to be full of relationships founded on power, even cruelty. I suppose he’d argue now that his wife’s betrayal with Arthur changed his view of women.’ She considered that for a moment. ‘Who’s to say what effect it had? But you didn’t ask for a literary critique of his work, did you?’

‘No, although it’s interesting that his outlook changed so radi-cally. I’m sorry to revert to something more superficial, but did he remind you of anybody? Did he look like anyone you know from the theatre?’

She smiled at the thought that someone who prided himself on his intellectual and emotional approach to detection had been forced to fall back on such a storybook line of enquiry. ‘Not that I can think of, but you were in court for a while as well. What do you think?’

‘I only saw him briefly. You had a chance to study his manner-isms, and I suppose I was hoping for some miraculous moment of revelation when you realised that he scratched his head in exactly the same way as Terry, say, or Fleming.’

Now they were both laughing at the absurdity of his question, and some of the earlier tension between them disappeared.

‘Definitely not Johnny,’ she said. ‘Vintner would never have entertained all that feminine grace. Fleming’s dark-haired, I’ll give you that, but it’s not much to go on.’

‘What about Esme McCracken?’

‘Who?’

Archie smiled. ‘I can’t tell you how furious she’d be if she knew you weren’t even aware of her existence. She speaks very highly of you. She’s the stage manager and about Vintner’s age.’

‘Oh yes, I know. The pinched woman who writes plays. Johnny says they’re actually quite good. I’m afraid I can’t recall precisely what she looks like, though, so I can’t help you there.’

‘What about family? Do you remember any relatives from the trial? Was there anyone there to support him?’

‘No, only his lawyer.’ She thought for a moment. ‘He did have a family, though. I remember now – he played the big sympathy card about having to bring up his son on his own. That’s why he started 237

writing, apparently – he needed to stay at home and earn money.

But there was no indication of how he lost his wife.’

‘And the son wasn’t in court?’

‘No. I don’t think he was even mentioned by name. I certainly don’t remember it if he was.’

‘Any idea what he does or where he might be?’

‘No. There were obituaries after the suicide, of course, but nothing very significant. Vintner’s reputation soon dwindled when each book turned out to be a bigger flop than the last. By the time he died, the general feeling was that the most exciting plot development he’d come up with in years was to shoot himself. Still, the papers might tell you something about his family life.’

‘Yes, they might. It’s a good place to start, at least.’

‘Do you know how he found out about the affair?’ Josephine asked.

‘He read a letter that was meant for Arthur. I remember letters from home getting mixed up all the time – it was a miracle they got there at all. They arrived in one big pile, and there was such a stampede to get to them. You can just imagine it, can’t you?

Vintner automatically reaches for something in his wife’s handwriting and then notices it’s not for him; he’s hardly likely to put it back on the pile and say nothing. It was a stupid thing to do, really

– to send something so damning with no guarantee of its getting to the right person.’ There was a sound of footsteps on the stairs.

‘That’s my cue to get going,’ he said. ‘The Fox woman’s on the prowl.’

‘You don’t have to rush off,’ Josephine said. ‘She really isn’t as fierce as all that.’

He grinned. ‘No, but it sounds like she needs a heart-to-heart without interruptions. Anyway, I’ve left Bill chasing phone numbers and post-mortem reports, so I ought to see how he’s getting on. And I want to have a look for those obituaries. Tracing Vintner’s son is vital – he’s the obvious candidate if we’re looking for someone desperate to protect Vintner’s reputation.’

Before he could go any further, though, the front door was flung open with almost indecent vigour. ‘Only us,’ called Ronnie from 238

the hallway. ‘Has anyone else died while we’ve been at lunch?’ She sauntered into the room and collapsed onto the chaise longue, apparently oblivious to the pile of sketches that she was sitting on.

‘Shouldn’t you be out catching criminals, cousin dearest?’

Archie flashed what Josephine had come to recognise as his Ronnie smile. ‘I’m on my way to do just that,’ he said. ‘I’d hate to think that your exquisite neck was in peril.’

‘Oh do stay and have some tea, Archie,’ Lettice said on her way through to the kitchen. ‘I’m gasping for a hot drink. Guermani’s was so crowded today that we ended up on the table next to the Daintrey-Smythes and you know how Angelica gets on my tits. I couldn’t possibly stay for coffee – as it was, dessert took endurance beyond all measure. All those loud-but-oh-so-self-effacing references to her double-page spread in The Sketchwhen we know full well what she had to spread to get it. It’s enough to make a witch spit.’

Archie had to laugh at this uncharacteristic outburst from his cousin, who normally left vulgar asides to her more experienced sister, but he stuck to his guns about going. His goodbyes were drowned by a squeal from the next room. ‘Oh lovely!’ Lettice exclaimed, and emerged carrying a vase with a single flower that looked a little the worse for wear. ‘You brought something to cheer Josephine up, Archie. How thoughtful. And what an extraordinary colour.’

‘Good tactic, dear – move in when she’s vulnerable,’ piped up Ronnie. ‘You may get somewhere at last. A little tip, though –

bring one that’s alive next time.’

‘Stop teasing him,’ said Lettice, but Archie just stared at the flower, oblivious to them all.

‘Archie didn’t bring it,’ Josephine said quickly, in case he was feeling awkward. ‘I found it tucked in Marta’s manuscript. She must have forgotten it was there. She thinks Lydia left it at stage door for her but I know she didn’t, so, for harmony’s sake, I thought I’d better find a home for it. Another admirer on the scene isn’t what their relationship needs right now.’

‘Is there trouble, then?’ Ronnie asked wickedly, settling in for a 239

good story, but Archie interrupted before Josephine could feel obliged to satisfy her curiosity.

‘You say that belongs to Marta?’ he asked, looking thoughtful.

‘Yes. Why?’

‘And Lydia definitely didn’t give it to her?’

‘No, she just looked bewildered when Marta thanked her for it.

Is it important? Why do you look so worried all of a sudden?’

‘Because I’ve already seen one flower like that today, and I don’t think it’s a coincidence. The first was at Grace Aubrey’s – she had a vase of them. Bernard planted them for her, apparently. Its common name is widow iris.’

‘All this horticultural chat is fascinating, but I’d rather shoot myself than take up gardening so would you mind telling us what your point is,’ Ronnie said, but Josephine understood immediately what Archie meant.

‘You think Bernard’s killer left it for Marta as some sort of message, don’t you?’ she said, and Lettice slammed the vase down on the cocktail cabinet and moved hurriedly away from it. ‘And if that’s the case, the obvious implication is that Lydia’s next.’

As Ronnie and Lettice looked at him in disbelief, Archie said,

‘I certainly think she could be in danger, and whoever’s doing this is capable of anything. It’s funny – Lydia’s been on the periphery of everything this weekend; she was at the station with you when Elspeth was killed and she found Bernard’s body. It’s all too close for comfort, but at least she’s safely at the Yard now