Matricide at St. Martha's (15 page)

He appeared lost in thought for several minutes; Pooley wondered if he were praying. At length he roused himself and looked at his watch.

‘Six o’clock. We’d better be getting home to Mother.’

‘Mother?’

Romford smiled. ‘That’s what I call Mrs Romford.’

Pooley felt it didn’t augur very well.

Pooley never was to find out Mrs Romford’s first name, for Inspector Romford had firm notions about keeping a proper social distance with subordinates. It was one thing to let them into your house; it was quite another to let hierarchical standards slip. Mrs Romford herself was more friendly.

‘ “Ellis”,’ she said, ‘that’s a funny name. I never heard that before.’

‘It’s been in the family a long time.’

‘Oh, how nice, dear,’ she said vaguely. ‘I like a nice historical name. Now, would you excuse me a minute while I ask my husband about something?’

‘Can’t it wait, Mother?’

‘It’ll only take a minute, Michael.’ She seemed excited. ‘I’m sure Ellis won’t mind.’

‘Of course not, Mrs Romford.’

They left him in the living room. Unexpectedly for a man of Romford’s known austerity, like the frock Mrs Romford was wearing, the decor was big on flounces and patterns. The pink curtains with their ruffles and loops picked out one of the more overwhelming colours in the garishly-patterned carpet, the fabric of the loose covers of the three-piece suite picked up the purple, the green and the orange, and had deep frills at the hems, elaborately-worked antimacassars at the back and on the arms and a large number of tapestry scatter cushions of a quite remarkable banality. Pooley could not decide which one was the worst: the swan, the doe-eyed deer, the white fluffy kitten or the soulful labrador.

Having taken in as much of this as he could, he proceeded to the photographs – all in velvet or gilt frames – which hung on the wall or – along with crocheted coasters and embroidered mats – cluttered up the occasional tables. There was the usual clutch of sepia grannies and grandads and black-and-white mums and dads and a wedding photograph of a stern-faced young Romford, stiffly arm in arm with a pretty little woman with a big trusting smile. Though not immediately identifiable as Mrs Romford, it was undoubtedly her, for her little pill-box hat had a vast cabbage rose and sprayed veils in all directions, the nipped-in costume was enlivened by cascading ruffs at the neck and at the wrists, there were rosettes at the front of the shoes and the bridal bouquet had an elaborate muslin and lace surround.

There were three photographs of Romford in uniform, recording his progress from constable through sergeant to inspector, two of christenings of baby Romfords (at which Mrs Romford had done things with cartwheel hats), the graduation photograph of a stiff youth who took after his father and wedding pictures of both him and what must be his sister; certainly her wedding dress bore all the signs of her mother’s loving hand.

The only reading material in the room was the current copy of
Reader’s Digest
, a leatherbound Bible and a copy of a women’s magazine containing advice on making marmalade economically, knitting cuddly toys, making him a waistcoat for that very special occasion and many other explorations into the world of feminine crafts.

His host and hostess came within earshot. ‘I’m sorry, Mother.’ Romford had that tone of finality he adopted to refuse reasonable requests from subordinates. ‘You just have to remember where your duty lies.’

When they opened the door they saw Pooley gazing fixedly at a
Reader’s Digest
article on the Andes.

‘Sorry to have left you for so long.’ Romford was affable. ‘Mother and I had a little domestic matter to sort out. Now, can I get you something to drink?’

Pooley was all too aware of Romford’s views on alcohol to have any false optimism. ‘Orange squash or lemonade?’ urged Romford hospitably.

‘I think just a glass of water, thank you.’

A depressed-looking Mrs Romford bustled off and Romford and Pooley sat down. ‘Now, Pooley, I should tell you that I don’t bring my work home. There are a lot of things that go on in our job, as you know, that are not fit to talk to women about. Their minds aren’t as strong as ours and they’re easily corrupted. So we’ll keep off all that over tea. Just keep the conversation general.’

‘I quite understand, sir. But won’t Mrs Romford have seen something about St Martha’s in the newspaper?’

‘My wife doesn’t read newspapers. I’m pleased to say she’s far too busy being a homemaker.’

Pooley’s culinary taste tended towards the austere and health-giving: though in content traditional, Mrs Romford’s cuisine looked like everything else about her. There were fairy cakes with cherries on top, iced cakes with multicoloured decorations, the tomatoes and radishes were sculpted, the hard-boiled eggs were quartered and symmetrically arranged and the tinned salmon was festooned with chopped beetroot.

‘Mr Romford likes his food ordinary,’ she said rather sadly. ‘He’s never been keen on experimenting.’

‘There’s enough foreign influences in this country, Pooley, without letting it affect what we eat. What my mother gave me is good enough for me.’ His tone softened and became indulgent. ‘However, I don’t mind if Mother likes to pretty it up a bit the way she does.’

Mrs Romford cheered up a little after that accolade and further still when Pooley complimented her on the matching embroidered napkins and tablecloth.

‘I like to keep myself busy,’ she said modestly. ‘My job doesn’t take up much time.’ She threw at Romford what looked like a rather mutinous glance.

‘Mother has a little job, Pooley. Very suitable for a married woman.’

‘And that is?’

‘I work part time in a curtain shop.’ Her eyes gleamed. ‘I really enjoy it. Lots of the people that come in, they don’t know what they’re looking for; they just want help. And I know the difference between all the nets and I help them make all those decisions about whether you should have a valance on your soft furnishings, or if it’s curtains, what to do about pelmets and swags, how to arrange the tags and the loops and the ruffles and about the curtain rods and the rails and the automatic closings and which fabrics for direct sunlight and how to keep them clean and…’

‘Mother’s quite a little expert.’

‘You certainly are,’ said Pooley. ‘I’m very impressed. I hardly know the difference between a curtain and a blind myself.’

‘They want me to be the manageress,’ Mrs Romford blurted out suddenly. ‘They just asked me today.’

‘Now, Mother, we won’t talk about that.’

‘But I’d have to work full time and Mr Romford’s against it. What do you think, Ellis?’

‘An unmarried lad like that isn’t going to have anything to say about something like this,’ said Roînford, much to Pooley’s relief. ‘Although I’d say he’s seen enough to know that no good comes of women moving out of their sacred sphere as guardians of the home.’

‘Are you talking about what’s going on at that college, St Martha’s?’

‘What do you know about that?’

‘One of the girls told me at work. She knows someone who works there and says there’s been a lot of carry-on, even before this murder.’

Seeing the expression on Romford’s face, Pooley cut in with, ‘I was admiring your photographs, Mrs Romford,’ and the rest of tea passed in a welter of harmless maternal boasting. That very month, it turned out, Mrs Romford was preparing to welcome the first grandchild with a trunkload of woolly hats, booties and cardies. Pooley expressed so much interest that when they went into the living room, she brought in a christening frock which seemed to be composed of about seventeen layers. Pooley wondered how they would ever find the baby in the middle of it. ‘What beautiful workmanship. Your daughter will be very pleased.’

‘Oh, she will. The day she got married I said to her: “I made your wedding dress and now I’ll begin on the robe for the first grandchild.” Would you like to see a video of the wedding?’

Pooley had long ago adopted the line of least resistance. ‘That would be delightful.’

‘You’ll be able to hear Dad preaching. It was very powerful what he said.’

‘I’m sure it was.’ Pooley prayed the event would be sufficiently awful to be more horrifying than boring.

18

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Amiss was having a far better time. Loneliness had led him to prowl the corridors and the gardens in the hope of meeting someone he could ask out for dinner. In the absence of the Bursar, there were no obvious candidates but he had some vague lingering hope that someone appropriate would turn up. He thought he might even take a risk on Pippa; her record would keep him safely celibate. In the end, having discovered from a passing policeman that the library was now open again, he drifted in and found Mary Lou there alone reading in an out-of-the-way corner. When she saw him, she jumped.

‘Hello, Mary Lou. What are you reading?’

‘Nothing in particular.’ She closed her book and put it in the middle of a pile where he could not read the title. She waved vaguely at the books on the table. ‘Just browsing.’

The visible titles were boringly predictable: a compendium of lesbian and gay short stories and Mary Daly’s
Wickedary
, which the Bursar had told him was the worst of all the pieces of pretentious crap the sisterhood were trying to force on to the curriculum.

‘Mind if I look at this?’ He picked it up. The cover, adorned with mystic signs and cobwebs, set his teeth on edge. Matters were made no better by the promise on the back to free language ‘from the “academic fraternities of Bearded Brother No-it-alls” ’, by defining words ‘Naming Elemental Realities, the Inhabitants of the Background, and the fatuous foreground world of patriarchy’. He flicked through with increasing irritation. It was a paen of praise to feminist ‘Nag’Gnostic scholars’ who chose the ‘Ecstatic Spinning Process over the accumulation of dead bodies of knowledge’, that caused him to hurl the book so violently on to the table that it shot off the end and crashed against the wall.

There was a long silence. He walked around the table, picked up the volume between finger and thumb and presented it to Mary Lou. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I don’t mean to be offensive, but quite apart from the cosmic New Age blither Ms Daly is spouting, her man-hating is a bit hard for a bloke to take.’

‘Even a gay bloke?’

‘I don’t think one’s sexuality has much to do with it,’ said Amiss stiffly. ‘Being gay doesn’t mean you’ve lost your marbles. Anyway, are we not men? And if you prick us do we not bleed?’

‘Is there an esoteric pun in there somewhere?’

‘If there is, it’s accidental.’

There was another silence. He gazed disconsolately at another couple of Daly’s mad entries. ‘I’m fed up wandering around this dank, depressing building,’ he suddenly said violently. ‘What’s more, I don’t think I’m going to be cheered up by sitting at high table with the mourners. How would you feel about coming out to dinner?’

Mary Lou smiled. ‘Positive. Are you asking any of the others?’

‘I rather thought as the two newest Fellows we might get to know each other first.’

She raised an eyebrow and then nodded. ‘OK, but I’d rather not advertise it unnecessarily. I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings.’

Amiss became suddenly decisive. ‘Look, neither of us knows Cambridge but we can find our way to the University Arms on Parker’s Piece. I’ll see you in the bar at seven and I’ll have booked us a restaurant by then.’

‘OK,’ she said equably, ‘as long as you don’t expect me to dress.’

‘Not at all,’ he said, looking at her boiler suit and trainers. ‘By all means come as you are.’

In deference perhaps to the likely paternalistic impulses of the University Arms proprietors, Mary Lou had after all changed and was looking extremely fetching in tight, white high-necked jumper, black trousers and knee-high boots. Amiss had become far too conditioned after only a few days in St Martha’s to say anything at all about her appearance, but it was certainly hard to repress the decidedly sexist thoughts that were arising in him. ‘Luscious’ was the word that kept running through his head as his eyes flickered towards her body. He remembered the instructions given to academics on American campuses never to look at a woman below the chin lest she feels sexually abused and concentrated instead on Mary Lou’s attractive face.

‘Can I get you a drink?’

‘Yes, please. Bourbon on the rocks.’ She noticed the look of pleased surprise on his face. ‘Well, what did you expect me to say. Carrot juice?’

‘Well you are American; I thought you were all health freaks.’

‘Haven’t you been warned at St Martha’s about offensive stereotyping?’

‘We haven’t got as far as Americans yet.’

‘OK, I’ll see what I can do to help.’

By the time they reached the restaurant, Amiss had learned that Mary Lou was twenty-five, that she came from Minneapolis, that she had won a scholarship to a second-rate Boston university where she’d got a first in English in her BA and MA and then a Ph.D, that she’d always wanted to go to Oxford or Cambridge and so had applied for the St Martha’s Research Fellowship. She had learned that Amiss was twenty-eight, that his father, like hers, was a middle-income, white-collar worker, that he’d got an upper second at Oxford in History, that he was an ex-civil servant and that he was uncertain about his future. By the time they had finished their first bottle of wine, Amiss knew that Minneapolis was the most godforsaken hole in the US, where the locals’ idea of a night life was a hamburger joint with neon lighting where the waitresses went round on roller skates and that her parents were stultifyingly respectable.

‘I think they always saw themselves as playing out the role of the idealized black family. You know, Mr and Mrs Black Middle America. Mom baked cookies and worked part time as a cashier in the local department store, Dad played golf and on Sundays we went to church, a nice respectable church, not one of those tambourine-playing, dancing, black churches. My older sister became a nurse and got engaged to a doctor.’