Murder in Hampstead, Sabina Manea [best way to read ebooks .txt] 📗

pared-down, voguish charm, had it not been so downright grotty. At some point in their life the tiled walls must have been white. The butler sinks had grown to an immutable brown, and the red terracotta floor had clearly enjoyed a long existence undisturbed by cleaning devices. Mrs Byrne made two mugs of watery tea and stood there in silence.

‘Have you been with the Professor a long time, Mrs Byrne?’

‘Longer than I care to remember. Must be going on twenty years now.’

When she estimated the housekeeper had finished her vetting, Lucia said, ‘The house is magnificent. Apart from needing some fresh paint, I love how it still has its original features. So many of the buildings around here have been gutted out, which is a shame.’

Mrs Byrne looked newly invigorated, like a tranquiliser had just worn off. ‘Oh, you should have seen this place before I arrived. Like a graveyard, it was. I don’t know how the Professor could live like that. Mind you, if it weren’t for me breaking my back keeping it all in shape, she wouldn’t survive a day. Not that she ever leaves that library. With her head in all those dusty books, she wouldn’t bat an eyelid if the walls fell down around her.’

That was better. For a moment Lucia thought she’d lost her touch. Her eyes had a grave kindliness that compelled people to open up – it was both useful and exhausting.

‘Look at the time. She told me to bring you up to the library at nine.’

Lucia followed the housekeeper. Unusually, the library was on the first floor. Despite its apparent size, the ground floor housed remarkably little living space. The drawing room and the music room were next to each other on the left as you came in through the main door. Straight ahead, across the entrance hall, was the monumental staircase, forking into two at the first landing, and on the right was the rabbit hole descent into the gruesome kitchen.

Mrs Byrne came to a halt outside a pair of panelled doors, which opened into a room overflowing with every type of Victorian feature imaginable – weighty sculptures supporting the bookshelves, stifling purple curtains dragging on the floor and, in the middle, an oppressively carved desk piled high with the equivalent of a university library. ‘Professor, Lucia, the decorator, is here to see you.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Byrne. I’ll call you later if I need you.’ From behind the towers of books came a disembodied voice that was low and imposing, with distinctly Slavic tonality. The Professor waited until the door shut to emerge into the light. ‘Please, sit.’ She gestured to a low armchair next to a side table swamped by reams of handwritten notes. The Professor was in her seventies and moved with practised ease, like a ballerina. A single ornament interrupted the refined plainness of her grey dress – a brooch in the shape of a butterfly, its ample black wings dashed with white. She fixed Lucia with a pair of steely, almond-shaped eyes.

‘You’re not what I expected.’

‘What did you expect?’

‘An Essex fishwife.’

‘You’re not what I expected either. I thought you’d be a batty old woman with bird’s nest hair declaiming Shakespeare.’

The Professor burst out laughing, genuinely amused. ‘That’s a description I have never heard before. Have you always been a decorator?’

‘I used to be a lawyer, in a former life. But I don’t remember having as many books as you do.’

‘Ah yes. My former life.’ The tone ruled this out as a subject open to discussion. ‘Now, Adam has put the idea into my head that I should have the house renovated. I was doubtful at first, though I must confess I rather like having proper heating, for a change.’ The Professor bared her teeth in a condescending smile. ‘That boy’s not daft. I’ve no desire to get involved with choosing colours and that sort of thing. Adam tells me you come highly recommended, so impress me. Just don’t make lots of noise.’

Lucia had done her research and was relieved at the prospect of being left to her own devices. ‘Decorating is a pretty quiet activity. I’ve drawn up some plans, which I’ll leave with you. If you’re happy to let me get on with it, then so am I.’

‘Good. I’m glad we understand each other. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must get back to my work.’ The audience was over.

As Lucia passed the basement stairs, she heard voices from the kitchen. They were faint but unmistakably raised – an argument, but she could only make out broken sentences. As she unloaded her tools from the van, she turned around to glimpse Mrs Byrne standing at the window, wringing her hands. Spotted, the housekeeper scurried away.

The rest of the day as well as the day after were, by comparison, unremarkable. Lucia came and went, working methodically through hardened paint and dried wallpaper. She enjoyed doing this part herself, peeling off each layer to expose another decade of decorative fashion. She liked the 1930s the best. The fine, sharply drawn geometric patterns spoke to her own taste. How ironic, she thought, just when designers had finally shaken off the nauseating burden of the Arts and Crafts, that war should promptly drag them back to floral sentimentality. She saw no one except Mrs Byrne, who dutifully delivered cups of tea on the hour until Lucia begged her to stop. Her face was implacable, bearing no marks of the row. The Professor must have taken meals, though Lucia could not tell when or where. The house was quiet, just as the Professor had asked.

On the third day, as Lucia was scraping away at a particularly revolting wall by the entrance, the doors opened without warning and a woman around Lucia’s age, mid-thirties, strode in with a sure step. Her naturally blonde hair was tied back, revealing a face that