Caught in the Light (33 page)

I scanned the meagre paragraphs, recognizing my own name and a more or less accurate snatch of the measured words I'd used to describe what had happened. I was driving south down Barnet Hill at about thirty miles an hour when a figure dressed in dark clothes ran straight out into the road in front of me. I braked, but she was too close for me to avoid a collision." The coroner had gone along with that and the police had been obliged to. The jury hadn't quibbled either. "Miss Courtney was probably hurrying because of the heavy rain falling at the time," the coroner was quoted as saying in his summing-up. "Tragically, her haste cost her her life. There is no evidence to suggest that Mr. Jarrett was driving recklessly or carelessly. No blame can be attached to him." No blame. No blame at all. Officially.

And the victim? My gaze tracked back to the opening paragraph. "A verdict of accidental death was recorded at an inquest held this week into the death, following a road accident on Barnet Hill on 23 March, of Isabel Courtney (36), a Sotheby's valuations expert, of Smollett Avenue, Clapham." That was all there was by way of an obituary for the woman I'd killed. Now that I saw it in print, I vaguely recalled the police officer who'd interviewed me saying that she'd had 'a promising career in the arts world'. He'd said it reproachfully. It was as close as he'd allowed himself to get to accusing me of responsibility for her death. The absence of witnesses had prevented him getting any closer. And I'd stonewalled him at every turn.

I walked from the library through the shopping centre as far as the Underground station, and looked down Barnet Hill towards the railway bridge. The morning was still and bright, unhaunted and un echoing But, if I closed my eyes, I could still remember the sound of the impact and, what was worse, the pitch of the car and the thud beneath it as I drove over her.

Why was she in Barnet? Who did she know there? Where was she born? Who were her friends? The questions milled in my head, questions I'd been determined five years before not even to ask, let alone answer. Then one question focused the rest. What kind of material had she valued for Sotheby's? What could it have been?

It was a guess, but somehow not a wild one. I went back to the car, rang Sotheby's and asked to speak to their photographic expert. I was put through to his assistant, a courteous but reticent woman who identified herself as Mary Whiting.

"I'm afraid Duncan Noakes is in New York this week," she informed me. "Can I help you in any way?"

"Perhaps. It's a long shot, and you'll think it an odd question. But was Mr. Noakes's predecessor a Miss Isobel Courtney?"

"Yes. She was. But.. ."

"Miss Courtney's dead. I know. Did you ... work with her?"

"Well, yes." She hesitated. "I did."

"Closely?"

"As her assistant."

"So you knew her reasonably well?"

"Yes. Very well. I had an extremely high regard for her."

"Would you be willing to meet and tell me a little about Isobel, Ms Whiting? I'd be enormously grateful for any information you can give me."

"Why should you want information about somebody who's been dead for, what must it be, five years now? You'll forgive me, but the request seems positively macabre, Mr. .. ."

"Jarrett. Remember the name?"

"I can't say I do."

"I was the driver of the car that hit her."

"You were ... I beg your pardon?"

"The driver. The man responsible. I... feel I've never properly .. . faced up to what I did. It might help me to do so if I could .. . find out what sort of person Isobel was."

"A very fine person, Mr. Jarrett. That I can tell you."

"Would a brief meeting be asking too much, Ms Whiting?"

"Well, I... I suppose not."

"Today?"

"I'm afraid I'm extremely busy."

Too busy for lunch?" "I'm really not sure I can '

"Please, Ms Whiting. You have to have lunch. Why not have it with me?"

She was a middle-aged woman who combined stylish dress sense with a seemingly deliberate plainness of hair and face. My first impression, when I met her outside Sotheby's Bond Street entrance, was of somebody set complacently in dullish ways, but I soon realized that was merely a pose. She had quick wits and a sharp mind. As well as a disquieting gift for implying she knew she was being told less than the truth.

"Were you really the driver of the car that hit Isobel?" she asked over a modest ri sotto and a glass of house red in the nearby trattoria she'd chosen for our lunch.

"Yes. I was."

"And five years later you've been visited by the compelling desire to get to know her."

"You sound as if you don't believe me."

"It's just that it seems rather late in the day for your conscience to be pricked." She eyed me deliberatively before adding, "But what exactly do you want to know about her?"

"Anything you can tell me."

"Well, as I told you on the phone, she was somebody I had a great deal of respect for, both personally and professionally. That makes her very rare in my experience, believe me. My knowledge of her was confined to work, of course. We didn't meet socially. But, being her assistant, I observed her at close quarters for several years. One gets to know someone pretty well in such circumstances."

"How would you describe her?"

"Honourable. Devoid of malice. Even to the extent of pretending she hadn't heard office gossip, let alone participating in it. She was capable of extreme kindness. Her solicitude while I was easing myself back into work after a serious illness was quite touching. At other times, with other people, she could seem aloof, even insensitive. But that was only because of her dedication to the job in hand. She had remarkable powers of concentration."

"What exactly was the job in hand?"

"Valuing and acquiring collectable photographs for auction. Mostly the rare and/or antique variety. Her knowledge of photographic history was second to none. Mr. Noakes is a journeyman by comparison, though competent enough in his way. But Isobel had, well, let's call it an eye. A sense for photographic art, if you understand me."

"Yes. I think I do."

"She was a considerable connoisseur in her own right, actually."

"Really? Whose work did she like?"

"Early Victorian female photographers. The earlier the better. Julia Margaret Cameron, obviously. But others less well known: Lucy Bridgeman, Augusta Crofton, Fanny Jocelyn .. ."

"Marian Esguard?"

"I beg your pardon?" But she'd heard. I knew that by the startled look on her face.

"Wasn't there a famous pioneer photographer called Marian Esguard?"

"No. I don't believe there was." She frowned. "I've certainly never heard of her. When was she active?"

"I'm not sure. Very early on, I think. But, forgive me, your reaction ... I could have sworn the name meant something to you."

"It did, yes." She softened. "I'd never thought it might have a photographic context, though, considering I'd be bound to have come across at least a reference to her by now if she'd produced any significant work. But I never have. Not once, that I can recall. And I'm not the forgetful type, I can assure you."

"So you'd remember where you heard of her before?"

"Oh yes. She was mentioned to me at, well, at Isobel's funeral."

"Who by?"

"One of the other mourners. A friend of Isobel's. Not a colleague, I mean. Nor a relative, so far as I could gather. She didn't actually specify how they knew each other. Perhaps from school or university. I'd have said she was a little older than Isobel, though, so '

"What did she say?"

"Well, it was the strangest thing. We went back to Isobel's house in Clapham after the funeral. It wasn't a large party. A dozen or so, all told. It was a rather stilted affair, standing in Isobel's drawing room, which I'd never been in before, with her mother and father pressing cakes and sandwiches on us that I for one had no stomach for, surrounded by Isobel's collection of early Victorian photographs on the walls. There was a particularly fine blown-up print of a Cameron portrait over the fireplace. Mrs. Duckworth, 1867. It's quite famous, actually. I was admiring it when this friend of Isobel's, as I took her to be, approached me, puffing a slim cigar, of all things, and She broke off, noticing my reaction to the description. "You know her?"

"I shouldn't think so. Go on. You were going to tell me what she said."

"Yes. So I was. Well, she asked me how I knew Isobel and I explained. I must have asked her the same question, but something else cropped up before she could answer. Or she avoided the issue. I can't remember which. At all events, she got me chatting about what a wonderful person Isobel was to work for, then suddenly asked, "Did she ever talk to you about Marian Esguard?" Just like that. When I said no, she asked if I was sure. When I said I was, she changed the subject, then pretty niftily moved away to talk to someone else. All in all, rather odd behaviour. That's why it's stuck in my mind. But as for Marian Esguard being a notable early photographer, well, I'm afraid you're wrong there."

"Am I?"

"Why, yes. If she had been, Isobel would most certainly have been interested in her, and I'd have heard of her as a result."

"I suppose so. Tell me, who else was at the funeral?"

"Oh, two or three other people from Sotheby's. Several neighbours. Various relatives: an aunt and uncle, a cousin. Assorted friends."

"Any ... male friends?"

"Not that I recall."

"She lived alone?"

"As far as I ever knew. That was my ... impression. Not that there mightn't have been ... occasional admirers ... but Isobel wasn't in the habit of volunteering details of her private life."

"Ever heard of Conrad Nyman?"

She thought about it for a moment, then shook her head. "No."

"Debonair business type. Robert Redford looks. Cartloads of charm."

"I've never met him."

"If he wasn't at the funeral, maybe he phoned Isobel from time to time."

"No. Definitely not. What makes you think otherwise?" She was growing suspicious now and I could hardly blame her. "Am I to assume, Mr. Jarrett, that there really is more at stake here than your unquiet conscience?"

"I think you've assumed that all along, haven't you?"

"Yes." She cocked her eyebrows frankly at me. "I have. I've also assumed you aren't going to tell me what it is."

"Who else could I ask about Isobel?"

"Members of her family, I suppose."

"And where would I find them?"

"Her parents were shopkeepers in Chichester. They kept a tobacconist's business. Five years ago, at any rate. They could have retired since, of course. Or died. Like Isobel."

"Yes. So they could. Any idea of the name and address of the shop?"

"None. But there's something I can tell you. Something I ought to tell you. Mr. and Mrs. Courtney were good people, good, gentle people who loved their daughter very much. That was my abiding impression of them. They weren't bitter about what had happened to her, just very, very sad. I asked Mr. Courtney how he felt about the driver of the car. About you, that is. He said he didn't blame you accidents happen. But he also said you should have attended the funeral. Or written to them at the very least. He thought he had a right to expect that much of you. I thought so, too."

"Yes." I tried not to flinch as I looked at her. "And you were both right."

I was in Chichester by four o'clock. All the way down, the accusation in Mary Whiting's voice had lingered in my thoughts. I should have attended the funeral. Or at least written to Isobel Courtney's parents. It was true. So I should. But my solicitor had advised me to say as little as possible to her family for fear of implying I was in any way at fault. I'd told myself that hearing from me would only upset them further. Besides, I'd still had the police breathing down my neck at the time, as well as a hurt and angry wife. I hadn't been short of excuses. Some of them had even been genuine. But they were all played out now.

Chichester itself, bustling with shoppers in the afternoon sunshine, seemed edged with mystery, strung with invisible threads that I brushed through at every step. Isobel Courtney had grown up in the city. Just like Marian Esguard. Whose past was whose? I wondered. Whose story came first?

I parked where Eris had claimed to, at the Festival Theatre, and walked down North Street towards the centre. At the first news agent I came to, I asked if they knew of a specialist tobacconist in the city and was recommended to try the Pipe Rack in South Street.

"I think I've heard of it," I said. "Is it run by the Courtneys?"

"Well, just Sam Courtney now. Doris died a couple of years ago. Sam's been on his own since. I think he only keeps the place going for the company. Sad, really."

And sad it surely was. The window display was more like a faded museum exhibit, sun-bleached posters recalling long-forgotten tobacco advertising mottoes "Trust Gold Leaf to taste good' and the like. The shop itself looked as though it had been closed down months ago and was awaiting a refit, pending which the vestigial stock of pipes, tobacco and smoking accessories had been left to gather dust.

But the sign on the door insisted it was open for business and, a minute or so after the bell had tinkled into silence behind me, a small, round, white-haired old man in a threadbare cardigan, frayed shirt and rumpled trousers wheezed out from the rear, cleared his throat with evident difficulty, peered at me through jam-jar-bottom glasses and asked if he could help.

"Mr. Courtney?"

"Yes. Do I know you?" He squinted at me. "I do, don't I? I'm afraid my memory's not what it was."

"I'm Ian Jarrett." I offered him my hand. "The driver of the car that killed Isobel."

He looked at me blankly for several seconds, then my words seemed to register. "Of course. Yes, I remember you from the inquest. The driver of the car. Jarrett, did you say?"

"Yes. I should have contacted you at the time to say how extremely sorry I was. I know it's late in the day, but will you .. . accept my condolences?"

I was still holding my hand out. Abstractedly, he shook it, then pulled out a stool from beneath the counter and sank down onto it. He was breathing rapidly and shallowly, the wheeze threatening at any moment to turn into a convulsing cough. "Your condolences. Yes, of course. You've er... come a long way?"