Питер Робинсон - Seven Years

I laughed. “I’m afraid not. No, I was just intrigued by the inscription. Curiosity got the better of me. I wanted to know who you were, make sure you’re all right, find out who Barnes is and what it all means. You must admit, the inscription is rather disturbing.”

“It’s the first time I’ve set eyes on it.”

“The pages were stuck together,” I said. “I missed it, myself, or I probably wouldn’t have bought the book. But surely now that you have seen it, it means something to you? Barnes, for example?”

“Have you told anyone else about this?”

Caution impelled me to say no, just in case the thought of my spreading her business about scared her off and caused her to clam up. “They’d probably think I was crazy,” I said.

“You say they gave you my address at the school?”

“Yes.”

“They shouldn’t have done that,” she said, and stared at me for a while, as if she couldn’t believe it. “There must be some rules about passing on personal information. Ethics or whatever. Did they tell you all about me as well?”

“No,” I lied. “Why should they? What is there to tell?”

“I still don’t understand why you should be interested in all this. It’s nothing but a silly joke.”

“Is it? I suppose I’ve got too much time on my hands, now I’m retired. I was worried about you. And I like puzzles. Are you sure everything’s all right, Miss Scott? If I received something like this, I would be more than a little annoyed, if not downright nervous or angry. Why assume that you will like to read about murder? What is it nearly time for?”

“Lots of people are fans of murder mysteries.”

“But Browning’s poems are a little more disturbing than a murder mystery. And I don’t think whoever wrote this — Barnes, I suppose — meant to refer to your taste in fiction. He quotes from ‘Porphyria’s Lover,’ for example, a very creepy soliloquy written from the murderer’s point of view.”

“Are you trying to tell me you think I’m in some sort of danger, Mr. Aitcheson, that someone is fantasizing about murdering me?”

“I don’t mean to scare you unduly, but I do think it’s a distinct possibility that whoever wrote this is unbalanced, yes. Have you had any more communications from this Barnes person?”

“This is absurd. I mean it’s very sweet of you to be concerned, but really...”

“Tell me about Barnes.”

“It’s just someone I knew a long time ago.”

“The book is quite new, and it was only sold to Gorman a month ago. How did you come to get hold of it?”

“Are you grilling me, Mr. Aitcheson?”

I took a deep breath. “Perhaps I am letting my curiosity get ahead of me. But you have to admit the whole thing is very peculiar. The tone of the inscription piqued my curiosity. Was this Barnes a friend of yours?”

“An old lover, actually,” said Miss Scott. She seemed to be more relaxed now, and she leaned back in her armchair and crossed her legs, a slightly mischievous smile playing on her lips and yes, I couldn’t have sworn to it, but I thought she was starting to enjoy herself.

“Ah... I... er... I see. Then why... I mean, it’s rather an odd thing for an old lover to write, isn’t it, and to quote Browning like that?”

She smiled. “What can I say? He’s an odd person.”

“Does it have anything to do with your husband’s death?”

“My husband’s death? Who told you about that? What do you know about that?”

“The secretary at Linford School might have mentioned you were a widow,” I lied. “He drowned, didn’t he? Your husband.”

“You know a lot. That was a long time ago.”

“And how long ago was Barnes?”

“That’s an impertinent question, Mr. Aitcheson. I must say, you’re being very perverse about this matter, not to mention persistent. I told you, it’s nothing. And even if it were, it would be none of your business.”

“Are you sure you’re not in any danger, Miss Scott, that you haven’t been threatened in any way? Perhaps I can help you?”

“Of course not. And I don’t need your help. I told you, it’s just a silly joke, that’s all. It came through the post about a month ago. I have no idea who sent it. I didn’t even see the bloody inscription, and I can’t stand Browning. I vaguely remember a few of his poems from university, but that’s all. Nor do I read detective novels. I dumped it in the box and asked Martha to take it to the Oxfam shop. Somehow it ended up in the hands of your Mr. Gorman. End of story.”

“But you do know someone called Barnes, don’t you? You indicated that it was someone you knew a long time ago. Someone a bit odd. Why has he reappeared in your life now? Was he something to do with your husband’s death?”

Miss Scott contemplated me for a moment in some confusion, then she seemed to come to some sort of a decision. She relaxed even more, and her tone softened. “I can see you’re not going to give up easily,” she said. “Would you like some tea? Or something stronger? Then maybe I’ll tell you all about it.”

“Tea will be fine,” I said.

“Excuse me for a moment, then,” she said, and disappeared into the kitchen. I could hear the heavy ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece as I glanced around at the paintings on the walls. I must say I am not a great fan of modern art. I prefer a painting to look like something I can at least recognize. I don’t expect my art to be a photographic representation of the world — impressions are all right with me, Monet, Cezanne and the like, even Van Gogh — but these swirls and blobs and lines of color just seemed ugly and pointless. They were no doubt originals, and perhaps even worth a small fortune, but they did nothing for me except perhaps make me feel slightly uncomfortable and dizzy. I kept thinking I could see the walls moving out of the corner of my eye.

Miss Scott returned with the tea, and I realized as she poured that now I had found her I wasn’t sure what it was that I really wanted to know. She was right in that I seemed to have a bee in my bonnet about the inscription, even now that I had met her and I knew that she was unharmed. Maybe I had been making a mountain out of a molehill all along? I was beginning to feel rather silly about the whole business.

“I realize it’s probably nothing to do with me,” I said, after a sip of strong sweet tea, “and I’m sorry for barging in on you like this. But as I said, I’ve always been interested in puzzles, in solving them, I mean, and for some reason this one just grasped my interest.”

“Barnes was a fairly despicable character,” she said. “I suppose you were right to some extent to be worried about me. Thank you for that. But I don’t think he’s a danger to me anymore.”

“How did you know him? I know you said he was a...”

“A lover, yes. For a short while.”

I sipped more tea. “How long ago?”

“I suppose we met about six or seven months before my husband’s death.”

I almost choked on my tea. “You’re telling me you were having an affair with this Barnes while you were still married?”

She smiled. “One is usually married if one has an affair, Mr. Aitcheson.”

“And since?”

“Affairs?”

“Barnes.”

She shook her head. “No, we parted company shortly after my husband’s death. His usefulness was over, and we seemed to do nothing but argue. I suppose you could say Barnes was my bad boy, and bad boys have their uses, but they don’t usually last very long.”

“Did you see Barnes again?”

“Not until recently. He came back into my life about six weeks ago. I realize I had told him, seven years before, that I knew he would, but it was still a shock I wasn’t quite prepared for.”