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

looked as if it had been drawn with sharp pencil strokes and then gently rubbed out. She was dressed, unexpectedly, in a tweed skirt suit. On anyone older or less attractive it would have looked like period costume, but it suited her fine features and serious demeanour. She met Lucia’s eyes with a confident gaze; she was clearly at ease with the place.

‘Hello, I’m Lucia.’

‘Emilia Poole. Pleased to meet you. I’m Professor Kiseleva’s assistant. I’m going to have to be very rude and let you get on. The Professor insists on punctuality.’

Emilia disappeared up the creaky stairs, and Lucia heard the library doors open and close. She was no stranger to being looked down upon in her clients’ houses, but she was certain that rudeness wasn’t at play here.

‘Are you sure you don’t want a cuppa? You’ve been at that wall for hours.’ Whatever had upset Mrs Byrne had passed, or at least she had decided to bottle it up.

‘Go on then, Mrs Byrne, this time I’m parched. I’ll have a break down in the kitchen if I’m not in your way.’ Lucia figured that a touch of friendliness laced with information-gathering wouldn’t go amiss. She was itching for some juicy gossip that she could share in the Red Lion and to get up Danny’s nose. ‘I saw Emilia come in just now. She seems nice.’

‘Oh yes, Emilia. She’s a darling. So well turned out, and always with a friendly smile. Some people treat you like a servant, you know, like you’re below them, but not her.’

Lucia felt the compliments didn’t quite paint the whole picture but was loath to interrupt the housekeeper in full flow.

‘The girl’s a saint, putting up with that woman upstairs. She must be bored out of her mind, a pretty young thing like her, spending her days in that musty hole.’

‘What exactly does she do, Mrs Byrne?’

‘Assistant, the Professor calls her. They sit there for hours, the Professor rambling on and on, and Emilia asks questions and writes things down. The Professor’s book, that is. Boring, if you ask me.’

This was a step forward. ‘What did the Professor do? Before she retired, I mean.’

Mrs Byrne shot out a bitter look. She didn’t seem to hold the Professor’s occupation in particularly high regard. ‘She was an academic type. One of the London universities – I forget which – they all sound the same to me. Maths. Stuff that makes no sense and is of no use to anyone.’

The housekeeper paused for breath. There was a passing flash of expectancy in her eyes, but her expression almost instantly glazed over. Something was being left unsaid. Lucia waited.

‘She barely looked at that poor doting husband of hers. He adored her – she didn’t know how lucky she was, and she didn’t deserve it. Planning to leave him, she was, before he saved her the trouble and popped his clogs.’

With this last outburst, the relief was complete. Lucia was certain she wouldn’t squeeze anything else out of the housekeeper, for now at least. She smiled sympathetically, a reassurance that the confidence was safe with her. ‘Thanks for the tea, Mrs Byrne. Best get back to work. That wall isn’t going to scrape itself.’

Lucia worked until her fingers were raw and the dull pain in her back became unbearable. Later, stretched out flat on her living room floor, she gave in to all the garbled thoughts. She dragged herself up and looked out of the window. Hampstead High Street was busy with the usual infestation of commuters swarming out of the tube station. The morning’s hope had been embodied by the freshly washed hair and scrupulously applied make-up, a spring in their step as they walked into the packed metal lifts. By the end of the day, they were covered in fine black dust and crawled home angry and numb, only to wake up and do it all over again. The rumination gave her perverse pleasure as she remembered this was the life she’d left behind.

Chapter 4

Friday, 4th September

(the day of the murder)

The paramedics had bundled up their precious cargo in the hope the Professor might yet be saved. Sensing she was being watched, Lucia turned around. The blue eyes, complete with crumpled chinos, had been on her for some time. It took her a few seconds to place him – the man from the restaurant, the good-looking police inspector.

‘The observant decorator. You’re everywhere these days.’

‘I’d rather not be here, that’s for sure.’ Lucia sat down on one of the garden chairs, all of a sudden light-headed.

‘You’re in shock. Where’s the kitchen? I’ll make you some sugary tea. Guaranteed treatment.’

‘I’ll be fine. There are others in worse shape.’

‘Don’t worry about them. The kindly constables are on the case. Besides, nobody ever thinks of the tradesman. Or woman, in this case.’

Lucia laughed feebly. That much was true. After what felt like an eternity he came back with a mug of tea. He must have emptied the whole bag of sugar into it.

‘Sorry it took so long. That kitchen’s a right mess. I’m Detective Chief Inspector David Carliss, Metropolitan Police.’ A badge was flashed. ‘And you are?’

‘Lucia Steer. I’m the decorator, but you already know that.’ She wondered what items of interest had kept him busy in the kitchen.

‘I figured as much. Your van’s parked outside and you’re wearing overalls. Can you tell me what happened?’

Lucia neatly packaged the afternoon into a measured, thorough account, the way she’d been trained to do in her previous life. She wondered whether to go further and decided she had nothing to lose.

‘I think the Professor might have been poisoned.’

DCI Carliss, who had been taking copious notes without interrupting, looked up sharply. ‘Why do you say that?’

‘She was fine. Healthy people don’t just collapse. If there had been anything wrong with her, I’d