The Glass Room (Vera Stanhope 5)

on the shelves.’
    Helen looked up, horrified. ‘And then he died, and all that hope was all taken away. Oh, poor Len.’
    ‘The man, Tony Ferdinand, has rather a reputation.’ Vera chose her words carefully. ‘It seems he could be ruthless in his dealings with his students. Is it possible that Lenny might lose his temper with the man, if he felt he was being criticized or mocked?’
    ‘No,’ Helen said. ‘Lenny’s never lost his temper all the time I’ve known him. Even when I told him about the affair he was sad, not angry. He’s just a big softie.’
    They sat for a moment in silence. Vera hoped Helen might continue, but she sat on the desk, her feet swinging like a child’s, challenging them not to believe her.
    ‘Did Lenny phone you from the Writers’ House,’ Vera asked at last, ‘to tell you about the murder? If you’re still close . . .’
    ‘Yes, he phoned,’ Helen said. ‘He thought we might hear about the death and he wanted to let me know he was okay.’
    ‘So it’s not unexpected, us turning up like this. You’d have had time to prepare your story.’
    ‘I didn’t need to prepare a story, Inspector.’ The original hostility had returned. ‘I’m telling you the truth.’
    Vera saw they’d get nothing more out of the woman and she got to her feet. Ashworth followed her lead. At the door Vera paused and turned back.
    ‘How did Lenny find out you were having an affair?’
    ‘He didn’t find out. Once it was over, I told him. I hated having a secret from him.’
    ‘I hope that made you feel better.’ Vera spoke so softly that the woman probably couldn’t even hear her. Joe had heard, however, and she saw that she’d shocked him again. Still she continued, ‘It certainly wouldn’t have done a lot for Lenny.’

Chapter Seventeen
    At lunch Nina found herself sitting next to Lenny Thomas. She’d almost decided to stay away, to hide in her room while the meal was taking place. After the interview with Vera Stanhope, since Joe Ashworth had come into her room and stood, stony and pale, looking out of her window, she’d had the terrible thought that everyone in the Writers’ House would think she was a murderer. Certainly it had seemed to her that the young detective thought of her in that way. They’d know about her pills, the drugged victim. They’d string those facts together to make a convincing narrative. And who could blame them? She’d reach the same conclusion, presented with the same facts.
    But it seemed that the police had been discreet, as of course she should have realized they would be. The residents had forgotten that she’d been summoned away from breakfast to talk to Vera Stanhope. This would be the last full day of the course. Tonight there would be a special dinner and everyone would read a short piece of work. A celebration of their time in the house. And that was the main topic of conversation over lunch. Nobody considered that this feast might be inappropriate. If Tony Ferdinand had been well liked, the consensus might have been different. He’d been a major literary figure with the potential for changing careers, and would certainly be missed on those grounds, but the students had seen through his arrogance and his superficial charm. The other tutors had considerable influence too, and the students were reluctant to lose the opportunity of bringing their work to these people’s notice. Now the conversation around the table was cheerful, almost excited. It seemed that even Joanna had been accepted back into the fold. She was chatting to Mark Winterton. Nina heard her laugh, musical and infectious, across the table.
    ‘I can’t believe that tomorrow everything goes back to normal,’ Lenny said.
    ‘What do you mean?’ It seemed to Nina that nothing would ever be normal again.
    ‘Well, this has been fantastic for me. Like, suddenly, for the first time in my life, I’m with people who think the same way I do. I mean, Helen, my wife, she was great when we were living together, but she didn’t really get the writing thing. She’s more practical.’
    Nina saw that Lenny had loved every minute here. The whole deal: the fancy rooms, and being cooked for, and being taken seriously as a writer. She could see that it would be hard for him to go back to the flat in the ex-pit village. He’d feel like Alice emerging from the magic of Wonderland and having to go back to a boring schoolroom. ‘But you’ll carry on writing,’ she said.
    ‘Yeah,’ he