Brought to Book (12 page)

There was a long silence, and she wondered uncomfortably if she had overstepped the mark. Reginald Harvey was staring down at the carpet, motionless except for the slight tapping of his fingers on one knee. Then he raised his head and met her eyes.

‘I haven't put this into words before, even to myself, but I'm convinced he took his own life. I think it – whatever “it” was – finally became too much for him.'

In the distance, a gong sounded. They probably both welcomed the distraction, but Reginald Harvey made a face. ‘Lunch. My only complaint about this place is the times they expect you to eat.'

‘There's a communal dining room?'

‘Yes; room service is only by special request or if one is too infirm to make it along the corridor.'

Rona switched off the tape and dropped her notebook and pen into her bag.

‘Who else is on your list of interviewees?' Harvey asked, watching her.

‘Oh, members of the family, his publisher and agent, the secretarial firm who typed his manuscripts – anyone I can track down, really.'

‘Does “members of the family” include my sister-in-law?' At her blank look, he added, ‘Agnes Lethbury, Frances's sister.'

‘Oh; yes, I have a note of her.'

‘Take what she says with a pinch of salt,' he advised. ‘She doted on Theo and tended to blame everyone else for his shortcomings.'

Rona smiled. ‘I'll bear that in mind.' She stood up and held out her hand as he too got to his feet. ‘Thank you so much for seeing me, Mr Harvey. It's been a real pleasure.'

‘And for me, my dear. Do feel free to contact me again, if there's anything else you'd like to know.'

In the foyer, Rona dutifully signed herself out, noting the time as twelve-fifteen and surprised by how quickly the time had passed. Reginald Harvey had given her plenty to think about, she mused as she let herself out of the building. She could only hope that other interviews would be as revealing.

T
he smell of lunch as she left Stapleton House made Rona hungry, and she stopped at a Little Chef on the way home. As she ate, her thoughts continued to revolve round Reginald Harvey, and in particular his comment about Meriel and Justin, which had changed her whole perception of them. If it was true they were lovers, when had the affair started? They must have known each other all their lives; was it before her marriage to Theo, and had Theo himself been aware of it?

Her train of thought was broken by a nudge against her legs as Gus, under the table, changed his position, reminding her that he was due some exercise before she could settle down to work. Briefly, she thought of the episode in the park. Her actions this morning would not have pleased her correspondent – if he were aware of them.

Her eyes went quickly round her fellow diners; apart from a couple of families with small children, they seemed to be lone men deep in the sports pages of the
Mirror
or the
Sun,
no doubt the drivers whose lorries were parked outside. It seemed unlikely in the extreme that she was of interest to any of them. None the less, when she eventually resumed her journey she kept a weather eye on the rear-view mirror, to see if anyone pulled out after her. No one did, and, telling herself not to be neurotic, she continued the drive home.

Gus's exercise that afternoon was a quick walk round the block; not, Rona assured herself, in order to avoid the park, but simply because she was anxious to note down all the morning's impressions before having to prepare for the interview with the Bromsgroves. Perhaps, after all, two in one day was not such a good thing.

When she reached home, there was a message on her answer-phone from Isobel Harvey. Her voice was cool, light and self-confident; quite unlike Meriel's increasingly hesitant tones.

‘Isobel Harvey replying to your letter,' it said crisply. ‘I'll be happy to speak to you, but I'm going away at the end of the week. I could arrange to be free on either Wednesday morning or Thursday afternoon, if either of these are any good. Perhaps you could phone to let me know.'

Making a note of her number, Rona realized she hadn't asked the old man what Isobel did, but whatever it was, she was ready to wager she'd do it most efficiently.

She had already started a database on the information obtained from Meriel, and spent the next two or three hours slotting the facts she'd learned that morning into the relevant sections – Theo's early life, his marriages, his writing, his death. The more she learned about Theo Harvey, she was finding, the less she liked him, but at least she was beginning to have some inkling of what had made him as he was.

Tom Parish opened his desk drawer and took out a packet of indigestion tablets. It was almost finished, he noted, and he'd only bought it at the end of last week. He pressed two tablets out of the foil sachet and chewed them reflectively. Avril had commented last night on his increasingly frequent bouts of discomfort. Probably an ulcer, he thought.

He glanced absent-mindedly at the framed photographs on the desk. The larger one was a picture of his wife taken at their niece's wedding, looking unusually glamorous in chiffon and picture hat. He sighed, trying to pinpoint when his marriage had sunk into the doldrums, when Avril had stopped wearing make-up except for special occasions, and become listless and discontented. No doubt it was his fault, for failing her in some way. Perhaps he should make more effort to put a spark back into their lives; take her on an exotic holiday or something. He'd look into it.

The other photograph was of the twins, snapped on a picnic years ago.
The twins.
He smiled to himself. It was a long time since he'd thought of them as that, but when they were young, it was how he and Avril had always referred to them. He couldn't remember when they had become merely ‘the girls'.

He worried about them, too. Bright girls, both of them, though too independent for their own good; it was no use trying to advise either of them – never had been. Yet Lindsey was clearly unhappy, and the reappearance of Hugh was surely the last thing they needed. Tom was very much afraid that in her present state she might well go back to him, which would be disastrous.

As for Rona, he wished uselessly that she and Max would lead a more conventional life; in his opinion it was asking for trouble, a married couple spending so much time apart. A real feather in her cap, though, to be writing a life of Theo Harvey. He must phone and see how she was getting on with the books he'd lent her.

Was it hot in here, or just his imagination? He ran a finger round the inside of his collar, and, getting up, went to turn down the thermostat, pausing to stare out into the windswept street. The bank was in Market Street, and this Monday afternoon there was the usual crowd of shoppers and business people hurrying, heads down, about their various pursuits. On Fridays, though, the street underwent a sea-change, becoming a swirling, colourful maelstrom of shouting tradesmen, market stalls laden with fruit and vegetables, racks of clothes, bric-a-brac, and flowers in buckets, and though it was quite a challenge to thread his way through them on his way to work, he found it exhilarating, and actually looked forward to Fridays. Pathetic, he told himself derisively, when the only colour and excitement in his life came from market stalls and Theo Harvey's novels. No wonder Avril was disillusioned with him.

He turned from the window, and, still aware of a nagging discomfort in his innards, returned reluctantly to his desk.

The Bromsgrove interview began badly. Having been delayed by a traffic pile-up that necessitated a ten-minute diversion, Rona arrived at the appointment slightly late, a fact that, despite her apologies, Keith Bromsgrove underlined by frequent glances at his watch and a generally bustling manner.

He led her, with fairly bad grace, into the front room, and, to her relief, closed the door on the smell of cooking cauliflower. He was a short, self-important man with wiry hair and a small moustache. Rona suspected that he'd dined out for years on having met Theo Harvey. A few minutes into the interview, she guessed they'd not so much ‘met', as spent an hour or so in the same pub from time to time. However, out of politeness, and with the knowledge that Max would be phoning later for details, she played along with him.

‘Was Mr Harvey's cottage near yours, Mr Bromsgrove?'

‘Within a mile or so. Our holiday always coincided with him coming back to start a new book.'

Rona's interest quickened. ‘You go up every August? Were you there when his block started, in 1995?'

‘Indeed, yes, and the change was remarkable. When he first arrived, he was the same as usual, joking with his friends and glad to be back after his summer break. Then, for about a week, he didn't come in, which was unusual – everyone commented on it. And when he eventually did appear, he looked – like a ghost.'

Confirmation of what Meriel had told her. ‘It was as sudden as that?'

‘Yes,' Bromsgrove said with satisfaction, ‘we could date that famous block almost to the day.'

Delicately, she called his bluff. ‘Did he ever discuss it with you?'

He shot her a suspicious look from under his eyebrows. ‘Not in so many words,' he said cautiously.

‘And you say his whole manner changed?'

‘Indeed it did; beforehand he was very convivial, buying drinks all round, laughing a lot and telling stories – the life and soul of the party, you might say. Later, he used to sit in a corner by himself, not speaking to anyone.'

Rona felt her way, anxious not to overlook anything this man might have to offer. ‘When he was being sociable, did he come in with friends, or just talk to whoever was there?'

Bromsgrove shrugged. ‘I couldn't really say; quite often he was there when I arrived. As far as I recall, though, he came in alone and joined whoever was standing at the bar.'

‘And what about later?'

He considered, stroking his moustache. ‘Like I said, when he wasn't writing, he sat alone. Last year, though, there was a man who sat with him once or twice.' He cleared his throat. ‘That is to say, I myself only saw him a couple of times; but you must remember that apart from our two weeks in August, we only go up on odd weekends. He could have come in regularly, for all I know.'

‘Was he one of the usual crowd?'

‘No, I'd not seen him before. He was a nervy individual – always seemed on edge – and I had the impression Mr Harvey didn't care for him.'

He was an observant witness, at least, Rona thought wryly. ‘How old was he? Roughly the same age?'

‘No, quite a bit younger. I wondered at first if it was his son.'

That would bear checking, she noted, but her thoughts skidded to a halt as Bromsgrove added casually, ‘He was with him the night he died.'

She felt herself go hot. ‘You
saw
Theo Harvey the night he died?'

He looked smug, pleased at having startled her. ‘I did; if you remember, that was also in August.'

‘Did he seem – any different?'

‘Well, for a start they weren't in the pub that time. I'd driven into the village for petrol – we were setting off on a picnic early the next morning – and I saw them outside the post office. Having an argument, by the look of it.'

Rona moistened her lips. ‘I presume you told the police all this?' As if he wouldn't!

‘Naturally,' he said stiffly. ‘I know my civic duty.'

‘Did they trace the man?'

‘He came forward of his own accord, but he'd an alibi from the time I saw him at about nine-thirty till the next morning. There was a write-up in the local paper.'

Something she'd missed; another visit to the British Library seemed called for. ‘Do you happen to remember the man's name?'

He raised an eyebrow. ‘I believe it was Myers.'

Not one of the sons, then.

‘It's no use your chasing after him,' Bromsgrove added condescendingly. ‘I told you, the police cleared him.'

‘That's not what interests me,' Rona answered, holding on to her patience. ‘As the last known person to have seen Harvey, he might be able to shed light on his state of mind.'

Bromsgrove, having shot his bolt, was losing interest. He glanced pointedly at the clock, which was showing ten to seven. ‘Well, I've told you all I know.'

She ignored the hint. ‘You used the word “alibi”; does that mean you think Theo Harvey was murdered?'

The man looked startled. ‘Oh, now look, I was only quoting what it said in the paper.'

‘At the inquest, it was stated that he'd been drinking heavily. Did he look drunk when you saw him?'

‘Not noticeably. He wasn't lurching about, if that's what you mean.'

‘What exactly
was
he doing, Mr Bromsgrove?'

‘Arguing. I told you.'

‘Violently?'

Bromsgrove considered. ‘Well, he had Myers by the arm and was talking right into his face. I watched them while I was filling up, but I had to go in to pay, and when I came out again, they'd gone.'

‘You said there was something in the local paper. Up there, you mean?'

He nodded.

‘What's the name of it?'

‘The
Buckford Courier.
And that really is all I can tell you.'

‘Thank you, it's been most useful,' she said, adding as an afterthought, ‘Did your wife and daughter meet Mr Harvey?'

‘No, they don't go to the pub. They saw him out walking, that's all.'

He opened the living-room door, and they were again enveloped in the smell of cauliflower.

‘Well, thank you for your time, Mr Bromsgrove. I'm really most grateful.'

He nodded and closed the front door behind her. Would Meriel know anything about the mysterious Myers? Rona wondered as she unlocked the car. It was certainly worth asking her.

Gus looked up as she climbed in, and sleepily wagged his tail. Max had insisted she take him with her for this interview. ‘You'll have to walk home after parking the car, and it will be dark,' he'd said.