The Blue Virgin (14 page)

Chapter Thirty-Two

“Unlike most people, Konrad Vost had a personality that was clearly defined: above all he was precise in what he did and correct in what he said.”

—
John Hawkes,
The Passion Artist

12:30 PM

Declan drove away from the Belcher studio through the narrow, twisting streets of Oxford, scores of one-way roads causing him to take a circuitous route to reach Exeter College. It would have been faster to walk. More than once he had to slow down for yet another American tourist stepping off the curb after looking
the wrong way. But he supposed if he were to travel to America he would have the same difficulty, so perhaps he should be more generous in his criticism.

  Thinking of America brought Nora Tierney to mind. He speculated about what she had done this morning. Probably commiserated with her friend Val Rogan about the horrid inspector who’d kept her in gaol overnight.

  He liked her spirit and the way she wasn’t letting her pregnancy keep her on the sidelines, that spark of what he had to call impudence, which he usually found annoying. He’d watched her fight to stay in control and remain courteous at her interview. It distracted him to think of her. Why
was
he thinking of her? It wasn’t natural to be attracted to a pregnant woman, yet Nora Tierney seemed to be popping up in his thoughts often lately. How could that be? It was tough enough for him to have any kind of female relationship at all. This was ridiculous. He must really be losing it.

 
Parking on Turl Street, using his dash card again, Declan stepped over the high sill of Exeter’s thick door and back into another era. The cobblestone walk was uneven, the rounded stones high and easy to stumble over, their edges smoothed from foot traffic since rebuilding in Victorian times. He knew from years of living in town that a portion of the undercroft of the college’s great dining hall dated from 1314. Declan wondered if Nora Tierney would enjoy a personal tour of Exeter, and if she did, if she would leave her illustrator behind. He doubted Ramsey was the father of her child, although there was something proprietary in the way the artist treated Nora. Yet during her interview, Nora had described their relationship as “friends working collaboratively.”

  He stopped at the porter’s desk to show his warrant card and was directed across the quad to Ted Wheeler’s rooms. Wheeler had been less than thrilled when Declan had phoned to arrange to see him, dismay evident in his voice. Declan had said little to the don, only that he needed help with questions regarding a recent incident. On the phone, the don had not asked “what incident,” which had been surprising in itself, as though he had expected Declan’s call. Wheeler had immediately suggested meeting at the college, and Declan didn’t know whether this was because he didn’t want Declan to see his home or because he wanted to keep knowledge of the interview from his wife. At this point, it didn’t matter; he could insist on seeing Wheeler’s home down the road if it proved necessary. Better to take his measure of the man first.

  The trees in the Fellows’ Garden were filled out and leafy, the flowers blowsy with late blooms as Declan made his way around the sacrosanct piece of green lawn, admiring the dominant chapel as he turned into the correct stairwell. Even at the height of summer, students clustered around the quad, taking special classes or tutoring.

   In answer to Declan’s knock, Ted Wheeler called out, “Come in.” The don looked up from his desk, standing when he saw the detective. At first Declan was reminded of a lean monk out of his robes, for Ted’s hair was thinning in a pattern reminiscent of a Franciscan. The habit the don had of clasping his hands in front of him added to the impression.

  Wheeler looked at Declan’s warrant card as the detective introduced himself, the don’s bald pate glowing red with embarrassment which spread to the tips of his ears. Interesting, Declan thought, although from experience he knew many people disliked the police on general principle, a form of discrimination he’d found persisted across class lines.

  “Might we sit down, sir?” Declan pointed to chairs set in front of Wheeler’s large desk.

  “Of course, where are my manners,” the man said, almost physically gathering his wits about him. “Please, do sit, and tell me how I can help you.”

  “I understand you knew Bronwyn Wallace?” Declan dove right in.

  There was no mistaking the redness now, though Wheeler’s face took on a sorrowful look. “The poor girl. I read about her killing in the papers yesterday. A true tragedy.”

  “How did you become acquainted with Miss Wallace?”

  Wheeler’s answer was quick. “My daughter married recently, and we used the Belcher studio. I’m certain you already know Miss Wallace was his assistant.”

  “I see. So your relationship was purely professional?” He smiled pleasantly, trying to put the man at ease.

  “Of course. I’m probably old enough to be her father.” Wheeler laughed nervously, overlooking his use of the present tense.

  Declan nodded again, looking around the large room, which was filled with bookshelves crowded in a pleasing jumble. The large window overlooked a huge chestnut tree that let in dappled light. “Did she ever visit you here?”

  There was a perceptible pause before Wheeler answered. “She delivered the wedding proofs here. Later she picked up our selections, because the college is closer to the studio than our home, and I was the last one to make my choices. I still hadn’t decided when she came the second time. Very difficult when the photographs were all remarkably well done.”

  A good answer, Declan thought, but instinct and perception told him there was an unspoken layer. “Can you tell me if you wrote this note and what it’s about?” He reached into his jacket’s inner pocket and withdrew a copy of the note Wheeler had sent, handing it over for the man’s inspection.

  For a moment he thought the don was going to faint as the blood rapidly left his face, and he swayed forward. Wheeler stared stupidly at the paper in his hand, making a great effort to compose himself. “Yes, I wrote the note. I was extraordinarily pleased with the work and Miss Wallace’s service. It’s a simple thank you.” His voice quavered.

  Declan took the copy back. “Rather effusive, no? Even for an English lecturer?”

  He consulted the note and read out loud: “ … I owe you much more than mere words serve … acutely aware of that … will make certain to never let you forget me.” Declan raised one eyebrow in question and sat back to wait for an explanation. A heavy silence pervaded the room.

  A range of emotions flitted across Wheeler’s face, mainly fear. He wiped his sweaty palms on his pants leg and swallowed dryly. His eyes took on a hunted look, his nostrils dilating.

  Declan kept quiet. Most people had difficulty with long stretches of silence.

  Finally Wheeler drew in a deep breath, and Declan saw his look change to one of resignation. “I repeat, it is a thank you note for someone I held in deep regard.” His voice held a note of firmness.

  Declan didn’t buy it. He slapped the paper against his thigh. “You know, I got the impression when I read this that you might be trying to blackmail Miss Wallace.”

  “Blackmail? How absurd!” Although his voice was indignant, Wheeler clenched his hands together to steady them. “About what?”

  Declan leaned closer to the man. “You tell me, Professor.”

  A brisk knock at the door was followed by a young man entering the room, a bulging backpack over his shoulder. He stopped sheepishly when he saw the two men. “Sorry, sir. The porter said you were in today, and I’ve a question about my essay.” He turned to go.

  “No need to leave. I was just going.” Declan rose, tucking the note back into his pocket. “Thank you for your help, Dr. Wheeler.” Declan’s gaze locked on Wheeler’s eyes as he handed over his card. “You can reach me at this number if you think of anything else—important. I assume you know not to leave Oxford.”

Chapter Thirty-Three

“You will rejoice to hear that no disaster has accompanied the commencement of an enterprise which you have regarded with such evil forebodings.”

—
Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley,
Frankenstein

2 PM

Simon and Nora sat at Val’s table, sharing a late lunch Janet had prepared while Val slept. Simon had thought he’d have to peel Nora off the ceiling from excitement after their interview with Nigel Rumley. When Janet called them about a late lunch Nora agreed to come home for a good meal and to see Val. At least for the moment she seemed to have forgotten her determination to visit Magdalen Road.

  Now Simon wolfed down Janet’s steaming shepherd’s pie. Janet watched him eat with a bemused expression on her face, apparently thankful one person enjoyed her cooking. Val had arrived at the table last and pushed around the mashed potatoes, meat, and peas. Nora, too, had hardly touched her food; she seemed too giddy to eat.

  “We should be thankful for some fine things that happened today,” Janet said, putting her fork down. “Val is home, and Nora and Simon have gotten wonderful news. Tell us, Nora.”

  Simon enjoyed seeing the sparkle in Nora’s eyes, the slight flush on her cheeks as she recounted their meeting with Rumley. From his stately antiques-filled office to his argyle socks, Nigel Rumley was a character in his own right.  But the interview had turned out better than either of them had expected.

  “I admit I was gob smacked, as you Brits say. We signed a note for a proposed contract that will be reviewed by Simon’s lawyer and his agent, but it’s for three books in the series, with first rights to expand in the future. We have a date for the next one to be submitted, and the galley proofs for the first should come in six weeks. I’ll have both of those things done and out of the way before the baby is due.”

  Val grabbed her friend’s hand. “That’s just wonderful, Nora. You must be so pleased. And Simon, good for you, too.”

  “By the time we get back to Ramsey Lodge, it should be ready for signing,” he said.

  “And with the advance arriving soon after that, I’ll only have to dip into my savings occasionally,” Nora added. “But how are you feeling, Val?”

  Simon saw concern etched across Nora’s face.

  “Honestly, I feel like I’m moving through a vat of pudding. It’s all so unreal, like I’m living someone else’s life,” Val said.

  Janet patted Val’s hand. “It will be all right.”

  Simon helped himself to another biscuit. “This is delicious, Janet. Thank you for including us.

  “I’ve always enjoyed cooking,” Janet said, “and Bryn was an excellent helper and student. She was more adventurous than I am, though. I tend to stick to old favorites.”

  Val put her fork down. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to get ready to see my favorite solicitor,” she said with an attempt at wryness.

  Simon finished his biscuit, watching Nora. He saw deep worry knitting her brow. Janet noticed it, too.

  “We’ll get it sorted out, somehow,” Janet said, rising as Val left the room.

  “Let me, Janet,” Simon said, helping her stack dishes. “I almost feel guilty enjoying that meal.”

  “No need to, Simon. Bryn would understand, and Lord knows I do. The living need to go right on living. It’s what my dad told me like a litany after Bryn was born and we were alone.”

  Simon was struck by the phrasing of Janet’s statement. It almost sounded as if Janet knew Bryn’s father had died. He saw by Nora’s pensive expression that she had also tucked away this thought. She nodded in agreement and said: “And we need to conserve all of our energy right now.”

  Simon groaned. “Don’t tell me you still want to go to Magdalen Road? What for?”

  He watched Janet pick up on an impending argument. She ducked into the kitchen with a pile of plates. “I’ll just load the dishwasher.”

  “What for? For finding Bryn’s murderer, that’s what for,” Nora said without missing a beat. “I’ve told you I won’t leave Val’s future to police who are already convinced she’s guilty.”

  Simon knew he had to tread carefully. Nora was fiercely independent, and he had no real claim to her movements. Still, he could not stop himself from commenting. “And you think speaking to Bryn’s neighbors is somehow going to make a difference?”

  “It might.” She got up from the table. “And I mean to make a start. If it bothers you so much, I’ll get permission first from the police.”

  She bounced up to help Janet as Simon sat back in exasperation. There would be no stopping Nora now. She would make her lists, and ponder, and rationalize. All he could do was try to stop her before she got in over her head.

Chapter Thirty-Four

“It may take time to get over an obsession, even after the roots have been pulled out.”

—
Booth Tarkington,
Rumbin Galleries

2:15 PM

The Covered Market was pure retail theatre, Declan thought, with its mix of boutiques, food stores, high-end jewellery, and low-end T-shirts. It was mid-afternoon, and his stomach growled. He ducked into a small cafe and ordered coffee and a pastie.

  Fortified, he walked past the showy flower stalls, pausing to watch the butcher hang a whole deer to age alongside the rabbits and steer already swaying from the rafters. Declan walked carefully on the uneven cobbles to his destination, The Cake Shop, pushing through the crowds window-shopping or munching on warm cookies. He knew the shop closed early on Sunday but judged he had plenty of time left to push and nudge Davey Haskitt a bit.

  Pausing outside the bakery’s large, glass window, he looked past the display of an Alpine village executed in fondant and icing to watch a woman seated on a tall stool. She was fashioning miniature people in lederhosen to populate the re-created town.

  Inside he asked the woman behind the counter for Davey Haskitt and was told he was on a break. When he showed his warrant card, the woman raised the pass-through and directed him out back. The baking area, now dormant but coated with a fine dusting of flour, was rich with the sweet mixed odors of sugar, vanilla, and cinnamon. Declan ducked around a tower of
empty cooling racks and found Davey lounging on an upturned crate, smoke from his cigarette curling away into the fresh air.

  “Nice day, Davey.”

  The lad turned at his name, surprise in his expression fading when he recognized the detective. “What’d you want then?” he asked, rubbing the stump of his smoke out against the crate and throwing it into the road.

  Not quite as pleased today, Declan noted. Davey seemed older, more insolent, and the detective thought that perhaps his being this close to a murder had toughened him. But then being close to a murder affected everyone in its circle in some way. “You had enough of being the center of attention?” he asked.

  The boy shrugged. “Still dead, isn’t she? No matter what
…
” He cut himself off and looked away, suddenly interested in the state of his fingernails, scraping flour out from underneath a few.

  “No matter what
…
” reverberated in Declan’s memory, and he recalled where he had heard that phrase before. It was from the lyrics of the song playing in Bryn Wallace’s flat when her body was discovered. “No matter what, Davey?” he prompted.

  “Nothin’,” Davey said sullenly, closing the topic.

  Declan sat down on a crate next to him after carefully dusting it off. “Davey, it must have been a rough experience to find Miss Wallace’s body like that, especially since she was a good friend of yours.”

  The boy nodded but kept his head down.

  “Is there anything new you’ve thought of now that a few days have gone by? Anything at all that you might have forgotten to tell me?” Declan loosened the knot in his tie. “It could be important in finding her killer.”

  The boy shook his head and lit another cigarette, blowing smoke out of one side of his mouth, keeping his silence.

  Declan stood, fighting down annoyance. “Why do I get the feeling you’re holding back, Davey?”

  Davey wouldn’t meet his eyes. He inhaled deeply one last time, chucking the butt into the street. He rose and checked his watch, muttering: “Have to help close up shop now.”

  He pushed past Declan into the bakery, leaving the detective wondering what Davey Haskitt was hiding and what buttons he could push to find out.

*

When he got back to the office, McAfee was hanging about. “Any joy?” Declan asked.

  “Nothing of interest at the co-op according to Watkins, but I’ve found something I think you’ll find interesting.” He followed Declan into his office, pointing to a few sheets of paper placed front and center on his crowded desk.

  “The background checks, sir. Nothing at all on Allen Wesley, the deceased’s father; he seems to have fallen off the face of the earth. But Cameron Wilson, her former lover? It seems his real name is Melvin Wilmot, and under that name, he has form for cocaine possession.” McAfee straightened up.

  “Interesting. Very much so, McAfee.” Declan tapped the sheets on his desk while he thought. “Get this Wilmot’s mug shot and one of the pervert, Tommy Clay, and have the team take them around Magdalen Road for idents. We’re looking to see if they were hanging around Wallace’s flat. But be careful,” he warned the young man. “Clay will be the first one to cry ‘unfair’ if we’re not scrupulous. Don’t mention either one of their backgrounds.”

  “Yessir, understood.” McAfee whirled around, almost running over the female constable who had started to enter the office. “Oh, sorry, Debs,” he said.

  The woman shook her head at his retreating back. “In a hurry to make Inspector, that one,” she said with a smile. “You have a visitor, sir. A Miss Tierney asked if you had a few moments.”

  Declan raised his eyebrow and put on a face of annoyance. “Have her wait ten minutes while I look over this pile on those handbag snatchings and then bring her up. Thanks.” He made himself sort dutifully through his pile, pondering what was behind this visit from Nora Tierney.