“Maybe Hugo talked her into a meeting. I can see that. Then they started arguing about the new boyfriend. He got angry. They struggled. He suffocated her, then cleaned up any evidence.”
Gemma could tell from Kerry’s dreamy expression that she liked this scenario, but she had to burst the bubble. “That still doesn’t explain the alcohol. Especially not if she was already cross with him and didn’t feel well. And that’s assuming Hugo was familiar enough—and comfortable enough—with the house to have removed any evidence, and possibly her computer, then let himself out without anyone noticing.”
“So maybe the girl was a secret drinker.” Kerry sounded peeved. “You can’t take everything people say about someone who’s died at face value. Maybe she didn’t have a headache. Maybe she just wanted an excuse to leave the bar. Maybe she was meeting the new boyfriend.”
She was right, Gemma knew, although she was loath to give up the impression she’d formed of Reagan Keating. “We need to talk to this Edward Miller,” she said. “And that means a visit to Nita Cusick first.”
“And before that”—Kerry gulped the last of her coffee, then walked round her desk and picked up a heavy old-fashioned key—“we need to return the gardener’s key to Mrs. Armitage. The crime scene techs are finished, so we don’t need access. And I’d quite like to talk to the lady.”
This time they parked on the north side of Cornwall Gardens. Gemma blinked as she got out of the car. The sun was already fierce, and the shade cast by the terraced houses was welcome. As she looked up, she thought how secret the enclosure seemed, completely hidden behind its formidable terraces and high gates.
The frontage of Mrs. Armitage’s house was a pale rose pink, and having seen her patio, Gemma couldn’t imagine her having chosen anything else. The front door gleamed with new black paint, and the brass had been polished to within an inch of its life. The house had the same large front windows as Nita Cusick’s, but unlike Nita’s, which allowed a view from the street straight through the sitting room, Mrs. Armitage’s windows were discreetly covered with net panels.
When they reached the door, they could hear a radio through the partially open casement downstairs. It seemed that this time they were in luck. Mrs. Armitage was at home.
Kerry lifted the knocker, and a moment later they heard a woman’s voice saying, “I’m coming. Hold your horses.” Then the door swung open and Jean Armitage surveyed them without surprise.
“Mrs. Armitage?” said Kerry. “I’m Detective Chief Inspector Boatman and this is Detective Inspector Gemma—”
“I know who you are,” said Mrs. Armitage. “I’ve been wondering when you would manage to get to me. You’d better come in.”
“We did try yesterday, Mrs. Armitage.”
“So I heard. It was my bridge afternoon—you couldn’t expect me to wait around twiddling my thumbs while you talked to half my neighbors.”
As Gemma’s eyes adjusted to the dimmer light in the hall, she took in the old but sparkling-clean lino and the gleam of the stairway banister. She smelled beeswax and lavender, and something delicious baking.
In layout, the house was a mirror image of the Cusicks’, but there the resemblance ended. Glancing into the sitting room, she saw furniture covered with a floral chintz that did not match the floral wallpaper, a worn Persian rug that looked nonetheless of fine quality, and a surprisingly large and modern flat-screen television. The windows overlooking the rear were covered with the same net panels as those overlooking the street, but Gemma found she could see out quite well. It was a comfortable and lived-in space.
As for Mrs. Armitage herself, she was not at all what Gemma had expected. She might be either side of seventy, Gemma thought, but well-preserved in a way that had nothing to do with makeup or cosmetic surgery. Her graying hair was thick and simply cut. She wore tan twill trousers, belted at a neat waist, and a lightweight white cotton blouse. Her skin was only faintly lined and her eyes were a bright, sharp blue. All in all, an attractive woman, Mrs. Armitage, and Gemma had a better idea of why Clive Glenn, the gardener, had spoken of her with both respect and admiration.
“We’d better go down to the kitchen,” Mrs. Armitage said. “I’ve been baking some tarts for Nita Cusick. Such a shock for her, poor thing.”
Kerry said, “Yes, of course,” not making it clear whether she was agreeing with the invitation to the kitchen or the shock to Nita Cusick, but following Mrs. Armitage obediently down the stairs with Gemma trailing behind.
The kitchen was of the same vintage as the sitting room, comfortable and obviously well-used. A pan of tarts sat cooling on the work top, and on the table lay reading glasses, a pen, and the Times crossword, half-finished in ink.
“Keeps the brain fit,” said Mrs. Armitage, following Gemma’s gaze. Gemma remembered Melody telling her that her dad did the Times crossword in ink every day and she suspected his brain, too, was plenty fit. “Now, I was just about to have my elevenses,” Mrs. Armitage went on. “Will you have tea and a tart?”
“Yes, please, that would be lovely,” Gemma said quickly, not giving Kerry a chance to demur. “Can I help?”
“Plates and cups in that cupboard.” Mrs. Armitage nodded to the right of the sink. “I’ll just put the kettle on.”
Doing as she was told, Gemma glanced out the windows over the basin. They had the same net panels as the windows upstairs, but here afforded a softened view of the patio and, through a gap in the roses, the vista beyond. It was lovely, but it was unfortunately at the opposite end of the garden from where Reagan Keating’s body had been found. A door to the patio stood open, letting in a welcome drift of cooler air. The kitchen was warm from the baking and the heat of the day, even in the basement.
Kerry had taken a seat at the table and was checking her mobile, earning her a disapproving glance from their hostess. Gemma hoped fervently that she’d left her own phone on Silent.
“Use the good stuff, mind,” said Mrs. Armitage, when she saw Gemma reaching for some ordinary pottery mugs.
The good stuff, Gemma saw, was white bone china bordered in gold. Proper teacups and saucers, and small plates, all simple and elegant. “How pretty,” she exclaimed, setting the cups carefully on the table.
“We entertained a good deal when my husband was alive. I don’t get much opportunity now, except when it’s my turn to host the bridge group.” For the first time, Mrs. Armitage sounded less forceful.
“I’m so sorry,” said Gemma. “How long since you lost your husband?”
“Two years. Just after our fiftieth. Heart attack.”
Gemma pushed away thoughts of Hugh. “It must have been difficult for you, all on your own like that and finding Reagan Keating’s body,” she told Mrs. Armitage.