The Glass Room (Vera Stanhope 5)

down the bank to the house in the last of the sunshine. The house itself was already in shadow and for a moment she was tempted to turn the car round and drive away. Since finding the body on the terrace, the picture of Miranda’s head – her throat slit across – had slipped into Nina’s mind on occasions when she was least expecting it. Now the image returned and, terrified, she brought the car to a stop in the middle of the road. Only the caterers’ van coming down the lane behind her, lights flashing and horn blaring, made her drive on. There was, after all, no turning back. Chrissie hurried out of the house to greet them. She was wearing a gold dress, knee-length, with a tight-fitting bodice and a wide skirt. Over it an apron, so that she looked like a perfect housewife from a 1950s film.
    Nina forced herself to focus on the detail. She polished glasses and opened bottles, set copies of the anthology on tables in the entrance hall and drawing room, watched as Chrissie positioned the flowers to best effect. Chrissie was talking a lot, but the words washed over Nina and only occasionally did the woman demand a response. Alex Barton was there too, but distant, as if he’d handed the house and its contents over to Chrissie for the night, as if he was perfectly happy to be an observer. Once Nina looked over and caught his eye. He gave her a look that was at once conspiratorial and dismissive, as if to say, ‘You and I both know how unimportant all this is.’
    Soon it was almost dark and Nina felt able to draw the curtains across the drawing-room windows that looked out on the terrace. She’d been itching to do that since they’d arrived. Outside a stray piece of police crime-scene tape, one end trapped beneath the wrought-iron table, blew and twisted in the breeze, like a blue and white kite tail. She shivered slightly, pulled together the velvet drapes and told herself that the terrace could hold no fear for her now.
    She’d expected a police presence. Vera Stanhope, big and unmovable, and Joe Ashworth, and perhaps the sharp young woman who’d pretended to befriend her the night Miranda was killed. But there was no sign of them. Perhaps Chrissie had made it clear that they wouldn’t be welcome. The guests began to arrive, hurrying across the cold space from the car park to the house, holding their coats around them, everyone a little tense and brittle, excited to be in this place that had headed up the news for the last couple of weeks.
    Many of the guests were acquaintances. Academics and poets, arts administrators and arts funders. Nina had met them on similar occasions, talked books and politics and publishers, usually standing, usually with a glass of white wine in her hand. Today, though, she was holding orange juice. All that kept her going was the knowledge that her little car was waiting outside and that she could escape whenever things became too heavy.
    Today the talk was of Miranda, of the importance of keeping the Writers’ House alive as a base for literary talent and encouragement. But Nina knew that few of them would have made the trek north from Newcastle if the place hadn’t been made notorious by the murders. These calm men and women with their references to high fiction and classical theatre were inquisitive, as voyeuristic as readers of tabloid newspapers. Nina remembered Jack Devanney’s outburst at their final dinner here and could understand what had led to his outrage. She felt like shouting too and creating a scene. You don’t care about Miranda Barton. You don’t even care about keeping this place going, though you have a vested interest, of course. You’ll come along as tutors and advisors, promote your own work and earn fees for the privilege. You just want to see where two murders took place. But she didn’t have Jack’s courage. So she stood with her back to the wall, watching and smiling.
    Chrissie was beginning to panic because the big taxi with the writers hadn’t yet arrived. Mark Winterton was there; he’d driven from Cumbria and looked rather dashing, Nina thought, in a dark suit. He smiled at her across the room and was making his way to join her when the others burst in, with tales of a driver who’d completely lost his way, all of them laughing: the companionship of people who’d shared a minor drama. Chrissie was pouring wine for them and taking their coats, and suddenly the room seemed warmer and the atmosphere more natural. Perhaps, after all, the