Brought to Book (29 page)

‘Still, you followed his example some years later,' Rona said with a smile. It was not returned.

‘I did indeed, at least to the extent of one son.'

A mistake, she realized, belatedly remembering the lost baby who had cost him his wife. Hastily she reverted to Theo. ‘Did you know Isobel, his first wife?'

‘No,' Mackintosh said after a minute, ‘it was Meriel I met, about eight years ago. I had a sabbatical down in your area, with Johnson Chemicals in Chilswood, and naturally my wife and son came with me. He was only a toddler at the time. I dropped a line to Theo to say we were coming, and he – or rather Meriel – invited us to dinner. It was good to see Theo again, but the two women had nothing in common, and we didn't pursue the acquaintance.'

He hesitated. ‘You must have met Meriel?'

‘Oh yes; it was she who asked me to write the biography.'

‘How is she coping with his death? It's still fairly recent, after all.'

Rona nodded. ‘I did wonder at the wisdom of doing it so soon, but she was set on it. I think she's having second thoughts now, though.'

‘Oh?'

‘It's brought everything back for her. She's very nervy; so much so that her cousin and his wife have invited her to spend a week or two with them.' She guided the conversation back on course. ‘Is there anything else you can remember about his early life?'

‘I don't think so; most of it's lost in an alcoholic blur. I did warn you I shouldn't be much help.'

‘Then is there anyone else he was friendly with, whom I could contact? Other than Michael Pennington, that is.'

‘Who have you seen already?'

‘From the early days, only his father and his aunt.'

‘God, yes – the spinsterish Miss Lethbury, who thought the sun shone out of his backside! I'd forgotten about her, but I can picture her now, pussy-footing up the stairs to her flat, afraid of disturbing anyone. You've not spoken to his brother or sister, then?'

‘No, I'm still waiting to hear from them.'

‘Could be they're not too wild about the idea.'

‘That had crossed my mind,' Rona admitted.

‘They all came together later, I gathered, but when they were young they were pretty brutal to Theo. Jealous of the way their mother doted on him, no doubt.'

Out in the hall a gong sounded, and Mackintosh laid down his empty glass. ‘Perfect timing, since that's the total sum of my recollections.' His tone precluded any attempt at further questioning. ‘Let's go through and enjoy our meal.'

The dining-room across the hall was darker and more forbidding than where they'd been sitting, and the table was laid with heavy silver and glass. Rona had half-expected the young son to join them, but there was no sign of him, and after her previous gaffe, she refrained from enquiring. An elderly woman, whom Mackintosh introduced as Mrs Gibb, his housekeeper, served them. No doubt she was the owner of the voice on the telephone, but apparently not the cook.

The meal consisted of cockie-leekie soup, followed by roast pork and vegetables, a selection of Scottish cheeses served with oatcakes, and junket – a dessert Rona hadn't tasted since nursery days.

During it, talk was determinedly non-personal. They discussed travel, the Scottish Parliament and the situation in the Middle East. In the middle of dessert, there was a tap on the door and Mrs Gibb came hesitantly into the room.

‘I'm sorry to disturb you, Doctor, but Mr Sinclair is on the telephone. He says it's urgent.'

Mackintosh's mouth tightened and he flung his napkin down on his side plate. ‘Very well. Thank you. I'm afraid you'll have to excuse me,' he said to Rona. ‘I shan't be long.'

As he left the room, she reached into her bag for her notebook and began to jot down her impressions. Mackintosh was a complex character who, she felt sure, was no more willing to submit to authority now than he'd been in his youth. She did not envy anyone who crossed him. For all that, though it was clear he regarded her as an unwarranted intrusion on his time, he'd behaved towards her with courtesy and even charm.

When, a good five minutes later, he returned, her notebook was safely back in her bag and she was sitting demurely waiting for him.

‘Sorry about that,' he said abruptly, pushing his unfinished dessert away from him. It was clear he was still annoyed; his lips were compressed and there was a whiteness around his nostrils. ‘Few things irritate me more than being disturbed in the middle of a meal.'

Hard on his heels came Mrs Gibb with the coffee pot, and after a precarious start, where his attention was still clearly elsewhere, the conversation resumed. A few minutes later Rona glanced surreptitiously at her watch. It was only nine thirty, but it was clear he'd prefer to be alone; the phone call seemed to have unsettled him. Time, she felt, to make her exit.

‘That was delicious, thank you so much,' she said. ‘It's good of you to have given me so much time, but I mustn't impose any further. Would it be possible to phone for a taxi?'

‘No need for that; Jackson will run you back.'

‘Oh – I don't want to trouble him. . . .'

‘It's what he's paid for,' Mackintosh said shortly. He pressed a bell, and when Mrs Gibb appeared, asked for the car to brought to the door.

In the panelled hall he helped her on with her coat. ‘I trust the hotel's comfortable?'

‘Very, thank you.'

‘And you'll be away in the morning? I hope it wasn't a wasted journey.'

‘Not at all. Thank you for agreeing to see me, and I hope your trip to the States is successful.'

He nodded acknowledgment and watched as the chauffeur handed her into the back seat of the car. ‘Goodbye, Miss Parish. I look forward to reading your biography in due course.'

As they drove away with a swish of tyres, Rona consciously released her breath. Not a comfortable meeting, nor, were she to admit it, a very profitable one, but one she'd felt had had to be made. She could only hope Michael Pennington would prove more approachable.

The hotel receptionist looked at her curiously as she handed over her key. ‘There's been a delivery for you, Miss Parish; it's in your room. Would you like a wake-up call in the morning?'

‘No thank you, I have my alarm clock.'

A delivery? she thought in bewilderment as she went up in the lift. No one but Max and Scott Mackintosh knew she was here. She let herself into the room, switched on the light, and immediately caught sight of some florist's cellophane lying on the window table. Max, being uncharacteristically romantic? She walked over, glanced down at it, and felt her heart contract. Lying in its transparent nest was a large wreath made up of roses and white lilies which, she now noticed, were filling the room with their sickly scent. She could just read the printed card through a fold in the paper. It said simply ‘In Loving Memory'. No name or message had been added.

Throat dry and heart pounding, Rona stared disbelievingly down at it, then started violently as the phone clarioned across the room. She walked slowly towards it, reluctant to pick it up. Suppose it was the sender of the wreath? Finally deciding it was worse not to know, she caught it up and said breathlessly, ‘Yes?'

‘Rona?'

‘Oh, Max!' Her voice broke and she sank down on to the bed.

‘Honey, what is it? What's wrong?'

She tried to moisten her lips. ‘I've just got back from Dr Mackintosh's and – and there's a wreath in my room. The girl said it was delivered earlier.'

There was a silence, then Max said tautly, ‘Are you all right?'

‘Not really.'

‘I mean – never mind. Is there a card with it?'

‘Only the printed one. It just says “In Loving Memory”.'

Max swore, fluently and at length. ‘God, Rona,' he ended, ‘why did you have to go up there? Have you locked your door?'

She nodded, realized he couldn't see her, and said, ‘Yes.'

‘Then promise me you won't open it under any circumstances until you leave for the airport.'

‘I'll want some breakfast,' she said, trying unsuccessfully to make a joke of it.

‘Order room service, then, but look through the spy-hole before you let them in.'

‘Max, I'd be perfectly safe in the restaurant!'

‘Promise me.'

‘All right.'

‘Order a taxi to take you to the airport and wait in your room until it arrives.'

‘For goodness sake!' she protested. ‘You're frightening me to death!'

‘That's precisely my intention. I don't want a repeat of your flinging your door open to God knows who in the night watches.'

‘You've made your point,' she said in a small voice. Then, ‘How's Gus?'

‘OK. I went over to the house and brought back his basket. He's curled up in it now, in front of the fire. How did you get on with Mackintosh?'

‘All right. He wasn't very forthcoming, but he had warned me he'd nothing much to say. It was a good meal, though.'

‘I'll ring you in the morning.'

‘There's no need. I—'

‘Try to sleep, darling. You'll be all right, I promise.'

Ridiculously, despite the illogicality of the remark, she felt better. Steeling herself, she extracted the card from the wreath and saw that, as she'd expected, the florist's address and phone number were printed along the foot of it. She put the card on the dressing table, then, immediately disobeying Max's instructions, opened the door and dumped the wreath in the corridor. And they could make what they like of that, she thought.

Her sleep that night was shallow and uneasy, shot through with vaguely sinister dreams in which Theo and Scott Mackintosh danced in a druids' circle with wreaths on their heads. By the time Max called she had showered, dressed and breakfasted, and as soon as he rang off, she phoned the florist's number.

‘My name is Rona Parish and I'm staying at the Glenavon Hotel,' she said crisply. ‘A wreath was delivered to me last night, and I wonder if you could give me any information about it.'

After conferring for some minutes, the girl came back with the information that it had been a phoned Interflora order.

‘I realize that, but you must know where the order was placed.'

More conferring, then, ‘At a shop called Camellia, in Marsborough. That's down in England, in—'

‘I know where it is. Thank you.'

It would be easier to go into Camellia's and ask for details than try to elicit them from this girl, who clearly knew nothing. Someone in Marsborough knew she was coming here. How?

The phone rang to announce the taxi's arrival, and with a last look round the room, Rona picked up her bag and went down to the lobby.

She saw Max before he spotted her, his eyes anxiously raking the passengers filing into the arrivals hall. His expression eased as he caught sight of her, and he walked quickly to the exit point and, taking the overnight bag out of her hand, enveloped her in a hug.

‘Thank God you're safely back,' he said fervently.

‘As it happens,' she commented, ‘I was probably safer in Scotland. The wreath was ordered from Camellia's.'

He shook his head disbelievingly. ‘We'll go and speak to them, but you can bet whoever it was will have covered his tracks.'

Still with his arm round her, they made their way to the car park and queued to get out of it. Only when they were clear of the airport did Max say quietly, ‘Well, Ms Parish, I have quite a bit of news of my own.'

‘Oh?' She turned to look at him, but his eyes were on the road.

‘Actually, that was the reason I phoned last night, but when you told me about the wreath, I decided it could wait.'

‘Go on, then.'

‘I remembered what you said about wanting to get down to the '94 and '95 diaries, so when I went back to get Gus's basket, I collected those too, and spent every spare minute transcribing the coded passages.'

‘Max—'

‘And, my darling, I have the answer to nearly all your questions. At least I know what caused the famous block.'

‘Tell me,' she said urgently.

‘For a start, you were right about the woman at the cottage.'

‘Who was she?'

‘None other than Mrs Scott Mackintosh.'

Rona went rigid. ‘You're sure?'

‘Absolutely positive.'

‘Did he know?'

‘I'm almost certain not.'

‘So – what happened?'

‘Well, Scott came down to Chilswood in September '94, and Sheena and the child came with him. He'd written to let Theo know, and the Harveys invited them to dinner. Theo was immediately smitten. As we know, he'd always had an eye for the ladies, but from the first this was different. He describes her as being petite – barely up to his shoulder, with long chestnut hair and huge eyes. Rona, she was only thirty-two, and he was fifty.'

‘So was her husband,' Rona said from a dry mouth.

‘As we know, he was spending the weekdays up in Spindlebury working on
Game for Fools
– and Spindlebury's only a fifteen-mile drive from Chilswood. He made some excuse to see her and they met halfway at a roadside café. She had the boy with her, of course.' He paused and added flatly, ‘She always did.'

‘How old was he?'

‘Fifteen months, Theo says. Anyway, within a week or two they were sleeping together and the whole thing seemed to take off. He was totally besotted, and she seemed to reciprocate. She used to drive over and conceal the car in some bushes up the road – as our friend Norton told us. Then, while the child slept in his pram in the living-room, they made whoopee. And believe it or not, this went on throughout the winter. It was a perfect arrangement. Or almost perfect.'

She turned her head. ‘What went wrong?'

‘Early in April, Sheena became pregnant.'

‘But there was no way, surely, of knowing whose the baby was?'