Iris was unequivocal in her verdict. ‘Waste of time!’ she affirmed. ‘I can help with gen about pigments and materials, if that’s what you need.’

  Melissa put down her coffee mug and absent-mindedly combed her hair with her fingers. ‘That’s the trouble,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what I need … or rather, what Leonora needed. Common sense tells me that the reference to AFTER is pure coincidence, but the thought that there might be some connection between her enquiries and her death keeps niggling at the back of my mind.’

  Iris gave a sigh of exasperation. ‘All that young scribbler’s fault,’ she declared.

  ‘Bruce? What’s he got to do with it?’

  ‘Put all this rubbish into your head. Forget it and go back to the bodice-ripper.’

  ‘It’s not a bodice-ripper, it’s a Victorian mystery novel.’

  ‘Whatever. If you can’t figure out what Leonora had in mind, change a few plot details. Who’s to know?’

  ‘I suppose. It’s odd, though, that there’s nothing in her notes about all this.’

  ‘Not worth noting, if nothing came of it.’

  ‘I guess not.’ Reluctantly, Melissa got up to leave. ‘Thanks for the coffee, Iris. We’ll walk tomorrow, okay?’

  ‘Believe it when it happens,’ said Iris off-handedly, but the twinkle in her eyes told Melissa that she had got over her pique.

  ‘Oh, by the way, I almost forgot. Rillingford Manor’s been turned over.’ Melissa repeated the substance of Major Ford’s message. ‘Dudley made it sound like a robbery at the National Gallery, but you know how he exaggerates.’

  ‘The Vowdens have quite a collection,’ said Iris. ‘Several Impressionists – saw them when I did a painting of the manor.’

  ‘Maybe Dudley’s guess wasn’t that far off the mark, then. Maybe someone is stealing works of art to order.’

  Ten

  Mrs Gloria Parkin, the ebullient and garrulous mother of three whose zeal and efficiency made her much in demand as a domestic help in the twin villages of Upper and Lower Benbury, normally ‘did’ for Melissa on Wednesday mornings. This week, because of a rehearsal of the school Nativity Play in which her children were taking part and for which she had volunteered to help with the costumes, she had arranged to come on Thursday afternoon. She arrived just as Melissa was finishing her lunch, her moon face under its halo of blonde curls alight with maternal pride as she described the morning’s proceedings.

  ‘Ooh, Mrs Craig, they was so sweet, they little ones,’ she rhapsodised. ‘My Charlene’s the Virgin Mary and Darren’s a shepherd. They wanted Wayne for Joseph, but when he found his robe were one of Charlene’s old nighties, he backed out! Said he weren’t going to wear no girl’s things. My Stanley says it shows he’s got the right idea – he were tickled pink!’ Gloria, blithely impervious to feminism in all its forms, beamed approval at this show of sexism in her first-born and his father.

  Melissa felt a twinge of nostalgia as she remembered watching school productions in which her only son Simon, now grown up and living in New York, had reluctantly agreed to take part. ‘I think it’s very good of you to give up your time when you lead such a busy life,’ she said warmly.

  ‘Oh, I enjoys it, ’swhat Mums are for, innit? And guess what,’ – Gloria, having followed Melissa into the kitchen, had shed her outdoor things and was assembling polishes, dusters and other cleaning equipment as she spoke – ‘there’s been a burglary at the Vowdens’ place.’

  ‘Yes, I heard. I was in the shop when Major Ford came in to tell Mrs Foster.’

  ‘Trust him! He spreads things around almost before they happens.’ Gloria’s mobile features registered acute disappointment at not being the first to break the news. Her appetite for gossip – insatiable, but never malicious – kept all her ‘ladies’ in touch with the activities, fortunes and misfortunes of their neighbours.

  ‘Loadsa pictures nicked,’ she went on with evident relish. ‘My Stanley says they be worth thousands. Wonder if the coppers’ll get they back.’ An idea appeared to strike her and she gave a wheezy giggle which set her ample breasts bouncing and straining inside her close-fitting sweater. ‘They could get Arnie Barron to paint a few to fill the spaces,’ she gurgled.

  ‘Who’s Arnie Barron?’

  ‘Used to be at school with my Stanley and me. Funny chap, never spoke nor played with the other kids nor nothing, just drew pictures. Something wrong with him, they said – can’t remember what they called it. Began with or … order, ord’nary … no, couldn’t have been that, he were quite extr’ or’n’ry!’ Another spasm of merriment set the flesh quivering.

  ‘Could it have been autism?’ Melissa suggested.

  ‘That’s it!’ A note of admiration in Gloria’s voice and a glow in her toffee-brown eyes greeted this display of erudition. ‘Autism,’ she repeated. ‘Must remember that. Anyway, he went to a special school. Learned to paint proper, so I heard. Won a prize once, got his picture in the paper. Dunno what become of him after that. Doing time, maybe, like his Dad nearly were.’

  ‘How d’you mean?’

  ‘Coppers picked him up over some job, but he got away with it.’

  ‘How was that?’

  ‘Coppers couldn’t make it stick. The witness what picked him out changed his story.’

  ‘Maybe he didn’t do it. People do make mistakes,’ Melissa pointed out.

  ‘On purpose, sometimes. If it’s worth their while, like.’ A huge wink accompanied this assertion.

  ‘You think Arnie’s father bribed a witness?’

  ‘That’s what were being said by the boys in the trade.’

  ‘What trade’s that?’

  ‘Car dealer. Dodgy, not a legit business like my Stanley’s.’ Melissa hid a smile at this reference to Gloria’s husband, whose used car business in Gloucester had, she was certain, sailed fairly close to the wind on occasions. ‘Course, no one knows for sure,’ Gloria went on. ‘My, is that the time? I must get on. Where’d you like me to start?’

  ‘In here if you like. I’ll be in the study.’

  Back at her desk, Melissa made a serious effort to settle down to the task in hand. She told herself that Iris was right; it would make sense to complete Leonora’s book using the existing notes. In fact, since she was already working to a tight schedule, trying to figure out what new twist the author had had in mind and then fitting it into the existing plot would take time she could ill afford. Best stick to Plan A, she decided as she set up her word processor and plunged into the first draft of Chapter Twenty-One of Deadly Legacy.

  Two hours later, despite having sat down with what she believed to be a clear idea of what she was going to write, she had filled precisely half a page. She leaned back in her chair with a sigh of exasperation, just as Gloria tapped on the door to say it was three o’clock and would there be anything else because the kids would be home from school in twenty minutes. After receiving her money and the usual compliments on the results of her labours, she departed in a bright blue Ford Fiesta, the latest acquisition from her Stanley’s stock of high quality, low mileage, used vehicles.

  Melissa watched her jerky progress along the uneven track leading to the road with something like envy. Gloria was an undemanding soul who had long since dedicated her life to the welfare of her husband and children. Her needs were simple and basic; her motto, had she been asked to devise one, would probably have been on the lines of, ‘If you can’t figure out what it means, forget it’.

  That might work for Gloria, Melissa thought ruefully, but it doesn’t work for me. Whether or not I use it in finishing her story, I shan’t rest until I know what information Leonora wanted from Sam Deacon. Did she get in touch with Gerard Hood and did he tell her what she wanted to know? And – most worrying question of all – could either of those individuals have been in any way involved in her death?

  Melissa came to a decision. Returning to her study, she picked up the telephone, called the number Deacon had given Leonora and asked to speak to Gerard Hood.

  A woman’s voice answered, artificially genteel with a slight metallic edge. ‘I’m afraid he’s out and I’m not expecting him back this afternoon,’ it said. ‘May I ask who’s calling?’

  Melissa gave her name and explained the background to her enquiry. ‘I’m having some difficulty getting on with the book without this information,’ she said. ‘If I could come and see Mr Hood, I’m sure he’d be able to help.’

  ‘You’re asking for an appointment?’ The voice became noticeably chilly.

  ‘If it’s convenient. Actually, I was thinking of coming to see the Art for the Earth’s Resources exhibition. If I call in tomorrow, will Mr Hood be there?’

  ‘He’ll be here in the morning. I think he might be able to spare you a few minutes at around ten-thirty.’ Without spelling it out in so many words, the voice made it clear that Mr Hood was a busy man with important commitments – which did not normally include interviews with tiresome women writers.

  ‘Thank you so much,’ said Melissa. ‘I promise not to take up too much of his time.’ She resisted the temptation to say, ‘valuable time’ with a sarcastic emphasis. No point in arousing antagonism. What’s the matter with me? she asked herself crossly as she replaced the receiver. I’m getting really screwed up over this job – I wish I’d never taken it on.

  Her next call was to the Gloucester Gazette. She gave her name and enquired if Bruce Ingram was in the office. He was on the line within seconds.

  ‘This is an historic occasion!’ he said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You’ve never called me before.’

  ‘That’s right. Up to now, it’s always been you calling me and twisting my arm to join in your nefarious schemes.’

  ‘My schemes are never nefarious. They’re all carried out with the utmost probity.’

  ‘Give or take the odd bending of the rules.’

  ‘Only occasionally, in the cause of justice. So, what can I do for you today?’

  ‘Have you got anywhere with your Asser Foundation enquiry?’

  ‘Haven’t had a chance to follow it up yet. My editor sent me off on another assignment and I’ve only just completed it. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I’m going to Blackwater Hall tomorrow to see the exhibition and have a chat with the curator. I was wondering whether you …’ She paused, hoping he would rise to the bait, which he did with alacrity.

  ‘… would go along with you? I’d be delighted. What time?’

  ‘A very superior-sounding female grudgingly gave me an appointment at ten-thirty.’

  ‘Forgive me if I’m speaking out of turn, but I had the impression that your time was fully occupied elsewhere.’

  From her previous contact with him, Melissa recognised the sub-text of the remark: What’s prompted this call? Is there a story in it?

  ‘Something’s come up,’ she said cautiously. ‘I’m not sure if it has any bearing on what you were saying about AFTER …’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Art for the Earth’s Resources. Abraham Asser’s brainchild.’

  ‘Oh, right. So, tell me about it.’

  As concisely as possible, Melissa explained her involvement with Leonora Jewell and the series of minor coincidences that had led her to Samuel Deacon’s gallery and a possible connection with Gerard Hood of AFTER. She did not, however, mention her discovery of the murder weapon and its subsequent disappearance, being uncertain whether this information had been released to the press. She had a shrewd notion that what she was doing would not meet with police approval; anything that might draw attention to it was to be avoided.

  Bruce listened in silence until she had finished. Then he said, ‘You’re on. Tomorrow at ten, here at my office. I’ll drive you out to Blackwater Hall.’

  ‘I’ll be there.’

  Melissa’s immediate thought as she said goodbye and hung up was that, once again, she was ducking out of the promised morning walk with Iris. She went next door to offer excuses and apologies; to her surprise, instead of becoming huffy, Iris expressed an interest in joining the expedition.

  ‘Might as well use the free pass,’ she remarked. ‘Take it you’ve no objection?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  It was a decision that was to have far-reaching and dangerous consequences.

  Eleven

  The Victorian builder of Blackwater Hall had chosen a commanding site on a westward-facing slope of the Cotswold escarpment, with a fine outlook embracing the Severn Vale, the Malvern Hills and the mountains of South Wales. On a clear day, Melissa remarked to Iris as they stood shivering while Bruce locked his car, the view would be magnificent, but on this raw early December morning, with wisps of low cloud clinging to the hilltops and the Gothic tower of Gloucester cathedral barely piercing a blanket of mist rising from the river, the outlook was bleak and uninspiring. It was not yet half-past ten and only a handful of vehicles besides Bruce’s scarlet Ford Escort stood in the windswept car park.

  ‘Looks as if we’ve got it more or less to ourselves,’ Bruce remarked as they made their way towards the house. ‘I suggest we go in separately, rather than as a group. Melissa has her appointment with Gerard Hood and I imagine Iris, er, Miss Ash …’

  ‘Say “Iris” if you like,’ that lady interrupted, with unusual graciousness, shooting him a sideways glance from beneath the huge paisley scarf that enveloped her head. In return she received a smile that would have turned the head of a more impressionable female of any age.

  ‘Thank you, Iris. As I was saying …’

  ‘We each do our own thing, right?’ Iris was striding along the gravel path leading to the house like a soldier on a route march, arms swinging stiffly at her sides, her long coat flapping around her thin legs. ‘Suppose you want to nose around on your own?’

  ‘Something like that,’ he agreed. ‘There’s a coffee shop; we could meet there at’ – he glanced at his watch – ‘about eleven? That gives us a little over half an hour to get some first impressions. By the way, I’m here as a member of the public, nothing to do with the press, okay? See you later.’ He went ahead of the two women and bounded up the stone steps towards the entrance.

  ‘Quite the little scoutmaster, your young friend,’ remarked Iris as soon as he was out of earshot.

  ‘He’s probably planning to track down some susceptible female member of the staff and worm information out of her,’ Melissa replied. ‘It’s amazing how much people will volunteer, given the right approach.’

  Iris sniffed. ‘All part of the technique. Show an interest in what they do and get a life history in return.’ She came to an abrupt halt and craned her head upwards. ‘What d’you think of this pile?’

  They stood for a few moments studying the elaborate brick and stone façade of the building before Iris grunted, ‘Late nineteenth century,’ in a dismissive tone, led the way in and marched up to the desk just as Bruce, without glancing in their direction, received his ticket and moved away. ‘Life member,’ she announced regally, waving a plastic card under the nose of the receptionist. He was a young man whose pale skin and fair hair curling softly round his ears reminded Melissa of the knave of diamonds. On seeing Iris’s membership card he gestured towards a visitors’ book lying on the counter and opened his mouth to speak, but he got no further than, ‘Would you mind signing …’ before Iris swept past him and vanished through an archway, above which hung a notice reading ‘Permanent Exhibition’. He still wore a faintly bemused expression as he took the business card Melissa held out to him.

  ‘I have an appointment to see Mr Hood,’ she said. ‘Where will I find him?’

  The man showed no sign of recognition; evidently, the name ‘Mel Craig’ meant nothing to him. He picked up a telephone, pressed a button and said, ‘There’s a lady to see Gerard. Says she has an appointment … right.’ He replaced the instrument and handed the card back to Melissa. ‘Mr Hood’s assistant will be down in a moment,’ he informed her. ‘Will you sign the book, please?’

  That’ll be the starchy-sounding female I spoke to yesterday, thought Melissa as she complied. She wondered if Bruce would track her down and whether she would respond to his charm.

  The entrance hall had oak-panelled walls and a high ceiling with some ornate plasterwork that appeared to have been recently restored. The reception area included a small gift shop offering a selection of artists’ materials, books, postcards and souvenirs, all bearing legends proclaiming their environmentally friendly origins. Alongside was a display of photographs and information sheets detailing some of the conservation projects financed by the Asser Foundation. Melissa was idly browsing among this material when someone spoke her name. Turning, she saw a woman with short dark hair, heavily made-up eyes and a thin, unsmiling mouth.

  ‘Ms Craig? I’m Eloise Dampier, Mr Hood’s assistant,’ she said crisply. ‘Follow me, please.’ She turned and led the way through a swing door marked ‘Private’ and up a flight of carpeted stairs. She wore a cream silk blouse and a navy-blue jacket and skirt, all of which had haute couture written all over them; her pearl choker and ear-studs were the real thing and her leather pumps looked handmade. Melissa, trailing in her expensively-perfumed wake, was conscious that her own woollen car coat and flat-heeled shoes were neither new nor the height of fashion.

  A door on the first landing bore a sign reading ‘Director’. The woman opened it without knocking, preceded Melissa into the room and announced, ‘Gerard, this is Ms Craig, who telephoned yesterday.’

  ‘Ms Craig! How do you do?’ Gerard Hood got up and stretched an arm across his mahogany desk, displaying a snow-white cuff fastened with gold links. Mechanically responding to his greeting as she took the smooth, manicured hand, Melissa noted that he was wearing the same clothes as when she had caught sight of him in Samuel Deacon’s gallery, but in contrast to the boorish manner in which he had brushed past her on that occasion, today he was courtesy and cordiality personified.

 

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