A Question of Identity by Anthea Fraser Page A

couldn’t rid herself of the sensation of prying into private papers.
    In particular, it was painful to read of Elspeth’s long friendship with Chloë Pyne, a fellow artist who lost her life under a tube train, and of Chloë’s ill-fated love affair. Had Elspeth lived only days longer, she would at least have learned she wasn’t responsible for her friend’s death.
    On the Thursday afternoon, after a somewhat gruelling two hours, Rona closed the diaries, turning instead to the folder listing Elspeth’s paintings, with a note alongside of the galleries or private collectors who owned them. Over the last months she’d visited several galleries in Manchester, Liverpool, Dublin and Edinburgh, as well as a couple of Stately Homes where her work was displayed.
    Elspeth was known principally for her obsession with clouds, which she had painted in every imaginable way, and Rona admitted there were times when she never wanted to see another cloudscape. Max, however, had been able to talk her through several pictures, pointing out the different techniques employed to achieve the desired effect, and she humbly accepted that, to him, each painting had an entirely different character.
    She was trying to decide where to visit next when she was interrupted by the pealing of the doorbell, followed by hysterical barking from Gus, who, assuming she was deaf, took it upon himself to alert her.
    It was rare to have visitors in the afternoon, but, glad of the excuse to leave her desk, Rona ran downstairs and opened the door to find her father on the step.
    â€˜Pops!’ she exclaimed. ‘How lovely! Come in!’
    Tom Parish returned her hug and bent to pat the excited dog. ‘I hope I’m not being a Person from Porlock,’ he said. ‘You’re not at a crucial stage, are you?’
    â€˜No, and glad of the break, to be honest. Come downstairs and I’ll make some tea.’
    â€˜I hoped you might, so I bought a cake en route.’
    â€˜Even better!’
    He sat down at the table, fondling Gus’s ears and watching as Rona filled the kettle. ‘It seems ages since I saw you,’ he commented.
    â€˜I know, Mum made the same complaint; I had lunch with her on Monday.’
    â€˜How is she?’
    â€˜Very well.’ She turned to him, a thought striking her. ‘Did you know she intends to sell Maple Drive?’
    â€˜No, though I rather thought she might.’
    â€˜But . . . surely you own half of it?’
    Tom shook his head. ‘I made it over entirely when we separated. It was the least I could do.’
    â€˜Well, she’s intending to invite you and Catherine to choose what you’d like.’
    â€˜That’s very generous of her.’
    â€˜I suppose they’ll be faced with trying to fit the contents of two homes into one.’
    â€˜We’ll be spared that, at least. All I took at the time were my books and personal papers, and, as you know, I’m renting the flat furnished. Avril did offer me my choice of ornaments and pictures – even furniture – but I felt they belonged where they were. So, my pet –’ he took the mug of tea she handed him – ‘far from having to squeeze in our belongings, we shall have to look for more. In view of which, if that offer still holds, I might welcome the chance to reconsider.’
    â€˜Catherine will be selling her bungalow, then?’
    â€˜Yes; like your mother and Guy, we decided we wanted a home new to both of us.’
    Rona, opening the cake box, felt a spasm of regret. She loved the tranquil charm of Catherine’s home.
    â€˜Oh, lovely – lemon drizzle!’ she exclaimed, lifting out the cake. ‘My favourite!’
    â€˜Which is why I bought it.’
    â€˜You’re a star!’ She cut two generous slices, and handed him a plate. ‘How’s Catherine?’ she added, seating herself opposite him.
    â€˜A bit down, actually.