door.
Although elderly like Clara Mortimer, the two women appeared on the surface to have little else in common. Mary Soames was short and round, with a fresh, pleasant face that exuded interest in everything around her. She had certainly noticed Rafferty's drawing in of a deep, pink-scented breath, because she insisted on pulling some up by the roots to give to him.
‘Clara inherited the Little Dower House from her parents,’ she told them in response to Rafferty's question. ‘She sold The Manor, the original family home shortly after she inherited it. Understandable, I suppose, as the upkeep was crippling. But even the Dower House is a sizeable property, much too big for her, she said, and it was too far to town. We're not on a bus route here and Clara never learned to drive. She sold it in the new year.’ Softly, she added, ‘I think the memories that came with the house were another factor.’
‘Memories?’ Rafferty queried.
‘Her marriage broke up while she was living there.' Mary Soames gave them a warm smile. 'But let's not stand gossiping on the doorstep like a couple of fishwives, Inspector. If you've come to learn about poor Clara's life, you might as well do it in comfort. Come in.’
Mrs Soames led them through a large, bright hallway to a homely living room, scattered with evidence of many interests; books of poetry jostled for space with easels and watercolour paints. The black ink of calligraphy nestled dangerously close to delicate cobwebs of embroidery. Dust motes from tables that clearly received only a desultory polish danced in the shaft of sunlight beaming in through the surprisingly clean windows.
Mary Soames's hairpins and jewellery also managed to scatter themselves around the room. Her thick white hair was screwed into an untidy bun and every time she moved her head one more hairpin would fly out and another hank of hair would fall on to her neck. She jabbed it back with another pin taken from the capacious pocket of the paint spattered blue smock, but in the process managed to send one of her pearl studs flying from her ear, which the well-mannered Llewellyn retrieved.
But thankfully, while Mary Soames might not appear to have control over her hair or her jewellery, and while her living room might be a chaotic riot of hobbies, her control over her memory turned out to be excellent.
Over tea and biscuits, which she fetched on a tray from the kitchen after removing skeins of wool and a fat tabby cat from the armchairs so they could sit down, she told them more about Clara Mortimer's life.
‘Clara could be a bit rigid, I suppose. I've known her since she was a girl; we were at school together and I know she was very strictly brought up. Her family were well to do and they instilled in her the ‘right’ way to behave. Her rigid upbringing made her incapable of swaying with each passing social more. I imagine that's why, when her daughter told her she was getting divorced, she reacted so strongly.
‘There had never been a divorce in the family, you see,’ Mary Soames explained as she bit into her biscuit and scattered unnoticed crumbs.. ‘Clara hadn't even considered getting a divorce when her husband left her. Harry Mortimer has always been a bit of a rogue and is completely unreliable, but he can turn on the charm when it suits him - more's the pity for poor Clara. I often think she would have had a happier life if she had never met him.
‘Clara's parents always maintained she had married beneath her. I have to say I agreed with them. With all his love affairs and his careless fathering of other women's children he broke Clara's heart. I felt that Harry leaving her was the best thing that could have happened to Clara.’
She leant forward, picked up a photo from the cluttered side table and handed it to Rafferty.
'That's Harry Mortimer,' she said. 'It was taken on their wedding day.’
Rafferty wondered why she should trouble to show him a picture of Clara Mortimer's late
Although elderly like Clara Mortimer, the two women appeared on the surface to have little else in common. Mary Soames was short and round, with a fresh, pleasant face that exuded interest in everything around her. She had certainly noticed Rafferty's drawing in of a deep, pink-scented breath, because she insisted on pulling some up by the roots to give to him.
‘Clara inherited the Little Dower House from her parents,’ she told them in response to Rafferty's question. ‘She sold The Manor, the original family home shortly after she inherited it. Understandable, I suppose, as the upkeep was crippling. But even the Dower House is a sizeable property, much too big for her, she said, and it was too far to town. We're not on a bus route here and Clara never learned to drive. She sold it in the new year.’ Softly, she added, ‘I think the memories that came with the house were another factor.’
‘Memories?’ Rafferty queried.
‘Her marriage broke up while she was living there.' Mary Soames gave them a warm smile. 'But let's not stand gossiping on the doorstep like a couple of fishwives, Inspector. If you've come to learn about poor Clara's life, you might as well do it in comfort. Come in.’
Mrs Soames led them through a large, bright hallway to a homely living room, scattered with evidence of many interests; books of poetry jostled for space with easels and watercolour paints. The black ink of calligraphy nestled dangerously close to delicate cobwebs of embroidery. Dust motes from tables that clearly received only a desultory polish danced in the shaft of sunlight beaming in through the surprisingly clean windows.
Mary Soames's hairpins and jewellery also managed to scatter themselves around the room. Her thick white hair was screwed into an untidy bun and every time she moved her head one more hairpin would fly out and another hank of hair would fall on to her neck. She jabbed it back with another pin taken from the capacious pocket of the paint spattered blue smock, but in the process managed to send one of her pearl studs flying from her ear, which the well-mannered Llewellyn retrieved.
But thankfully, while Mary Soames might not appear to have control over her hair or her jewellery, and while her living room might be a chaotic riot of hobbies, her control over her memory turned out to be excellent.
Over tea and biscuits, which she fetched on a tray from the kitchen after removing skeins of wool and a fat tabby cat from the armchairs so they could sit down, she told them more about Clara Mortimer's life.
‘Clara could be a bit rigid, I suppose. I've known her since she was a girl; we were at school together and I know she was very strictly brought up. Her family were well to do and they instilled in her the ‘right’ way to behave. Her rigid upbringing made her incapable of swaying with each passing social more. I imagine that's why, when her daughter told her she was getting divorced, she reacted so strongly.
‘There had never been a divorce in the family, you see,’ Mary Soames explained as she bit into her biscuit and scattered unnoticed crumbs.. ‘Clara hadn't even considered getting a divorce when her husband left her. Harry Mortimer has always been a bit of a rogue and is completely unreliable, but he can turn on the charm when it suits him - more's the pity for poor Clara. I often think she would have had a happier life if she had never met him.
‘Clara's parents always maintained she had married beneath her. I have to say I agreed with them. With all his love affairs and his careless fathering of other women's children he broke Clara's heart. I felt that Harry leaving her was the best thing that could have happened to Clara.’
She leant forward, picked up a photo from the cluttered side table and handed it to Rafferty.
'That's Harry Mortimer,' she said. 'It was taken on their wedding day.’
Rafferty wondered why she should trouble to show him a picture of Clara Mortimer's late
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