Aunt Nell’s question was unexpected. ‘Don’t you know?’ he asked, with faint mockery. Then, because her lips had tightened reprovingly, and she was trying to help him, Oliver relented. ‘Yeah. She was up last night when I got here.’
‘Ah.’ Aunt Nell had made a pot of tea and carried it to the table. ‘I wondered why she didn’t have a lot to say before she went out.’
‘Went out?’ Oliver glanced at his watch. ‘What time did she go out?’
‘She said she wanted some air,’ replied Aunt Nell evenly. She set a cup and saucer and some milk beside the teapot. ‘Go on. Help yourself. It’ll do you more good than taking pills.’
Oliver could have argued. He knew where the coffee jar was kept. But his head was still thumping and he couldn’t be bothered. There was caffeine in tea, wasn’t there? he thought. For the time being, he’d make do with that.
The dish of oatmeal wasn’t long in following the tea. Laura’s aunt sugared it liberally before passing it over. ‘There,’ she said, as he put down his cup. ‘Get that inside you. I always say that breakfast is the most important meal of the day.’
Oliver was sure he was going to be sick, but he forced himself to swallow several mouthfuls of the oatmeal. He’d eaten worse things in Malaysia, after all. People there ate rice at almost every meal.
‘So where has she gone?’ he asked at last, reluctantly aware that he was actually feeling much better.
‘Into the village,’ replied Aunt Nell, tidying the dresser. ‘She didn’t have a lot to say, as I said.’ She turned to give him an appraising look. ‘What happened last night? Did you and she have a row?’
‘No.’ Oliver was indignant.
‘I thought your mother was supposed to be waiting up for you,’ continued the woman. ‘What was Laura doing down here?’
‘She’d come down to get a drink,’ said Oliver patiently, aware that he was falling back into the old patterns of defensiveness where Eleanor Tenby was concerned. ‘Ma had fallen asleep, or so she said. That’s why I came round the back.’
‘And Laura let you in.’
‘Yeah.’
‘But I imagine your mother eventually turned up.’
‘Yeah.’ Oliver regarded her with a wry expression. ‘But you know all this, don’t you? Laura went to bed as soon as Stella appeared.’
‘So she didn’t discuss her father’s death with you?’
‘No.’ Oliver was wary. ‘What was there to discuss? I already knew how he died. Stella told me when I rang. He had a heart attack. It must have been appalling for her, finding his body. Had he been seeing a doctor, do you know? If he had, he should have warned her.’
‘Griff hadn’t been seeing the doctor,’ replied Aunt Nell firmly. ‘When Tenniel Evans came to examine him after—afterwards, he was as shocked as anyone else. Who knows why he died? He’s not here to tell us. Perhaps he’d had a shock—or a fall from his horse. It may be that we’ll never know.’
Nevertheless Oliver sensed that Laura’s aunt had her own opinion. Not that she was likely to confide that opinion to him. But the very fact that she was asking questions was unsettling. For God’s sake, surely this was one occasion when she could have given Stella some support.
‘Do you know what’s in the will?’ he asked now, forcing himself to deal with facts, not fantasies, and Laura’s aunt lifted her thin shoulders dismissively.
‘It’s nothing to do with me,’ she said, turning away, which wasn’t an answer. But Oliver guessed it was the best he was going to get.
‘So—were you here when it happened?’ he probed, deciding that in spite of everything he deserved to know the details.
‘No.’ She glanced over her shoulder. ‘I was away for the day visiting a friend in Cardiff. Griff had said he was going out with the hunt, and your mother had arranged to go shopping, or so she said. She told me she’d be eating out and not to bother preparing lunch before I left.’ She licked her lips. ‘But I did leave Griff a sandwich.’ She grimaced. ‘He never touched it.’
‘I see.’ Oliver’s headache was definitely easing now and his brain had started functioning again. ‘So she was alone in the house when she found him. Poor old Stella. God, she must have been frantic!’
‘I dare say.’
Oliver frowned. There was something about the woman’s tone that caught him on the raw. ‘Do you doubt it?’ he exclaimed. ‘For God’s sake, even you must feel some sympathy for her. There can’t be any advantage in finding your husband dead!’
‘Did I say there was?’
‘No, but—’ Oliver broke off abruptly. Then, in a calmer tone, he continued, ‘Look, I know you’ve never liked her, but in these circumstances we’ve all got to make compromises.’
Aunt Nell shrugged. ‘If you say so.’ She paused. ‘Did your mother tell you she was alone when she found—Griff’s body?’
Oliver stared at her shoulder blades, turned to him again now and jutting painfully through the fine wool of the sweater she was wearing over her worsted skirt. Her question disconcerted him. Why did she want to know that?
‘Of course she was alone,’ he said tersely. ‘You know that. You were in Cardiff, as you said earlier.’
‘Perhaps you should ask her why it was two hours before she discovered his body,’ Aunt Nell remarked, looking at him over her shoulder. ‘If she was here, why didn’t she hear him come in?’
‘Perhaps she did.’ Oliver blew out an irritated breath. ‘Have you asked her?’
‘It’s nothing to do with me.’
‘Of course it is.’ Oliver was impatient and it showed.
‘Not according to your mother,’ replied the woman smoothly. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got work to do.’
Olivia wanted to question her further. He was angry, and he wanted to know what she meant by making out there was some big secret about Griff’s death. There wasn’t, he assured himself. Men of Griff’s age had heart attacks all the time, and without doing anything as strenuous as riding to hounds.
As Laura’s aunt let herself out of the room, he moved to the windows to stare out unseeingly. As always, he never came off best in any encounter with Laura’s aunt, and while he knew she wasn’t a liar he suspected she’d do anything to cause trouble for his mother.
He scowled, pushing his hands into the waistline pockets of his trousers and forcing the sunlit garden into focus. It was a pretty scene, he thought, considering the frame of poplar trees whose bare branches formed a stark contrast to their surroundings. He would use a colour negative, he mused, to take advantage of the band of sunlight that was presently creating a rainbow of artistry in the thawing icicles. Some of his best work had been done spontaneously, and his fingers itched to capture it on film.
But then his gaze alighted on the line of footsteps that led to the gate and all thought of photographic composition vanished beneath a wave of frustration. Laura was out there somewhere. The footsteps led in only one direction, away from the house, and he wondered what she had thought of what had happened the night before. Was she aware that if his mother hadn’t interrupted them he’d been in danger of resurrecting the offence that had driven them apart all those years ago?
Dammit, was he crazy, or what? He hadn’t wanted Laura then and he didn’t want her now. What had happened had been a reaction to circumstances, that was all, and he ought to be grateful to his mother for preventing him from making an even bigger fool of himself.
And he was. He was! But that didn’t