Rona said suddenly, ‘You know, almost from the beginning I wondered if either Theo’s block or his change of style could have somehow led to his death. If you remember, the literary pundits assumed they were two sides of the same coin – that he’d needed the block as a prelude to discovering a whole new style. Well, we know now that was not the case. We also know, since Gary didn’t kill him, that the so-called style difference had no bearing on his death. But we still don’t know what caused the block in the first place, and I’m convinced it has something to do with that woman who visited him at the cottage.
‘Perhaps he went back that August expecting the affair to continue – he was in good form when he first arrived. Then he must have heard from her that she was ending it or something, and – and was plunged into despair, which in turn led to the block.’
‘Sounds a bit Wagnerian,’ Max commented. ‘If all affairs engendered such trauma, heaven help mankind! And don’t forget he survived the end of the block by a good four years.’
‘All the same, the sooner we can start work on the ’94 and ’95 diaries, the better I’ll be pleased. I’m sure that’s where the answer lies.’
Max refilled her wine glass. ‘You haven’t forgotten I’m away overnight on Saturday? It’s this Academy Reunion thing; I missed it last year, and promised faithfully that I’d make it this. It might be an idea if you spend the night with Lindsey.’
‘Rob mightn’t be too pleased, and I doubt if Gus could manage the stairs.’
‘Your parents, then. I’d rather you weren’t alone.’
‘I’ll be fine,’ she said stubbornly.
But that night, having retired early with a novel, she was acutely aware of footsteps walking along the pavement only feet from the bed, and found herself listening tensely in case they should stop. And this with Max and a group of students in the room above, she chided herself. Perhaps after all she would sleep at Lindsey’s on Saturday.
Thirteen
The plane was on time, and Rona arrived at the hotel just before five thirty. Max had booked her room via the Internet, and as she joined the queue at the reception desk, she recognized one or two people who had been on the flight. As soon as she reached her room, she phoned Scott Mackintosh’s number as arranged.
‘The doctor has not yet returned,’ an elderly female voice informed her, ‘but he told me to expect your call, Miss Parish. Which hotel are you staying at?’
Rona told her.
‘The car will pick you up at seven, if that’s convenient?’
‘Perfectly, thank you.’
‘If you wait in the lobby, the driver will have you paged.’
No doubt this was established procedure with his business colleagues. Rona unpacked the few things she’d brought with her, hung her dress in the wardrobe to let the creases drop out, and ran herself a deep, hot bath, emptying the essence provided into the steaming water. She hoped very much that the doctor wouldn’t object to being recorded; she’d spent the morning at Farthings working on Gary’s story, and despite her verbal repetitions of it, there were parts where her memory had failed her. It was so much easier when everything was on tape.
She thought back to the morning, and to Gus’s uncertain return. He had flopped the moment they’d got him inside, but at least he was back with them, and even managed a little of his favourite dog food for lunch. She was sorry to leave him his first night back, but Max would look after him.
Lying in the scented water, she thought back over what she knew of Scott Mackintosh. Neither old Mr Harvey nor Meriel had cared for him; according to Reginald, he’d belonged to ‘a wild bunch’ and been a bad influence on Theo, while Meriel considered him too conscious of his own good looks. He’d also been regarded as a confirmed bachelor, only to surprise his friends by marrying a much younger woman, who had died after a miscarriage. It would be interesting to see whether his brusqueness over the phone was maintained at the interview.
Her first impression was that Scott Mackintosh was indeed good-looking. Several inches over six feet, he had thick fair hair fading barely noticeably to grey, a long, thin nose, and deep-set grey eyes with a disconcertingly steady gaze. But she could also appreciate Meriel’s reservations; there was an air of detachment about him, almost of arrogance, and she had the distinct impression of being kept at a distance.
‘Miss Parish,’ he said, civilly enough, and held out his hand. ‘I hope you’ll feel your journey has been worth while.’ His voice was deep and the Scottish accent only faintly discernible.
‘I’m sure I shall,’ she answered. ‘It’s kind of you to fit me into your busy schedule.’
The room to which he escorted her was decorated in warm reds and browns, and its patterned carpet gave it an old-fashioned air. An open fire burned in the grate; the armchairs on either side of it were of leather, worn in places, while the desk and side tables were solid walnut. Heavy velvet curtains hung at the windows. It was, Rona thought, very much as she imagined a gentlemen’s club to be. To her surprise, no photographs were in evidence, nor, perhaps more understandably, were there any house-plants.
Scott Mackintosh broke into her inventory. ‘What may I offer you to drink?’
Doubting that he’d be able to supply her customary vodka, Rona said, ‘Since I’m in Scotland, I’d like a small whisky, please.’
‘An excellent choice. I’ll join you.’
Having placed two heavy crystal glasses and a jug of water on the table between them, he seated himself opposite, leaned back in the depths of the chair, and crossed his legs.
‘I suggest we go straight into the interview. I don’t care to discuss business matters while I eat, it gives me indigestion.’ The suspicion of a smile.
‘Fine.’ She took out the recorder. ‘Is it all right if I . . .?’
He was shaking his head, and regretfully she replaced it. ‘There’s really no need for that,’ he said firmly. ‘I believe I explained that with one brief exception, I haven’t seen Theo for about thirty years.’ He paused, apparently thinking back across those years. ‘Is his father still alive, do you know?’
‘Yes, I interviewed him last week. He’s over ninety, but was in excellent form.’
‘He would be,’ Mackintosh said dryly. ‘He was a regular old tyrant, a stickler for discipline, though I fear he had his work cut out with me; any hint of authority brought out the worst in me.’ He shot her an amused glance over his whisky glass. ‘He was not best pleased when Mike and I took it on ourselves to bring Theo out of his shell. Mike Pennington, that is. Have you been in touch with him?’
‘Not yet, no.’
‘I’ve not seen him for years, either, but the three of us formed an unholy alliance that lasted through school and university. It served its purpose.’
He stared down into his drink, and Rona did not like to ask what that purpose had been. ‘How old were you when you first met Theo?’
Mackintosh shrugged. ‘Twelve, thirteen.’
‘Can you remember your first impressions?’
He gave a brief laugh. ‘Uncomplimentary, I’m afraid: in a nutshell, I thought him a wimp. He was a tall, thin boy, very much of a loner and the regular butt of the form bully. To be perfectly frank, Mike and I only took him under our wing to thwart the Head, though to be fair he improved mightily under our auspices.’
He took a drink of whisky, and Rona tried to imprint on her memory the patronizing cadences of his voice.
‘He was an inveterate writer, though, even then – always sitting in corners, scribbling away. Not to mention his diary; we teased him mercilessly about the time he used to spend on it. God knows what he wrote, but it always ran to several pages. I’ve often wondered whether he kept it up?’ He looked at her with an enquiring eyebrow.
‘I believe so, yes,’ Rona said cautiously. That was not a road she wanted to go down.
He nodded and took another sip of his drink. ‘He was also a regular contributor to the school magazine, and in the sixth form took over as edito
r. By that time, of course, he had much more self-confidence.’
‘Thanks to you and Michael Pennington?’
‘Indeed. We’d turned him from a spineless nobody into a rebel like ourselves, skipping classes, never doing prep, being generally bolshie.’ He smiled, remembering. ‘It drove the masters wild. There they’d been, telling us if we didn’t work, we’d never make anything of ourselves. Then, when the exam results came out, the three of us were streets ahead of the class swots. Ain’t no justice, I suppose.’
‘And you all went on to Cambridge together?’
‘Yes; we carried on our roistering there, only more so; out all hours of the night, masses to drink and an endless succession of girls. At least, Theo and I did; Mike met a pretty undergrad in his second year, and dropped out of our wilder excesses. They married after graduation, and as far as I know, are still together.’
‘Theo married fairly young, too, didn’t he?’
‘Yes; that was what signalled the parting of the ways. We’d kept in touch up till then, but while I continued to pursue my bachelor existence, he transmogrified into a family man with three young sons.’
‘Still, you followed his example some years later,’ Rona said with a smile. It was not returned.
‘I did indeed, at least to the extent of one son.’
A mistake, she realized, belatedly remembering the lost baby who had cost him his wife. Hastily she reverted to Theo. ‘Did you know Isobel, his first wife?’
‘No,’ Mackintosh said after a minute, ‘it was Meriel I met, about eight years ago. I had a sabbatical down in your area, with Johnson Chemicals in Chilswood, and naturally my wife and son came with me. He was only a toddler at the time. I dropped a line to Theo to say we were coming, and he – or rather Meriel – invited us to dinner. It was good to see Theo again, but the two women had nothing in common, and we didn’t pursue the acquaintance.’
He hesitated. ‘You must have met Meriel?’
‘Oh yes; it was she who asked me to write the biography.’
‘How is she coping with his death? It’s still fairly recent, after all.’
Rona nodded. ‘I did wonder at the wisdom of doing it so soon, but she was set on it. I think she’s having second thoughts now, though.’
‘Oh?’
‘It’s brought everything back for her. She’s very nervy; so much so that her cousin and his wife have invited her to spend a week or two with them.’ She guided the conversation back on course. ‘Is there anything else you can remember about his early life?’
‘I don’t think so; most of it’s lost in an alcoholic blur. I did warn you I shouldn’t be much help.’
‘Then is there anyone else he was friendly with, whom I could contact? Other than Michael Pennington, that is.’
‘Who have you seen already?’
‘From the early days, only his father and his aunt.’
‘God, yes – the spinsterish Miss Lethbury, who thought the sun shone out of his backside! I’d forgotten about her, but I can picture her now, pussy-footing up the stairs to her flat, afraid of disturbing anyone. You’ve not spoken to his brother or sister, then?’
‘No, I’m still waiting to hear from them.’
‘Could be they’re not too wild about the idea.’
‘That had crossed my mind,’ Rona admitted.
‘They all came together later, I gathered, but when they were young they were pretty brutal to Theo. Jealous of the way their mother doted on him, no doubt.’
Out in the hall a gong sounded, and Mackintosh laid down his empty glass. ‘Perfect timing, since that’s the total sum of my recollections.’ His tone precluded any attempt at further questioning. ‘Let’s go through and enjoy our meal.’
The dining-room across the hall was darker and more forbidding than where they’d been sitting, and the table was laid with heavy silver and glass. Rona had half-expected the young son to join them, but there was no sign of him, and after her previous gaffe, she refrained from enquiring. An elderly woman, whom Mackintosh introduced as Mrs Gibb, his housekeeper, served them. No doubt she was the owner of the voice on the telephone, but apparently not the cook.
The meal consisted of cockie-leekie soup, followed by roast pork and vegetables, a selection of Scottish cheeses served with oatcakes, and junket – a dessert Rona hadn’t tasted since nursery days.
During it, talk was determinedly non-personal. They discussed travel, the Scottish Parliament and the situation in the Middle East. In the middle of dessert, there was a tap on the door and Mrs Gibb came hesitantly into the room.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Doctor, but Mr Sinclair is on the telephone. He says it’s urgent.’
Mackintosh’s mouth tightened and he flung his napkin down on his side plate. ‘Very well. Thank you. I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me,’ he said to Rona. ‘I shan’t be long.’
As he left the room, she reached into her bag for her notebook and began to jot down her impressions. Mackintosh was a complex character who, she felt sure, was no more willing to submit to authority now than he’d been in his youth. She did not envy anyone who crossed him. For all that, though it was clear he regarded her as an unwarranted intrusion on his time, he’d behaved towards her with courtesy and even charm.
When, a good five minutes later, he returned, her notebook was safely back in her bag and she was sitting demurely waiting for him.
‘Sorry about that,’ he said abruptly, pushing his unfinished dessert away from him. It was clear he was still annoyed; his lips were compressed and there was a whiteness around his nostrils. ‘Few things irritate me more than being disturbed in the middle of a meal.’
Hard on his heels came Mrs Gibb with the coffee pot, and after a precarious start, where his attention was still clearly elsewhere, the conversation resumed. A few minutes later Rona glanced surreptitiously at her watch. It was only nine thirty, but it was clear he’d prefer to be alone; the phone call seemed to have unsettled him. Time, she felt, to make her exit.
‘That was delicious, thank you so much,’ she said. ‘It’s good of you to have given me so much time, but I mustn’t impose any further. Would it be possible to phone for a taxi?’
‘No need for that; Jackson will run you back.’
‘Oh – I don’t want to trouble him. . . .’
‘It’s what he’s paid for,’ Mackintosh said shortly. He pressed a bell, and when Mrs Gibb appeared, asked for the car to brought to the door.
In the panelled hall he helped her on with her coat. ‘I trust the hotel’s comfortable?’
‘Very, thank you.’
‘And you’ll be away in the morning? I hope it wasn’t a wasted journey.’
‘Not at all. Thank you for agreeing to see me, and I hope your trip to the States is successful.’
He nodded acknowledgment and watched as the chauffeur handed her into the back seat of the car. ‘Goodbye, Miss Parish. I look forward to reading your biography in due course.’
As they drove away with a swish of tyres, Rona consciously released her breath. Not a comfortable meeting, nor, were she to admit it, a very profitable one, but one she’d felt had had to be made. She could only hope Michael Pennington would prove more approachable.
The hotel receptionist looked at her curiously as she handed over her key. ‘There’s been a delivery for you, Miss Parish; it’s in your room. Would you like a wake-up call in the morning?’
‘No thank you, I have my alarm clock.’
A delivery? she thought in bewilderment as she went up in the lift. No one but Max and Scott Mackintosh knew she was here. She let herself into the room, switched on the light, and immediately caught sight of some florist’s cellophane lying on the window table. Max, being uncharacteristically romantic? She walked over, glanced down at it, and felt her heart contract. Lying in its transparent nest was a large wreath made up of roses and white lilies which, she now noticed, were filling the room with their sickly scent. She could just read the printed card through a
fold in the paper. It said simply ‘In Loving Memory’. No name or message had been added.
Throat dry and heart pounding, Rona stared disbelievingly down at it, then started violently as the phone clarioned across the room. She walked slowly towards it, reluctant to pick it up. Suppose it was the sender of the wreath? Finally deciding it was worse not to know, she caught it up and said breathlessly, ‘Yes?’
‘Rona?’
‘Oh, Max!’ Her voice broke and she sank down on to the bed.
‘Honey, what is it? What’s wrong?’
She tried to moisten her lips. ‘I’ve just got back from Dr Mackintosh’s and – and there’s a wreath in my room. The girl said it was delivered earlier.’
There was a silence, then Max said tautly, ‘Are you all right?’
‘Not really.’
‘I mean – never mind. Is there a card with it?’
‘Only the printed one. It just says “In Loving Memory”.’
Max swore, fluently and at length. ‘God, Rona,’ he ended, ‘why did you have to go up there? Have you locked your door?’
She nodded, realized he couldn’t see her, and said, ‘Yes.’
‘Then promise me you won’t open it under any circumstances until you leave for the airport.’
‘I’ll want some breakfast,’ she said, trying unsuccessfully to make a joke of it.
‘Order room service, then, but look through the spy-hole before you let them in.’
‘Max, I’d be perfectly safe in the restaurant!’
‘Promise me.’
‘All right.’
‘Order a taxi to take you to the airport and wait in your room until it arrives.’
‘For goodness sake!’ she protested. ‘You’re frightening me to death!’
‘That’s precisely my intention. I don’t want a repeat of your flinging your door open to God knows who in the night watches.’
‘You’ve made your point,’ she said in a small voice. Then, ‘How’s Gus?’
‘OK. I went over to the house and brought back his basket. He’s curled up in it now, in front of the fire. How did you get on with Mackintosh?’
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