Funeral Music Page 10

  In the upstairs drawing room, wineglasses, bottles and bowls of nibbles were already stationed. This was not quite what Sara had been expecting for a ‘very informal’ supper, nor did it seem at all like Olivia, who had always seemed more the kind of person who would take you into the kitchen and shake bits and pieces into bowls as you talked. Not that it mattered, for the room was so lovely. Its contents were entirely, conspicuously un-Georgian and yet were exactly right in their setting. Olivia was a modernist, and was also, as she explained when Sara remarked on the beautiful uncluttered space, a fiscally determined minimalist as well. Meaning, she said, that she could not afford much of the kind of thing she liked, and she would rather have one glorious pot than three undistinguished ones. And there, standing between the two tall windows, was the glorious pot, a slim-hipped floor piece whose frenzied grey on white patterning looked like the pencil scribbles of a precociously gifted toddler. Showing both originality and restraint, Olivia had not filled it with birch twigs or dried grasses. There were other things too: a pair of Brangwyn lithographs, a wide circular dish of black glass with flecks of yellow swirling in its vortex, and a pair of amazingly comfortable chairs, really leather slings hung between ingeniously balanced steel tubes. The room had the controlled air of a small and exquisite gallery, with Olivia its exacting curator. Every object in it was worth not just looking at but pausing over, and because they were arranged sparely and without ostentation there was a still, almost modest quality about it. Sara felt rather crass about some of her own greedier statements at Medlar Cottage, such as the Spode ewer in the window on the landing, which she had crammed with wheat and lavender. She resolved that she would review all that pastoral nonsense, get rid of a few cushions.

  As they sat down she noticed that Olivia’s gin had brought a pink edge to her high cheekbones, and she looked very tired.

  ‘You must have had a ghastly week,’ Sara said gently.

  ‘Oh, I have. It’s been really, really dreadful. I can’t tell you,’ Olivia said. ‘The police closed the baths and actually drained the whole place to search it. It’s an appalling risk to the building. I’ve been so worried. And I’ve lost count of the number of calls I’ve fielded from furious members of the public. And I’ve had the Tourism Bureau on my back going on about projected loss of revenue, as if I could do anything about it.’

  She rubbed her fingers up her forehead and into her hair, as if to shift all the worry out of sight. ‘And Coldstreams are losing business, and it turns out their contract with the council isn’t clear about compensation. The Assembly Rooms are pretty chaotic too. A lot of the staff double up at the Pump Room, you see, and they’re being called away to talk to the police all the time. So we couldn’t even keep the costume museum shop staffed on Wednesday and we had five tour groups in. And then when the police decided to drain the Great Bath, someone had to be on hand to prevent them damaging anything. I had to supervise the whole thing.’

  ‘You’re open again to the public though, aren’t you?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Olivia sighed. ‘We opened again yesterday, although it’s pretty difficult for everyone. They need a firm hand at the moment. I suppose it’s my job to look after morale. Suddenly, I don’t feel equal to it.’

  Sara, thinking that a firm hand was almost certainly what they would be getting, said, ‘You never think, do you, when you read about a murder in the paper, about all this sort of thing: all the disruption, so many people being affected. At the most, you might wonder about the dead person’s family. Not their colleagues, or friends, let alone all the other people further down the line somewhere. Did Matthew Sawyer have a family, by the way?’

  Tears collected in Olivia’s eyes as she nodded. ‘Three children, the eldest fourteen. It’s awful.’

  ‘Were they together? I mean, I saw him on that Friday and he was in the same clothes the next morning, when I found him. He couldn’t have been home that night, but he wasn’t reported missing. I wondered if perhaps he was divorced.’

  Tears were running down Olivia’s face as she shook her head. ‘No. Annabel had taken the children to her parents for the weekend. They live near Swanage. It was her father’s seventy-fifth birthday. Matthew was meant to be going over on the Saturday. There was going to be a big party, marquee, everything.’ She wiped at her face. ‘Oh, Sara, I’m sorry. I’ve got over the main shock, but when I think of them all – what it must have been like for them. And such a pointless death. For no purpose whatsoever.’

  She shook her head and swallowed some of her drink. ‘But look, tell me about you. Are you all right? You must have had a terrible shock. You know Andrew Poole, don’t you? Don’t you teach him or something? He came here, you know, last weekend. What does he think?’

  Sara was pretty certain that she had never mentioned Andrew to Olivia. Had James been gossiping?

  ‘How on earth do you know that?’ she asked, hoping that her bright enquiring smile disguised how defensive the questions made her feel.

  ‘He told me himself. At first I thought he meant he knew you just as a name, by reputation, but then he said something about finding the body being a terrific shock for such a sensitive person, for an artist, he said. I believe he used the word fragile. I must say I didn’t quite recognise you. But what does he think?’

  Sara saw the slightly sardonic look that people who are well into their third gin cannot conceal.

  Olivia emptied her glass. ‘I mean, do they know who they’re looking for?’

  ‘Oh, Andrew doesn’t say much about it to me. He comes to play music, he never discusses work.’

  Olivia was looking at her calmly.

  ‘I only talked to Bridger, after I...you know...found him.’

  Olivia rose to top up Sara’s wineglass and pour herself another gin.

  ‘Never mind. I’m sorry to raise it; it must still be upsetting to think of it. I didn’t expect you to know anything particularly. Just generally, I thought you might have heard. Who they might suspect, for instance. Are there any suspects yet?’

  She paused as she sat down again. ‘I’m not just being curious. I have a job to do, and the longer it takes for the police to catch the murderer, the harder it is for me and all the staff. It’s them I’m sorry for. They all feel under suspicion.’ She gave a rather superior laugh. ‘I do myself! I’ve told Andrew Poole, of course, that I got back here that night at half past ten. I went up to see the night nurse and look in on Dad and then I went straight to bed. But I still feel as though I’m a suspect.’

  Sara demurred, searching in her mind for a change of subject. ‘How’s Sue? She was awfully worried about Paul’s job at Fortune Park. Is he all right?’

  ‘Oh, that’s all blown over, according to Sue. She does get put out by things; she overreacts. They ticked Paul off for working on the side, but he’s not going to lose his job. They’ll be here soon; they’re often round here, actually. I suppose you know she’s renting in Larkhall now, but she’s still got half her things here.’

  She paused. ‘Sara, I want to ask you something. You may not want to answer; if not, it doesn’t matter. But I’d be grateful if you could.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Well, when I asked you about suspects, I was really hoping you might know something, whether – look, I know this sounds awful – whether the police think George might have done it.’

  ‘George? Are you serious? You don’t think George did it? George has been there so long! And he’s such an old sweetie.’

  ‘No, no, of course not. Of course I don’t think he did it. But I’m worried. I just wondered if...you know... I mean, the police have spoken to him.’

  ‘Well, they’ve spoken to everyone, haven’t they? I mean, I suppose they have by now. He was at the Pump Room that night, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Oh, he was, yes. That’s why I wondered. Not if he did it, not at all, but if he might have seen something.’

  Sara looked blank. Olivia persisted. ‘George was on door duty at the Pump Room on t
he night of the thirteenth. He was supposed to leave there before eleven to get over to the Assembly Rooms to lock up. Well, not just supposed to, in fact he did. Then he took the keys back to the office at the Circus. I just wondered if he might have gone back to the Pump Room for something and perhaps seen...something.’

  ‘Why? What makes you think he might?’

  ‘Well, it’s really just how he’s been since it happened. I mean, he got an awful shock of course. We all did, but most of us are getting over it. We have to. George isn’t. If anything, he’s been getting worse since it happened.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, if you didn’t know him you might think nothing of it. He’s obviously trying to go about as usual, but he’s preoccupied, very moody, not at all himself. He literally can’t look me in the face. Something is definitely bothering him. And I just thought, maybe he saw something. And whatever it is, I wonder if he’s told the police.’

  ‘Have you mentioned this to the police? Shouldn’t you?’

  ‘No, I haven’t. Because it might just bring them down on poor old George and, anyway, I may be completely wrong. But George is a great fan of yours. He loves an excuse to talk to you, and I just wondered if he’d mentioned anything. You know, if he was worried about something. To do with the case.’

  But Sara hadn’t seen George since the day the body was discovered.

  ‘Anyway, shouldn’t you just encourage him to tell the police anything? You’re acting director now, aren’t you? So you could just have a quiet word with him yourself.’

  ‘Well, I can see I’ll have to,’ Olivia said, a little snappily. ‘Although it would have been useful to have your help. But heaven knows, I’m quite capable of dealing with things on my own by now.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Sara quickly. ‘Was that the door?’

  Sue and Paul had gone straight into the kitchen downstairs, and when Olivia and Sara joined them, they were already unpacking carrier bags onto the circular table that stood in the bay of the window at the front of the high room. Great swags of blue and white striped material hung at the window and there was a cheery busy Lizzie in the middle of the table. The kitchen end of the room was arranged practically, with wall cupboards on two sides mounted above cupboards and worktops, one of which, running along the back wall of the room, contained the sink. Above it was a large framed print of floppy leeks on a rumpled blue gingham cloth. A smart hob took up most of the worktop opposite, which had been built out from the wall to divide the room and form a three-sided workspace for the cook. A panelled door in the back wall was ajar and through it Sara caught a glimpse of a desk.

  ‘Oh, well done, Sue, he’ll love those,’ Olivia exclaimed, as Sue unwrapped a dozen or so freesias and began trimming the stems with a kitchen knife.

  Sue pulled out three or four blooms and laid them down. ‘You have these, Livy.’ Sniffing the rest she said, ‘He loves the scent, especially now he can’t get down to the garden. I’ll just take them up and say hello. He’s got vases upstairs, hasn’t he? Shall I take up his whisky as well?’

  ‘No, I’ll bring it,’ said Olivia. ‘He likes me to.’ She smiled happily. ‘He’s an old shocker, really. He’ll want you as well, not instead of me. You can meet the new night nurse. He likes her.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Let’s go up now; he’ll be wanting to nebulise in peace in a little while.’

  They left the scent of freesias behind them. Paul answered Sara’s raised eyebrows.

  ‘Nebulise,’ he said slowly, in a hypnotically attractive, faint accent. ‘It’s a machine called a nebuliser; it opens up the tubes in the lungs so Edwin can breathe. There’s a glass tube of liquid you put in, then he has to put this mouthpiece in his mouth and breathe in. It doesn’t take long but the machine is very noisy.’

  As he spoke he made his way across the room and through the panelled door. He reappeared a moment later with a small vase in the shape of a classical urn. The body was a rich deep pink colour and the little gilt handles on each side were worn to a dull gold. Sara perched on a stool, watching him from the dining room side of the hob worktop.

  ‘It doesn’t sound very nice. How often does he have to do that?’

  ‘Every four hours or so. He’d be dead without it.’

  ‘Poor him. Poor Olivia.’

  Paul placed the flowers in the vase where they looked natural and perfect.

  ‘What a lovely vase.’

  He smiled, pleased that she had noticed. ‘French. Late eighteenth century. Probably made between 1780 and 1795. I deal a bit in antiques, actually. French and English.’

  He tidied away the freesia stems, discarding also the rubber bands, leaves and wet cellophane that Sue had left. The simplicity of his movements, the long hands, the choice of absolutely the right vase and the unfussed, pleasing result reminded Sara of James. Another artist. And a heterosexual one with a divine bottom, she thought, as Paul turned to the sink to put water in the vase. She finished her drink, reminding herself that he was actually attached to someone else, and, moreover, to a twenty-fourish, blonde fitness instructor next to whose body hers would probably look like a bag of spanners. And don’t forget, antiques or no antiques, that he’s a waiter, the inner voice warned, and that you’re a snob. And a dirty old woman, it whispered, working out that if Paul were about thirty, that would make him six years younger than she was.

  ‘Is that Olivia’s study in there?’ she asked, nodding towards the panelled door.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ he said, a little surprised. ‘Haven’t you been here before? Sorry, I tend to treat the place as home.’ He paused. ‘Come and have a little look. Olivia’s got some wonderful things. Not hers, of course, the museum’s; she does quite a bit of work here. She won’t mind, she likes people to see. If you get her started, she’ll keep you there all evening.’

  Feeling a little intrusive, Sara followed Paul into the room. Curtains were drawn across the French windows.

  ‘It’s for the light levels,’ Paul said. ‘She often has textiles here. She’s cataloguing some shoes at the moment. Here.’

  He stepped over to the desk where a deep-sided grey cardboard box sat among piles of papers. He lifted the lid and carefully pulled back leaves of tissue paper. ‘Acid-free box and paper. Look. But don’t breathe over them, or touch them. Moisture, you see. Finger acid.’

  Sara stepped forward and peeped in as if she were leaning into the pram of a sleeping baby. In the box, standing upright, was a pair of pale green silk shoes with tie fastenings of fragile, frothy ribbon.

  ‘Also late eighteenth century. English,’ Paul said. The heels were sharp and high and the toes narrowed to an agonising point, but it was the tiny scale of the feet they had been made to fit that struck Sara most. She thought of her own feet, not as now in her beloved Missoni sandals, but in huge cushioned trainers and thick white socks, pounding along her five-mile circuit round the lanes of St Catherine’s Valley. The owner of these shoes, a teetering doll, might have been just about able to mince once or twice round Sydney Gardens before collapsing elegantly at tea and going home in a sedan chair. She looked at the shoes in silence, wondering if their owner had died old or young. The last time she had worn these shoes, did she know it was going to be the last? Or had she just heaved them off her feet with a sigh, after stepping it out all evening at the Assembly Rooms in a matching pale green silk gown, with no thoughts in her head but relief for her pinched toes and the next day’s morning calls? Now the shoes in which she had danced her quadrilles and cotillions, leaving behind the stain of her heels, were simply historically interesting, ultimately more memorable than their owner. But the greatest eloquence of empty shoes, Sara thought, is to tell us, as if we didn’t know, that all it comes down to in the end is the running of trivial errands.

  Paul carefully wrapped the tissue over the shoes and replaced the lid. Sara followed him back out to the kitchen and went back to her stool while he opened the fridge in search of another bottle of wine. He found a whole poached salmon
on a platter. He took it out, peered at it and made an irritated noise with his tongue. ‘Chilled solid! What is she thinking of? It should have been out of there an hour ago. Chilled fish – just awful. There is no flavour in fish chilled like that.’

  He looked as if he might spit on it. Was he going to throw a chef’s tantrum? No, he was fetching things from cupboards. He was going to throw egg yolks in a bowl and did so, separating them flamboyantly with one hand, showing off.

  ‘Mayonnaise?’ asked Sara.

  ‘No, sauce rémoulade,’ he said Frenchly.

  ‘Oh, good,’ said Sara, not flinching. ‘That’s the one with capers, gherkins and parsley, isn’t it? Shall I chop? Are you using anchovy essence or mustard, or both?’

  He was impressed, as she intended him to be, and rewarded her with a look of amused surprise and a smile which revealed annoyingly lovely teeth. He fetched her a chopping board and, unwrapping a length of canvas on the worktop, selected the smallest knife from the roll.

  ‘You can use this. Be careful, it’s very sharp.’

  An intimacy surrounds any two people preparing food that will end up in the same dish, and Olivia’s reappearance a few minutes later, albeit in her own kitchen, was felt fleetingly by all of them to be an intrusion. She gave a broad-minded smile at Sara and Paul’s communion over the chopping board.

  ‘I showed Sara the shoes, Olivia,’ Paul said. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’

  ‘No, that’s fine,’ Olivia said. ‘Since you know how to handle them. Aren’t they wonderful?’

  ‘Lovely.’ Sara smiled. Olivia began to lay the table around Sue, who had followed her in and was sitting languorously eating olives. Sara looked up, feeling guilty even for her purely mental piracy of Sue’s man, and deftly sliced the top off her finger.

  ‘Bugger it! Ow! Oh, shit. Sorry!’ she yelped, trying not to drip blood into the little pile of chopped parsley. She slipped clumsily off the stool and looked round wildly for kitchen paper, shoving her free hand into the pockets of her dress for a handkerchief, simultaneously reassuring everyone that it was a stupid and unimportant scratch and realising that it was her fingering hand and that if she had removed the whole finger pad it would affect her playing. Oh, God, couldn’t somebody find her a handkerchief? She was aware suddenly of Paul’s long, slow-moving hands taking hold of her wrists. He gently removed her left hand from the grip of her right and without inspecting it, wrapped a white tea towel round it. He led her, still by the wrists, over to the sink where the cold tap was already running, pulled the hurt finger under its flow and held it there.