Leave the Grave Green

After a moment’s thought, Plummy said, “I believe it was an ENO fund-raising reception. In those days Julia still occasionally attended musical functions. She was just beginning to make her mark as an artist, and she hadn’t completely left her parents’ orbit.” She shook her head. “It took me by surprise from the start—Julia had always preferred the sort of intellectual and arty types, and Con was about as far removed from that as one could imagine. I tried talking to her, but she wouldn’t hear a word of it.”

“And were they as ill-matched as you thought?”

“Oh yes,” she answered with a sigh, swirling the tea in the bottom of her cup. “More so.”

When Plummy didn’t elaborate, Gemma asked, “Did you know that Connor had been seeing someone?”

She looked up in surprise. “Recently, you mean? A girlfriend?”

“A young woman with a small daughter.”

“No. No, I didn’t.” With the compassion Gemma had begun to expect of her, Plummy added, “Oh, the poor thing. I suppose she will have taken his death quite badly.”

The words unlike Julia seemed to hang unspoken between them. “She’s moved back, you know,” said Plummy. “Julia. Into the flat. I told her I didn’t think it looked well at all, but she said it was her flat, after all, and she had the right to do whatever she liked with it.”

Gemma thought of the upstairs studio, empty of Julia Swann’s disturbing presence, and felt an unaccountable sense of relief. “When did she go?”

“This morning, early. She has missed her studio, poor love—I never understood why she let Con stay on in the house. But there’s no reasoning with her once she’s made up her mind about something.”

The exasperated affection in Plummy’s voice reminded Gemma of her own mum, who swore that her red-haired daughter had been born stubborn. Not that Vi Walters was one to talk, Gemma thought with a smile. “Was Julia always so headstrong?”

Plummy regarded her steadily for long moment, then said, “No, not always.” She glanced at her watch. “Have you finished your tea, dear? Caro should be free by now, and she has another student coming this afternoon, so we’d better sandwich you in between.”

“Caro, this is Sergeant James,” Plummy announced as she ushered Gemma into the sitting room. Then she withdrew, and Gemma felt the draft of cool air as the door clicked shut.

Caroline Stowe stood with her back to the fire, as had her husband when Gemma and Kincaid had interviewed him two days earlier. She stepped toward Gemma with her hand outstretched. “How nice to meet you, Sergeant. How can I help you?”

Her hand felt small and cool in Gemma’s, as soft as a child’s. Involuntarily, Gemma glanced at the photograph on the piano. While it had given her a hint of the woman’s feminine delicacy, it hadn’t begun to express her vitality. “It’s just a routine follow-up on the report you gave Thames Valley CID, Dame Caroline,” said Gemma, and her own voice sounded harsh in her ears.

“Sit down, please.” Dame Caroline moved to the sofa and patted the cushion invitingly. Over white wool trousers she wore a long garnet-colored sweater. The soft cowl neck framed her face, its color the perfect foil for her pale skin and dark hair.

Gemma, who had dressed with particular care that morning, suddenly found her favorite olive silk skirt and blouse as drab as camouflage, and as she sat down she felt awkward and clumsy. A flush of embarrassment warmed her cheeks and she said quickly, “Dame Caroline, I understand from your initial statement that you were at home last Thursday evening. Can you tell me what you did?”

“Of course, Sergeant, if you find it necessary,” Caroline said with an air of gracious resignation. “I had dinner with Plummy—that’s Vivian Plumley—then we watched something on the telly, I’m afraid I can’t remember what. Does it matter?”

“Then what did you do?”

“Plummy made us some cocoa, that must have been around ten o’clock. We talked for a bit, then went to bed.” Apologetically, she added, “It was a very ordinary evening, Sergeant.”

“Do you remember what time your husband came in?”

“I’m afraid not. I sleep quite soundly, and we have separate beds, so he seldom disturbs me when he comes in late after a performance.”

“And your daughter didn’t disturb you when she returned in the early hours of the morning?” Gemma asked, wanting to shake Caroline’s polished complacency just a bit.

“She did not. My daughter is a grown woman and comes and goes as she pleases. I’m not in the habit of keeping tabs on her whereabouts.”

Bull’s-eye, thought Gemma. She’d hit a sensitive spot. “I understand from Mrs. Plumley that your daughter has gone back to the flat she shared with Connor. Did you approve of her being on her own again so soon, considering the circumstances?”