A Family Concern (26 page)

‘I'd been aware of other things too, before that. The outline of a man, walking up and down, and whistling that tune. Next time, perhaps I'll see him clearly, too.' Her voice cracked. ‘Wait for the next, nail-biting instalment.'

Gently, he pulled her back on the bed with him and lay down, holding her to him and stroking her hair. She lay rigid in his arms, and he knew her eyes were open and staring. He tried desperately to find the right words, but she forestalled him.

‘It must have released some spring in my brain, what we learned today; something that had been battening down the things I'd seen. Now, they're slowly coming to the surface. It's – like watching a negative gradually develop. Matthew –' her voice sank to a whisper – ‘suppose it's Daddy I see down there?'

I
t was the last week of classes before Christmas, and Max had, some years previously, begun the custom of serving wine and mince pies at the end of each one. Since Rona wasn't interested in baking – or cooking of any description – he made them himself, and had spent Sunday afternoon, while she was out at the Tarltons', enveloped in a spicy aroma producing this year's batch.

At least, he thought, as he set out glasses for his Wednesday class, he needn't worry about Adele turning up. She wasn't likely to show her face after their last encounter, and in view of the subsequent embarrassment with first Charlie and then Rona, he could only be thankful. He was therefore completely dumbfounded when, with a shy smile and a nod of the head, she emerged from the stairwell and took her accustomed place at her easel.

He cleared his throat and, avoiding her eye, addressed the class in general as he explained what he hoped they'd achieve from the display before them – predictably, an arrangement of poinsettia, holly and candles.

‘It doesn't have to be an exact representation,' he told them. ‘Use it as a basis for your imagination – what Christmas means to you personally, perhaps. Or you might like to adopt one of the styles we've been discussing this term – cubist or post-Impressionist, for example. If you need any help, let me know, otherwise I'll leave you to get on with it.'

He settled down at his own easel, glad of the screen it provided between himself and Adele. Thank heaven this was the last class of term; by January, she'd either have dropped out, or he'd have put the embarrassment behind him.

He sketched rapidly, his mind only half on what he was doing. Rona seemed on edge about this Tarlton business, he mused. Too bad they'd been on the spot when that girl keeled over; it had made her feel involved. When he was home this evening, he'd try to talk some sense into her. He must give his father a ring, too. Perhaps arrange to fly up there again in the New Year; Cynthia had said there was a bed for him any time.

The studio clock struck three, and he hastily switched on the kettle for the half-time cup of tea. This was always a welcome break, and everyone took the chance to stand up and move about, often going to look at each other's work and pass judicial comments. Max took the opportunity to do the same. As usual, there was a wide divergence of form and structure. Some of them had followed up his suggestion of other styles, Dorcas Madden producing a very creditable attempt at surrealism. Adele's offering, however, was an almost photographic reproduction of his display.

‘I didn't feel I could improve on your creation,' she said, with a flutter of lowered lashes, and Max felt an unworthy spurt of irritation. Her work was meticulous as always, each brush stroke with its own weight, adding to the overall picture.

‘It's very good, Adele,' he said a little grudgingly, ‘but I'd rather you'd attempted a more individual interpretation.'

‘Why?' she challenged him. ‘So you could get into my mind?'

He stared at her in surprise. This was the most she'd volunteered in class since she'd joined it the previous summer. He was aware, too, of turning heads.

‘You flatter me,' he answered shortly. ‘I'm a mere artist, not a psychologist.' And, mug in hand, he moved on to the next easel. He was, nevertheless, glad when it was time to resume their places. Damn it, he'd never before felt uncomfortable in one of his own classes, and he resolved not to lay himself open to the possibility again.

Since there was only half an hour between the end of this class and the beginning of the next, he ended it twenty minutes early, to allow time to partake of the wine and mince pies. There was a general atmosphere of bonhomie as people discussed their plans for Christmas, and Max was presented with a bottle of whisky that the class had clubbed together to buy for him. Having thanked them all, he was completely taken aback when Adele produced a brightly coloured package and pressed it into his hand.

‘Another little present for you,' she said. ‘Happy Christmas, Max.'

There was a sudden silence as everyone turned to look at them. What
was
her game? he thought furiously.

‘Thank you,' he said abruptly. ‘I'll keep this one till Christmas Day.'

‘Oh, but I want to make sure you like it,' she persisted. ‘And I'm sure everyone wants to see it.'

She looked round at them, and there was a subdued murmur of agreement. Willing himself to keep his temper, Max fumbled with the ribbon and tore off the wrapping, to reveal a little blue sugar bowl.

‘It's – very pretty,' he said after a minute. ‘Thank you.'

‘I noticed, when I came to tea those times, that you didn't seem to have one.'

Max stared at her, aware, now, that his face was flaming, though with rage rather than embarrassment, and that the whole class was gazing at them in amazement. Silent, timid Adele, and Mr Allerdyce? Well, still waters certainly ran deep!

‘I hate to hurry you,' he said, ‘but time's moving on, and I have to set up the next class. Happy Christmas, everyone, and I look forward to seeing you in the New Year.'

They hastily put down their glasses, crammed the last of their mince pies into their mouths, and collected their things together. Then, with a chorus of ‘Happy Christmas', they clattered down the stairs and out of the house, Adele among them.

Max turned and looked at the sugar bowl, smug and shining on his desk. Then he picked it up and hurled it across the studio, where it crashed against a chair and shattered into fragments. If only the speculation it had caused could be disposed of so easily.

All that week, the local news bulletins carried the story of ‘The Skeleton in the Well'. DNA tests on the bones had confirmed that it was indeed that of Velma Tarlton, who had disappeared in September 1980, telling her husband she was leaving him for good. That juxtaposition disturbed Rona; it did not seem to bode well for Robert. Though she longed for first-hand news of the investigation, she felt unable to contact Kate. At best, it would be intrusive; at worst, she could be taken for a journalist after a story. And how accurate would that have been? she wondered wryly.

Her downbeat mood was not helped by Max, who'd been monosyllabic on Wednesday evening, and whose phone calls since hadn't been much better. In response to her query as to what was wrong, he'd muttered something about the calendar not going well, and changed the subject.

Adding to her restlessness was the fact that she'd nothing to work on. Having wrapped up the parent series, she could scarcely begin interviewing the Tarltons at the moment, and the Fairfaxes, second on her list, would be far too busy, with the approach of Christmas, to grant her any time. There was nothing for it but to resign herself to putting everything on hold until the New Year.

The phone interrupted her musings, and at the sound of her sister's voice, Rona brightened. But Lindsey's first words rang a warning bell.

‘Well, sister mine, what do you think of our very own local murder?'

Hurriedly, Rona tried to remember if she'd mentioned her proposed series to Lindsey, and realized with a sense of disbelief that she hadn't. Though they'd spoken on the phone a few times, it had been on other matters, and they'd not seen each other since Pops's retirement party.

This conclusion was confirmed by Lindsey's next comment. ‘At least this is one you
haven't
had a finger in!'

She said obliquely, ‘It seems a long time since I've seen you.'

‘That's why I'm ringing. Are you free for lunch?'

‘Oh, Lindsey, I am!'

Lindsey laughed. ‘My, my! That sounded heartfelt!'

‘Actually, I was feeling a bit down. Where shall we go? The Gallery or the Bacchus?'

‘The Gallery, I think. I could do with a bit of old-fashioned gentility.'

One fifteen saw them settled at a table and studying the menu.

‘So what have you been doing since I saw you?' Lindsey enquired idly.

‘Finishing off that last series, among other things.'

‘Any thoughts on the next project?'

‘Max wants me to do another bio,' Rona said. True, if not the answer to the question.

‘So you should. You're good at them, and something in hard cover must be more rewarding than articles that, once read, are thrown away.' She put the menu down. ‘I'm going for the quiche. How about you?'

‘I'll join you, with a salad on the side.'

The waitress brought their bottle of wine, and took their order.

‘Heard from Pops lately?' Lindsey asked.

‘I dropped in to see him last week, on the spur of the moment.'

Lindsey raised her eyebrows. ‘A long drop, wasn't it?'

Rona smiled. ‘Not really; I was up that way making a delivery.'

‘How was he?'

‘He seemed OK. He's hoping to invite us all to dinner soon.'

‘With or without Her Ladyship?'

‘Does it matter?'

Lindsey shrugged. ‘Perhaps not. It's a fait accompli, after all. Incidentally, Hugh bumped into him the other day, at the pillar box in Talbot Road.'

‘Did sparks fly?' Rona asked with amusement.

‘No, there was a civil exchange, according to Hugh.'

Rona said flatly, ‘You're seeing him, then?'

‘Of course I'm seeing him. You saw us at Serendipity, didn't you?'

‘I mean regularly?'

‘You mean,' Lindsey corrected, ‘am I sleeping with him?'

‘And are you?'

‘It's none of your business, but as it happens, no, not yet.'

Rona digested this rider. ‘What about Jonathan?'

Lindsey flashed her a glance. ‘I'm seeing him, too. And to save you the trouble of asking, yes, I
am
sleeping with him. Shocking, isn't it?'

‘I hope you know what you're doing. It could all blow up in your face, you know.'

‘A regular little prophet of doom, aren't you?'

Their food arrived, saving Rona from answering. Feeling that a change of subject might be wise, she asked, ‘Are you going to the Grants' party tomorrow?'

Lindsey shook her head. ‘I only know them through you and Max.'

It was odd, Rona reflected, that she and Lindsey moved for the most part in different social circles. Lindsey had a lot of legal friends, and was still on visiting terms with people she'd known during her marriage to Hugh. Only where old friends were concerned did the two of them attend the same parties.

‘Have you spoken to Mum recently?' she asked, feeling a stab of guilt at her own dereliction.

‘Yes, actually; she's full of beans, interviewing plumbers and builders for this conversion she's planning. And she's very chuffed to have received several party invitations for the next few weeks. She thought she'd be out on a limb without Pops, but not a bit of it, apparently.'

‘That's great. I must give her a ring – I've been meaning to, but …'

‘The road to hell?' Lindsey supplied.

‘Exactly.'

‘But you're doing the decent thing over Christmas. It was good of Max to grasp that nettle.'

‘Yes; he booked the table weeks ago, without saying anything. He knew if he waited till we'd all made up our minds, the place would have been fully booked.' Rona hesitated. ‘Like to come to us on Christmas Eve, and stay over? We could open stockings together, like old times.'

‘Oh, Ro, I'd have loved to, but I promised I'd go to Mum's. She'll be all alone for the first time.'

‘Of course. It was just a thought.'

Her first New Year Resolution, Rona decided, would be to keep in regular touch with
both
her parents.

Tom Parish sat in front of his television, along, no doubt, with most Marsborough residents who were home at lunchtime, watching the latest reports on the gruesome findings. Velma Tarlton, that bubbly, laughing girl he remembered seeing about town all those years ago, murdered: he'd known her by sight before either he or she were married, and, truth to tell, had had the odd fantasy about her. Unbelievable that she should have met such a grisly end. The family must be going through hell, though apparently they were still open for business. Putting a brave face on it, he supposed.

Well, good for them. He hadn't intended looking there for Christmas presents, but he and Avril had patronized the firm all their married life, and they deserved a bit of loyalty. He'd go in this afternoon; see if he could find something for Catherine. Show a bit of support, if the chance arose. Heaven knew, there was little else he could do.

There were a lot of people Rona didn't know at the Grants' party. Simon, like Max, was an artist, and so, she gathered, were the majority of the guests. Max seemed to know quite a few of them, but their names jumbled up in her head, and she knew she'd never remember them. Glad to see familiar faces, she gravitated, as soon as politeness allowed, towards Georgia and Patrick Kingston. The woman they were talking to turned as she approached, and smiled at her.

‘It's Miss Parish, isn't it? From Chase Mortimer?'

Rona smiled back. ‘Right name, wrong sister. Lindsey's my twin.'