A Question of Identity

Table of Contents

Recent Titles by Anthea Fraser from Severn House

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

(in order of appearance)

BROUGHT TO BOOK

JIGSAW

PERSON OR PERSONS UNKNOWN

A FAMILY CONCERN

ROGUE IN PORCELAIN

NEXT DOOR TO MURDER

UNFINISHED PORTRAIT

A QUESTION OF IDENTITY

PRESENCE OF MIND

THE MACBETH PROPHECY

BREATH OF BRIMSTONE

MOTIVE FOR MURDER

DANGEROUS DECEPTION

PAST SHADOWS

FATHERS AND DAUGHTERS

THICKER THAN WATER

SHIFTING SANDS

This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

First world edition published 2012

in Great Britain and in the USA by

SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

Copyright © 2012 by Anthea Fraser.

All rights reserved.

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

Fraser, Anthea.

A question of identity.

1. Parish, Rona (Fictitious character) – Fiction.

2. Detective and mystery stories.

I. Title

823.9'14-dc23

ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-277-1 (Epub)

ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8168-7 (cased)

ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-426-4 (trade paper)

Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

This ebook produced by

Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

‘A
hypnotist
?' Rona repeated.

‘Yes . . . I thought it would be fun,' Magda added, a little defensively. ‘He's very good – I've seen him on TV.'

Rona moved the phone to her other hand and reached for her coffee. ‘I'm not sure it's Max's idea of an evening out,' she said doubtfully. Nor hers, if truth be known.

‘Oh, come on, Rona! Gavin's prepared to give it a go, and I know he'd welcome Max's company.' She hesitated. ‘Actually, I've got tickets for Friday.'

Rona's eyebrows rose. ‘Jumping the gun a bit, weren't you?'

‘They were selling like hot cakes and I didn't want to miss out, specially as Max can only manage Fridays or Saturdays, and they're the most popular evenings.'

This was true; Max held adult art classes during the week at his studio across town. There was a pause, while each waited for the other to speak.

Then Rona said, ‘Well, I'll have a word with him, but you'll have to give me something more to go on. Who is this man?'

‘An American, name of Ed Bauer. He's a huge hit in the States, and is now touring the UK – the Darcy Hall did well to get him. It doesn't start till eight, so we could eat at the Bacchus first.'

The wine bar was in the same street as the theatre, and did a good trade in suppers both before and after the show.

‘What does he actually do?'

‘Oh, you know, asks for volunteers to go up on stage . . .'

‘And proceeds to make fools of them?'

‘Well, it's all very light-hearted. Look, to be honest, I thought you could do with a bit of cheering up. You've had your nose to the grindstone for months.'

Rona, glancing ruefully at her computer screen, couldn't deny it. What was more, though usually she was never happier than when immersed in her work, that wasn't the case this time.

‘OK, I'll see what I can do,' she said.

‘Excellent! If I don't hear from you, I'll book a table for six thirty. A bit early, I know, but we don't want to rush. See you there, I hope!'

Rona sipped her coffee, found it was cold, and discarded it. She could speak to Max when he came home this evening, but better to find out sooner rather than later if he was amenable, and if she phoned now she could catch him before his afternoon class.

‘Hi, honeybun!' he greeted her. ‘An unsolicited call? What's up?'

‘Magda and Gavin have asked us to go to the Darcy Hall with them on Friday.'

‘Oh? What's on?'

‘A stage hypnotist, apparently.'

‘Good God! Why in the name of heaven would they want to see him?'

‘Magda thinks it's time I did a bit of socializing.'

‘She's right, but there are better ways.'

‘Actually, she's quite keen. She's seen him on TV, and he's a big hit in the States.'

‘Come on, love, he's a fake – they all are!'

‘A sweeping statement, but if he is, it'll be a challenge for you to see how he does it.'

‘Hold on a minute: do I take it you
want
to go?'

‘I wouldn't mind a night out, to be honest.'

He gave a short laugh. ‘You make it sound as though you're housebound!'

‘We've not been to the theatre for a while. And Magda suggests supper first, at the Bacchus.'

‘I presume she's talked Gavin into this?'

‘Yes, but I think he'd appreciate your back-up.'

‘I bet he would. Look, I must go; it's nearly time for the class and I've not finished preparing the studio.'

‘You're happy to go, then?'

‘Wouldn't say happy, but if you want to, fair enough. Gavin and I can be fellow sceptics.'

‘Thanks, Max; you might even enjoy it!'

Distraction over, Rona turned back to the screen, a sense of dissatisfaction reclaiming her. She ought to be enjoying this, she told herself. After all, she was primarily a biographer, with three highly acclaimed ‘lives' behind her. But two years ago, having embarked on researching the thriller writer, Theo Harvey, she'd uncovered far more than she'd anticipated, about not only his work, but also his life and death.

Ensuing legal problems had forced the abandonment of the project, and, unsettled by the experience, she'd postponed starting another, preferring to spend her time writing for the monthly glossy,
Chiltern Life.
It had been intended as a temporary measure, but as time went on she became less inclined to return to biographies. Her series of articles were well received and called for considerably less commitment, most being completed in a matter of weeks or even, in some cases, days. And despite periodic prompting from her husband and her publisher, this state of affairs might have continued indefinitely, had not the family of the artist Elspeth Wilding, who was said to have disappeared, begged Rona to write her life story.

But she'd barely started on it when, once again, death and scandal had intervened. On this occasion, however, the decision had been taken for the book to go ahead. From her publishers' standpoint, not only would the sensational events increase its saleability, but also Rona was under contract and a sizeable advance had been paid. They were also satisfied that the inevitable time-lapse before publication would lessen the possibility of causing offence to the family.

Who, as it turned out, were in favour of the decision.

‘Other writers will be jumping on the bandwagon,' Elspeth's sister, Naomi Harris, had written. ‘But we
know
you, Rona, and, despite all that has happened, we think you should carry on. You met Elspeth, and we feel we can trust you to treat her sympathetically, however black the circumstances. Also, ironically, you're now free to consult her letters and diaries, which you couldn't while she was alive. I'm sure they'll fill in some gaps.'

At least, Rona thought thankfully, interviews with parents, brother and sister had already taken place; despite their declared willingness, she'd have balked at soliciting personal memories so soon after Elspeth's death. It was also true that the diaries and letters shed light on major aspects of her life, but none of these factors made the task any more enjoyable. At least part of the reason she'd been working so unremittingly was so that the book and all it entailed could be put behind her as soon as possible.

Which wouldn't happen, she upbraided herself, if she sat staring into space. Sliding a sheet of paper into the printer, she started to transcribe her notes.

‘I had an email from Charles today,' Max said that evening. ‘Next door's just about finished, and he's asked me to go round and check everything's OK. Like to come along?'

Rona hesitated. For as long as she and Max had lived here, the house next door had been occupied by a succession of tenants while its owners lived abroad. Now, their contract in Hong Kong was coming to an end, and for several months the house had been undergoing substantial alterations and redecoration prior to their return. Yet, for Rona, it still retained horrific memories of finding the bodies of the previous tenants in their kitchen.

Max, who, at Charles's request, had been paying regular visits to the house and liaising with the building manager, put an arm round her shoulders. ‘Time to lay the ghosts, sweetheart. They've been well and truly banished, but it'll be easier if you satisfy yourself on that score before Charles and Monica arrive.'

She nodded reluctantly. ‘Have they got a date yet?'

‘Not to move in; they're flying back on the sixteenth of April, but their furniture won't arrive for another couple of months, so they're renting a flat in Alban Road.' He squeezed her shoulder. ‘So – how about it?'

‘All right,' she said, ‘let's get it over.'

Although she'd braced herself for lurking horrors, the moment Max unlocked the front door and they were met with the smell of paint and new carpet, Rona felt herself relax. Though the house was basically identical to theirs, she and Max had knocked down walls on three of the four floors, to make fewer and larger rooms. This house retained the original ground-floor layout, but the thick carpet stretching ahead of them and up the stairs also covered the floors in the two downstairs rooms, unifying while not joining them. When last seen they'd been cluttered with furniture, but, empty, seemed larger than she recalled.

Down in the basement, however, the Furnesses had followed their example by transforming the area into one large, airy kitchen. This was the room above all that Rona had dreaded revisiting, but in the pale pine units, the green Aga and state-of-the-art machines, there was no hint of its previous incarnation and she breathed a heartfelt sigh of relief.

On the first floor, the master bedroom had acquired an en suite, while at the top of the house – which, in their case, comprised a large room intended, though no longer used, as Max's studio – the two attic bedrooms had been supplemented by a shower room, to accommodate the Furnesses' teenage children.

As they moved through the house, Max had been turning taps on and off, flushing lavatories, opening unit drawers and trying light switches.