A Question of Identity (17 page)

‘Of course. Thank you.'

He smiled. ‘We couldn't get over how alike you are,' he added. ‘I bet it causes confusion sometimes!'

‘It has been known to,' Lindsey answered lightly, ‘but it can also be very useful!'

He laughed. ‘I'm sure! We're so grateful Rona's willing to pursue this for us. For the first time, we feel we might have a hope of solving the mystery.'

‘She'll enjoy it,' Lindsey said shortly, piqued that his interest seemed to have switched from herself to her sister, and, as Debra approached with a tray of coffee cups, she turned away.

Lindsey phoned Rona as soon as she reached home, just before ten.

‘I have Trish Cowley's graduation photo,' she told her. ‘William gave it to me at book group.'

‘Perfect timing! Max and I are driving up to Lincoln tomorrow, to see the woman from the hotel.'

‘Quite a way to go, isn't it? Couldn't you have spoken on the phone?'

‘We did, but she has photos of her time there that might give us a clue, and there's a chance she could recognize Trish. Will it be all right if we call in for it on our way?'

‘As long as you're not setting off at the crack of dawn.'

‘It'll be around nine thirty, I should think. We won't mind if you come down in your dressing gown!'

‘OK, see you then,' Lindsey said, and rang off. She stood for a minute, deliberating, then speed-dialled Hugh's mobile.

‘Hi,' she said brightly as he answered, ‘this is your ex-wife!'

There was a startled pause, then, cautiously, ‘Hello, Lindsey. To what do I owe this pleasure?'

‘Are you doing anything over Easter?'

Still cautious: ‘I have a few plans.'

‘Could they stretch to taking me out for a meal?'

A longer pause. ‘What about Dominic?'

‘What about him?'

‘Well, I rather gathered—'

‘Then you can stop gathering. Are you free for a meal, or not?'

‘Lindsey, I'm really not sure this is wise. Actually, I'm seeing—'

‘I'm not propositioning you, Hugh, I simply want a dinner companion.'

The fact that she'd gone back to his flat after a previous meal together hung, unspoken, between them.

‘I've a date for Saturday,' he said finally.

Date? Had he used the word deliberately? ‘Which leaves Friday, Sunday and Monday.'

‘I suppose you can take your pick of the others.'

‘Sunday, then. With Monday being a holiday, I can have a lie-in.'

‘Lindsey—'

‘And it'll give you time to back out, if you get cold feet.'

‘I'll collect you at eight,' he said, and broke the connection.

‘Well, well,' Mia said softly.

Hugh flushed. ‘Sorry about that. Completely out of the blue, as you'll have gathered. I . . . tried to get out of it, but once Lindsey has decided on something . . .'

‘You don't have to apologize, Hugh. We're not joined at the hip.'

They were in her sitting room, an ultra-modern space composed of glass and chrome and with what Hugh considered a totally impractical white carpet. On his first visit two weeks ago, he'd been startled to see one of Max's paintings on her wall.

‘You do know he's my ex-brother-in-law?' he'd asked, standing in front of it and surveying it critically.

‘I do now. I've always admired his work, and my father's legacy gave me the means to indulge in it. I knew he came from Buckfordshire, but not that he lived in Marsborough till I met you.'

Now, Hugh put away his phone and sat down opposite her. Not joined at the hip, she'd said. Trouble was, he
did
still feel joined to Lindsey, body and soul – though probably, he thought with wry humour, mostly body. God, he'd never be free of her if she continued to play cat and mouse with him whenever the mood took her. He should, of course, have turned her down flat when she suggested meeting. He knew quite well no good would come of it, for him at least.

He looked across at Mia, at her oval face, her large, dark-lashed grey eyes and the expertly cut red hair curving in to her cheek. Attractive and self-possessed, she seemed for some reason to enjoy his company. Most men would envy the hell out him, so why was he holding back? He was pretty sure she'd be willing to go to bed with him – might even be hoping for it. But if she did, he'd the feeling that she'd remain just as independent and self-sufficient as she was now. The thought was oddly restful, and he suddenly made up his mind. To hell with Lindsey and her wheeler-dealing!

‘Would you mind if I stayed the night?' he asked.

As Max drove out of Marsborough, Rona studied the print Lindsey had handed her. So this was Glenda's mother, who, in a few years, would become the owner of the mysterious photograph. Here, though, she wasn't anyone's mother – just a girl with a round face, sparkling eyes and a tumble of curls that had been crammed under her mortar board and were in danger of escaping. She was holding a rolled-up parchment, and her smile conveyed satisfaction in work completed and anticipation for what lay ahead. Trying to reconcile this portrait with the elderly woman she'd seen in the photo frame, Rona wondered if her life had been as fulfilling as she'd expected.

‘Heard from Magda lately?' Max asked suddenly.

‘Yes, didn't I tell you? I spoke to her on Tuesday.'

‘How was she?'

Rona hesitated. ‘Well, she said the dreams had stopped.'

Max glanced at her. ‘That's good, surely?'

‘Yes of course, but she sounded odd. A bit off-key, somehow.'

‘Off-key how?'

‘Making light of the whole thing. Dismissive, really.'

‘Well, I suppose she's a bit embarrassed, looking back on it. It
was
rather over the top.'

Rona shook her head. ‘It was more than that. As though she was reining herself in somehow.'

‘Oh, for heaven's sake, love! You worried about her when she was having those dreams, and now she's stopped you're
still
worried! Let it go. She says it's all over – believe her. And if she seemed dismissive, well, Magda can be a bit prickly at times.'

‘I suppose you're right,' Rona said.

The traffic was predictably heavy, and it was lunchtime when they reached their hotel. After unpacking the few things they'd brought, they collected some brochures from the reception desk and went into the bar for lunch.

They had most of the four-day holiday ahead of them, with Rona's appointment the only fixed point, and they determined to make the most of it, exploring both the historic city and the surrounding countryside.

Having placed their order, Max opened one of the brochures and began reading snippets aloud: ‘The Romans were here from AD 60 to 446, and the city was invaded by the Vikings in 839 . . . The “new” castle ordered by William I dates from 1068, and was one of the first to be built after the Norman Conquest . . . The cathedral library has a copy of Magna Carta and a book containing the first recorded rhyme about Robin Hood.'

‘I thought he came from Nottingham,' Rona remarked.

‘You don't have to live there to write about him,' Max pointed out. ‘Now, since it's already one thirty and we've not eaten yet, I suggest this afternoon we confine ourselves to the sites near at hand. Tomorrow morning we can explore a bit further afield, and on Sunday drive out somewhere. Agreed?'

‘Fine by me,' Rona said.

For the next twenty-four hours they kept to their plan, wandering round the ruins of the Bishop's Palace, marvelling at the cathedral architecture, and panting their way up and down Steep Hill, an almost perpendicular street linking the modern shopping area of downtown Lincoln with the historic buildings at the top of the hill. By Saturday afternoon, Rona was quite ready to take time off from sightseeing to keep her appointment with Heather Grayson.

Max dropped her at the gate, it having been agreed she would phone when she was ready to be collected. Then, with a sense of anticipation, she walked up the path and rang the bell.

Heather Grayson was one of those women whose school contemporaries would have no difficulty recognizing years later. Her face was plump and virtually unlined, and though her figure was now ample and her hair grey, she had a healthy glow about her that suggested she'd just left the hockey pitch.

‘So good of you to come all this way,' she said, leading the way to her sitting room. ‘Do please take a seat. My husband's playing golf so we won't be disturbed. Would you care for some tea now, or prefer to wait a little? Bertie, get down!' This last to a tabby cat that had installed itself in one of the armchairs.

Bertie blinked indolently, but as his mistress made a move towards him he leapt nimbly to the floor, waited till Rona was seated and then jumped on to her lap.

‘Oh, I'm so sorry!' Heather Grayson exclaimed.

‘Don't worry,' Rona assured her, stroking his velvet ears to an accompanying purr. ‘I'm fond of cats.'

‘Well, if you're sure . . . Now, what did we decide about tea?'

‘Whichever's easiest,' Rona said diplomatically.

‘Then we'll wait half an hour, shall we, and get down to business.' She leant forward eagerly with clasped hands. ‘So tell me, why are you so interested in Springfield Lodge?'

‘For various reasons actually, but principally because I've been asked to try to identify someone.'

‘How exciting! Fire away, then!'

Mentally, Rona crossed her fingers. ‘Do you by any chance remember a teacher called Susie Baines?'

‘Miss Baines? Certainly I remember her, if only because she left suddenly in the middle of the last term. It caused quite a stir.'

Bingo! ‘Really? What happened?'

‘Well, one minute she was there, setting us prep, and the next she was gone. The last words she said to us were, “Mind you hand this in before the end of the week, because I want to go through it with you in the next lesson.” And then, to all intents and purposes, she disappeared. Rumours were rife, as you can imagine.'

‘I'm sure. What was the official explanation?'

‘That she'd had to leave for family reasons. Of course, we all assumed she was pregnant.'

‘What about Trish Cowley? Do you remember her?'

‘Yes – my goodness, you
are
stirring old memories! I've not thought of these people in years!'

Rona extracted the graduation photo from her bag and handed it across.

Heather studied it. ‘Yes, that's Miss Cowley – a slightly younger version than the one I knew. Wherever did you get it?'

‘From her daughter. Did she also leave suddenly?' Rona was thinking of the incomplete diary, but Heather Grayson looked puzzled.

‘No, why?'

‘She stayed till the end of that term?'

‘Yes, I distinctly remember her at final assembly, because she looked so upset. It was all pretty traumatic, you know, what with the Head at death's door and the school closing down.'

‘Why
did
it close?' Rona asked curiously. ‘I've heard several theories.'

Heather smiled. ‘All kinds of weird stories were flying around, but the simple truth was that Mr Lytton had a heart attack and couldn't carry on.'

What her mother had called ‘the official explanation'.

‘There was no one who could have taken it over?'

Heather shrugged. ‘Apparently not.'

Abandoning what seemed a fruitless line of enquiry, Rona passed her the school print. ‘Does this ring any bells?'

Heather took it with an exclamation. ‘Goodness, that looks familiar! I have one almost the same of my own House. There's Lizzie Barclay in the back row! She was in my maths stream. And – heavens! – Maureen Little next to her! I had a crush on her at the time.'

‘You knew Maureen Little?' Rona leant forward, looking with interest at the girl indicated. If Maureen was actually on the photo she might well have a copy herself – without the concealing ink blob.

‘Not “knew”,' Heather was saying, ‘just worshipped from afar. She was older than me, in Exam Year.'

‘Can you remember which House they were in?'

‘Brontë – it was for day girls. The other three were, predictably, Austen, Eliot and Gaskell, which I was in.'

‘It was a boarding school, then?' The possibility hadn't occurred to her.

‘Chiefly, yes.'

‘So was the day girls' “House” a metaphorical one, for sport and so on?'

‘Oh no, it was real enough. It was actually where the staff lived, but the day girls went there for lunch and to do their prep after school. But since they didn't actually
live
there, their House photos were taken outside school.' She picked up the print again, studying it more closely and tilting it towards the light. ‘It looks as though someone's spilt ink on it; I can't make out who's underneath it.'

‘Actually, that's the person we're trying to identify.' Rona paused. ‘Presumably the ones seated are staff; can you name any of them?' The more people she could identify, the easier her task might be.

‘One or two, I think; Miss Kendal took me for History and Mr Crichton for RE. The two next to him I don't know – they're probably House staff.' She handed back the photo, shaking her head. ‘That's the best I can do, I'm afraid; the last three look faintly familiar, but I can't put a name to them.'

‘Is there a member of staff you'd expect to see who isn't there, and might be under the blob?' Rona asked hopefully.

‘No, because I don't know who was affiliated to which House, except my own, and I've forgotten most of
them
.'

‘I thought you said the staff lived at Brontë?'

‘They did, but they were all “honorary members” of one of the other Houses, supporting them at sport, fund-raising for charity and things like that.' She rose, went to a desk, and came back with a somewhat battered photograph album. ‘Let's see if any of these help.'