The Glass Room (Vera Stanhope 5)

said. ‘I can’t imagine ever stopping that. But the being published thing. That was never going to happen, was it? Tony Ferdinand was a bullshitter. Even if he hadn’t died, men like me don’t get their names on books.’
    ‘That’s not true, you know.’ But Nina could tell that her words were unconvincing. ‘What will you read at the party tonight?’
    ‘I thought the first page of the novel. I’m pleased with that. It’s part of what I put in to get the grant. What about you?’
    ‘Oh!’ She was surprised. ‘I don’t know. I hadn’t thought that I would.’
    ‘This isn’t just a student gig, you know,’ he said. ‘I asked Miranda. Tonight everyone reads a bit. Even her. You’ll have to give us something.’
    ‘I’ve been working on a short story,’ Nina said. ‘I’ll read a piece from that, perhaps.’
    Later Nina went onto the beach. Rickard was giving a masterclass and, though she’d considered going in and sitting at the back, in the end she thought she needed exercise and a break from the house. If everyone was planning to read at the farewell party, it would be a long night. She walked round the side of the house to get to the terrace and the path to the coast. Passing the drawing room where Rickard had already begun to talk, she saw Joanna sitting right at the front of the room, her face rapt, giving her full attention.
    The sun was low and it was cold. Tonight there would be a frost; the sky was still clear. Nina walked along the tide line, stooping occasionally to pick up a piece of sculpted driftwood or a pretty shell. There was no wind, and the water slid onto the shingle beach, the waves hardly breaking. A small party of gulls floated just out to sea. Tomorrow she’d be back in her flat in Newcastle. She thought she’d invite friends to dinner later in the week. Usually she despised university politics, but she thought she needed to hear gossip, to drink a little too much. She’d tell them about the murder. They’d have read about it. She’d have fun describing Vera Stanhope to them. The fact that her sleeping pills had been used to drug the famous victim would just make a better story.
    She looked at her watch. Rickard’s session would last for another half-hour, but she was starting to feel chilled and she decided to go to her room and choose which piece of her work she’d read. She began to climb the path into the garden and was shocked by a figure blocking her way. The garden was in shadow and at first all she could see was a silhouette, squat and bulky, partly hidden by overgrown shrubs.
    ‘Ah, Nina, I’ve been waiting for you. I saw you on the beach from my room in the cottage. I wanted your advice.’ It was Miranda. At the same time as Nina recognized the voice, the figure became clearer. Miranda was wearing a cord skirt that reached almost to her ankles, a thick jacket and a scarf. Boots.
    ‘How can I help you?’ Nina assumed this would be something about course content, about how to attract more students. She was a professional after all, with useful contacts in the university. She found her dislike of the woman was almost like a taste or a smell, so unpleasant that she felt compelled to keep her distance. She stood on the sandy path a couple of yards away from Miranda and tried to analyse the antipathy.
    ‘It’s about the murder,’ Miranda said. Then she broke off. ‘Why don’t you come into the cottage? I’ll make us tea. We can talk there, where it’ll be warm.’ Miranda lived with her son in a cottage in what must once have been part of the farm’s outbuildings. Students and tutors were never invited inside. Miranda made a big issue of her privacy: Living on the job, I can only survive if I have my own space. Nina supposed she should feel honoured to be asked in, but still something about the woman made her reluctant to agree.
    ‘I was hoping to do some work on my story before supper.’
    ‘Please come.’ Miranda was almost pleading, and Nina remembered her howling when Ferdinand’s body was found. She shouldn’t be so hard on the woman; her dislike was irrational and unkind.
    ‘All right,’ Nina said. ‘Why not?’
    The door from the old farmyard led straight into the kitchen and the heat seemed suffocating after the late-afternoon chill. There was a cream Aga, with a pile of underclothes airing on the covered plate. Nina found the sight of Alex’s pants and his mother’s bras faintly embarrassing and turned away, but Miranda just