Murder in Hampstead by Sabina Manea (read this if txt) 📕

fall apart at the lightest touch. He wore a dated suit that was a few sizes too big for his emaciated body.

‘Hello. You’re open today, aren’t you?’ Lucia beamed her most endearing smile.

The man shuffled uneasily from one foot to the other, looked her up and down a few times and computed the level of danger as low.

‘Yes, yes, we are. Come in, come in.’ His manner shifted to mild embarrassment, perhaps at how unkempt the interior promised to be, but was shortly overcome by an eagerness to please. ‘I do apologise. Sundays are visiting days, but I can’t remember the last time anyone turned up. I didn’t catch your name. Herbert Jennings is mine. I look after this place. Everyone here calls me Herb.’

‘Pleased to meet you, Herb. I’m Lucia Steer.’

‘Delighted to make your acquaintance, Lucia. This way. I have to sign you in before I let you loose in the library. All this health and safety business. Nonsense, if you ask me. If there’s a fire, you just run for it. Putting your name down in the book won’t save you.’ He doddered ahead, switching on the lights as he went. The entrance hall was more attractive than first impressions had suggested. With an experienced eye, Lucia admired the tasteful stone-coloured walls, not long painted, and the precious chandelier.

The bureaucratic requirements were ticked off in a cramped, windowless room carved out of what could only have been a broom cupboard. Its door dismissively bore the label “Caretaker”, leaving no doubt about the purpose of the dingiest space in the building. Once formalities were out of the way, Herb ushered her back into the hall and through a pair of imposing panelled doors. He stood back proudly as he opened them to unveil the pièce de résistance. It stood in clear contrast to the last library Lucia had been in. This one was light and airy, painted in a richly pigmented green. The shelves were sturdy but pared back, of a recent design that paid homage to the original space but didn’t copy it. Lucia brushed her hand against one of the armchairs that rested on the softly carpeted floor.

‘It’s wonderful. I could while away hours in here. What a superb job you’ve done, taking care of this place so well.’

Herb puffed up like a venerable peacock, nearly filling his suit. ‘It’s the best library in London, if not the South East. I would say the country, but the Bodleian might object. Oh, you should have seen it before we smartened it up. But the money came in very handy, and just at the right time. So good of her…’ He stopped mid-sentence, not exactly upset, but ostensibly stirred.

‘Who paid for it?’

He regained his composure. A keen flicker in his eyes indicated he was anxious to unburden himself. She was good at coaxing out people’s internal monologues. The honest eyes always did the trick.

‘Oh dear, I don’t know if I’m supposed to be blathering on to strangers.’

She couldn’t lose him, not now. ‘With things you want to get off your chest, it’s sometimes easier to talk to a kind stranger, who won’t judge.’

The respite was almost palpable. Now he had given himself the green light to open up, there was no stopping him.

‘The Professor. That’s what everybody called her. Professor Alla Kiseleva. She was so generous when it came to the institute.’ It was an unnecessarily pompous way to describe the place, no doubt born out of long-standing exposure and the necessity for self-affirmation. ‘She was in a class of her own. Not just brains – she had plenty – but an air, an elegance about her. Mind you, she could destroy you with a single stare when she was so minded. I saw her take down more than one unsuspecting sod who dared argue with her. I do miss her, I must say, since she retired.’

Lucia was reluctant to step in. At the same time, the revelation was of considerable importance, and pertinent questions had to be asked.

‘Herb, I’ve got some very upsetting news, I’m afraid. I used to work for the Professor. She died a couple of weeks ago.’

His already ashen face showed genuine heartbreak. It was touching that he cared about a woman who, by all appearances, had failed to forge any emotional attachment to those closest to her.

‘I’m alright. Just a funny turn. I can’t believe she’s gone. I suppose none of us is getting any younger.’

‘I’m so sorry. It’s a big shock for you. Especially when you knew her so well.’ She hesitated slightly before releasing the next, vital detail. She didn’t want to miss any element of his reaction. ‘It doesn’t look like the cause of death was natural.’

She watched Herb crumple into his baggy suit. He suddenly looked like he was going to vanish altogether, like a cheap magic trick. He wobbled over to an armchair and tumbled down, head in his hands. When he eventually reappeared, the pallor of his face could give any death mask a run for its money. When he spoke, his voice was quiet and croaky, as if from beyond the grave.

‘You’re saying someone killed her? That’s impossible. Why would anyone want to do that? How did she die? And how do you know all this?’ His expression was gradually turning hostile, and Lucia feared he was yet again slipping through her fingers.

‘She hired me to paint her house. I’m a decorator, you see. I was there when she died. It was awful. The police suspect it was poison, but it hasn’t been confirmed yet. And I don’t know why someone would want her dead. I came here hoping I’d come across something that will help me find out. Nobody deserves to go like that.’

Herb lifted his head a touch, like an ancient tortoise tentatively peeking out of its shell. Lucia hoped her honesty