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‘I’m sure you know that they end at eight thirty!’ The answer was instant. ‘Either that or you are a much less competent detective than you appear to be.’
‘So Lucy left at eight thirty, then?’
‘I never said that inspector.’ The smile was back on her face, though it was a smile devoid of warmth.
‘Do you mean she left later?’
‘They aren’t strict on visiting hours here. And Lucy wasn’t a clock watcher when she visited me. In fact, I usually had to remind her that time was more than up. So I’d guess it was more like eight forty-five when she left.’
‘So she visits you regularly, does she?’
‘Three or four times.’
‘That’s very good of her.’
‘Yes, she’s very kind.’ Marjorie shut her eyes, and made a grimace. Holden took this as her cue to stand up.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I’ve intruded enough on your kindness.’
The ill woman’s eyes opened again. ‘Lucy likes to talk about her mother. You see, Christine and I were friends before she was born, and when she was born of course. Lucy was only one when her mother died, so she likes to ask me about her. What was she like? What sort of young woman was she? What did she like wearing? Indian skirts or Laura Ashley, miniskirts or jeans, stilettos or flats? What was her favourite perfume? She couldn’t talk to her father about her, not after he had married Maria. So I think maybe that was why she liked visiting me. We could sit here in absolute privacy and say anything and everything. It was liberating – for me as well as her.’
Holden swallowed. She had been prepared to leave, yet now the woman lying so pale and drawn in the bed had become animated. So she took her chance. ‘Did Lucy get on well with Maria?’
‘Oh, Inspector!’ Mrs Drabble grinned up at her. ‘Never one to lose sight of your goal, I can see. Ask the key questions come what may. A very admirable quality, though not perhaps one that will win you many friends.’
‘I’ll go in a minute,’ Holden said quickly.
‘Just as soon as I’ve answered, eh?’ She laughed, but the laugh was followed by a cough, and then a bout of coughing that had Holden on her feet and hurrying to pass her a glass of water. She gulped at it desperately, and then lay back as she regained control of herself.
‘I’ll go now,’ Holden said firmly. She had found out as much as she was going to about Lucy’s timings that night, and some other information besides. Best not to push any harder.
But Marjorie Drabble hadn’t finished. ‘Considering they were stepdaughter and stepmother, they didn’t get on too badly, as far as I could see. Mind you, perhaps I should explain that I didn’t see a lot of either of them. When Maria came along and took Christine’s place, I didn’t approve. It had all happened too quickly. Alan and Maria must have sensed it, because none of us made any attempt to keep in touch socially. Alan was my GP, so I kept in touch with him that way, but it was as if a glass wall had come down between us. We saw each other when I had a medical problem, but we never really communicated.’
‘So how was it that Lucy started to visit you in hospital?’
Again, Marjorie Drabble shut h
er eyes. Holden could see that she was tiring, but some part of her brain refused to be convinced. To be too tired to answer this question would be very convenient for Mrs Drabble. Could Lucy really have come and visited her in the hospital just because she felt sorry for her? Somehow, she couldn’t believe it. It didn’t add up.
But she wasn’t going to get an answer out of Marjorie Drabble, not now. For the hospital patient had pressed the bell to call the nurse. ‘I need to rest,’ she said firmly. Immediately the door opened, as if the nurse had been waiting outside with nothing else to worry about except meeting Marjorie Drabble’s every need instantly.
‘Time’s up, I think, Inspector,’ she said.
Holden nodded, thanked Mrs Drabble, and got up to leave.
Cornforth College is situated on the western side of the Woodstock Road, three or four hundred metres to the north of what used to be the Radcliffe Infirmary. The building had started life as a pair of semi-detached family residences, though of a size and magnificence that ruled them out of the reach of all but the most affluent of Oxford families. Their ownership had passed from senior university academics to businessmen, and then finally to Gerald Cornforth, a former public school headmaster who had grown frustrated with the irksome interference of a board of trustees and decided to set up his own educational establishment. DS Fox had driven past it on a number of occasions, and had noticed the blue and white board outside it which proclaimed its name, but beyond that he knew nothing of Cornforth College. This was not his part of the city, and he was certainly not a man who had ever felt the need or desire to seek out a private education establishment. A lack of offspring and a determinedly working-class outlook had ensured that.
Fox had parked the car in a side road, shortly after dropping Holden outside the Raglan Hospital, for their destinations were only a few hundred metres apart. He had then walked back down to the Woodstock Road, and turned left. Inadvertently, he found himself following two young women, with uniform blonde hair, white blouses and short dark skirts. They themselves turned left when they reached the college, walked up to the arch-shaped green door on the left-hand side of the building, and entered. Fox followed them, but once inside he stopped. The female students were already half-way up the wide wooden staircase which dominated the entrance hall. He looked around, and immediately saw someone he knew.
‘Mrs Russell!’ The administrator, who had been making her way from her office to try to locate the senior tutor, looked at the man looming in front of her.
‘You haven’t come to see me, have you?’ she said defensively.
‘No,’ Fox said, noting the alarm in her voice.
‘That’s just as well,’ she said quickly, ‘because I am very busy at the moment.’
‘I need to speak to Joseph Tull,’ Fox said mildly. ‘Perhaps you can track him down for me?’
