and looked at her. ‘Absolutely none,’ she said peevishly. ‘Would you believe it? It was just the same thing all over again, except that this time it took twice
as long because of the interpreter. You’d think they’d have the wit to send someone who could speak English. When did you last see your husband, did he have any enemies, who did he know in Paris? I keep telling them I was separated from Hugh, and they just don’t seem capable of taking it in. It was frightful. As a matter of fact, one of the men from Scotland Yard, a very nice inspector, told me on the way out that the whole thing was a waste of time as far as he was concerned. A matter of protocol, apparently. The French police don’t like co-operating with the Yard, and they insisted on sending this chap over. I wish I’d known in advance. I was quite convinced they’d have something to tell me. What have they been doing all this time?’
Loretta shared Veronica’s sense of frustration. So much for her hope that the Süreté would turn out to have solved the case for her. And, on top of everything else, she had no way of knowing whether Veronica was telling the truth. Had there been other questions Puddephat’s widow didn’t want to talk about? She wondered whether the detectives on the case had made the link between Veronica and the letter in her husband’s sock drawer. She couldn’t even be sure they knew of its existence, since the note was still there on the night of her own illicit search. Of course, that had taken place before anyone knew that Puddephat had been murdered. The police must surely have carried out a more thorough examination of the rooms since the discovery of the body. These wretched imponderables, Loretta though angrily. Every time she seemed to be on the verge of making some sort of break-through, new questions came up. She could at least make the best of her meeting with Veronica, though.
‘When did you last see your husband?’ she asked, picking up one of the queries the police had put to her.
Veronica brushed it aside. ‘Ages ago,’ she said vaguely. It was clear that this was not what she had come here to talk about.