The Blue Virgin (3 page)

  Declan moved into the bathroom, nodding to a SOCO who was leaving. He noted the absence of birth control pills or prescription drugs in her medicine cabinet, then entered the small bedroom with its neatly made double bed, the duvet white with lavender sprigs of lilac. The room was feminine but not fussy, the walls painted a pale, restful green. Sheer curtains hung over drawn shades, shutting out the world but not the rising traffic noise from the road as life went on outside the windows, and the street woke up.

  His eye was drawn to a framed document that took pride of place over the upholstered green velvet headboard. Stepping around a fingerprinter working on the bedside table, he leaned over to inspect the hanging.

  On a piece of thick, creamy parchment, two poems were inscribed in flowing calligraphy. The top portion was devoted to a set of lyrics, noted as the song “She” by Charles Aznavour and Herbert Kretzmer. Declan scanned the lyrics of loving devotion to a woman. A hand-drawn Celtic knot divided the sections. The more succinct bottom portion read:

  From E. B. Browning, but pretend I’ve written them for you:

  Love me Sweet, with all thou art,

  Feeling, thinking, seeing;

  Love me in the lightest part,

  Love me in full being.

  Eternally, Val

  “Rodgers,” Declan called out, “Get me some close-up shots
of this, please.” Someone loved Bryn Wallace, Declan mused, quickly dismissing the sting the thought gave him.

  He opened the closet door and searched through the clothes that hung there or were stacked on two upper shelves, checking pockets and along hemlines. Everything was of decent quality; she’d been a sale shopper, from the discount stickers on several shoe boxes. Declan had found you could discern a person’s traits by the way they kept their closets and decided Bryn Wallace had been neat, kept to a budget, and respected quality over quantity.

  A used dresser against the far wall had already been fingerprinted. When he got to the underwear drawer he grimaced at invading a stranger’s privacy. As he opened it, the faint scent of verbena rushed out. Under the scented paper lining he discovered a memory card from a camera. He filled out a chain of evidence card and put it in an evidence bag, handing it over to a SOCO leaving the room. He would get prints done up to review later in his office. What was on that card that it deserved to be hidden under Bryn Wallace’s underwear?

   Declan moved back to the alcove in the sitting room, where more of Bryn Wallace’s personality was on display. He had to notify the family and obtain a formal identification, he thought as he studied a picture of her standing in a garden with an older, shorter, white-haired woman. Standing before the bookshelf, he pulled a few books at random, flipping through the pages. A few novels, many more on the history and techniques of photography, and two entire rows of books of photographers’ works. He paged through a show catalogue titled
Dear Friends: American Photographs of Men Together, 1840-1918
and stopped when he saw text underlined. It showed a 1915 studio picture of two men sitting together on the chin of a huge, curving half-moon, fabricated in wood and painted white. Wooden stars hung from the ceiling; the men’s feet dangled off the floor. Unrelated in appearance, one man had his arm affectionately draped around the other’s shoulders; accompanying text explained how men in that era were more physically affectionate than in modern times, the homosexual aspect uncertain in these public displays.

  Had Bryn Wallace been investigating social climates regarding homosexuality? Or was it the photography aspect and setting that had interested her more?

  His interest piqued, he continued to examine the books, coming across the titles
Our Right to Love
and
Our Bodies Our Selves
resting alongside a paperback edition of
Best UK Lesbian Erotica
.  Had he been wrong to imagine the murderer a man? A lovers’ quarrel gone badly would be a classic motive for murder.

  Just as Declan put the book back on the shelf, Watkins came over to him, holding out a driving license. “There’s a woman outside you might want to talk with.”

  Declan glanced at the photo. He wasn’t the least bit surprised to hear Watkins add: “She says she’s the victim’s partner.”

Chapter Three

“Can any thing, my good Sir, be more painful to a friendly mind than a necessity of communicating disagreeable intelligence?”

—
Fanny Burney,
Evelina

7:15 AM

The woman paced outside the building at the front of the cordon, whirling around as Declan opened the door. He felt his pulse pick up. This must be the Val of the framed calligraphy. The murderer returning to the scene of the crime seemed to be out of a Golden Age mystery, but he knew it happened routinely. He motioned to the uniform to let the slender woman inside the sawhorses and walked down the steps to meet her.

  “Miss Rogan? Detective Inspector Declan Barnes, CID.”

  The woman’s face flushed. “What’s happened to Bryn?” she demanded. “Why can’t I see her?”

  A murmur rose from the watching crowd lining the police barrier.

  “Let’s talk, shall we? I’ll clear everything up.” He guided her away from the spectators, up the stairs and into the small entry hall, lined with post boxes on one side and a bench with an umbrella stand on the other. Watkins followed discreetly, notebook in hand.

  Val Rogan stood in front of the bench, refusing to sit down. “What’s happened to Bryn?” she asked, right in Declan’s face. “Why can’t I go to her flat?”

  “Let’s get a few preliminary questions out of the way first,” he answered. “Have a seat and tell me how long you’ve known Miss Wallace.”

  Val clapped her arms at her side. “We met last year at an exhibit at the art co-operative I run with another artist. And I don’t want to sit down. I want to know what’s happened to Bryn.”

  Declan ignored her, and all three continued to stand. “How would you describe the nature of your relationship?”

  Val bristled. “I already told your sergeant we’re partners,” she answered, sticking out her chin defiantly, adding, “We’re going to move in together shortly.”

  Declan watched her jaw clench in tension when he asked: “Would you know of any relatives she might have?”

  “No siblings.” Fear clipped the woman’s answers. “Only her mum in Chipping Norton.”

  “Do you have an address or phone number for her mother?”

  She nodded. “At home in my address book.” Her hands twisted in anxiety.

  “When was the last time you saw Miss Wallace?” Declan continued smoothly.

  “We had dinner here last night.” The woman’s voice had gone flat.

  “What time did you leave?”

  “I was home before midnight, so around 11:30.” She met his eyes. “Please tell me what’s happened to Bryn,” she begged.

  “Just a few more questions, Miss Rogan. Can you supply us with the names of her employer and any other close friends?”

  She replied in robot-like fashion, dictating to Watkins the address and number of the Miles Belcher Studio. Val added her own co-op partner, Lottie, and paused in thought. “I don’t know of any other close friends, except … ”

  “Yes,” Declan prompted.

  “Someone she dated before we met. He recently started calling her again, annoying her. He’s a model named Cameron Wilson, lives in Oxford.”

  “Miss Wallace was a model, too, before she got into photography, correct?”

  Val agreed sullenly, and he continued on. “Are you familiar with a tenant in this building, a young man called Davey Haskitt?”

  Val’s voice was husky when she answered, fighting back tears. “Bryn calls him the bakery boy in the basement. He brings her pies or tarts from the Covered Market—he brought us somelast night.”

  “Anyone else?”

  She shook her head. “Not that I can think of right now.” Her patience ended, Val’s voice rose along with her anxiety level. “Look, are you going to tell me what’s happened here?” She glowered, her anger surging forth.

  “Perhaps you should tell me what brings you back here so early, Miss Rogan.” Declan stood his ground, regarding the woman looking up at him. 

  Val answered grudgingly. “I tried to call her this morning, but the phone just rang and rang. We had an argument before I left last night and I —” She clapped a hand over her mouth.

  Declan raised an eyebrow; Watkins cleared his throat and made a note. “I’m afraid I have very bad news for you about Miss Wallace,” the detective said. “She was murdered sometime very early this morning.” Declan nodded to Watkins, who took the woman by the elbow as her tears spilled over and ran down her cheeks. “We’ll continue this discussion later down at the station.”

  “If you’ll come with me, Miss,” Watkins said, guiding the woman toward a panda car.

  Declan met the woman’s gaze just as Watkins ducked her head into the back seat. The anger had vanished, replaced with anguish. But was that over the loss of her partner, or the realization she’d just made herself a suspect in the woman’s murder?

Chapter Four

“Ill news hath wings, and with the wind doth go
…
”

—
Michael Drayton,
The Barons’ Wars

7:50 AM

From the dining room of the large stone building called Ramsey Lodge in the town of Bowness-on-Windermere came the clang of silverware and the chink of china as the early-morning help set the tables for breakfast. In the long timbered hall, a damp coolness radiated from the original flagstone floor. Nora Tierney paused by the heavy oak door to scoop her wavy auburn hair off her face and tie it into a ponytail that hung to her shoulders. Pushing her glasses up her nose, she watched Simon Ramsey and his sister Kate at the far end of the hall, their heads bent together as they stood behind a worn Jacobean desk in deep discussion over orders for Ramsey Lodge for the next two weeks. A wave of fondness washed over Nora. How fortunate she was to have them as friends these last five months.

  She hated interrupting them. They were intent on sorting business before she and Simon left tomorrow for ten days in Oxford, but they’d grown quite protective of her in the time she’d lived with them. The last thing she wanted was to cause her friends anxiety if they couldn’t find her. Her hesitation over slipping out for a walk ended when Darby came prancing to her side. The Lakeland Terrier began barking and leaping in his eagerness to join her. Both Ramseys looked up, Kate’s tall, slender frame a feminine version of her lanky brother’s, her sandy hair curling against the nape of her neck.

  “Darby, down,” Kate chastised the small dog. “We really need to keep him from jumping up on you now, Nora,” she said, smiling. Nora smiled back, and her hand instinctively went to the growing bump at her waist.

  “He’s my buddy,” Nora crooned to the wheaten dog, bending down to rub his small V-shaped ears with affection. “Yes, you can come with me.”

  “Better take him on leash,” Simon said. “Too many tourists this time of year to trust him without it, and I don’t see you chasing him across the quay.” His smile crinkled the corners of his deep blue eyes.

  “Good idea,” Nora answered, pulling a leash from the brass umbrella bin, clipping it to his collar as the dog sat obediently, short, stiff tail wagging. “Be back in a bit.”

  Darby sniffed with deep interest as they made their way through the rose arbor, past the terraced patio and down the path, lifting his leg at intervals. The tree at the corner of the Promenade was of particular interest, and Nora tugged him away to cross Rayrigg Road, heading toward the shore of England’s largest lake. Pale ribbons of apricot and pink streaked the powder-blue sky as the sun warmed the shore. Puffs of clouds that hung without seeming to move in the warm haze were sharply reflected in Windermere’s surface. Nora had never seen such a startlingly blue sky.

  She walked the dog among the early bustling throngs of tourists touring the quay across from the lodge at the eastern edge of the lake. The travelers, who wore hiking shoes or trainers, searched among the ice cream stalls and trinket shops for the perfect postcard to send back home. Nora was convinced no card could capture the beauty of the Lake District.

  Connecticut-born Nora Tierney had loved England ever since she’d spent a year at Oxford in Exeter College. She returned after graduate school in journalism to the place that had given her comfort after her father’s tragic death. Now that she knew Oxford inside and out, she was learning about this section of the Lake District. On one of her exploring walks she had been amused to find that St. Martin’s Church, consecrated in 1483, contained stained glass windows that included the coat of arms of John Washington, ancestor of George. It gave Nora a sense of connection to the area; perhaps some of her mother’s ancestors had lived here. She would have to do a family tree search when she had the time.

  Guiding Darby onto the pathway along the shore, Nora paused to sit on a bench opposite Ramsey Lodge. Nora looked back at the lodge, its solid dark-stone edifice and white, ornate trim a testament to its Victorian roots. It was difficult at times for her to absorb the changes that had occurred in the last six months. Her body was altering, her small breasts and thin face fuller, the growing mound at her belly patently obvious. She wistfully watched a young couple with matching backpacks walk past as the terrier jumped up next to her. Together they watched the steamboat
Swan
depart for Ambleside on the far side of the lake, nosing out varied sizes of motorboats and noisy Jet Skis in its path. It was a scene that had gotten remarkably familiar to her since last March. She had fallen irrevocably in love with the land of Wordsworth and Beatrix Potter.

  Until March Nora had been working as an editor for the Oxford magazine
People and Places.
In her six years there, she’d moved up from reporting to editing, then found herself bored, missing the excitement of chasing a story. Her fiance Paul’s work with the Ministry of Defence kept him frequently traveling, and Nora was often alone. When she’d decided to enter a writing contest sponsored by a Cumbrian travel agency, Paul had been unusually supportive. She suspected Paul thought her desire to write her own books would keep her occupied and stop her pestering him about his long work hours. The prize was three weeks in the Lake District at the historic Ramsey Lodge, working with artist Simon Ramsey on the book’s illustrations. The time would allow her to start the collaboration process on
The Secret of Belle Isle
, her series about a group of fairies inhabiting the small island that split the center of Lake Windermere.

  Nora’s excitement over winning the contest had been short-lived when Paul was killed a few days later in a small plane crash. They’d been on the verge of breaking the engagement—Paul could be distant emotionally; Nora worried she didn’t love him enough to be married to him—but nevertheless it was a shock, especially when she found out seven weeks later in the middle of her stay in Bowness that she was pregnant.

  Stroking Darby’s wiry coat, Nora caressed her growing belly, wondering at the sex of the child she carried. She’d thrown herself into the work with Simon when she’d found out she was pregnant, trying to work out her mixed feelings over the man who was the father of her unborn child.

  Nora looked across the lake to the distant crags of the ancient fells surrounding the lake, tipped in a purplish haze. Green and yellow fields dotted with sheep rose along the uphill paths Simon had taught her were called “rakes.”

  “They remind me of a quilt my Grandma Tierney made,” Nora had told him when she’d first arrived in March.

  “The seams would be the dry stone walls then,” he’d explained, and commenced educating her about the history of the enchanted place he called home. Now he was coming back with her to Oxford, to pack up her flat in a move to Ramsey Lodge, where they would continue their work as she awaited the birth of her child.

  A gentle breeze brought fresh air and the susurration of the long grasses around the shingle at the water’s edge, mingled with the noises of boat traffic on the lake. Please, she prayed solemnly, let me be making the right decision to move here. Too much for this child and our future depends on it.

  Her reverie was broken when she heard her name being called. She turned and saw Simon frantically beckoning to her from the corner of the lodge, holding his hand up to his ear, mimicking a phone. It must be important for him to seek her out, she knew, hurriedly crossing the road back to the lodge. Who could be calling her at this early hour? Thoughts of her mother back in Connecticut made her increase her pace.

  She was slightly out of breath when she reached the kerb. “Who is it?”

  Simon took the leash from her. “It was Val. Something’s happened to Bryn. She needs you to call her back right away.” He stopped Nora by a touch on her shoulder. “Nora, be prepared. Val was crying so hard I could hardly understand her, but I could swear she said Bryn was dead.”

*

Kate pushed the desk chair toward her and Nora gratefully plopped down. She was aware of Simon slipping away.

  “Val, I’m so very sorry. What do you need me to do?” Nora listened intently, grabbing a pen. Kate pushed a pad toward her. Simon returned with a mug of hot tea and left it by Nora’s elbow. “I’ll meet you there.” She replaced the phone and turned to Kate and Simon. “Bryn’s been murdered. Val’s being taken to the police station for questioning, and I need to be there. I’m leaving for Oxford right away.” She stood up, ignoring her tea.

  “I’m going with you,” Simon said.

  “Yes, Simon, you must. It’s only a day earlier. I can easily manage here,” Kate agreed.

  “No,” Nora said. “You’ve done so much already. I’ll be fine.”

  Of course you will,” Kate soothed. “But then Simon would have to take the train tomorrow. Besides, maybe he can be of help to you and Val.”

  “I’ll go pack,” Simon said, “and be ready to leave in half an hour.” He left the room without a backward glance. 

  “Kate —” Nora started to protest again.

  Kate stopped her with a hand up. “Nora, let him do this. He won’t let you drive there, not when you’re upset. It’s the right thing to do. Now go get packed and I’ll make you some sandwiches for the ride.”

*

The Celica strained and groaned its way along the M40 toward the golden glow and magnificent spires of Oxford, a trip of more than four hours total if they didn’t hit traffic. The engine was on its last gasp, and there was little absorption left in the car’s shocks.

  Simon Ramsey glanced over at Nora, strapped into the passenger seat beside him, seemingly unperturbed by the bouncing. Her auburn curls bobbed loosely around her small face, glasses slipping down her nose as the car lurched. Pale lashes, darker where the ends fanned out against her cheeks, gave her a look younger than her thirty years. Nora had been largely quiet, lost in her thoughts since leaving Ramsey Lodge. They’d eaten Kate’s sandwiches after the first hour. Now the soothing strains of Beethoven’s “Pastoral” accompanied their journey.

  The engine whined again, and Simon hoped the old car would survive the trip to Oxford. Nora had arranged to trade it in for a slightly newer and definitely safer Volvo wagon next week.

  Simon had met Val Rogan when she’d traveled last spring to
Ramsey Lodge, right after Nora had found out she was pregnant. Val had been full of enthusiasm, bubbling over with news of her new partner, Bryn Wallace. He’d liked Val immediately, responding to her artist’s nature, and understood why she and Nora were friends. Kate had liked her too, and his sister always had good instincts about people.

  Simon recalled his first meeting with Nora, his attraction to the petite redhead immediate. After learning Nora was recovering from her fiance’s death, he had held himself in remarkable restraint; except for that one gratifying afternoon just before she found out she was pregnant. He wanted to repeat it, and soon, but more than that, he wanted to swoop down and protect her from the outside world. He’d lain awake several nights trying to figure out if the child could possibly be his.

  He recalled her shock at finding out the antibiotics she’d taken for a chest cold just before Paul’s death could destroy the efficacy of birth control pills. He hadn’t envied her the tough situation she’d been in, trying to decide whether to raise the child alone, give it up for adoption, or abort it. Simon was certain she would move back to the States at that point, to her mother, Amelia, and her new stepfather. But once she’d decided firmly not to terminate the pregnancy, it was the combination of her old friend Val and her new friend Kate who had convinced Nora she should stay at the lodge for the next year.

  “We have the room, and it would be so much easier to manage your collaboration with Simon if you were here.” Kate was the voice of reason.

  Val agreed. “You don’t have family over here, and you shouldn’t be alone during these months. As much as I’d do for you, I’m at the co-op all day. These guys are right here.”

  “Besides,” Kate persisted, “it will do us all good to have a baby around here. And when you get on your feet and can see where the books are going, you can move on.”

  Simon felt he had held his breath for a week as Nora mulled their offer over, trying not to pressure her, something he’d been guilty of in his past relationships. Finally she had acquiesced.

  “The last thing I want to do is flee home to be fussed over by my mother. I love her but only in small doses—her constant fussing makes me claustrophobic after a few days. She can fuss to her heart’s content over Roger. He adores her every suggestion. Besides, they’re enjoying traveling, and they’ve earned their retirement.”

  Once it was settled, Val returned to Oxford, and Simon spent the summer trying to ignore the chemistry that flew between them as they polished the book. At least Nora seemed capable of ignoring it, he reluctantly admitted. Why do bloody relationships have to be so difficult? Simon wondered, as Nora stretched, yawning noisily. He waited for her to push her glasses back up her nose, an endearing gesture she repeated hundreds of time a day.

  Simon stretched his left leg and rotated each hand in turn to uncramp his muscles. He insisted on doing all the driving, much to Nora’s chagrin, providing her with direct evidence of what she called his “Renaissance Man syndrome.”

  “Just because I’m pregnant doesn’t mean I’ve ceased to function,” she complained in clear Connecticut tones as they’d packed up the car.

  “You can drive after we stop for our sandwiches,” he’d said, but then slid behind the wheel before she could get in after a quick stop for fuel and a bathroom break.

  Now she looked at the road sign they were passing. “Only about ten kilometers and we hit Banbury, then less than thirty to Oxford.” She watched the verdant countryside for a moment, and then added: “I do appreciate you driving. I know you’d rather I stay mollycoddled and such —” She put up her hand as Simon started to protest. “I just wanted to say I know you drove out of concern, not control,” she finished quickly, searching through her discs for another selection.