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

essence. She closed the doors slowly behind her and set upon deciding where to go next. The other doors down the long corridors either side of the landing were all identical. One was slightly open, and this distinguishing feature made it the next port of call. It was Mrs Byrne’s room. She had left her own window open, though the still air outside hadn’t managed to chase away the faint smell of washing powder and recently vacuumed carpet. The housekeeper was markedly more fastidious about her personal space than she was about the rest of the house. The décor was in line with expectations – a nun’s cell devoid of personality. The single bed was in the meagre company of a chest of drawers, a narrow standalone wardrobe and a single armchair covered with a well-worn throw. Lucia was momentarily held back by instinctive politeness, instantly overridden. The imminent violation had strong mitigating circumstances.

The wardrobe contained nothing but featureless, much washed clothes of the type that Mrs Byrne customarily wore. On top of the chest of drawers was a lumpen crucifix bearing the inscription “Rome, Anno Domini 2012” on the back, and, next to it, a framed photograph of an attractive auburn-haired woman holding a small boy on her lap against the background of a funfair. The unbridled joy on their faces stood in sharp contrast to the gloomy surroundings in which their fleeting impression now found itself.

Lucia thought she heard steps downstairs. The interviews were probably over. She risked one last incursion. However, the door she opened was a neatly made-up spare bedroom – nothing of note. She tried again, and this time it was Adam’s room that she found herself in. It made sense why she thought the door had stuck. The floor was invisible – dirty clothes, plates and glasses were strewn liberally all around. The smell matched the montage. What Adam had been up to left little to the imagination. There were a couple of empty bottles of red wine by the bed, and a half-drunk bottle of blended whisky on the windowsill. Quite a lot more time than Lucia had at her disposal would be needed to wade through the mess. She walked downstairs with a firm but relaxed step, a simple justification at the ready, should she be challenged.

Carliss stood at the bottom of the staircase, waiting. ‘I’m not even going to ask what you’ve been up to.’ His smile indicated there would probably be no recrimination for her actions. ‘Come on, let’s get out of here. I could do with a pint.’

Chapter 12

Aside from the Red Lion, the other pub in the near vicinity was the wincingly named Hampstead Belle. Its unsuspecting predecessor, the Plough, had been stripped of its unsuitably low beams and rough wood floors, which had been deemed unfit to accommodate the fragile heads and designer footwear of the local clientele. The end result was a desolate open-plan hall that would have been adequate for low-budget business conferences. It was, moreover, a gastropub, serving the full range of goods available for delivery by the lorry every Monday morning. The advantage was that nobody Lucia knew drank there, especially not in the middle of a working day. Without the need for prompting, Carliss hunted down his usual pint of best bitter and a large glass of white Burgundy for his companion.

‘Regale me with your exploits. How many skeletons did you find upstairs?’

‘Not as many as I was hoping. I didn’t get to spend much time in the bedrooms, as I didn’t want to attract too much attention to my whereabouts.’

Carliss listened carefully while Lucia set out her findings, all the while adding new detail to his intricate diagram.

‘Hard to believe the housekeeper was once young and pretty,’ he said. ‘I wonder what happened to the boy. Her son, I assume. She kept that one quiet – but then, I didn’t ask.’

Lucia made a mental note to work on Mrs Byrne for this information. ‘What did she have to say about the tin of poison?’

‘She knew it was under the sink, of course. Said she barely ever used it – couldn’t remember when she last had. She wasn’t aware of anyone else tampering with it, though she couldn’t be sure. On the day of the party, she prepared all the food and laid out the spread upstairs. Emilia helped. Mrs Byrne was backwards and forwards between kitchen and terrace, and once the guests arrived, she was busy attending to them. She served them drinks, and some of them – Adam in particular – also helped themselves. She didn’t notice anything unusual or untoward.’

‘What about the argument with Adam?’

‘I asked about that too. It didn’t take her by surprise – either that, or she’s an excellent actress. She’s been trying to get him off the drink. Every time, he swears to her on everything he holds dear that he’ll give it up, only to have another relapse. That day they had a bust-up. Do you believe her?’

‘It sounds plausible enough. Like I said, I couldn’t hear what they were saying. She’s not exactly a fan of boozing, from what I’ve noticed. I can’t help feeling there might be more to their relationship than she’s letting on, but it’s just a hunch, and hunches are worth nothing without hard facts.’

‘Once a lawyer, always a lawyer. OK, on to Adam.’ Carliss consulted his weighty notebook. ‘Adam, Adam, Adam.’

‘Come on, spit it out.’

‘This one’s very good. Adam isn’t who we thought he was.’

‘You mean he’s not related to the Professor?’ It had been apparent all along that, whoever Adam was, he wasn’t cast in the same mould as Alla Kiseleva, and it was unlikely she would have warmed to the family of a maligned husband.

If Carliss was piqued, he didn’t show it. If anything, he was admirative. ‘I should have known you’d work it out. OK, so