“Oh, well, I take things in my stride, Harold always said.” Mrs. Armitage gave a little shake of her head, but she looked pleased by the sympathy. “Sit, sit,” she added, putting a filled teapot and a plate of tarts on the table.
“Did you know Reagan well, Mrs. Armitage?” Gemma asked as she accepted a filled cup and a tart. Kerry, she gathered from her face, was not a tea drinker, although she took the offered cup without comment, then spooned heaps of sugar into it.
“Not well, no. But she was kind to me when Harold passed. She’d only worked for Nita a few months, but she brought me a card and homemade biscuits. Very well brought up, I’d say, was Reagan. And such a pretty girl, too.”
Although she might not have cared for the tea, Kerry had accepted a tart with alacrity. With a tart halfway to her mouth, she asked, “Did you see anything unusual on Friday night, Mrs. Armitage? I’m sure you’re very observant.”
Gemma had managed a nibble while Mrs. A—as she couldn’t help thinking of her, Clive Glenn’s nickname having stuck in her head—was speaking. The tarts were mincemeat, tangy with citrus and rich with spices. The pastry was flaky and delicate, made with lard, Gemma guessed, baker’s daughter that she was. She could not imagine Nita Cusick succumbing to such temptation, and hoped Jess liked mincemeat.
Mrs. Armitage smiled at the compliment, then shook her head with apparent regret. “I do like to keep an eye on things, but no, I’m afraid in this case I can’t help. I watched the news at ten and went to bed. I like to keep to my routine, and I’m a sound sleeper.” She looked at them over her cup. “She was murdered, wasn’t she? Reagan?”
“We believe so, yes,” said Gemma. She knew Kerry had spoken to Gwen Keating, but they hadn’t yet had a chance to inform Nita of the postmortem results. “Did someone tell you that, Mrs. Armitage?”
“Nita. I saw her this morning. She’d been on the telephone with the poor girl’s mother and she was that upset.” Mrs. Armitage looked a little shaken herself. “Are we to think that someone came into our garden and did this . . . this terrible thing?”
“We’ve examined the gate, and we’ve spoken to Clive Glenn,” said Kerry, finishing off her tart. “We haven’t found evidence of forced entry through either end of the garden, so it seems more likely Reagan Keating was killed either by someone who lives on, or has access to, one of the houses—”
Mrs. Armitage was already shaking her head. “I can’t believe that. No one in Cornwall Gardens would do such a thing.”
“Do you know all your neighbors, then, Mrs. Armitage?” Kerry asked, sounding skeptical.
“Well, no. Some of the houses are divided into flats. And some are only occupied part of the year. But we’ve never had anything like that here,” Mrs. Armitage insisted.
“But I understand you have had some unpleasantness lately,” Gemma said. “Over your neighbors’ extension.”
“Oh, them.” Mrs. Armitage drew her mouth into a tight line. “I didn’t consider them.”
“I understand they’re Asian?”
“Chinese. Or he is. But that has nothing to do with it. It’s the fact that they don’t have any consideration for their neighbors. Or for rules.”
“You mean because of the extension?”
Mrs. Armitage nodded. “It’s an abomination. I know they’ve had their difficulties—quite tragic—but that’s no excuse.”
“I understand their little boy died,” said Gemma. It occurred to her that the Sus’ child had also suffocated. “Did Reagan have any dealings with the Sus?”
Mrs. Armitage frowned. “Not that I know of. Although I did see her reprimand the child a few times, when the two boys were outside. And rightly so. He was as inconsiderate as his parents, and a bully.” She looked a little abashed. “I don’t mean to speak ill of the dead, but it’s true.”
Could the Sus, Gemma wondered, have held Reagan responsible in some way for their son’s death, and avenged him by suffocating her? They had access, certainly, but it was hard to make the rest of the scenario work.
“If you’re thinking of talking to them, you’ll have to come back. They’re both out at work the entire day. I don’t know when they think they’d use that monstrosity.”
Gemma thought about the little boy who by more than Mrs. Armitage’s account had been unpleasant and disliked—and whose parents were never home. She felt her usual pang of guilt over what she feared was her neglect of her own children, and shrugged it off with an effort. “You’re observant, Mrs. Armitage. What other neighbors did Reagan know?”
Mrs. Armitage thought for a moment, then said, “She was quite chummy with Asia. Asia Ford, on the Blenheim Crescent side.”
“Yes, we met her,” said Kerry. “Seems an odd friend for a young woman.”
Mrs. Armitage bristled. “Asia is an interesting woman. Well read, well traveled. I don’t think it odd at all.”
Gemma took a different tack. “Reagan was an attractive young woman. Do you know if she was particularly friendly with any of the men?”
After pursing her lips for so long that Gemma had decided she wasn’t going to answer, Mrs. Armitage sighed and said, “I don’t like to talk out of turn.” In spite of Mrs. Armitage’s hesitation, Gemma heard little reluctance in her voice. She waited in expectant silence.
“I did see something,” Mrs. Armitage admitted at last. “It was Roland Peacock. Such a nice man. He was paying rather a lot of attention to the girl at the garden party. I don’t think he meant anything by it—there was a good deal of champagne punch going round as well as Asia Ford’s limoncello, and people were jolly—but it was obvious that his wife wasn’t pleased.” She shook her head. “Pamela Peacock. Makes you think of one of those old Beatles’ songs, doesn’t it?”
Gemma nodded. “Quite. What’s she like, Mrs. Peacock?”
“A right bloody cow,” said Mrs. Armitage with startling vehemence. “He’s a nice man, Roland Peacock, as I said. I wouldn’t be surprised if his wife drove him to look for a little comfort elsewhere.”
The river looked different in spring.
Rather to Kincaid’s surprise, he’d found the little marina easily enough. He’d hired a canoe, smiling to himself when he thought of Doug Cullen’s earnest insistence on rowing the skiff they’d hired on their previous visit, notwithstanding his injured ankle. He hadn’t had the heart to remind Doug that he’d grown up on Shropshire canals and rivers and had handled boats of all sorts since he was a lad.