The Glass Room (Vera Stanhope 5)

lifted the clothes onto the wide windowsill, raised the cover and put the kettle on the hotplate. The edge of the beach closest to the water was visible from the window. The thin white strip of shingle showed as a shallow crescent in the last of the light. From upstairs the view would be clearer. The idea that she’d been watched from Miranda’s lair made Nina uncomfortable and she hoped the conversation would soon be over. But now that she’d secured Nina’s presence, Miranda seemed in no hurry to explain why she’d asked to speak to her.
    ‘Ordinary tea or herbal?’
    ‘Neither thanks, I really do want to look at my story before this evening.’ Nina felt trapped. Why didn’t the woman just come out with what she wanted? Had she heard that Ferdinand had been drugged? Was it just a prurient curiosity that had got her outside on a cold October afternoon?
    ‘What’s the significance of Joanna’s reappearance?’ Miranda had turned from the Aga to ask the question. The cold had made her eyes water and her mascara had smudged. Or perhaps, Nina thought, she’d been crying again. Still, she found it hard to feel sympathy for the woman. Miranda was frowning. It seemed that Joanna’s return to the house had bothered her.
    ‘I’m not sure I understand what you mean.’
    ‘Well, the fact that’s she’s free to come and go at will, does that mean the police don’t believe she killed Ferdinand after all?’
    ‘I have no idea!’ Nina tried to give a little laugh. ‘Inspector Stanhope doesn’t confide in me any more than she does in you.’
    ‘She’s a strange woman, Vera Stanhope. Don’t you think so?’ Again the question was asked with an odd intensity. The kettle whistled and Miranda moved it off the plate, but didn’t bother to make herself tea.
    ‘I think she’s more intelligent than she’d like us to think,’ Nina said carefully. ‘If she believes Joanna’s innocent, then she’s probably right.’
    There was a moment of silence. A large tabby cat appeared through an open door at the far side of the kitchen and wound itself round Miranda’s legs. ‘This is Ophelia,’ the woman said. ‘With my name, I have an affection for Shakespearean heroines.’ She looked at Nina as if expecting a response, but Nina didn’t know what to say. Miranda scooped up the animal and held it under one arm. With the other she opened the fridge door, took out an already-open can of cat food and spooned it into a bowl on the floor. The smell made Nina feel like retching.
    Miranda set down the cat and straightened up. ‘So the killer might still be here!’ she said. ‘Do you see?’
    So this, Nina thought, was what had unsettled Miranda. This was why she had lurked in the garden waiting for Nina to approach. Had it really just occurred to her? Had she been so certain Joanna had committed the murder?
    But we were all certain.
    ‘I suppose that was always a possibility,’ Nina said. She was sitting in a rocking chair, which had been covered in a patchwork shawl. The cushions were soft and she felt overcome now by lethargy. She’d lost her initial impetus to get out of the cottage as soon as possible. She looked up and saw that Miranda seemed lost in thought. ‘Do you think you know who the killer might be?’
    ‘I thought it was Joanna.’ The woman’s voice was almost petulant. It was as if Joanna had let her down.
    ‘But if it’s not?’ This time Nina’s words were sharper. She still felt tired and thought if she were to go to her room now, there was a chance that she might sleep for an hour before dinner.
    ‘I’m not sure.’ Miranda was leaning with her back to the Aga. The cat had stopped eating. It had climbed onto the windowsill, settled on the pile of clothes, and was snoring. She looked sharply at Nina. ‘You have no idea? I wondered if it might relate back to his old St Ursula days.’
    ‘How could it?’
    Miranda shrugged. ‘I thought the police might have told you something. I’ve noticed the way that young sergeant looks at you. He’s obviously smitten.’
    ‘Nonsense!’
    ‘I had to walk round the house this morning and I saw the three of you in the chapel. Believe me, he couldn’t take his eyes off you.’
    Nina again had the feeling that Miranda had been spying on them all. She knew the building so well that she could move around it almost unnoticed. If the group at the Writers’ House had the atmosphere of a country-house party, the director’s social status was