The Glass Room

Chapter Twenty

Nina woke when it was still dark. No panic this time. Instead the tired, grainy eyes and taut limbs that came from too little sleep. She had no sleeping pills now to help her. It had been late by the time she’d got to bed and she’d lain there, tense, reliving the shock of the stranger’s appearance in the dining room. She wondered now why the arrival of Joanna’s partner had so disturbed them? He’d posed no real threat. He’d stood there, yelling at the group, inarticulate with anger, but it had all been words. He hadn’t carried a weapon or indicated that he might become violent.

Was it that, in that moment, they saw themselves as Jack saw them? As pathetic wasters. He’d ranted at them all, turning his head from one end of the table to the other. You’re a bunch of self-indulgent posers. Why don’t you get off your backsides and do a proper job? The magic of the evening was lost as soon the door had swung back and he’d opened his mouth. The reality of the outside world had intruded into their ridiculous fantasy of a civilized writers’ salon.

Holly, the young police officer, had tried to calm him. She’d left her place and scuttled round the table until she was facing him. There’s no need for this. Let’s go into another room and chill out a bit. Her voice shrill, part panic and part excitement.

But she’d only antagonized him and increased his fury: Don’t talk to me, you stupid little girl. What do you know about anything?

It had been Joanna who’d gone up to him and put her arms around him as if he were her son, not her lover. At first he’d pushed her away, still yelling, still demanding some explanation. Then he’d broken down and begun to cry.

It occurred to Nina now that Jack hadn’t sworn at them. There hadn’t even been the casual bad language she used herself to show that she was tired or cross. But still he’d shocked them because his anger was deep and real. They’d spent a week carefully putting words together, but his rage had a greater effect than any of their stories.

She got out of bed and drew the curtains. The room was warm, but through the glass she felt the chill from outside. There was a faint light from the east over the sea. On impulse she pulled on jeans and a sweater, took her jacket from the cupboard. Her last morning at the Writers’ House and she’d make the most of it. This afternoon she’d be back in the city.

Downstairs there was still evidence of the evening before. The dining room had been cleared of plates, but in the drawing room there were empty coffee cups and wine glasses. They’d sat here, the memory of Jack’s words still in their heads, and pretended that their work was of value. They’d read and listened and clapped politely. Not Nina, though. She hadn’t been able to face reading her story. She’d sat in a corner, half-listening to her students’ work, applauding only when she saw it was expected of her. Until Miranda had read. Nina’s response to her work had been real.

The kitchen door was open and she saw the room was empty. Usually at this time Alex was there, preparing for breakfast. Last night at dinner she’d been sitting across the table from him. He’d been in her line of vision when Joanna’s partner had arrived, and she’d seen his face as the accusations had spewed from Jack’s mouth. Alex had been shocked by the interruption, as they’d all been, but there had been something else too. Amusement? Perhaps even a touch of admiration? When they’d moved on to the drawing room to continue the readings, Alex hadn’t gone with them. He’d claimed to be tired and said he wanted an early night.

Looking across the yard, she saw that there was a light in the cottage. She didn’t want to face him or Miranda, and soon surely they’d come to the house to start cooking breakfast and clearing up. She put on her boots and went outside. The cold took her breath away. There was enough light now to see that every blade of grass was covered in frost. She was tempted to walk away from the house, up the track to the lane. But that would have meant walking past the cottage, and she thought again that any moment one of them would come out and she couldn’t bear discussing the events of the previous evening with them. Instead she moved quickly down the shingle path to the seaward side of the house.

Still, it was only just dawn. Everything was grey and insubstantial. The trees surrounding the house were blocks of black and for a moment, in their shadow, walking between them and the house, she lost all visibility. Then she came out onto the terrace and into the open and the sea was ahead of her, and suddenly everything seemed very light and clear.

She was back at the place where she’d set her story. Now she was pleased that she hadn’t read it out the evening before. Jack’s interruption had saved her from that. It wasn’t finished, she thought now. Not fit to be read. This scene hadn’t been properly described. She came closer, though her attention was fixed more on the horizon, where soon the sun would rise over the line of the sea, than on the group of garden furniture. What words would she use to make the scene – this dawn – real for the reader?

Suddenly she was aware that she wasn’t alone. Someone was sitting on the wrought-iron chair closest to her, facing away. On the table were signs that people had been here the night before: a candle, burnt very low, the wax spread over the blue ceramic holder and through the lacy holes in the table, making strange stalactite shapes where it had dripped. Two wine glasses. A coffee cup. An ashtray. The scene was oddly familiar and for the first time Nina felt a tingle of fright. Part superstition and part disbelief. On the floor under the table she saw a piece of white cloth and she had a jarring sense that this was out of place. It shouldn’t be there.

Her companion was Miranda. Nina recognized the thick jacket the woman had been wearing the afternoon before, the gleam of the dyed blonde hair piled high on her head. It seemed she hadn’t heard Nina’s approach; she was too preoccupied perhaps with her own thoughts. Nina almost crept away – after all, the last thing she’d wanted this morning was to speak to this woman – but the dressing of the scene, the candle, the glasses, the ashtray, kept her there.

‘Miranda.’

There was no answer, and really by now she hadn’t expected that there would be.

She walked round the table so that for the first time she could see the woman’s face. Her throat had been cut and was gaping and bloody. It looked almost like a large and smiling second mouth. The idea was immediate and shocking. Not just because of the horror of the image, grotesque and macabre, but because Nina had used the simile before. She’d described this scene. This was her story brought to life.

Later, over strong coffee – she couldn’t imagine ever sleeping again, so caffeine was the least of her worries – she tried to explain to Vera Stanhope. They were back in the chapel. Outside, professionals in blue paper suits, looking oddly androgynous, had covered the whole terrace in a white tent. The other participants of the course had been taken away in taxis to a nearby hotel. Statements would be taken, Vera said. Their belongings would be returned to them once they’d been searched. Then they’d probably be allowed to go home. Holly was in the room too, taking notes. There was no sign of the young male detective. Nina would have preferred him there. He was less intrusive than Holly. Throughout the interview she was aware of the young woman’s presence. Even when taking notes she demanded attention.

‘So how many people would have read your story?’ Vera asked.

‘Nobody. I was going to read part last night. That scene. The body on the terrace. Then Joanna’s Jack arrived and interrupted.’

‘Coincidence then.’

Nina set her notebook on the table. ‘Read it,’ she said.

Vera bent down and took a pair of latex gloves from her bag, then pulled the book towards her and began to read. Once she had problems deciphering the handwriting and asked Nina to give her the word. When she’d finished, she closed it carefully.

‘The way the furniture is arranged is exactly as I described it in the story,’ Nina said. ‘The candle, the colour of the holder, the position of the glasses, the cup and the ashtray. Surely more than a coincidence.’

‘No mention of a handkerchief. We found a handkerchief under the table.’

Nina didn’t know what to say to that.

‘Maybe it had been dropped there during the day.’ Vera seemed lost in thought. ‘Or maybe not.’

‘You think the killer could have left it?’

‘That’d be good, wouldn’t it? Check for DNA and case closed.’

Vera gave a little laugh, and Nina saw she didn’t think it would be that simple.

‘The candle was there last night,’ Vera said. ‘Joanna and her bloke were sitting there, having a meaningful discussion with Giles Rickard.’ She paused.

Nina thought at least the detective was taking her seriously. Otherwise she might think she was going mad.

‘But it was a different-coloured holder. And no ashtray,’ Vera went on. ‘And there were only wine glasses. No coffee cup. And the chairs were in different places. So it was deliberately set up later to resemble your writing. Some bugger’s playing games.’

She leaned forward so that her face was only inches from Nina’s. ‘You do see how it looks? Your sleeping pills used to drug Professor Ferdinand. Now you’ve described in detail the manner of Miranda’s death, days before it happened. As if you’re some kind of fortune-teller. You’re implicated, whether you like it or not.’

‘Why would I kill Miranda? I didn’t know her.’ Nina heard the hysteria in her voice and tried to breathe through it. ‘If someone went into my room to take the pills, they could have gone in to read my story too.’

‘You haven’t started locking your door?’ Vera said. ‘After the pills were taken?’

‘Yes.’ Nina tried to work out the timescale. ‘I’d started writing the story before you told me Tony Ferdinand had been drugged. Besides, I’ve been carrying the notebook around with me all week. Anyone could have picked it up and read it.’

‘Of course they could.’ Vera lay back in her chair. ‘I had already thought of that. I might be old, but I’m not daft.’

Nina found herself smiling in agreement. Whatever she was, Vera Stanhope wasn’t daft. ‘I had a strange conversation with Miranda yesterday afternoon.’

‘Aye. You were seen going into her cottage.’

Nina shot a look at Vera. ‘So that makes me even more of a suspect?’ She wondered who’d seen her with Miranda, again had the feeling that everyone here was being watched.

‘Might have done, if you hadn’t told me about it,’ Vera said. ‘What was going on there then? I didn’t have you down as best mates.’

‘I don’t know,’ Nina said. Now she thought about it, the encounter with Miranda in the late afternoon seemed surreal. It was hard to believe that the woman on the garden terrace had offered her tea, fed the fat tabby cat. All the small domestic interactions that would never happen again. She looked up suddenly at Vera. ‘How’s Alex?’

Vera shrugged. ‘Hard to tell. I don’t think it’s sunk in yet. But tell me about your chat with Miranda Barton.’

‘I was walking on the beach and she was waiting for me. In the garden, where the path flattens out between the shrubs. She startled me. It seemed very out of character. Thinking about it, you hardly ever saw Miranda outside. I wonder why she bought a place right out in the wilds. She seemed more of a city person.’ Nina realized she was rambling, and paused.

‘What did she want from you?’ Vera seemed not to mind the diversion, but prompted Nina back on course.

‘To talk about the murder. And about Joanna. Did I believe Joanna was innocent? I think it had only just struck her that the murderer might still be free. It was almost as if she hoped Joanna had killed Tony.’ Nina closed her eyes for a moment and remembered the warm kitchen, her lethargy. Perhaps that wasn’t quite accurate. Had the possibility of Joanna’s innocence sparked some emotion in Miranda? Had she seemed almost excited?

‘There were lots of people here who hoped that,’ Vera said briskly. ‘How did Miranda seem? Scared?’

Nina struggled to come to an answer. ‘I’m sorry. I just couldn’t work out why she wanted me there. Was she scared? Maybe. But also wired up. Prepared to put up a fight, I’d say.’

‘What sort of fight?’

Nina shook her head helplessly. ‘Nothing was spoken of clearly. It was as if she expected me to know what she was talking about. But in the end I was just confused.’

‘Do you think she knew who the killer was?’ Vera leaned forward again, waiting for the response, and Nina could see how important this was to her.

‘Not for certain,’ Nina said. ‘But I think she might have guessed.’