A Question of Identity (9 page)

And I you, Rona thought, replacing the phone. And not only to view the painting; it would be interesting to see for herself the building which was arousing so much curiosity at the moment.

Frances Drew drove out of her gateway and immediately pulled up outside the house next door, giving the arranged two toots on the horn. Every Wednesday she and Lucy drove into Marsborough, where they separated to do their individual shopping before meeting for lunch and arriving home in time to collect the children from school. Today it was her turn to drive, and she glanced expectantly up the Coombeses' path towards their front door. Which, to her surprise, remained shut.

It was unlike Lucy to be late. She tooted again, again without result. With a sigh she switched off the engine, locked the car and walked up the path, giving three quick rings on the bell – another of their identifying signals. When there was still no response she began to wonder if she'd made a mistake. It
was
Wednesday, wasn't it? Lucy hadn't said last week that she wouldn't be able to make it?

She was on the point of returning to the car for her mobile when the door opened at last and Lucy stood in front of her. Frances gasped. Her face was pale, her eyes red-rimmed, but it was the livid bruise on her temple that most alarmed her friend.

‘Lucy – what happened? Are you all right?'

Lucy's eyes filled. ‘I'm sorry, Fran, I can't come today. I should have—'

Frances moved swiftly inside and, taking her arm, led her down the hall to the kitchen and sat her down at the table, seating herself opposite and reaching for her hand.

‘Tell me what happened.'

Lucy shook her head helplessly. ‘I don't know,' she whispered.

‘Lucy, that bruise. How did you get it?' Then, with dawning horror, ‘It wasn't
Kevin
?'

Tears rolled down her cheek. ‘It was an accident. I fell, catching my head on the corner of the table.'

‘
Why
did you fall?'

Lucy didn't reply. Frances moistened her lips and steeled herself to ask the impossible question. ‘Did Kevin hit you, honey?'

Lucy looked up, her eyes anguished. ‘He didn't mean to, Fran!'

‘But he must have
thought
he had a reason?'

She shook her head. ‘It was all so silly,' she whispered, and, as Frances waited for her to continue, went on reluctantly, ‘It was about Roger.'

‘Roger Crane?'

Lucy nodded. ‘You know he can be a bit of a flirt. Kev has always maintained he fancies me, and admittedly he does make a beeline for me at parties and chats me up, but it's only his way. We've laughed about it in the past, but last night – I can't remember how it came up, but Kev suddenly accused me of egging him on, even rather fancying him myself. It was all so
stupid
!'

‘And that's why he hit you?'

‘He didn't mean to,' Lucy repeated. ‘He's ill, Fran – sometimes he doesn't know what he's doing.'

‘Sounds like a good excuse,' Frances said tightly.

‘No, really! When he saw the bruise, he . . . cried!'

Didn't violent husbands always show remorse – until they did it again? But
Kevin
, of all people!

‘I just don't understand it,' Lucy went on brokenly. ‘It started out of the blue a few weeks ago, and it's getting worse. Sometimes he looks at me as though he doesn't know who I am, sometimes he doesn't hear when I speak to him. Then, when I repeat it, he swears at me. He's frightened, Fran, and so am I, but he absolutely refuses to see a doctor. I . . . think he's afraid of what he might be told.'

‘Does anyone else know about this?'

‘No.'

‘Would you mind if I told Greg? He might be able to help.'

Lucy raised a hand from the table and let it fall again, which Frances took to be assent. ‘In the meantime,' she went on rallyingly, ‘there's no point in sitting at home worrying. Go and wash your face, then we'll hit Marsborough and treat ourselves to lunch at the Bacchus. How does that sound?'

And Lucy, unable to think of an excuse, agreed.

As Rona turned into the gateway of Springfield Lodge, she saw that the grass which had been the setting for the photograph had been replaced by a paved parking area. Two or three cars were drawn up, and she pulled in beside them.

The building itself, however, looked unchanged – a handsome Georgian house with a pillared entrance, and its air of solid, understated elegance was carried through into the tiled entrance hall.

Rona paused, looking about her. On her right, through glass doors, was a comfortable-looking lounge where a couple were enjoying afternoon tea, while on the left she glimpsed a panelled room with tables laid for dinner. Immediately ahead, to one side of the imposing staircase, a young woman was surveying her from behind the reception desk.

‘Good afternoon, madam. Can I help you?'

‘I have an appointment with Mrs Temple,' Rona said.

‘Ms Parish?'

‘Yes.'

‘One moment, please.' She picked up an internal phone, spoke quietly into it, then, replacing it, came round the desk.

‘If you'd like to follow me . . .'

She led the way down a short passage to the door at the end, knocked briefly, then opened it and announced, ‘Ms Parish, Mrs Temple.'

The room into which Rona stepped appeared part-sitting room, part-office, since in addition to easy chairs and a low table bearing a tea tray, a large desk was positioned against one wall, with a bookcase stuffed with files alongside.

Beryl Temple came quickly to greet her, hand outstretched. ‘So pleased to meet you, Ms Parish,' she said with a smile. ‘Since we have a subscription to
Chiltern Life
, I almost feel I know you!'

She was a small woman in her early sixties, with short, smartly styled hair and horn-rimmed spectacles. Her cashmere jumper was in a soft lavender shade, her skirt grey flannel, and her shoes Cuban-heeled. Every inch the business woman, Rona thought.

‘It's good of you to see me,' she said.

‘Not at all. And I expect, without further ado, you'd like to see the painting.'

She gestured down the room to a small framed picture on the wall, and Rona went eagerly to look at it, stopping short with an amused exclamation. She turned apologetically to her hostess.

‘I'm sorry: it's absolutely charming, of course, but, from the title, not at all what I was expecting.'

Samson and Delilah proved to be a regal-looking bloodhound and a svelte Burmese cat.

Beryl Temple laughed. ‘Of course – it could be misleading.'

Rona leant closer, studying the painting. It bore all the trademarks of Elspeth's later work – attention to detail, sympathetic treatment of her subjects, fur lifelike enough to be stroked.

‘She didn't paint many animals,' Rona remarked. ‘In fact, I've only come across one other – of her art teacher's black spaniel.'

A knock on the door heralded the arrival of a young woman bearing a silver teapot and hot water jug, which she set down on the tray and silently withdrew.

‘You must have met Elspeth, then?' Rona enquired, as they seated themselves by the fire.

‘Sadly, no; my husband's parents knew hers, and I suspect that even though it was before she was well known, a few strings must have been pulled. In any event, it was arranged that she should paint our pets as an anniversary present. My husband supplied several photos, and I believe on a couple of occasions, when he knew I'd be out, she actually came to the house to see them in the flesh and make sketches.'

She glanced fondly down the room. ‘I've always loved the painting; she captured the animals perfectly, and it brings them back to life. And, of course, more hard-headedly, it must now be something of an heirloom. My husband refers to it as our pension!'

They talked for several minutes about Elspeth and the tragedy that overtook her, then Rona tentatively brought up the subject of the hotel's past.

‘Have you always been in the hotel business?' she began.

‘For over twenty years,' Beryl Temple answered, ‘the last eight of them here.'

‘It's a lovely house. I believe it was once a girls' school?'

Mrs Temple passed her a plate of scones. ‘You know, you're the third person in a matter of weeks to refer to that.'

‘Oh?'

‘First, a gentleman phoned, wanting to know if we knew anything about the school, particularly why it had closed, which it apparently did rather suddenly. I told him I couldn't help, since the house was a nursing home when we took it over, and I knew nothing of any school.'

That would have been Lindsey's friend William, Rona thought. But Mrs Temple was continuing.

‘Which was true enough at the time; but by a strange coincidence the wife of a couple staying with us last week used to be a pupil here.'

‘Really?' Rona's interest quickened.

‘It was quite fascinating; she took us all over the house, telling us what each room had been when she knew it – classrooms, art studios, science labs, and so on.'

‘Did
she
know why it had closed?'

‘Not really; she heard some of the senior girls had been caught drinking, but that would hardly warrant closing the entire school.'

‘No.' Rona thought for a moment. ‘Did the man who phoned by any chance mention a photograph?

Mrs Temple looked surprised. ‘Of the school you mean?'

‘Some pupils and staff, taken out at the front.'

‘No, he never mentioned a photo. Why? Was it special in some way?'

‘A member of staff had been scratched out, and various people are wondering why.'

‘How extraordinary! But why should it have any significance?'

‘I really don't know,' Rona said. She'd no intention of launching into the story of William's wife's mother nearly fainting when she saw it.

But having had her curiosity aroused, Beryl Temple was reluctant to let the subject drop.

‘Taken out at the front, did you say?'

‘Yes, with the house in the background.'

‘I'd be most interested to see it. My husband and I have a scrapbook showing the progress of the work we've done on the house – a kind of “before and after”. How it was when we took it over, with plywood partitions and hideous washbasins in the bedrooms, then the gradual transformation. It would be fascinating if we could find pictures of when it was a school.'

‘This one wouldn't help,' Rona assured her. ‘It looks the same as it does now, except there was grass where you have the car park.'

‘Ah well, perhaps some others might come to light. Our guest promised to look up old albums when she got home, though I dare say she's forgotten.'

Rona left soon after, having, with Mrs Temple's permission, taken a photograph of the painting for possible inclusion in the bio. At least that part of her visit had been successful, she reflected as she drove home, but she'd learned little of the hotel's previous incarnation.

‘I've an odd question for you,' Magda said, as they sat over coffee in the Gallery café.

Rona raised an eyebrow. ‘As you know, odd answers are my speciality. Fire away!'

Magda smiled absently, staring down into the cup she was holding with both hands. ‘Do you ever dream about people you don't know?'

‘All the time. Everyone does.'

‘But the
same
people, night after night?'

Rona hesitated. ‘Well, I'm not sure about that.'

Magda leant forward. ‘They're so
real
, so clearly defined, I feel I
know
them, even though, when I'm awake, I know I don't! It's as though I'm having someone else's dreams. I just wish I knew whose, because I'd like them to stop.'

‘Why, what do they do, these people, “night after night”?' Rona asked, her curiosity aroused.

‘Nothing much really; things switch around as they usually do in dreams. I'm having a meal with them, or I see them across the road.' She came to an abrupt halt and lowered her voice. ‘And that's the crux of it, Rona. Yesterday I
did
see one of them –
really
saw, during the day. It gave me quite a turn.'

‘Then obviously you'd seen him or her before, without realizing it, and—'

Magda was shaking her head. ‘No, I'm sure not. It's most unnerving. I never used to remember my dreams, but now they linger all day and leave me with an unpleasant kind of feeling.'

‘I've always remembered mine,' Rona said. ‘If I wrote fiction, they'd be an endless source of material.'

‘You don't think . . . there's anything the matter with me?'

‘Of course not! No one really understands dreams, Mags. Some people claim they foretell the future—'

‘Don't!' Magda shuddered.

‘I'm not saying
yours
do, but in any case you don't seem to have dreamt of anything significant.'

‘Not yet,' Magda said in a low voice, ‘but there's something just below the surface, I'm sure. I'm almost afraid to go to sleep now, in case they . . . progress in some way.'

‘That's nonsense!' Rona said roundly. ‘Have you spoken to Gavin about it?'

‘Yes, but he already knew, because I keep waking him. What makes it worse is that I suffered from nightmares for years as a child, and I'm terrified of slipping back into them.'

‘Then take a short course of sedatives, just to break the routine. They'll ensure you both get a good night's sleep.'

‘It's an idea, certainly.' Magda looked at her watch. ‘I must go; I've a meeting at eleven. Thanks for coming at short notice, Rona. I just . . . needed to talk about it.'

‘Any time,' Rona said. ‘But I'm sure there's nothing to worry about.'

Back in her study, Rona transferred the picture of Samson and Delilah from her BlackBerry to her computer, and sat staring at it. Odd, in the circumstances, that it should have surfaced at Springfield Lodge. Her eyes slid to the black–and-white photograph, still propped against her pen holder.