Free The House of Women by Alison Taylor Page A

said.
    ‘ He said to interview the daughters as well.’
    ‘ Until there’s more information from pathology, we’ll shelve the formal interviews.’
    She made slowly for the door, feet dragging, then said: ‘Shall I look for the old man’s bracelet?’
    ‘ Not yet. I want the room left as it is.’
    ‘ Right, sir.’ Pulling a wad of tissues from her pocket, she wiped her forehead.
    ‘ Have you reached a decision yet, Janet?’
    ‘ No, sir.’ She leaned against the door, staring at him. ‘I can’t find the right one.’
    ‘ As the situation isn’t of your choosing, the best you can hope for is the least painful way of extricating yourself.’
    ‘ I can’t imagine myself married, especially not like this.’
    ‘ If you book a few days’ leave and arrange an abortion, no-one need be any the wiser.’
    ‘ Don’t you think abortion’s wrong, sir?’
    ‘ Unless it’s a medical necessity, I think it’s an abomination, but I’m not the one who’s pregnant.’
    She smiled wanly. ‘If I don’t make a decision soon, it’ll be too late, so I won’t need to, and in a few months, people’ll know without being told. Even my father.’
    ‘ You’d be entitled to maternity leave.’
    ‘ My mother thinks I can’t even look after myself. God knows what she’d say about my looking after a baby.’
    ‘ I imagine she’d help you.’ He watched the doubt in her eyes brighten with hope, and said: ‘If having the baby’s become an option, you’d better see your doctor very soon.’
    ‘ I will.’ She smiled again, and opened the door.

 
    3
     
    Professor Iorwerth Williams, the owner of the silver Jaguar, and Edith Harris’s visitor, was the first incumbent of the Chair of Celtic Studies at the university. Parking his own car under the spreading branches of the beech trees which shaded the gardens and granite walls of the professor’s house, McKenna wondered how the ordinary Mrs Harris could capture the interest of such an extraordinary scholar. Like the leaves which rustled overhead, Williams’s reputation had flourished upon the chance discovery of some ancient Welsh manuscript texts, long thought to be lost forever. He published papers and books, lectured abroad, and won acclaim wherever he set foot. Stepping from the car into the sunshine, suddenly and unreasonably, McKenna saw Edith Harris as the harbinger of an autumn which might wither that reputation as the beech tree leaves would perish on the turn of the year.
    The woman who came to the front door was a breastless, two-dimensional shape clad in black from head to foot, her face a pale mask beneath a cap of jet black hair. Body bejewelled even so early in the day, her slightly wattled neck sported a glitter of gemstones beneath the hard line of her jaw. Her voice was husky and heavily accented. ‘My husband is not at home. He is busy.’
    ‘ Is he not in?’ McKenna asked.
    ‘ He is busy.’
    ‘ I won’t keep him long, but I’d like to speak to him.’
    She shrugged, pulled the door wide, then clicked along the scuffed tiles of the hall floor, high heels elongating her body. Standing behind her as she knocked at a wide panelled door, McKenna detected the perfume Janet favoured, sickly in the heat, and mingled with a pervading smell of tobacco.
    As the door swung open, Williams snapped: ‘I told you not to disturb me, chérie !’
    ‘ There is a policeman to see you.’ She walked away, and left the two men facing each other. Slightly hunched, thin and pot-bellied, clad in socks and sandals and unpressed clothing, Williams scowled at his visitor, eyes narrowed behind half-moon spectacles slipping down a nose greasy with sweat. His hair was sparse and greying, the hairline yellowed with nicotine stains.
    ‘ I’m sorry to bother you, professor,’ McKenna said. ‘I understand you’re friendly with Mrs Harris.’
    ‘ What of it?’
    ‘ I’m investigating Edward Jones’s death.’
    ‘ Why?’ His eyes, McKenna thought, looked slightly