Free The Company She Kept by Marjorie Eccles Page A

fiancé, Edward Bouvier, had called to take her to dine out. He wasn’t entirely satisfied with the interview. Abigail
    had taken several pages of notes – but even so, what they had about the dead woman didn’t amount to much more than an eyeful of cold tea. She had worked at the Women’s Hospital as a clerk on the reception desk. Angela Margaret Robinson, aged 38, unmarried, unattached. No special friends other than Dr Freeman, no interests except helping tirelessly in the doctor’s campaign to keep the Women’s Hospital open. It didn’t sound much of a life, nor give any indication of the sort of woman she had been, popular or disliked, happy or dissatisfied. She must have had her hopes and aspirations, too, but this bald outline revealed nothing except that she had seemingly been content to live in the shadow of her friend. There was nothing on this showing that could have led to someone wanting to murder her.
    â€˜What was she really like?’ he asked in a final attempt to fill out the picture. ‘It always helps to know what sort of person –’
    â€˜I’m sorry, that really is more than I feel able to cope with just yet. You’ll have to give me time. Later, perhaps ...’
    â€˜I understand.’
    Her distress was evident, perhaps through fear of letting emotion get the better of her again, and Mayo felt that any more questioning was likely to be counter-productive. They were only ferreting around at this stage for anything they could pick up that might be of use. More relevant questions could come later, if necessary.
    She took leave of them at the door, already shrugging on her coat again and exclaiming at the time, ‘I must get on!’
    â€˜You’ve had a shock,’ Mayo said. ‘Couldn’t you get one of your partners to take your calls today?’
    â€˜Good heavens, that won’t be necessary, I’m far too busy!’ She added wanly, ‘And mooning around being miserable isn’t likely to bring Angie back to life, is it?’
    â€˜Well, take my advice, and don’t overdo it.’
    In his sympathy for her, he’d forgotten he was talking to a doctor and she managed a smile. ‘And if you’ll take my advice, you’ll go home and get a few hours’ sleep, yourself. You look as though you could do with it.’

CHAPTER 7
    The house had come alive again now that Sophie was home. All the rooms were in use again, not merely the kitchen. Fresh flowers filled the vases, the elusive scent she used lingered everywhere. (Maggie had heard she had the scent specially made for her in Paris – or perhaps it was New York – and had no difficulty in believing it.) She ordered delicious and expensive food, nibbling at minute portions and leaving the rest for Maggie, for Sophie ate less than a mouse.
    Maggie wasn’t grumbling. Her student days weren’t long behind; she was always short of money, and lobster and fillet steak were a decided improvement on baked beans and beefburgers.
    â€˜I suppose you want me to pack up and go, now that I’ve finished my house-sitting stint,’ she said.
    â€˜Now, darling, don’t be tiresome. You know you can stay as long as you want. Anyway, I don’t think I shall be here all that long. It’s always so cold in England.’
    â€˜The thermostat’s up to eighty! I don’t know how you can stand it!’
    â€˜Well, hie thee off to an attic, it’s cold enough up there, and get on with your painting. I’ve held you up long enough this morning.’
    â€˜True,’ said Maggie, with a laugh, disappearing in a gust of energy to immerse herself in one of the large and violent abstracts which Sophie could never understand, while she herself, thin and elegant in her dress of fine soft wool, the colour of aubergines, drew her chair up to the desk near the fire to read her post, shivering in an exaggerated manner at imaginary