pleasant.’
‘No longer recognizable,’ said Theo, half to himself, and Innes said explosively, ‘Oh God, her face was almost entirely gone and the eyes had been eaten—’ He stopped and swallowed hard. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said. ‘I honestly didn’t mean to say that.’
‘It’s all right,’ said Theo, knowing it wasn’t all right for either of them.
‘The police surgeon concluded she had been held down in the water, probably with a boathook,’ said Innes. ‘She had lacerations on her shoulders where the hook had torn into her flesh. I don’t think they ever found the boathook. I think they agreed it was probably thrown into the river after – after the killer finished.’
He stopped, and Theo, who was feeling slightly sick, but who was also feeling sorry for Michael Innes, said, ‘Let me make you a cup of tea. Or something stronger if you’d prefer.’
‘Tea would be welcome.’ He looked up gratefully, and his eyes widened suddenly, as if he had seen something behind Theo’s chair that startled him. Theo half-turned and realized it was the framed sketch of Charmery.
‘It’s a startling likeness, isn’t it?’ he said.
‘I’ve never seen it before.’ He seemed unable to take his eyes from the sketch.
‘It looks quite a good drawing, although I’ve no idea when it was done or who the artist might be. It isn’t signed or dated and there’s nothing on the back – I looked. I thought I might get it appraised some time – I’ve got a cousin who’s just finished studying art at the Slade – she might know how to go about it.’
‘Lesley?’
‘Yes. Did you know her?’
‘No, but Charmery mentioned her,’ said Innes, still staring at the sketch.
‘It makes her look quite different, doesn’t it?’ said Theo, going out to make the tea. ‘But then my cousin Charmery possessed a chameleon-like personality.’
‘Able to be all things to all men,’ said Innes, half to himself.
‘Exactly.’
After Innes left, Theo did not attempt to reclaim Matthew, or Mara’s forest cottage. Instead, he sat at the table, his chin resting on his hands, staring through the French windows.
Darkness was creeping across the garden, as if a veil was being drawn down slowly over it, and the small courtyard was already in shadow. In the old days they usually had breakfast there in the summer because it caught the morning sun. Charmery always wore a huge 1920s sunhat; it made her look like something from a soft-focus romantic film. But the wrought-iron table and chairs were covered in moss now, and the rose garden Helen had planted – the garden that had scented the air every summer – was choked with weeds and smothered in shadows.
Charmery had said summer twilight was deeply romantic – black-bat nights and poets entreating their ladies to come into gardens, she said. Moon rivers and the deep purple falling over sleepy garden walls. It was a secret time, she used to say, her long narrow eyes smiling. It was a time when no one quite knew where anyone else was, and when you might vanish for a magical mysterious hour of your own . . . ‘Let’s run away to the boathouse, Theo . . .’
It was on the crest of this memory that Theo saw, quite definitely, a flickering light inside the boathouse.
*
He unlocked the French windows and stepped outside. Cold night air, dank from the nearby river, breathed into his face and he stood on the step, listening and trying to see. Was the light still there? Yes. But who was creating it? How mad would it be to investigate on his own? Should he try calling the local police? But a vagrant light in an old boathouse was hardly cause to call out the cavalry. In any case, by the time they got here the light would probably have disappeared. He frowned and went back into the dining room to pick up the poker. Twice in two days, he thought wryly. He tried to remember where a torch might be kept and could not. He would have to trust to luck that he could see the
‘No longer recognizable,’ said Theo, half to himself, and Innes said explosively, ‘Oh God, her face was almost entirely gone and the eyes had been eaten—’ He stopped and swallowed hard. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said. ‘I honestly didn’t mean to say that.’
‘It’s all right,’ said Theo, knowing it wasn’t all right for either of them.
‘The police surgeon concluded she had been held down in the water, probably with a boathook,’ said Innes. ‘She had lacerations on her shoulders where the hook had torn into her flesh. I don’t think they ever found the boathook. I think they agreed it was probably thrown into the river after – after the killer finished.’
He stopped, and Theo, who was feeling slightly sick, but who was also feeling sorry for Michael Innes, said, ‘Let me make you a cup of tea. Or something stronger if you’d prefer.’
‘Tea would be welcome.’ He looked up gratefully, and his eyes widened suddenly, as if he had seen something behind Theo’s chair that startled him. Theo half-turned and realized it was the framed sketch of Charmery.
‘It’s a startling likeness, isn’t it?’ he said.
‘I’ve never seen it before.’ He seemed unable to take his eyes from the sketch.
‘It looks quite a good drawing, although I’ve no idea when it was done or who the artist might be. It isn’t signed or dated and there’s nothing on the back – I looked. I thought I might get it appraised some time – I’ve got a cousin who’s just finished studying art at the Slade – she might know how to go about it.’
‘Lesley?’
‘Yes. Did you know her?’
‘No, but Charmery mentioned her,’ said Innes, still staring at the sketch.
‘It makes her look quite different, doesn’t it?’ said Theo, going out to make the tea. ‘But then my cousin Charmery possessed a chameleon-like personality.’
‘Able to be all things to all men,’ said Innes, half to himself.
‘Exactly.’
After Innes left, Theo did not attempt to reclaim Matthew, or Mara’s forest cottage. Instead, he sat at the table, his chin resting on his hands, staring through the French windows.
Darkness was creeping across the garden, as if a veil was being drawn down slowly over it, and the small courtyard was already in shadow. In the old days they usually had breakfast there in the summer because it caught the morning sun. Charmery always wore a huge 1920s sunhat; it made her look like something from a soft-focus romantic film. But the wrought-iron table and chairs were covered in moss now, and the rose garden Helen had planted – the garden that had scented the air every summer – was choked with weeds and smothered in shadows.
Charmery had said summer twilight was deeply romantic – black-bat nights and poets entreating their ladies to come into gardens, she said. Moon rivers and the deep purple falling over sleepy garden walls. It was a secret time, she used to say, her long narrow eyes smiling. It was a time when no one quite knew where anyone else was, and when you might vanish for a magical mysterious hour of your own . . . ‘Let’s run away to the boathouse, Theo . . .’
It was on the crest of this memory that Theo saw, quite definitely, a flickering light inside the boathouse.
*
He unlocked the French windows and stepped outside. Cold night air, dank from the nearby river, breathed into his face and he stood on the step, listening and trying to see. Was the light still there? Yes. But who was creating it? How mad would it be to investigate on his own? Should he try calling the local police? But a vagrant light in an old boathouse was hardly cause to call out the cavalry. In any case, by the time they got here the light would probably have disappeared. He frowned and went back into the dining room to pick up the poker. Twice in two days, he thought wryly. He tried to remember where a torch might be kept and could not. He would have to trust to luck that he could see the
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