A Woman Unknown Page 0,48
an exhibition and it’s always difficult to get good material for the catalogue.’
‘I’d be happy for you to see them. If they’re up to scratch you must let me know if you want me to do more sometime. But I took them because I intend to show them to my neighbours. I want to suggest we buy one of your pieces for the woodland we jointly take care of.’
He brightened. ‘Thanks, Mrs Shackleton. That’s jolly decent of you.’
‘I would like to have one of your pieces for myself but my house is small, my garden smaller, and I don’t put myself in the collector bracket.’
He smiled. ‘You should. It’s not as daunting as people think. Make an offer, if there’s something you like.’
‘Thanks. I’ll bear that in mind.’ With my cheque from Philippa, such a purchase might not be out of the question. Of course I would need to succeed and find Everett’s killer if I were to earn my fee. So I must raise the topic of grouse shooting, in a roundabout way.
‘Talking of photography, you had an excellent photographer on the estate not long ago, taking pictures of the shoot.’
‘Oh, who was that?’
‘Probably no one you would know. Len Diamond from the local paper, never without his cap. You might have spotted him.’
‘Now that you mention it, a journalist came to interview me last year and brought a photographer in a check cap.’
‘That will have been him. He came to speak to our photographic club and was as eloquent as he is artistic.’
Being an artist, Cromer was likely to shift the conversation back to himself and his work at any moment, so I pressed my point.
‘Mr Diamond was up here for the first day of grouse shooting. I saw one of his photographs in the paper, the one of Miss Windham, nursing her arm.’
‘For which she’ll never forgive him. She doesn’t like to be shown in a weak moment.’
‘No I suppose not. Were you at the shoot yourself?’
He gave me an emphatic no. ‘There’s no thrill for me in shooting such stupid birds. I would rather get on with my work.’
So much for my tactful broaching of the subject. At this rate, Scotland Yard would have an arrest, a conviction and a hanging before I found a single clue as to what had happened to Everett Runcie.
The apprentice, a pale serious young chap, brought our coffee. We edged away from each other so that the mugs could be set down on the bench between us.
Cromer said, ‘Thanks, Bernard. Take a break yourself.’
When we had sipped our coffee, I took the photograph of Deirdre Fitzpatrick from my satchel.
There was still hope. If I could find Deirdre, not only would I earn Fitpatrick’s undying gratitude, but if my strong suspicions were confirmed, she would turn out to have been at the hotel, and could have valuable information.
‘Mr Cromer, there’s an ulterior motive to my visit. Would you take a look at this photograph, please? Just the bride, not the groom. I’m searching for someone who’s gone missing. She may have worked as an artist’s model.’
He took the photograph from me, looked at it carefully, and shook his head. ‘I can see why she might work as a model, but no. She’s not familiar.’
I took the photograph back. ‘Thanks.’
‘Who is she?’
‘She’s married to a compositor on the local paper. He is very worried at her disappearance.’
‘Poor fellow. She looks the kind of woman to drive men mad. If you find her, and she does want to pose, let me know.’
‘I doubt if her husband will let her out of his sight once he finds her. She is in enough trouble.’
‘What kind of trouble?’
‘I’ll know the answer to that when I find her. Only what made me ask, when I was here last, I looked at the sketch pad in your parlour, and I thought the face on it so much resembled Mrs Fitzpatrick.’
‘Oh? Now you’ve intrigued me.’ He stood up. ‘Come on, we’ll take a look.’
We carried the mugs with us and walked towards the cottage. As he opened the door, the smell of baking filled my nostrils. The housekeeper may lack social graces, but her buns smelled good.
In the parlour, he went to the sketch pad. ‘Turn the pages. Show me the one you mean.’
The top page was full of recent sketches of the housekeeper, half human, half gnarled tree. There was a drawing of Caroline Windham. She sat in the battered armchair, right leg tucked under, her head tilted