'Do we have to pay to come in?' Thea wondered.

'No, but we'd like you to sign the book.' The tone had softened. Perhaps it had been a long boring week for the woman, sitting waiting for visitors who never materialised. Thea and Jessica had the whole place to themselves on this drizzly Thursday morning. It seemed unwise, however, to attack them when they did show up. They signed the book and started towards the right-hand wall and the first of the display.

'No, you're meant to start on the left,' said the woman tiredly. 'It goes in a clockwise direction.'

Thea could sense her daughter's growing impatience with the ill-tempered custodian, but they both changed course as instructed. They had not reached the first picture when the woman said, 'You're the people who found Julian, aren't you? On Sunday? I've seen you in the village once or twice.'

Jessica turned to answer her. 'Yes, that's right. I understand he was here on Sat.u.r.day.'

'He was. Not surprisingly, considering there are several of his photographs on display. We missed him when he didn't come in on Sunday as well. He liked to explain his work to people.'

A thought struck Thea. 'Are there some of Ron Montgomery's as well?'

'A few. The sepia group over there, and another pair on that wall.' She pointed to the wall on the right.

The s.p.a.ce was unimaginatively arranged, with two of the walls covered quite densely with pictures, and a row of free-standing boards at the far end, made necessary by a small stage. Two short rows of similar boards were positioned in the middle of the hall, facing each other with a fairly narrow walkway between them.

'What a lot!' Jessica said. 'Are these all by local people?'

'Definitely. We have a very active Photographic Society, and with the new technology well, some people have become very prolific.'

Thea had begun her inspection. The level of experimentation surprised her, with montages and superimposings regularly to be found. The church tower had a large tree growing out of it in one, and the children's playground was thickly strewn with imported sheep and cows in another. 'Clever!' she breathed, hoping to appease the woman on the door. Privately, she found them merely silly.

Jessica had skated past the early displays, apparently attracted by something at the further end of the left hand wall. A suppressed yelp alerted Thea, who hurried to join her, glad to find that they were hidden from view by one of the display boards in the middle of the room.

'What?' she said.

'Look!'

The picture was A3 size and very eye-catching. In the centre was a carved wooden chest, painted with gold and scarlet markings. At each corner was a view in sepia, of open countryside, showing the familiar patterns of furrows and ridges that could be found at Upton and the Ditchfords. Beneath the chest was a copied image of the face of Joanna Southcott, which had appeared on more than one of the websites Jessica had located.

'That clinches it,' said Thea. 'Just as Icarus said.'

'So it can't be very secret,' muttered Jessica. She pointed to the caption beside the picture. 'The Blockley Box' she read. 'By Julian Jolly'.

'Not particularly good as art,' said Thea critically. 'Quite poor composition, and the mixture of colour and sepia doesn't work at all for me.' She spoke audibly, unable to resist winding up the woman by the door.

Jessica snorted her amus.e.m.e.nt. 'I think it has a certain boldness,' she argued. 'It caught my eye from quite a distance.'

'Well, perhaps. It does seem to be trying to say say something.' something.'

This was certainly true. Thea stared at the picture, legacy of a murdered man, and tried to understand its message. Had the police not discovered it already? Would they regard it with a new interest now that Jessica had recounted the meeting with Icarus and the whole business about the Southcott Box and Upton's ruins?

They forced themselves to give due attention to the other work on display. One group of simple images of leaves and gra.s.ses appealed to Thea. The name beside them was familiar, but for a moment she couldn't place it. 'Sarah Livingstone Graham.' Of course the sheep woman! The delicacy of the photographs seemed at odds with the rather hearty person she'd spoken to the day before. If asked to predict, she would have said there'd be photos of animals, perhaps in att.i.tudes of distress, and farmyards with old tractors and pools of stagnant mud. She gave herself time to absorb the subtle shots of single instances of transient life, taken at very close quarters, the scars and holes made by insects or harsh weather suggesting a real fragility.

'I could live with these,' she murmured. 'They're wonderful.'

Jessica drifted closer and cast an unimpressed look at the pictures. 'Can't say they do much for me,' she said. 'But I have found some I like.'

They spent half an hour in the hall, during which time no other visitors appeared. As they left, Thea faced the woman. 'We were wrong,' she said with a smile. 'They definitely are art, after all. Or some of them, anyway.'

'I'm glad to hear it,' said the woman, barely managing a returning smile. 'But you're wrong about the Blockley Box. It's a masterpiece. You probably don't appreciate the context, but I can a.s.sure you it's going to become a very special part of Blockley's heritage, now that Julian...'

With shocking suddenness, the woman burst into noisy uninhibited sobs, which echoed round the hall. Thea had the impression that the tears had been gathering force and pressure ever since the woman had heard about Julian's death. It was like the bursting of a dam, and she half expected to see a small river of salty fluid flowing across the table on which the weeping head was buried. The shoulders heaved and the noise did not abate. Thea and Jessica exchanged appalled glances, knowing they could not leave the woman like this.

'Er... Is there anybody...? I mean, you shouldn't stay here...' Thea's voice was almost drowned by the sobbing.

And then rescue arrived, as Thea remembered it had done at least once before. The tall figure of Giles Stevenson materialised, looking rather damp about the shoulders. 'Hey, hey,' he sang in a voice of infinite gentleness. 'Carola, my dear. We can't have this, can we? I could hear you from ten yards away.' He glanced at Thea and Jessica. 'Have you gone and upset her?' he accused them.

'I suppose we have,' said Thea. 'Without meaning to.'

The sobs subsided into choking breaths, and she raised her blotchy face to his, where he leant protectively over her. 'Oh, Giles,' she gasped. 'It just hit me, without warning. I was fine fine until now. Oh dear.' until now. Oh dear.'

'I know,' he said. 'It goes like that. I did did wonder...' wonder...'

'It's not Julian I'm crying for, you see,' she spluttered, her chest still heaving spasmodically. 'I didn't like him any more than the rest of you. No, I was crying for poor Gladys. Poor old Gladys Gardner.'

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

'Maybe she didn't mean what it sounded like,' said Thea. 'We probably heard it all wrong. She was just upset because Granny was so fond of Julian and will be lost without him.'

'Except she also said that n.o.body n.o.body liked the man.' liked the man.'

Thea made a sceptical rumble. 'Well, we know that that isn't true. Granny kept on about him all day on Sat.u.r.day. You didn't hear her she made him sound like her best friend in the whole world. And Thomas loved him, remember.' isn't true. Granny kept on about him all day on Sat.u.r.day. You didn't hear her she made him sound like her best friend in the whole world. And Thomas loved him, remember.'

'But we haven't heard anybody actually say he was a nice person. Nick called him a curmudgeon.'

Thea could only agree. The composite picture building up was of a man who had managed to make himself comprehensively unpopular on all sides.

'Time's running out,' Jessica remarked, checking her watch. 'It's ten forty-five.'

'This is ridiculous!' Thea exploded. 'Don't the police have any firm pieces of evidence, for heaven's sake? What have they been doing doing all week? What am I meant to do once you've gone?' all week? What am I meant to do once you've gone?'

Jessica grimaced. 'They're doing what they always do, as you know perfectly well. But they've had to withdraw a lot of officers because of the Birmingham bomb factory. The media are screaming for a result on that. The general public are far more concerned with a nice exciting terrorist threat than the death of a solitary old man. And the police do have to obey the public, when all's said and done.'

'Do they? Even when the public are being their usual stupid selves? If they had any sense at all they'd be more alarmed by a murder in a quiet High Street than some gang of lunatics mixing up their Semtex in a homemade bunsen burner, or whatever it was. The chances are they'd only blow themselves up, anyway.'

'You're wrong,' Jessica told her calmly. 'In just about every detail. Ask Phil he'll tell you.'

The reference to Phil came at the same instant as Thea was already wishing he was with them. She had increasingly found herself craving his touch and his smiling eyes looking down at her, as the day had progressed. Several times she had mentally spoken to him, wanting his reactions and rea.s.surances. When Jessica uttered his name, the impact on Thea was great enough to half convince her that he was at that moment sitting outside the house in his car, waiting for them to return, Hepzie jumping at the window, having seen him.

But he wasn't. As they turned into the High Street again, there were no other vehicles than their two small cars on the pavement outside the Montgomery house and its cottage. The antic.i.p.ated image faded and Thea felt acute disappointment.

'I'm going to phone him,' she decided to herself. 'And tell him I'm feeling neglected.'

Half an hour later, washing up their coffee mugs, Thea wondered aloud about the fate of Nick Jolly. 'They'll have to prosecute him for dangerous driving, won't they? How does that affect his being a murder suspect? Can they manage both at the same time? Or what?'

Jessica considered this technical issue, looking worried. 'I ought to know this,' she said. 'I think the more serious charge takes precedence. It must do, I'm sure. Then the lesser ones are asked to be taken into consideration. But it's useful to have something to hold him on, for the time being.'

'Except he's in hospital. How does that work?'

'There'll be an officer guarding him. One of the most tedious of all the jobs, according to Mike. They can't formally interview him until a doctor judges him fit.'

'It would be very convenient if he did turn out to be the killer. Neat.'

Jessica gave her mother a warning look. 'Convenience doesn't come into it,' she said sternly. 'You know it doesn't.'

Thea sighed. 'But think how terribly in inconvenient it would be if they found firm evidence pointing to Granny.' Ever since the call to James, her hopes had been rising that Granny would walk free, to live out her limited days in peace. But every few minutes, the fragility of these hopes made itself felt. The police would find a way to convict her, and she, Thea, did not want to be part of whatever might happen then.

Jessica seemed to read her thoughts. 'I didn't tell you everything he said,' she confessed. 'They can't just let it all slide. Uncle James is arranging for a team to search her cottage sometime today. There has to be a special geriatric worker present, and there's a protocol. They'll do their best not to upset her.'

Thea felt a chilly current flowing through her, a dread combined with a sense of injustice. 'I ought to warn her,' she agonised. 'But I know it wouldn't do any good.'

'They really don't want to have to do it. It'll make them feel terrible.'

'It sounds as if it's all sewn up. They've actually decided she killed Julian. So what about the Southcott Box business, and Upton and Nick and all that? What about those pictures in that exhibition?'

'They investigate everything,' Jessica said tiredly. 'And all we have to do is to let them get on with it.'

'I'm going to talk to her, one last time,' Thea announced, at eleven-thirty, as they were sitting nervously awaiting developments. 'I won't say anything about the police. I just want to be with her for a bit. After all, I am being paid to watch over her. You could say I've failed in my mission letting her commit a murder. It must have happened while I was here.'

'Mmm,' said Jessica non-committally.

Seeing no further point in abiding by the rule about the connecting door, Thea gently opened it and let herself into the small hallway on the other side. 'h.e.l.lo?' she called. 'Mrs Gardner?'

'Who is it?' came a querulous voice from the upper floor. 'Is that you, Yvette?'

'No, it's Thea Osborne. Can I come up?'

'I'm poorly today,' the voice floated down. It sounded thin, with a wobble in the word poorly poorly.

Thea hurried to the bedroom, where she was buffeted by a powerful smell on the threshold of the room. Something strong and sour and disgusting.

'I was sick,' said the little voice. 'All over myself.'

She spoke accurately. Vomit spread copiously across the bedclothes, as well as down the front of Granny's brushed cotton nightie. It looked as if she must have eaten at least a five-course meal.

'Oh, Lord, so you were,' said Thea. 'When did this happen?'

'Don't know. I was a greedy girl. I had too much.'

Thea couldn't avoid a sudden suspicion that there was something deliberate going on. 'What would you have done if I hadn't turned up?' she demanded.

'Don't know.' The same whining little girl voice as before rendered Thea helpless. There was obviously nothing to be done but a wholesale cleaning-up operation, which was not going to be any fun at all. Through gritted teeth, she pulled all the bedclothes free and bundled them up. There were two blankets and a sheet, all badly affected. She carried them into the bathroom and hurled everything into the bath. That, she realised, would make it impossible to give the old woman the thorough clean she needed. She went back, thinking about the task ahead.

'We'll have to get you washed,' she said. 'Take that nightie off.'

Granny Gardner was marooned on the naked bed, huddled into herself with her knees drawn up. She whimpered and made no move to obey Thea's order.

'Come on. You can't stay like that.'

'I can do it for myself,' came a much stronger voice. 'I'm not an invalid.'

'Thank goodness for that,' snapped Thea. 'Off you go, then. Take some clothes with you, and get changed in the bathroom. You'll have to wash your hair as well.'

Slowly, stiffly, Granny rolled off the bed and took a collection of clothes from a chair. 'Clean pants,' she muttered and went across the room to a chest of drawers. Thea watched her, thinking about old age and dignity and the basic procedures necessary for survival. How did anyone cope with the moment when it became inescapable that some of those procedures were no longer within one's capabilities? When you couldn't get your own socks on, or climb in and out of a bath, or get the tops off jars of jam? Wouldn't the terror of the next phase drive some individuals into the haven of senility? Was it not acknowledged that senility was generally quite pleasant for the person afflicted with it? Was this the point at which Gladys Gardner had arrived?

'Do you feel poorly?' she asked. 'How's your tummy?'

'Empty. Sore. And my throat hurts. I couldn't get to the lavatory in time,' she added plaintively. 'It was so sudden.'

For a moment Thea thought this was an admission of incontinence, until she understood that Granny meant she'd wanted to throw up into the loo. 'It happens like that sometimes,' she said, with sympathy. 'Especially if you've been asleep.'

'Thank you, dear,' came the stately reply. 'You're being very understanding.'

Twenty minutes later, Thea had helped the old woman downstairs and made her some dry toast and weak tea. 'I must just pop next door and tell my daugthter what's happening,' she excused herself.

'Daughter? I had a daughter,' came the fuddled reply. 'Two of them, in a manner of speaking. Do you know Frances? She's gone away, you know. She won't know what's happened to her father.'

Father? Before she could elicit anything more, Granny had slipped away into the bathroom, and closed the door firmly behind her.

Which left Thea ample time to think. Had she heard correctly? Had Granny just revealed that Julian Jolly was the father of Frances, her second daughter? And if so, what difference might that make?

Could Frances have taken the opportunity presented by her sister's absence to pay a clandestine visit to Blockley and attack the old man while the coast was clear? Might her aged mother have a.s.sisted her in some way? Thea felt an urgent desire to go and tell Jessica what she had just heard, and perhaps make another call to James at the same time. Instead, she knew she had to stay with Mrs Gardner and see that she was all right. But there was no reason why she shouldn't try a few questions at the same time.

'When did you last see Frances?' she asked, when a refreshed and fragrant Granny was finally installed on the sofa downstairs.

'Yvette refuses to have her here. I never see her any more.'

Encouraged, Thea continued. 'She was a late baby, is that right?'

It was much easier than she could ever have imagined. Granny Gardner met her eye and smiled sadly. 'I thought I was too old for child-bearing. I thought I didn't need to worry about it any more.'

'Did Yvette help you bring her up?'

'Oh, no.' The old woman frowned at the plate in front of her. 'Oh, no. Yvette was long gone by then. Twenty-five, at least, she must have been.'