The Glass Room (Vera Stanhope 5)

want to go into the dining room,’ Barton said, ‘I’ll bring the coffee through in a minute.’
    ‘It smells fabulous, pet,’ Vera said. ‘But I’m not here for the coffee. Show me where you keep your knives.’
    Alex set the jug back on the filter machine and stood for a moment looking at her. Joe couldn’t make out what the man was thinking, or even if he recognized the implications of the request. Alex pointed to a chef’s block on the bench. ‘My mother gave it to me when I graduated from college. They’re the best you can get.’ Again the voice was flat, and Ashworth found it impossible to tell whether he was proud of the gift or resented it.
    Vera walked over to the bench. ‘There seem to be a few missing.’
    ‘Of course some are missing.’ Now Barton did sound impatient. ‘I’ve been cooking with them.’ He nodded towards the draining board, to a pile of dirty pots and cutlery.
    ‘I know you’re busy,’ Vera said. ‘But can you check that they’re all there. It shouldn’t take more than a moment.’
    ‘You think Joanna stole a knife from here to kill Tony?’
    ‘I don’t think anything at the moment, Mr Barton. Not until I understand the facts.’ Vera gave a thin little smile. ‘Are guests allowed into the kitchen?’
    ‘We don’t encourage it,’ Alex said. ‘Hygiene regulations. But the room’s never locked.’ He seemed about to ask another question of his own, but thought better of it and nodded. ‘Just let me take this coffee through before it gets cold, then I’ll check for you.’
    When he returned he pulled three knives from the draining board, wiped each with a white cloth and slotted it into a hole in the wooden block. ‘There’s one missing,’ he said.
    Vera had stood, watching. ‘You’re sure?’
    ‘Of course I’m sure. They’re the tools of my trade. I work with them every day.’ He paused, frowning. ‘I hope I’ll get it back. It’d cost a lot to replace.’
    It seemed to Joe that Alex wasn’t troubled so much about the cost of the knife as about the fact that one of the set was missing. ‘Can you describe it?’ Joe leaned forward.
    ‘Like this, only with a finer blade.’ Barton took out a wedge-shaped knife.
    ‘Not serrated?’
    ‘No! Not serrated. The only serrated knife here is the bread knife, and that’s over there.’ Barton nodded towards a breadboard in the corner. A black-handled knife lay across it, taunting them.
    ‘Has it been here all afternoon?’ Vera asked.
    ‘Yes! I used it at lunchtime and made myself a sandwich this afternoon.’
    ‘You and your mother were here, drinking tea,’ Vera said. ‘Just before she found Professor Ferdinand’s body.’
    ‘How did you know that?’ Barton looked at her as if she were a witch.
    Vera smiled at him mysteriously. ‘I’m a great believer in traditional detective work,’ she said. ‘It always pays dividends. Isn’t that right, Sergeant?’
    But Joe wasn’t listening. He was thinking that the knife with which Joanna had been found had most likely come from the Writers’ House kitchen. Not the murder weapon, though. That was still missing.
    ‘Thank you for your help, Mr Barton,’ Vera said. ‘Perhaps now we could talk to your guests.’
    She stood for a moment outside the door of the dining room and composed herself. Watching her, Joe thought she was like an actress preparing to play a major role. She shut her eyes briefly, then walked inside. He followed. Always in her shadow, he thought. But maybe that’s the way I like it.
    Vera walked the length of the table, just as Miranda Barton had done earlier. Joe closed the door and stood with his back to it. On these occasions Vera preferred him to be unobtrusive. You’re my eyes and my ears, Joe. I’m a simple soul; I can’t talk and observe at the same time. So he watched the reaction of the people sitting at the table. There were twelve of them plus Miranda Barton, fewer than he’d thought when he’d seen them parade into the room after the dinner gong had been struck. Did people with big personalities and big egos take up more space? Because there was nobody here who was ordinary. The voices were louder than Joe would have expected and the gestures slightly more dramatic. Even Lenny, the working-class guy from Ashington, seemed to be playing a caricature of himself.
    The desserts had been eaten, the glass bowls pushed to one side and napkins rolled into balls on the table. Alex had returned from the kitchen with a