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‘I can think of at least two buts.’ Holden paused, but her eyes were fully alert, watching the frail old woman in front of her, whose brain and spirit were anything but frail. ‘Why don’t you ask Marjorie?’ That had been what Lucy Tull had said. Which meant, surely, that Marjorie Drabble knew more than she was letting on. ‘But number one: can it really have been the first time that Maria had had an affair?’
‘Possibly not. But maybe it was the first time Lucy found out.’
Holden rubbed her nose with her right forefinger. It wasn’t so much what Drabble had said – she herself had thought along the same lines – but the readiness of her answers, as if she had been expecting this interview and had prepared for it accordingly.
‘Yes,’ she admitted, ‘I expect you’re right.’ But she was hoping that she herself was right too, that by enlisting Marjorie Drabble’s help in all of this, she might also be lulling her into saying something more than she intended. ‘But that doesn’t explain why she killed Dominic Russell, does it?’ She waited then, curious to see if the response this time would be as quick. And, of course, she wondered what exactly Marjorie would say in response.
The answer to that was, initially, nothing. ‘All this talking is making me thirsty,’ she said. ‘Perhaps you can order us a pot of tea? Just dial zero. In the meantime, I’d like a couple of minutes’ break.’
Holden did as she was told, and sat down again until there came a tap at the door, and a smartly uniformed middle-aged woman entered balancing a tray with a tea pot, milk jug and a pair of cups and saucers, all in the same blue-rimmed white china. Holden poured them each a cup. ‘White, no sugar, please,’ Drabble said, opening her eyes, and shuffling herself into a more upright position. She took a sip as Holden moved back to her seat. ‘So, where were we?’
‘Dominic Russell,’ Holden responded. She wasn’t convinced that Drabble had forgotten, but maybe with the combination of pain and drugs she had. ‘I was saying that I couldn’t see why Lucy would have killed Dominic Russell.’
‘So do you have any theories?’
Holden shrugged. Drabble was suddenly being very cagey. She had been full of immediate responses concerning the deaths of Maria Tull and Jack Smith, but now she seemed to be deliberately avoiding giving any answers. ‘Maybe he had had an affair with Maria,’ Holden mused, ‘but somehow that doesn’t ring true to me.’
‘Why not?’ Again, she was much more ready to ask questions than answer them.
‘My impression was that Dominic was more interested in younger women than women of Maria’s age.’
‘Oh?’ Another uncommitted response.
Holden said nothing. Maybe silence would push Drabble into opening up. Or making a mistake. For whatever else, Holden was convinced she was holding back on something. ‘Why don’t you ask Marjorie?’ The words rattled insistently in her head. So she sipped her tea and waited.
Drabble too sipped at her tea, until she had finished it, and she held it there loosely in her hands. And then, quite suddenly, she spoke. ‘What about the painting? I understand they found one next to Dominic’s body, and it had been vandalized.’
Holden smiled politely. ‘Yes, quite right.’ She finished her cup of tea, and discarded it on the windowsill to her right, before turning back to face Drabble. ‘But, you know, the painting was not that valuable. A few thousands of pounds, but not hugely valuable, except possibly if you’re a Christian who strongly disapproved of the idea of Judas’s mother being comforted by Jesus’ mother. Would Lucy have had had views on that, do you think?’
‘I don’t know. But I doubt it. She didn’t talk about religion or going to church, as far as I can recall.’
‘So what exactly did she talk about when she was with you?’ Holden said quickly. It was time to apply some pressure.
‘Gosh! Let me see.’ Again there was the impression of a woman playing for a bit of time. ‘Well, she was very considerate of my health. I suppose she was worried I might change my mind and sue her father. My son Graham was very keen that I should—’
But Holden had had enough of pussyfooting. ‘You knew her mother. Her real mother, that is. Christine, wasn’t it? You told me last time Lucy liked to ask questions about her.’
‘Did I. Yes, well I suppose we did talk about her. Lucy wanted to know what she was like.’
‘Like the dresses and styles she wore and the music she listened to?’ Holden continued to press, speaking quickly and firmly. Even her questions sounded like statements. ‘Isn’t that what you told me last time? I’m fairly sure it was.’
Marjorie Drabble, who had been sitting up ever since she had received her tea, now lay back into her pile of pillows and gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘I’m feeling a bit weary.’
Holden made a noise that was halfway between a grunt and a laugh. But she wasn’t ready to concede any ground. ‘You only have to ring the bell, and the nurse will come running, and I’ll be forced to leave. Not that that it is any skin off my nose. Lucy is dead anyway, and we know she’s the murderer. It’s just dotting the i’s and crossing the t’s. That’s what I want to do, for my own satisfaction. I can’t bring back Karen from the dead. And she died because she found out about Lucy somehow, and Lucy realized.’ She stopped, to gather breath, though she wasn’t quite su
re what else she wanted to say.
‘She died because you didn’t catch Lucy first!’ But the stark truth of what she had said struck Holden with a ferocity of such intensity that she felt an almost physical pain in her stomach. Christ, how could she say that? How could she lay the blame on her?
How? Because, at some level, it was true. Holden was crying now. She felt the tears running down hot over her cheeks, stinging the pores of her skin, but she made no attempt to wipe them away. Her whole body reverberated with huge wracking sobs, and for the first time since Karen died, she abandoned herself completely to grief. And in this abandonment, she found – eventually – comfort.
‘I’m sorry.’ The apology didn’t register at first. It was a small voice, barely audible above the storm. ‘That’s wasn’t nice of me,’ it persisted. Holden raised her head, and discovered Marjorie Drabble looking at her. And there seemed to be genuine concern in her eyes.
Holden wiped her face, and nodded. ‘I don’t know what came over me.’
‘In fact, I’m not a very nice person, you know,’ Drabble said, continuing her own train of thought, and speaking more loudly, as if determined to be heard.
Despite her own emotional pain, Holden was alert to the change of emphasis in Drabble. She wondered how to respond, for the woman seemed to need a response. ‘My mother,’ Holden said, taking refuge from her own uncertainties, ‘would say we are all sinners.’
