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Authors: Minette Walters
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are not barbarians, Mrs. Goode. I can assure you we will be sympathetic and tactful in our dealings with her. I hope you will persuade Mrs. Maybury of that."
Diana uncurled her legs and stood up. Quite unaware of it, she leant on the desk in just the way Phoebe had done, as if close proximity had taught the women to adopt each other's mannerisms. "I can't promise anything, Inspector. Phoebe has a mind of her own."
"She has no choice in the matter," he said flatly, "except to influence her daughter over whether we question her here or in Oxford. Under the circumstances, I imagine Mrs. Maybury would prefer it to be here."
Diana straightened. "Is there anything else you want to ask me?"
"Only two more things tonight. Tomorrow Sergeant McLoughlin will question you in more detail." He looked up at her. "How did Mrs. Maybury come to employ the Phillipses? Did she advertise or did she apply to an agency?"
Diana's hands were fluttering. She thrust them into the pockets of her jacket. "I believe Anne arranged it," she said. "You'll have to ask her."
"Thank you. Now, just one more thing. When you helped clear the rubbish from the ice house what exactlv was in there and what did you do with it?"
"It was ages ago," she said uncomfortably. "I can't remember. Nothing out of the way, just rubbish."
Walsh looked at her thoughtfully. "Describe the inside of the ice house to me, Mrs. Goode." He watched her eyes search rapidly amongst the photographs on the desk, but he had turned over all the general shots when she first came in. "How big is it? What shape is the doorway? What's the floor made of?"
"I can't remember."
He smiled a slow, satisfied smile and she was reminded of a stuffed timber wolf she had once seen with bared teeth and staring glass eyes. 'Thank you," he said. She was dismissed.
6
Diana found Phoebe watching the ten o'clock news in the television room. The flickering colours from the set provided the only light and they played across Phoebe's glasses, hiding her eyes and giving her the look of a blind woman. Diana snapped on the table lamp.
"You'll get a headache," she said, flopping into the seat beside Phoebe, reaching out to stroke the softly tanned forearm.
Phoebe muted the sound of the television with the remote control on her lap, but left the picture running. "I've got one already," she admitted tiredly. She took off her glasses and held a handkerchief to her red-rimmed eyes. "Sorry," she said.
"What about?"
"Blubbing. I thought I'd grown out of it."
Diana pulled a footstool forward with her toes and settled her feet on it comfortably. "A good blub is one of my few remaining pleasures."
Phoebe smiled. "But not very helpful." She tucked the handkerchief into her sleeve and replaced her glasses.
"Have you had anything to eat?"
"I'm not hungry. Molly left a casserole in the Aga if you are."
"Mm, she told me before she left. I'm not hungry either."
They lapsed into silence.
"It's a bloody mess, isn't it?" said Phoebe after a while.
"I'm afraid so." Diana pushed her sandals off her feet and let them drop to the floor. "The Inspector's no fool." She kept her voice deliberately light.
Phoebe spoke harshly. "I hate him. How old would you say he is?"
"Late fifties."
"He hasn't aged much. He looked like a genial professor ten years ago." She considered for a moment. "But that's not his character. He's anything but genial. He's dangerous, Di. For God's sake don't forget it."
The other woman nodded. "And his incubus, Jock-the-Ripper? What did you make of him?"
Phoebe looked surprised as if the other woman had mentioned an irrelevance. "The Sergeant? He didn't say much. Why do you ask?"
With rhythmical movements, as if she were stroking a cat, Diana smoothed the woollen pile on the front of her jacket. "Anne's spoiling for a fight with him and I'm not sure why." She glanced speculatively at Phoebe, who shrugged. "She's making a mistake. She took one look at him in the drawing-room, labelled him
Diana uncurled her legs and stood up. Quite unaware of it, she leant on the desk in just the way Phoebe had done, as if close proximity had taught the women to adopt each other's mannerisms. "I can't promise anything, Inspector. Phoebe has a mind of her own."
"She has no choice in the matter," he said flatly, "except to influence her daughter over whether we question her here or in Oxford. Under the circumstances, I imagine Mrs. Maybury would prefer it to be here."
Diana straightened. "Is there anything else you want to ask me?"
"Only two more things tonight. Tomorrow Sergeant McLoughlin will question you in more detail." He looked up at her. "How did Mrs. Maybury come to employ the Phillipses? Did she advertise or did she apply to an agency?"
Diana's hands were fluttering. She thrust them into the pockets of her jacket. "I believe Anne arranged it," she said. "You'll have to ask her."
"Thank you. Now, just one more thing. When you helped clear the rubbish from the ice house what exactlv was in there and what did you do with it?"
"It was ages ago," she said uncomfortably. "I can't remember. Nothing out of the way, just rubbish."
Walsh looked at her thoughtfully. "Describe the inside of the ice house to me, Mrs. Goode." He watched her eyes search rapidly amongst the photographs on the desk, but he had turned over all the general shots when she first came in. "How big is it? What shape is the doorway? What's the floor made of?"
"I can't remember."
He smiled a slow, satisfied smile and she was reminded of a stuffed timber wolf she had once seen with bared teeth and staring glass eyes. 'Thank you," he said. She was dismissed.
6
Diana found Phoebe watching the ten o'clock news in the television room. The flickering colours from the set provided the only light and they played across Phoebe's glasses, hiding her eyes and giving her the look of a blind woman. Diana snapped on the table lamp.
"You'll get a headache," she said, flopping into the seat beside Phoebe, reaching out to stroke the softly tanned forearm.
Phoebe muted the sound of the television with the remote control on her lap, but left the picture running. "I've got one already," she admitted tiredly. She took off her glasses and held a handkerchief to her red-rimmed eyes. "Sorry," she said.
"What about?"
"Blubbing. I thought I'd grown out of it."
Diana pulled a footstool forward with her toes and settled her feet on it comfortably. "A good blub is one of my few remaining pleasures."
Phoebe smiled. "But not very helpful." She tucked the handkerchief into her sleeve and replaced her glasses.
"Have you had anything to eat?"
"I'm not hungry. Molly left a casserole in the Aga if you are."
"Mm, she told me before she left. I'm not hungry either."
They lapsed into silence.
"It's a bloody mess, isn't it?" said Phoebe after a while.
"I'm afraid so." Diana pushed her sandals off her feet and let them drop to the floor. "The Inspector's no fool." She kept her voice deliberately light.
Phoebe spoke harshly. "I hate him. How old would you say he is?"
"Late fifties."
"He hasn't aged much. He looked like a genial professor ten years ago." She considered for a moment. "But that's not his character. He's anything but genial. He's dangerous, Di. For God's sake don't forget it."
The other woman nodded. "And his incubus, Jock-the-Ripper? What did you make of him?"
Phoebe looked surprised as if the other woman had mentioned an irrelevance. "The Sergeant? He didn't say much. Why do you ask?"
With rhythmical movements, as if she were stroking a cat, Diana smoothed the woollen pile on the front of her jacket. "Anne's spoiling for a fight with him and I'm not sure why." She glanced speculatively at Phoebe, who shrugged. "She's making a mistake. She took one look at him in the drawing-room, labelled him
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