Rona moistened her lips. ‘I presume you told the police all this?’ As if he wouldn’t!
‘Naturally,’ he said stiffly. ‘I know my civic duty.’
‘Did they trace the man?’
‘He came forward of his own accord, but he’d an alibi from the time I saw him at about nine-thirty till the next morning. There was a write-up in the local paper.’
Something she’d missed; another visit to the British Library seemed called for. ‘Do you happen to remember the man’s name?’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘I believe it was Myers.’
Not one of the sons, then.
‘It’s no use your chasing after him,’ Bromsgrove added condescendingly. ‘I told you, the police cleared him.’
‘That’s not what interests me,’ Rona answered, holding on to her patience. ‘As the last known person to have seen Harvey, he might be able to shed light on his state of mind.’
Bromsgrove, having shot his bolt, was losing interest. He glanced pointedly at the clock, which was showing ten to seven. ‘Well, I’ve told you all I know.’
She ignored the hint. ‘You used the word “alibi”; does that mean you think Theo Harvey was murdered?’
The man looked startled. ‘Oh, now look, I was only quoting what it said in the paper.’
‘At the inquest, it was stated that he’d been drinking heavily. Did he look drunk when you saw him?’
‘Not noticeably. He wasn’t lurching about, if that’s what you mean.’
‘What exactly was he doing, Mr Bromsgrove?’
‘Arguing. I told you.’
‘Violently?’
Bromsgrove considered. ‘Well, he had Myers by the arm and was talking right into his face. I watched them while I was filling up, but I had to go in to pay, and when I came out again, they’d gone.’
‘You said there was something in the local paper. Up there, you mean?’
He nodded.
‘What’s the name of it?’
‘The Buckford Courier. And that really is all I can tell you.’
‘Thank you, it’s been most useful,’ she said, adding as an afterthought, ‘Did your wife and daughter meet Mr Harvey?’
‘No, they don’t go to the pub. They saw him out walking, that’s all.’
He opened the living-room door, and they were again enveloped in the smell of cauliflower.
‘Well, thank you for your time, Mr Bromsgrove. I’m really most grateful.’
He nodded and closed the front door behind her. Would Meriel know anything about the mysterious Myers? Rona wondered as she unlocked the car. It was certainly worth asking her.
Gus looked up as she climbed in, and sleepily wagged his tail. Max had insisted she take him with her for this interview. ‘You’ll have to walk home after parking the car, and it will be dark,’ he’d said.
‘I do wish you’d stop fussing,’ she’d told him irritably. ‘It’s quite unnecessary.’
All the same, she admitted to herself that it was comforting to have Gus’s familiar bulk beside her on the short walk home from the garage. Though he’d never been put to the test, she was confident he’d prove an admirable bodyguard.
The phone was ringing as she opened the front door, and she caught it up quickly. ‘Hello?’
‘Hi, sweetheart. Just checking you’re back safely. How did it go with Bromsgrove père?’
‘Very interesting, actually.’ She tucked the phone under her chin as she shrugged out of her jacket. ‘He wasn’t nearly as pally with Theo as we’d been led to believe, but he more than made up for it. Believe it or not, he actually saw him the night he died.’
‘Good God! He didn’t do the dirty deed, by any chance?’
She laughed. ‘I very much doubt it. He’s an unprepossessing little man, but very observant – I have to hand him that; at least he’s given me another lead to follow up. What with old Reginald this morning and now Mr B, my head’s spinning.’
‘You’ll need a day at the computer to sort yourself out.’
‘Too right – tomorrow, with luck. I’ve nothing on except that play with Linz in the evening.’
‘Well, don’t burn the midnight oil. Take care, my love.’
‘I will.’
She had just reached the kitchen when the phone rang again, and this time it was Meriel.
‘Hello, Rona. Any luck with the interviews?’
‘I’ve only done two so far, but I’m seeing Isobel on Wednesday.’
‘That’ll be nice for you. The reason I’m ringing is that I decided to sort out Theo’s study for you at the weekend, and something seems to be missing.’
Rona’s hand tightened on the phone. ‘What is it?’
‘The manuscript he was working on when he died. It was at the cottage, of course, but Justin went up as soon as the police would let him in, and brought back all the papers he could find. I didn’t go through them – I couldn’t bear to at that stage – but he told me it was there.’
‘What did you do with them?’
‘Bundled them en masse into the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet.’
Rona frowned. ‘If you’ve kept them all together, surely it must be there?’
‘Unless,’ Meriel said slowly, ‘it was taken in the burglary. Remember I told you about it?’
Rona felt a coldness creeping up her back. She’d thought at the time that the items listed as missing had been a blind, and that Theo’s study had been the real focus of interest. But why should anyone want a barely started manuscript? If Theo had kept to his usual schedule, he would have begun work on it only a couple of weeks before his death.
‘I phoned Justin to check,’ Meriel was going on, ‘and he insists he brought it back. I even drove up to the cottage yesterday, to satisfy myself it wasn’t there.’
‘It might still turn up,’ Rona said unconvincingly. ‘Sometimes you can turn the house over, looking for something. Then, days later, there it is, right in front of you.’
There was a pause, then Meriel said, ‘I see your point about the diaries; obviously it would be much easier for you to go through them at home. You can take them next time you come.’
‘Thanks. I should be better prepared now; I’ve almost finished Game for Fools.’
‘If you’re referring to the code,’ Meriel said dryly, ‘I’ll have to disappoint you. That’s not the one he used in his diaries. I’ve already tried it.’
Rona felt a sense of deflation; she’d been quite excited at the prospect of having the solution to hand when she tackled them, yet as Max had pointed out, it would hardly have been prudent for Theo to have used a code he’d publicly decrypted.
‘Damn!’ she said softly.
‘Exactly; that’s how I felt. When are you coming over?’
Rona hesitated. She had told Meriel she didn’t intend going back for a week or two, but the diaries were a bait; and it was always possible a fresh pair of eyes might locate the missing manuscript.
‘I’m free tomorrow, if you are?’ Meriel pressed.
She had a habit of being importunate, Rona thought irritably, seeing her day at the computer slipping away. However, she was meeting Isobel on Wednesday, and hoped to hear from some of her other contacts before the end of the week. Perhaps she should take advantage of a clear slot.
‘I can’t spare the whole day,’ she said a little ungraciously, ‘but I could manage the morning.’
It would be a chance to ask about the mysterious Myers, she told herself after putting down the phone; and also whether Meriel had met the men Reginald Harvey remembered with such disapproval. All in all, it might, after all, be worth sacrificing her morning at home.
Rona had half-expected to see Justin Grant’s Jaguar parked outside the house, but the driveway was empty. It was only nine thirty, and two pints of milk still stood on the doorstep. Meriel herself opened the door, and led the way straight to the study, where a tray of coffee was waiting.
‘Thanks for coming,’ she said, passing Rona a cup
. ‘I needed someone to confirm I haven’t just developed a blind spot about that damn manuscript. I’ve been through the whole filing cabinet and all the desk drawers in case it had been slotted into something else, but there’s no sign of it.’
Rona looked round the room. ‘I really should spend a day in here before too long,’ she commented, ‘but at the moment I’m anxious to interview as many people as possible, so I can start to plan a schedule.’
Meriel perched on a corner of the desk. ‘Who have you seen so far?’
‘Theo’s father, and one of his neighbours from the cottage.’
Her brows drew together. ‘Who was that?’
‘A man called Keith Bromsgrove: did Theo ever mention him?’
Meriel shook her head. Rona wasn’t surprised. She doubted if Harvey had even been aware of Bromsgrove’s existence.
‘Does the name Myers mean anything to you?’
‘The man who was with Theo the night he died?’
‘That’s right. But according to Mr Bromsgrove, they also used to meet at the local pub.’
Meriel shrugged. ‘He knew a lot of people up there; he’d been going for years.’
‘I really should go up and speak to them. The pub landlord, his regulars, and so on.’
‘The evening would be the best time for that, and it’s a good two hours’ drive away,’ Meriel said. ‘Would you like to stay over at the cottage?’
Rona looked at her quickly. Her first instinct was to decline, but common sense reasserted itself. It was the obvious solution. ‘Wouldn’t you mind?’
‘Of course not. There’s no bed-linen or anything there, though – Justin brought everything back. Have you got a sleeping bag?’
‘I’m sure I could unearth one. Thanks, Meriel, that would be a great help.’
Meriel slid off the desk, went to the far side of the room, and took down a picture, revealing a safe in the wall behind it. She opened it, took out a bunch of keys, and closed it again.
‘There’s a Yale and a Chubb lock. You’ll need both to get inside. It’s pretty spartan, I’m afraid.’
‘It’ll only be for one night; I’ll manage fine.’ She dropped the keys into her handbag. ‘Your father-in-law mentioned some other friends, whom Theo had been at school with: Scott Mackintosh and Michael Pennington. Ring any bells?’
‘I’ve met Scott; he lives in Edinburgh, but he was down here for a year’s sabbatical, and he and his wife came to dinner one night. Some months later she had a miscarriage and died. It was a terrific shock.’
‘What a terrible thing to happen.’
‘Yes you don’t often hear of that these days. She was quite a bit younger than Scott, and they’d only been married a few years.’
‘Had they any other children?’
‘A little boy, I believe, and that had been a difficult birth, too. I’ve often wondered how he was getting on, back home alone in Edinburgh with a young child. Of course, for all I know he might have remarried.’
‘How did he strike you, as a person?’
Meriel looked at her in surprise, and Rona smiled.
‘I only ask, because your father-in-law hasn’t a very high opinion of him. He reckons he and Michael Pennington were a bad influence on Theo.’
Meriel’s mouth twitched. ‘Or vice versa,’ she said.
Rona shot her a quick glance. Had she after all known about Theo’s philandering?
‘I met him only the once,’ she was continuing. ‘Before that, they were simply names on a Christmas card. Theo always said Scott was the perennial bachelor, and he was shattered to hear he’d married. He must have been well into his forties by then.
‘As to how he struck me, I didn’t particularly care for him, to be honest. He was good-looking in a rather obvious way, and well aware of it. Still, to give him his due, he seemed devoted to his wife.’
‘You say he was on a sabbatical: from what?’
‘He’s a research chemist and was down here following up some experiments. I know he’s “Doctor” Mackintosh, but a doctor of what exactly, I couldn’t say. If you’re thinking of contacting him, his address will be on that list I gave you.’
‘Thanks.’
Meriel smiled. ‘You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?’
‘Of course,’ Rona acknowledged, returning the smile, ‘or I shouldn’t be doing it.’
Meriel sipped her coffee, eyeing her over the cup. ‘What is it,’ she asked curiously, ‘that makes you want to delve into people’s lives?’
‘I suppose I’m just insatiably curious. People have always fascinated me; I sit watching them on trains and buses, wondering what kind of houses they live in, what their names are, and where they’re going. Figuratively speaking, I want to take them apart, like clocks, and see what makes them tick.’
‘No wonder your work is described as “probing”! Were any of your other biographies requested by the families?’
‘No; usually I find someone I’m interested in, check to see whether his or her life has been written about recently, and then twist my publishers’ arm to commission me.’
‘Is it harder or easier, doing it this way?’
‘It’s too early to say,’ Rona answered tactfully. She glanced across at Meriel, who was staring into the grounds at the bottom of her cup. ‘When we first met, you said you were wondering if you ever really knew your husband. What did you mean?’
‘Just that I’m no longer sure which was the real Theo: the brash, attractive man I fell in love with, who enjoyed good food and wine and going to parties and clubs, and all the trappings of his success. Or the morose, secretive recluse, who wrote his private diaries in code and with whom I never had a proper conversation.’
‘But surely after he’d started writing again—?’
‘Not even then. There must have been a reason for the change, Rona; and I can’t help wondering whether it was somehow my fault, if I’d let him down in some way.’
Rona thought of Reginald’s claim that she was having an affair, but somehow it didn’t ring true.
‘And if I did,’ Meriel continued in a low voice, ‘it might even have led to his death.’
There was a silence, into which the clock’s tick became unbearably loud. Meriel looked up suddenly, catching Rona’s compassionate gaze. ‘There. I’ve finally put it into words.’
Rona’s mouth was dry. ‘That you don’t think his death was an accident?’
‘God, I don’t know.’ She straightened suddenly, pulling herself back from whatever chasm she’d been staring into. ‘Take no notice, I’m being neurotic. Right, let’s get down to work. I know your time is precious.’
With an effort, Rona matched her change of mood. ‘OK, what exactly am I looking for?’
‘A loose-leaf folder, I should think. That’s what he normally used.’
Under Meriel’s supervision, Rona emptied all the drawers of the filing cabinet, one after the other, and leafed quickly through the folders and papers they contained. The top drawer held a pile of manuscripts, but her spurt of hope was short-lived; they were all of published books which had accrued since the first batch had been sent to the States. The top two, Dark Moon Rising and The Raptor, were carbon copies of typescripts, smudged and with a lot of hand-written corrections, very amateur-looking alongside the pristine computer-printed copies. Rona remembered that Theo had typed them himself, and again she wondered why.
After more than half an hour, she had to admit defeat. A thorough search both of the filing cabinets and the desk had failed to reveal any missing manuscript. She sat back on her heels and looked up at Meriel.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Either I share your blind spot, or it’s not here.’
Meriel gave a resigned shrug. ‘It was worth a try. Thanks.’ She stood up. ‘I suppose you’ll be wanting to get back; I packed up the diaries for you – they’re in cartons by the front door. Cecile will help carry them to the car.’
‘Thanks; I really appreciate being able to take them.’
Cecile was summoned from the kitchen, and while Rona went to open her boot, she and Meriel brought out two of the boxes. Rona herself went back for the third. It was quite heavy, and a glance inside showed a collection of leather-backed exercise books of different shapes and sizes. Not conventional diaries, then; no day-by-day report of the year’s happenings; more a detailed and specific account of thoughts, meetings and events of particular interest to the writer. She was impatient to settle down with them.
The post, which had not arrived before she left home, had brought a neatly written reply from Agnes Lethbury, inviting Rona for tea on Thursday afternoon.
If you can come, don’t bother replying, she wrote. I know how busy you must be. Unless I hear from you, I’ll expect you at three thirty.
Things were falling into shape too easily, Rona thought with a superstitious frisson; normally during her research, dates had to be repeatedly juggled and appointments rescheduled.
She carried the heavy cartons of diaries upstairs and, having dumped them on the study floor, knelt down to search for the final volume. It was just possible that the last entries Theo made might have some bearing on his death, though if they were in code, she would have to contain her impatience. She found the book she was looking for in the second carton, and, sitting back on her heels, flicked quickly through to the beginning of August, grateful to see no sign of a code.
The first few pages contained only short entries concerning a play he and Meriel had seen, a dinner party they’d attended, and some plans for the garden. However, that headed Monday 20 August opened with the words:
Back to the cottage, and now I can no longer postpone a decision on the book. Do I attempt to continue in the style of the last two – which, God knows, received more critical acclaim than all the others put together – or revert to my original format?
A third possibility is a fictionalized account of my life, which might possibly bridge the gap and pave the way for the autobiography I still intend to write at some stage. It would require delicate handling, but the fictional element should help in that respect.
Brought to Book Page 10