A Question of Identity (24 page)

‘Yes, the bell's just gone, but I'm on playground duty. I'm making my way there now. What can I do for you?'

‘This might seem a long shot, but I was wondering if Lucy Coombes ever mentioned going to see a hypnotist?'

‘
What?
'

‘I know it sounds mad; I'll explain later, when you've more time, but it could be important.'

‘Well, she certainly didn't in my hearing.'

‘Could you possibly ask around? See if she said anything to anyone else?'

‘Look, Rona, Lucy's still a touchy subject here. Everyone's very uptight over her death, and—'

‘I appreciate that, but this isn't idle curiosity. It might even lead to her husband being caught.'

There was a pause, and Rona could hear children's voices in the background. Sarah had reached the playground. Then Sarah said, ‘I must say, I can't see how.'

‘Trust me. Please.'

‘It's really that important?'

‘It could be, yes.'

‘Well, there's one person you could try asking, and that's her next-door neighbour. They were fairly close, I think.'

‘That's great! You know her?'

‘I wouldn't say “know”, but she was with us when we . . . found the body.'

‘Oh Sarah, I'm so sorry! I didn't—'

‘It's all right. Look, I must go – someone's just fallen over. Her name's Frances Drew – she'll be in the phone book – but go carefully with her. And if I get the chance, I'll ask around here. Yes, Sammy, I'm coming!' And she rang off.

Frances Drew was indeed in the phone book and Rona sat staring at her name, undecided how best to approach her. Normally, she'd simply have phoned, but two things made her hesitate. The first was that it was a difficult subject to bring up over the phone, particularly if the women had been close friends, and the second was her experience with Esther Lytton, who, not wishing to speak to her, had simply hung up. There was no help for it; she'd have to go round in person.

Rona had decided six o'clock was the best time for her visit. If Frances Drew had a job she'd be home by then, and hopefully it would be too early to interrupt a meal. That her husband might also be there was a risk she had to take; she could only hope he wouldn't be too protective and forbid her entry.

It was odd to be driving into Belmont and not turning in the direction of Maple Drive. Her mother, she knew, would be avidly awaiting the outcome of this visit; Rona had had to explain why she wanted Sarah's mobile number, and Avril made her promise to call in before going home. Not that she'd any intention of revealing the real reason for her visit; it would only lay her open to ridicule.

Finding the road she was looking for, she turned into it and began checking the house numbers, drawing in to the kerb just short of the one she wanted. The house she'd stopped by had a neglected air, she noted as she got out of the car; the plants in the garden were straggly, the grass overlong, and on this warm May evening all the windows were closed. Perhaps the owners were away. Then, as realization hit her, Rona stopped dead. Oh God – of course! This was the Coombeses' house! Kevin would never mow that grass again, nor Lucy tend the plants.

Quickening her footsteps, she hurried past and turned in the Drews' gateway.

It was indeed Frances's husband who answered the bell. By the look of him, he'd just arrived home; his tie was loosened and his jacket still over his arm. Behind him was a wide-eyed little girl of about seven.

Rona began her prepared opening. ‘I'm so sorry to disturb you, Mr Drew; my name is Rona Parish, and I'm a friend of Sarah Lacey.' She paused, unwilling to go into the ramifications of their relationship, and was relieved when the name appeared to be familiar, if not particularly welcome.

Drew was frowning. ‘Yes?'

‘I wonder if I could have a word with your wife?'

‘Why?'

Rona glanced past him at the little girl, now standing on one leg and staring at her curiously. ‘It's about your neighbours.'

His face hardened. ‘Press?'

‘No.' She wouldn't risk qualifying that, as she had with Esther. ‘It's . . . important, and it'll only take a minute.'

A woman appeared in the hall behind him. ‘Who is it, Greg?'

‘Someone wanting to speak to you. A friend of Sarah Lacey.'

‘Please!' Rona cut in quickly, before she could refuse. ‘I really do need your help. It won't take long.'

‘I don't see how I can help, and I really can't face having to—'

‘I promise it's not about . . . that evening.'

Frances hesitated, and Rona saw the resistance go out of her. ‘All right, then, come in. Rosie, go back to the television, there's a good girl.'

Reluctantly the little girl obeyed, and Rona was shown into the dining room. The table, she saw, wasn't laid; either it was too early, or, perhaps more likely, they'd be eating in the kitchen. As she'd expected, Greg Drew accompanied them, closing the door behind him.

Rona turned to Frances. ‘I just have one question for you. It probably won't make any sense to you, but all I can do is assure you it is important – perhaps vital — and might lead to Kevin being found.'

Greg put his arm round his wife. ‘Go ahead.'

‘A few weeks ago, a hypnotist was appearing at the Darcy Hall. Do you by any chance know if Lucy and Kevin went to see him?'

The Drews were both staring at her in total bewilderment.

Greg said, ‘You've come here to ask
that
?'

‘I know it seems ridiculous, but yes.' She looked at Frances, waiting with held breath for her answer.

Frances said, ‘I can't imagine why it matters, but yes, they did. I babysat for them.'

Rona's hands clenched at her sides. ‘Can you remember which day of the week it was?'

‘It must have been the Friday, because Rosie goes to Brownies and it was a bit of a rush getting next door on time.'

Rona's mind reeled. So the first part of Magda's theory held; Kevin Coombes
had
been at the theatre that night.

‘So?' Greg Drew prompted.

Rona was wondering how to phrase her next question when Frances unwittingly answered it.

‘They told me about it when they got back,' she added. ‘Kevin went up on stage and was hypnotized.'

‘Thank you,' Rona managed. ‘That's all I need to know.'

‘That they saw a
hypnotist
?' Greg said unbelievingly. ‘Look, you can't leave it there! At least tell us why this is so important?'

‘I can't explain now, but it might lead to finding Kevin. That's honestly all I can say.'

They weren't satisfied, either of them, and Rona couldn't blame them. But if she launched into an explanation they'd probably phone for the men in white coats. Somehow or other, fending off their questions as she went, she managed to extricate herself from the house and didn't really draw breath until, finally, she heard the front door close behind her.

She had just switched on the engine when her phone rang. Max.

‘Where are you?' he demanded. ‘I've just tried the home number.'

‘I'm in Belmont,' Rona said, steeling herself for his disapprobation. ‘And before you say anything, Kevin and Lucy Coombes were at the theatre the same night we were, and Kevin went up on stage.'

There was a heavy silence. Then Max said, ‘And how did you glean that little gem?'

‘By speaking to their next-door neighbour, who babysat for them. So at least Magda was right that far; she did actually meet the murderer.'

‘Are you going to tell her she's been vindicated?'

‘There's no point. She was adamant about it anyway.'

‘So, despite what I asked, you're determined to fight her cause?'

‘There was an off-chance of corroborating that part and I took it, that's all. Luckily, it paid off.'

‘Have you any other strategies up your sleeve?'

‘No, I seem to have reached a dead end.'

‘I'd rather you rephrased that! Damn, there's the doorbell – I'll have to go. I'll speak to you later. Love you.'

‘Love you,' she repeated, and started the car.

Avril was harder to satisfy even than the Drews, and considerably less inhibited in her indignation at being ‘fobbed off', as she put it.

‘Look, Mum, all I can say is that Kevin and Lucy Coombes went to see the hypnotist the same night as us, and both Kevin and Magda were hypnotized. Telepathy was involved – Max had his fingers burned when he challenged it earlier – and this might possibly help to trace Kevin.'

‘I don't believe that for a minute!' Avril declared. ‘It's a load of nonsense, all that thought transference thing.'

‘“More things in heaven and earth . . .”?' Rona suggested mildly.

‘I can't believe you're being so
gullible
!'

‘Let's just say I'm withholding judgement. Now, I really must be on my way.'

‘Can't you stay till Guy gets home? See what he makes of all this?'

As if his opinion would make any difference, Rona thought. But all she said was, ‘Sorry, I have to go. You can fill him in, and give him my love.'

Wherever she went, she was leaving disgruntled people in her wake, she thought gloomily as she drove home: the Drews, Max, her mother. Well, she'd done all she could for Magda in the meantime. Now, she must turn her attention to her meeting with Esther Lytton the next day.

F
riday morning, and still no word from Dominic. Over the last few days Lindsey had managed, by a process of wishful thinking, to convince herself that he'd phone. Surely, she reasoned, after seeing her with Jonathan he'd make some attempt to contact her, apologize, try to repair the damage? But he had failed to do so, and the fact that Jonathan was making it only too obvious he was ready to resume their relationship was of little or no comfort.

Fine! she thought viciously. He could console himself with bloody Carla! And was furious when the papers in front of her blurred suddenly through a veil of tears.

Rona had dropped Gus off with Max before setting out for Buckford. Animals were likely to be frowned on in an apartment building, and a total of five hours in the car was a lot to ask of him. Max would in any case be home that evening; he could exercise him if Rona was delayed.

So, she thought, driving along the familiar roads, was this really the end of the rainbow regarding the mysterious photograph? And was there a pot of gold awaiting her? Whatever the outcome, she had firmly resolved to put the whole thing behind her; she'd wasted enough time already on what was probably a wild goose chase, and that, together with Magda and her traumas, had distracted her from her work long enough.

The college clock was striking eleven as Rona drove past and turned in to Blandford Drive. Perhaps, she thought fancifully, by the time it struck again, she'd have an answer to the mystery of Susie Baines.

Eton House was an elegant building in rose-coloured brick, its woodwork picked out in white. She parked in a space reserved for visitors and made her way between neat flowerbeds to the front entrance, where she was greeted by a concierge in peaked cap. Having checked that she was expected, he accompanied her to a bank of lifts and pressed the button for the third floor.

‘Apartment six,' he intoned solemnly, and she sailed upwards, trying to avoid her reflection that greeted her on all sides. Why, she wondered irrelevantly, should anyone in a lift require a mirror, let alone three of them? Or were the multiple images designed to ward off claustrophobia?

The doors glided open and she stepped out to find herself in a square, carpeted hall. Immediately opposite was a picture window, in front of which stood a pedestal bearing an elaborate flower arrangement, and to either side was a polished mahogany door. Two apartments to each floor, seemingly, and number six was to her right.

Forewarned of her arrival, Miss Lytton opened her door as Rona approached, and came forward to shake her hand. ‘Miss Parish, how do you do? Do please come in.'

Rona followed her through a spacious hallway to a large and elegant room whose windows gave out on the college grounds, and, as she seated herself, she looked about her with interest. The cream walls were for the most part bare, boasting only a small set of prints, and the cane-backed suite, upholstered in pale blue, looked like an antique. So, more obviously, were a glass-fronted cabinet, a bureau and several spindly-legged chairs. Over by the window a Regency rosewood table was laid for two, which Rona hoped was indicative of lunch.

Esther Lytton herself was tall and slim, her dark hair was streaked with silver, and, though she was now smiling, her pale blue eyes were gimlet-sharp. It was clear she'd have had no difficulty holding sway over a large number of girls, and Rona was amused to find herself conscious of her own deportment.

‘How was the journey?' Miss Lytton was asking, as she busied herself with a cafetière.

‘Plain sailing, once I was through the Marsborough rush hour,' Rona replied, gratefully accepting a cup of what proved to be excellent coffee. ‘It took two hours and forty minutes, which is about average.'

‘I hope you'll feel it was worthwhile. Catherine tells me you're a writer,' she went on quickly, before Rona could follow up the point. ‘Do tell me about your work.'

Diffidently, Rona did so, suspecting that her hostess was deliberately delaying the discussion that was the reason for her visit. Her biographies were discussed, including the one she was working on, and the nature of the articles she wrote for
Chiltern Life.

‘I hadn't connected you with those,' Esther Lytton confessed, ‘but I must say I enjoyed the ones you did for Buckford's octocentenary.' There was a brief pause while she refilled their coffee cups, and then she sat back, folding her hands. ‘Now,
revenons à nos moutons
, as they say: firstly, I must admit to being curious to learn how you heard of Springfield Lodge and, as you put it, its final term. I'm surprised anyone even remembers it, after all this time.'