Oh yes, fine, fine.'
He walked with her to the end of the passage in silence.
'Do you like it here?' he asked, as she reached the doorway that was her escape into the sunny, outside world. It sounded like a real question, not just politeness.
'Very much.'
Why did everyone ask that question so insistently? she wondered, as she found her deckchair and settled down. Were they really vetting her for the position of daughter-in-law? And did it really matter so much? Yes, she had entertained the fantasy of coming to live in this wonderful house, and it must have shown. But she would think very carefully indeed before she ever gave up her London flat. For now, this just looked to her like the perfect place for a holiday. Especially in such glorious weather…
'Enjoying yourself?'
She opened her eyes. How long had he been standing there? Not as long as she had been asleep, probably.
'You seem to be.'
'You look lovely.' Simon settled boyishly in the grass at her feet and ran a finger down her bare leg. It set off goosebumpy tingles in quite unrelated places.
'Hmm, I could lie here forever.'
'You can, if you want. But I suppose it gets boring after a century or two,' he said.
'You've been here for centuries, haven't you? So tell me some family history,' she asked him, 'There must be lots of it. Did you come over with the conqueror?'
He rested his head against her knee. 'Not quite. And we never did anything spectacular, really.'
'No?' she teased, running her fingers through his hair, 'Not one of your ancestors captured a Spanish galleon for Elizabeth? Or discussed strategy with Wellington before Waterloo?'
'You're winding me up,' he grinned, 'You're always telling me things like that do not make history.'
'You're learning. But I am interested, you know. I'm interested in your family.'
And I think your family is just a bit too interested in me. But that could wait.
11
'Let me get this straight,' the inspector said, 'You think these people were killed because they were historians?'
Put baldly like that, it did sound a bit feeble, Dominic had to admit. He wondered if this was where he got thrown out for wasting police time. But the inspector still looked slightly more curious than furious.
'Not exactly,' Dominic said, 'They were a specific kind of historian.'
Detective Inspector Collins wasn't what he had been expecting. He'd been thinking in terms of the middle-aged, divorced, hard-bitten copper, probably drinking more than he should. In contrast, Collins looked remarkably fresh for someone with a murder on his plate. Also remarkably young. He was certainly younger than Dominic, probably just his side of thirty. He wore a beautiful grey summer suit, but the air of business-like efficiency this exuded was counteracted somewhat by the extreme untidiness of his office. He had carefully pointed Dominic towards a chair with its back to a disturbing set of crime-scene pictures. 'Mr Walsingham? Owen Collins, County CID. Take a seat.'
He had shaken the inspector's hand, introduced himself, taken the proffered seat. Then he had hesitantly launched into his story. Collins had listened patiently, and summed it up pretty efficiently when he reached the end.
'Yes,' Dominic said now, 'They were all historians of the Chapter of St Cloud. And they were all killed before they could publish anything on the order.'
Dominic's search through old newspapers at the city archive that morning had taught him that in Alice Wright's case there had been a suspect, but the man was released due to lack of proof. The name stuck in Dominic's mind, and convinced him that he was right to be here, even if the DI was doubtful. It was the same name as that of the seventeenth century abbot of the chapter. He put this rather weak argument before the inspector.
'It's quite a common name around here, Danvers,' Collins said. He was probably too polite to say 'there's three centuries in between'.
'Look, Mr Walsingham,' he went on, 'I'm prepared to admit that there may be a connection between these murders, it is a bit of a coincidence. On the other hand, there may have been a very different motive for each. I'm sure you can see there is little I can do about it now. Twenty-five and sixty years may be yesterday to an historian, but to a simple copper that's just a long time.'
But you're not just a simple copper, are you? Dominic thought, or I would have been shown the door already.
'I thought murder didn't age?' he asked.
'Maybe not, but murderers do.'
Dominic almost said 'this one doesn't', but stopped himself just in time. He could tell Collins was taking this as seriously as his time and training would allow, and he shouldn't push it. 'I'm sure Barry Skinner's family and friends are still alive. Did anyone ever make a connection with the chapter back then?'
The inspector heaved an audible sigh. 'You are right to think that an unsolved murder case is never truly closed. But you must also realise that I have a recent case that needs attention much more urgently. I'll see if I can drag up the Skinner file. That's all I can promise you.'
'Then will you let me know if you are quite sure the chapter had nothing to do with it?' Dominic rose, correctly interpreting this as a dismissal.
'Of course. And Mr Walsingham?' Collins added, as they shook hands again, 'Do be careful. No book is worth its writer's life.'
He felt unexpectedly cheerful when he got home. The interview with the detective had gone better than he had hoped. At least he hadn't been laughed out of court, and Collins looked a reliable sort of chap. Of course he had been right in his parting words, and until now Dominic had fully planned to heed his warning and leave the Chapter of St Cloud for what it was until he was quite sure there was no danger. But now he thought: fuck that! I'm not going to be dissuaded so easily. If the chapter did not want to be investigated, the more reason to do so. Wondering vaguely why he suddenly felt so light-hearted, he changed the solemn church music in his CD player - he would get enough of that tonight - for something folksy and Italian. Maybe it was just that he had had a chance to talk about it all. Made him see things in perspective. He was almost beginning to think it wasn't serious enough to have added to the inspector's workload. But then if he hadn't, he would still be worried about it, so that line of reasoning ate its own tail. Laughing at himself, he popped a pizza in the oven and turned on his computer to check his email.
First he read his mother's weekly missive. She had moved back to the Netherlands after his father died, but she always kept in close touch with both her children. Her email reminded Dominic that he hadn't spoken to Saskia for a while, and he made a note to send his sister a long message soon. There was also an email from Claire Althorpe saying that she heard he'd moved, and that she was staying in the neighbourhood. Time for a drink, perhaps? He didn't answer that one right away. He never really knew where he was with Claire. He got the feeling she disapproved pretty strongly of the kind of history he wrote. On the other hand, she was great in her field, and she might be helpful on St Cloud's female houses. He realised that with looking so hard for published material, he had rather neglected other sources of information about the chapter. On an impulse, he wrote an email to James Sutherland, asking for the address of the student who had given up his Ph.D. project in favour of teaching. He might have made quite extensive notes. And Dominic wouldn't mind asking him why, exactly, he had not continued his research.
The oven gave a discreet 'ping!' to tell him his pizza was ready, and he realised he was both hungry and tired. It had been a busy day, with his unplanned trip to Oxford and his visit to the station. And there was choir practice still to come.
'A bit unsteady there, Dominic,' Michael Taylor said, 'Are you paying attention? Let's go through it again.'
Deus salutis meæ: et exsultābit lingua mea justítiam tuam... The choir master was right, Dominic's thoughts were elsewhere. No