Cast For Death by Margaret Yorke Page B

they had met Sam, she had been attracted to one of the men in the group she was with; Patrick had thought her oddly naive at the time, and he knew she had not enjoyed the experience. Had she indulged in more rewarding amorous encounters since then? Looking at her, he could not believe that she had no emotional life, yet he knew very well that many people who would have chosen otherwise were obliged to accept such a condition.
    He told her about Manolakis, the poodle, and the death of Tina Willoughby. It broke the tension between them.
    ‘But it’s sheer coincidence that this Tina woman was moving to Stratford when Sam was going there. There can’t be any connection. Or if there is, the police will find it,’ said Liz.
    ‘I suppose you’re right. But I do wonder why she killed herself,’ said Patrick.
    ‘Why did she want to move to Stratford?’
    ‘Because of her interest in the theatre, the neighbour thought. As Sam was going there so soon there could be a link.’
    ‘How can you find things out about her? Knowing you, I imagine you mean to try,’ said Liz.
    ‘Chat casually to someone who knew her – see what comes up in the course of general conversation.’ Patrick ignored Liz’s sardonic tone.
    ‘Mm. Couldn’t you suggest to the police that they should do it?’
    ‘Yes. But if this is a red herring, it’s a pity to go stirring things up,’ said Patrick.
    ‘I see your point. If something came up at the inquest on Tina to show she knew Sam, the police would automatically follow it up.’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘But it wouldn’t be the same police force, would it? Dealing with both?’
    ‘No, but if something like that was disclosed about Tina, I think London would hear about it,’ said Patrick.
    ‘So you’ll wait and see what happens?’
    ‘I think so. More or less.’
    As they drove back to her flat she commented on the car.
    ‘I like it. Much more dashing than the Rover,’ she said. ‘What made you choose this?’
    He could not tell her that he feared the onset of middle age and sought to enliven his image.
    ‘It’s fun to drive,’ he said. ‘You’re close to the road – there’s immediate, precise control. Like riding a horse – which I’ve done quite a bit, though you may find it hard to believe.’
    ‘Is there anything you haven’t done, Patrick?’ she asked.
    ‘Skin-diving,’ he answered at once. ‘I’m scared of it.’
    The thought of Patrick being scared was disarming.
    ‘I thought you had no nerves,’ she said.
    ‘I’m afraid of a lot of things,’ he told her. ‘Not all of them requiring physical courage.’
    He went up with her to the flat, where she made coffee and put on a record. It was Mozart.
    ‘Nice,’ he said.
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘The manuscript – the one you were going to read tonight. What is it?’
    ‘Oh – a biography of Florence Nightingale,’ she said.
    ‘Any good?’
    ‘Yes, I think so. We’ll probably do it.’
    ‘Have you been to Claydon House?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Neither have I. We should be ashamed of ourselves. It’s so close to Oxford.’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘We could go, of course.’
    ‘Why not?’
    The weekend stretched blankly ahead of Liz; she had made no special plans, and to spend time with Patrick, whether or not they visited Florence Nightingale’s former home, would be very pleasant.
    ‘We might take Dimitris. He wants to see various sights and I mean to take him to some stately homes. I’ll ring you about it,’ said Patrick.
    ‘All right,’ said Liz, deflated, and decided that she would not, after all, encourage Patrick to stay very much longer this evening.
    Driving through the starlit night, Patrick reflected on the evening. In a way, it had ended in a disappointing manner, with no repeat of their warm embrace. Whose fault was that? He tried to work it out. Liz had seemed less approachable, and his own reserve had returned. Perhaps, on the whole, it was just as well.
    Patrick spent Saturday writing an article about Ben Jonson, and on