‘Yes.’
‘And I’ll need to come back often. To visit Ralph.’
A couple of hours later, Barnaby, awaiting the arrival of Mrs Lyddiard, was jotting down a few notes. Pointers to questions rather then the questions themselves for, although he could be relentlessly inflexible when the need to pin down was urgent, he preferred to work in an open-ended, even slightly meandering way, casting his net wide. Visitors often left his office after having been quite shrewdly interviewed feeling they’d enjoyed nothing more than a pleasant conversation.
Barnaby was patient in the way an animal squatting silently outside the lair of its prey is patient. And he was genuinely curious about people, unlike Troy, who was not interested in anyone for their own sake, but merely for what they could contribute to the matter in hand. Barnaby’s method got results. People told him things they hadn’t meant to tell him. Sometimes they told him things they didn’t even know they knew.
Audrey Brierley looked around the door and asked if he would like a drink of something. Almost at the same time Sergeant Troy arrived with Mrs Lyddiard. Barnaby ordered two cups of tea and put his calls on hold. Troy quickly worked out that he was de trop and took himself off to the incident room.
The chief inspector hung up Amy’s coat, offered her the most comfortable chair and came out from behind his desk to sit on the settee. They stirred their drinks in silence, Amy looking round the room with shy interest.
‘This is just an informal chat, Mrs Lyddiard. As we were not able to talk the other day.’
‘Yes, I’m afraid Honoria—’ Amy broke off, realising she was about to be disloyal in front of strangers. She swallowed some tea. ‘This is delicious. Thank you.’
‘What I really wanted to ask about,’ continued Barnaby, when both their cups were empty, ‘were your impressions of that last evening at Plover’s Rest. If you enjoyed it, for instance.’
‘Oh I did,’ exclaimed Amy. ‘It was great to meet a real writer.’
She enthused, as he remembered Mrs Clapton had done, over Jennings’ courtesy, helpfulness and apparently genuine interest in his audience’s accomplishments.
‘I was really sorry when it was over. I think we all felt inspired.’
‘Did you get the impression that Mr Hadleigh enjoyed it?’
‘It’s hard to say. He was very quiet.’ Amy put her cup and saucer carefully on the carpet. ‘Poor man.’
‘Are you aware that he and Max Jennings already knew each other?’
‘Yes. Rex told Sue. He’s been terribly depressed about it all. Feels responsible. Ermm . . . have you . . . ? That is . . . if you’ve exonerated Max - if he’s in the clear - it would help Rex so much. To know, I mean . . .’ Amy tailed off, hoping she had not committed some misdemeanour by asking.
‘I’m sure the problem will be resolved.’ Barnaby smiled to soften any suggestion of a rebuff and moved on. ‘After the meeting I understand you and Miss Lyddiard went straight home.’
‘Yes. I made us some hot drinks then went upstairs to work on my book. Honoria took hers into the study.’
‘What’s your book about?’
‘Oh.’ Amy flushed with embarrassment and pleasure at being asked. ‘What isn’t it about? High finance, drug smuggling, lovers lost and found, a priceless black Russian pearl, a kidnapped foundling.’
‘It sounds irresistible.’
‘I’m banking on it.’
Amy, more relaxed now, was sitting back in her chair. Barnaby noticed she was wearing the same shabby trousers and butterfly cardigan that she had had on the other day. Her boots were very worn and one of the seams was splitting. He wondered what her financial position was. Pretty parlous, surely, to be prepared to live at Gresham House.
‘Do you find the writing group a help?’
‘Up to a point. We read our stuff out but then, none of us being very experienced, we’re at a bit of a loss to know what to do next.’
‘What did you think of Hadleigh’s writing?’
‘A bit thin. He worked very hard on his stories but, even after several drafts, there didn’t seem to be anything much in them.’
‘And your impressions of him as a person?’
‘I can’t tell you anything definite, inspector. I just didn’t know him well enough.’
‘Indefinite will do.’
This time Amy paused for so long that Barnaby thought she had decided not to answer. When she did speak it was plainly with great reluctance.
‘He reminded me of a character I saw in a film, a long time ago. An elderly man - the film was in flashback - who had been traumatised as a boy. He had been used by two grown-ups of quite different social classes - this was in Edwardian times - to pass love letters between them and the discovery of this, plus the dreadful aftermath, ruined his whole life. His face, all his movements, had a dreadful, frozen lifelessness. As if every bit of him was mortally impaired.’ Amy frowned deeply, her pretty face marred by pity and distress. ‘Gerald was like that.’