The Green Remains (11 page)

Chapter Twenty-Three

“I had taken Mrs. Prest into my confidence; without her in truth I should have made but little advance, for the fruitful idea in the whole business dropped from her friendly lips.”

— Henry James,
The Aspern Papers

12:10
PM

Nora sat on her bed and slipped off her shoes. She lay back against the pillows, her mind percolating on poisonous plants and stolen flash drives. Was that why Simon hadn’t wanted her in his studio, because that plant was there? What difference could his painting a rare flower make? She felt a ripple of apprehension. No way could he be involved in Keith’s death. Not Simon. Her mobile interrupted her reverie, and she saw it was Val.

  Nora quickly described the events that led to Simon being taken in for questioning. “I can’t believe that Ian will hold him, not right now, but it’s still awful, big time,” Nora said. Then she remembered their conversation that morning. “Good thing you decided to check out the travel agency. With Ian having to investigate Simon’s involvement in Keith’s death, he’ll need help finding the real killer.” Just like Declan Barnes did, solving Bryn Wallace’s murder, Nora told herself.

  Val explained the scene she’d witnessed at the travel agency, describing the break-in and police in attendance. Nora sat up at Val’s description of Glenn Hackney.

  “I know who you mean,” Nora said. “He was there when I met Keith at Worth’s for dinner the night I won the contest.” She searched her memory. “No old gent then, but I remember seeing a girl, very mod looking with bleached-out hair and three inches of dark roots showing.”

  “I don’t get that look, do you? I didn’t see anyone like that today, although that reminds me—I thought I’d seen this Glenn before and I finally figured out where ... ” Val paused dramatically.

  “Don’t make me beg for it, Val—where?”

  “At The Blue Virgin, that club I used to go to with Bryn. I saw him on a Wednesday, enjoying the blue movies shot against the wall. That’s the night people go to be checked out—you know, to see who’s pierced what, who’s alone—get the idea?”

  Nora pictured her friend with the odd golden eyes and short pixie haircut. “Got it. You don’t have to protect my Victorian sensibilities. Knowing you has shot them all to hell.” They shared a laugh until Nora became serious again. She returned to the hot water Simon had found himself in and her intention to clear him. “It makes me twitch to think he’d be involved. Not possible,” she said emphatically, tamping down any misgivings. “Let’s think about this. Glenn Hackney is probably gay if you saw him at The Blue Virgin. How does that involve Keith beyond the obvious?”

  The line was quiet as both women thought this over. Finally, Val spoke up.

  “Maybe Hackney’s boss doesn’t know he’s gay—if he’s a much older chap, he may have negative ideas about a homosexual employee. Perhaps Keith found out and was blackmailing Hackney?”

  Nora considered this. “I don’t think Keith was the blackmailing type, but then I haven’t met too many blackmailers before. I suppose it’s possible Keith was gay, and maybe he and Glenn had a failed relationship?” She warmed quickly to her theory. “Do you plan to go to The Blue Virgin again this Wednesday, Val?”

  “I may have a bit of chatting up to do now, won’t I? I’ll see what dirt I can unearth.”

  “Thanks.” Nora explained her visit to Clarendon Hall and described meeting Keith’s parents. She included seeing the gallery paintings and finding the books Keith kept in his study. “And I discovered information on Belle Isle I hadn’t seen before—”

  The floor creaked outside Nora’s door; she paused.

  “Yankee, you still there?” Val asked.

  “Yeah. Say, at the break-in, was there anyone from the police we … met before?”

  “As in your pal Declan Barnes?”

  Nora cleared her throat. “I have no idea what you mean, my friend.”

  “Busted. But don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me. No, just the regular plod, no one we met on Bryn’s case. I’ll call you again after I snoop this week.”

  “Be careful, Val.”

  “Cheerio.” Ringing off, Nora slipped off her bed and quietly cracked her bedroom door. The hall was empty. She was desperate to hide the flash drive still in her pocket.

  She scoured her room, looking for a place that wouldn’t be obvious. Then she remembered Poe’s classic story
The Purloined Letter,
in which
evidence was left in plain view, and went to her desk. Opening a drawer, she selected a label, wrote Belle Isle on it in case someone snooped and slipped the drive into the USB port of her laptop, leaving it on her desk.

Chapter Twenty-Four

“A great talker—he has the knack of telling you nothing in a big way.”

— Molière,
Le Misanthrope

3
PM

Simon realized he should be grateful to Ian for keeping his word about the quick visit to Kendal. He’d never been inside the working part of a police station, but it lived up to his imagination: notices covered the non-descript painted walls; telephones beeped, and copy machines hummed; people, most uniformed but a surprising number in civilian clothes, moved with a sense of purpose. It was a daunting experience to be on the wrong side of the desk.

  His almost-brother-in-law had a team member take a succinct statement. Ian kept Simon’s appearance low-key, and Simon hoped that news he was helping the police with their enquiries wouldn’t spread through the Bowness community. In his statement, he explained clearly about borrowing the rare flower from Sommer for use in a painting. He’d asked for that particular one because of its rareness, not because he knew anything of its poisonous capabilities. “Everyone knows Sommer has rare flowers. That one just caught my fancy—it wouldn’t normally be seen in this area, and that fit my concept for the painting.” He hadn’t been pressed to explain his plans further nor to describe the painting.

  Simon was surprised he hadn’t been asked about the pub fight he and Keith had had the year before, but Ian indicated this was a preliminary statement until the final lab results were in. When Simon left Kendal station, he felt sorry for the position Ian found himself in, especially with how it was interfering with his relationship with Kate. Simon decided that at this time there simply wasn’t enough evidence to connect him with Keith’s death—yet. He knew he would remain a prime suspect until someone else was put in the spotlight. It was an unnerving thought.

  When the constable dropped him off, Simon made a beeline for his studio. He was relieved to see his paintings appeared untouched. They stood in stacks around the perimeter, propped against the ledge that ran around three sides of the room and that held supplies. Some paintings were still uncompleted; others waited to be framed. A few were first attempts he’d put aside when he’d been unhappy with his initial results. He’d worked as an artist long enough to know that he might salvage or change his first idea into something usable.

  It appeared that only the plant and a few brushes that stood near his easel had been taken. The brushes were easily replaced, and a receipt for everything had been left behind. With a sigh, Simon closed the studio door and sat at his kitchen table with a beer. He didn’t want to seek out Kate or Nora just now; they’d be filled with questions or sympathy, and Kate was sure to be angry with Ian. Simon’s gaze fell on several sketches he’d laid out on the table, possible cover designs for Nora’s books.

  For the moment, his creative impulses deserted him, and he viewed the drawings with a jaded eye, although he hoped Nora’s reaction to the ideas would be positive. Nora. He worried about her. The fact he was now in the sights of the police for Keith’s death was certain to put her inquisitive streak into action. She seemed to forget she didn’t have only herself to worry about.

  This period in her pregnancy was supposed to be her healthy time, according to
What to Expect When You’re Expecting
. Her body was stretching inside and out as the baby grew and gained weight and length. Nora read him passages every week. He knew the boy’s lungs were almost fully developed but needed time to mature. What if she stressed herself and brought on an early delivery?

  Simon shook his head. Whatever his ultimate relationship with Nora, he’d have to keep a closer eye on her until this business about Keith Clarendon was sorted out. He kept hoping it would all turn out to be a horrible accident. Lurking at the back of his mind was the thought that innocent people had been wrongly convicted of crimes before.

  There was a sharp knock at his door, and Simon rose and slid it open to face the cool and annoying polish of Tony Warner.

  “Ah, there you are. Sorry to bother, but I wondered if you could spare a moment to clarify some questions regarding the death of the Clarendon lad and his relationship with Nora Tierney.”

  The reporter had ignored the “Private” sign at the dining room exit to find him. Simon decided Tony must be the first person he’d met who could pretend to be cordial without his face showing a glint of warmth. This wanker had the talk down, all right. Tony’s smoothness irritated Simon the way a small pebble in his shoe might worry a blister. As Tony seemed prepared to enter his suite, Simon stood his ground, blocking the entrance. Two could play this game.

  “This is a private area, Mr. Warner, and I’m afraid you’ve caught me working. In any case, I’ve been officially instructed not to give interviews to the press. They’ve all been warned off by Detective Inspector Travers, but I guess you missed his report.” Simon caught himself before nodding to emphasize what he thought was his own cohesive statement.

  Not easily deterred, Tony lounged against the doorjamb, indicating to Simon he would not be so deftly managed. He pressed his point. “I work for the same magazine Nora did. Surely you would want her side of the story presented.”

  “There are no sides to anything, Mr. Warner,” Simon answered coldly. He shuddered to think of this man knowing he was under police suspicion. “There is no discussion, just a set of facts leading to a miserable death, and Miss Tierney had the misfortune to be the first one on the scene. Now if you’ll forgive me … ” It was with a great deal of pleasure that Simon stepped back and slid his door closed in Tony Warner’s face.

*

Simon closed his door in Tony Warner’s face, missing the triumphant smile that spread across it. Tony wanted to rub his hands in glee, but restrained himself as he hurried to the Sherlock Holmes suite. A silhouette of the famed detective’s profile was framed over the brass bed, where a herringbone duvet complemented the masculine vintage decor, complete with a wooden hat stand that held a brass-topped cane. Tony had added his own walking stick to the stand when he’d unpacked. He sat at the kneehole desk situated under the window and paused in his typing. The trick, he knew, was to create a sensational, eye-catching headline without also creating a slanderous situation.

  He despised Nora Tierney. It wasn’t enough that she had the temerity to run her daft blue pencil through his carefully chosen words and phrases, she was a bloody American to boot! He should have been chosen editor in her place, by rights.

  He’d been on a slow boil since her promotion. To make things worse, after working for almost two years, she’d had the gall to throw it all away to escape to this sleepy town to write children’s books. Some people lacked common sense and didn’t know how to get ahead in the world.

  Tony knew Old Jenks was primed for and expected a fair article on Nora, and he would complete one in record time. However, there were those eager rag sheets to be considered that paid well without questions, plus the local Cumbrian papers.

  Consoling himself with the thought that Nora’s blue pencil would never fly through his articles again, Tony sniggered at the thought of getting paid several times over for nearly the same article. He considered just how sensationally he could embellish the facts before dinner.

Chapter Twenty-Five

“Every time a child says ‘I don’t believe in fairies’ there is a little fairy somewhere that falls down dead.”

—
James M. Barrie,
Peter Pan

3:20
PM

Simon watched Nora walk around his table, inspecting the sketches laid out before her, Darby at her heels. She paused by one showing Daria with a regal look, her long auburn tresses crowned by a coronet of blue flowers. Nora didn’t comment on the fairy’s resemblance to herself. Instead, she said, “I like this one best, showing the base of their tree house. Having Daria up front implies her dominance. Where would we put the others?”

  Simon could feel Nora’s restraint in not asking him about his interview with Ian. It felt like Keith’s ghost shared the room. Was this how it was going to be now, living with the haunting of a man in death who had not particularly been a friend in life? “Maybe Cosmo could be up here on a limb, looking down at her.” He pointed to his drawing of the oldest elf, his tiny, gnarled body eclipsed by an enormous set of dragonfly wings. “Since he wears a ruby cap, the red hanging tassel will stand out against the green leaves of the bough.”

  Nora met his eyes, full of question. “Great,” she said, rubbing her belly. “What about Logan?”

  Simon said, “The gnome would be lying adoringly at Daria’s feet, maybe reading her a poem.” Should he bring it up or would she?

  “With his poet’s shirt sleeves rolled up to show off his muscles,” Nora suggested.

  “You ladies seem to go for the guys with big biceps,” Simon said, drawing closer.

  “Women want a man who can protect them, even when they don’t need protecting,” she said, lifting her head to meet his eyes.

  Simon ran two fingers along the side of Nora’s chin, then bent down and pulled her to him in a gentle hug. “I’ve been wanting to do that since yesterday.” He drew away before she could.

  “Simon, was it awful at the police station?”

  Finally out in the open. “Nah, it was fine.” He ruffled her hair. “Ian was quick and his sergeant professional. I spent most of the time drinking bitter coffee and waiting to sign my statement.” He saw the relief on her face. Then her expression changed, and she reached out for his hand.

  “Wait for it,” she whispered, putting his hand on the crest of her stomach.

  Simon felt a ripple run across her and stick out. “Foot, I think.” He grinned when the baby pushed back against his hand. “Any closer to his name?”

  Nora walked to the sink. “What do you think of Blaine? Sounds relaxed, sort of outgoing.” She filled a glass with water and drank.

  Simon chewed his cheek. “You want my honest opinion, right?” He had no desire to offend but continued when she nodded. “I think it sounds like someone who’d be a thoughtless know-it-all, intolerant and small-minded.” He lifted a shoulder. “Sorry.”

  Nora laughed. “I do better with fairies. You didn’t comment once on Dove, Tess or Sky as names for the sprites.”

  “That’s because they fit. You have to picture your lad as he grows up and think of a name you’d enjoy calling him over and over for years.”

  Nora wrinkled her nose. “Feels like I’m getting a dog instead of a child.”

  “What would you name a dog?”

  “Chet.”

  “Chet?”

  “For Chet Baker.”

  “Does that mean the boy could be Chet?”

  Nora shook her head. “No, no, Chet is for a dog. A boy’s name has to fit certain criteria.”

  Here we go. Simon asked, “And those would be?” Wait for her list. Humor the pregnant lady.

  Nora took her little notebook from her pocket. “It’s got to be short, so it’s easy to call him when he’s out playing. Or if he’s in trouble. You don’t want to spend too much time yelling for Horatio or Bartholomew when he shouldn’t be crossing the street.” She said this with all seriousness.

  “Bartholomew?”

  “Because of the story of the hats, but that’s not it. It’s too long, which is exactly my point.”

  “Of course it is.” Simon moved a few sketches around the table. “Let’s get back to fairies.”

*

4:10
PM

Glenn Hackney smiled at his own initiative as he carefully packed his bags. He covered his dark suit with a garment bag and ran a duster over his black oxfords before slipping them into shoe bags and adding them to the suitcase he would use in Bowness. The rest would stay in the boot of the car. His other personal things were already packed up and would be sent along when the moment was right. It was good to have friends, just a few, that a bloke could trust.

  He looked forward to this sojourn in the Lake District. It meant having to rent a car, but he would charge it to the company, and it would give him independent transport instead of waiting on the stroppy British Rail. A nice ride on a lovely October day, a few days off to check things out and plan for his future—what could be better?

  After the break-in and questioning by the plod, Glenn had offered to drive Mr. Worth home. Mrs. Worth fussed over them both and insisted he stay for lunch. He’d fawned over the hag, praised her grotty decorating skills and devoured her chicken salad. She’d been suitably impressed, and he’d enlisted her aid with his plan. It hadn’t taken much urging at that point for them to convince the shaken Mr. Worth he should take the rest of the day off at home to relax with his wife.

  Glenn would be the one to pack up Keith’s desk and bring his things to his family in Bowness-on-Windermere. It sounded idyllic, a small village out of time, like Brigadoon. He’d even offered to represent the agency at Keith’s funeral, and a grateful Worth had nodded encouragingly, telling his wife he didn’t know how he would ever get along without Glenn.

  Glenn knew that at Scotland Yard he was known as Macavity for T. S. Eliot’s devious cat, a sobriquet that delighted him. The moniker had been bestowed for his ability to slip right through their fingers, and he intended to do so once again.