on a black silken cord. Keith tried not to lookat them as Marion Druther made a tutting sound and slipped them on to her nose. ‘Oh yes. Of course, you’re that nice policeman who called earlier. Well, come on in.’ She stood to one side and let him pass. Keith thanked her and stepped into a small hall. From there she led him straight through into a small lounge. Dried flowers in a vast arrangement stood in front of an empty grate. Large lampshades, all made of stained-glass, stood atop tall stands at strategic points around the room. In the window, several small, stained-glass mosaics had been hung, catching the light and reflecting a rainbow of colours on to the plain white walls.
A tall young woman, also with masses of dark curly hair and small dark eyes, was just folding her length into a comfortable-looking chair.
‘Oh, yes, please sit down,’ Marion said. ‘This is my daughter, Jude. Her real name’s Judy, but she refuses to answer to it. Don’t know why. It isn’t even as if she likes the Beatles,’ Mrs Druther said, without pausing for breath, making her daughter scowl at her fondly.
‘Don’t worry, Sergeant, she’s not mad. Just scatter-brained. Now, what is it we can do for you? Mum, stop hovering.’
Marion Druther sat down, smiling vaguely.
‘It’s Constable Barrington, ma’am,’ Keith corrected her with a smile. ‘And I’m part of the investigation into the murder of Wayne Sutton. I take it you’ve heard about that?’
Mother and daughter swapped looks. ‘Yes. Millie phoned us last night. Millie Fairweather. She used to be a member of the club, but she dropped out last year. Couldn’t afford the price of real ale anymore, or so she said,’ Marion began, then subsided as her daughter cut in.
‘I’m sure the constable doesn’t want to know about Millie’s problems, Mum,’ she said, just a touch of warning in her voice. ‘Millie always has her ear to the ground, so she’s our source of all information really,’ Jude Druther carried on. ‘We tend not to watch too much telly, and we never get the papers. Far toodepressing. And when we’re in the workshop we only have the radio on Classic FM, so without her we’d be totally out of the loop. But yes, we know about Wayne. It was a shock, wasn’t it, Mum?’
‘I’ll say. You don’t expect anyone you know to be murdered do you? I mean, you know it happens, but you don’t think it’ll ever be someone you actually know .’
Keith, who’d come across this reaction often in the past, nodded his head sympathetically. ‘So, what can you tell me about him? You must have known him well?’
‘Well, yes and no, really,’ Jude said, when her mother cast her a rather helpless look. ‘The club meets every fortnight, at some pub or other, and we have a drink and swap success stories. Some of us have small businesses, others just sell the odd commission here and there. Wayne … well, Wayne was almost the only professional artist amongst us. Even Colin has a day job.’
‘This would be Colin Blake?’ Keith clarified.
‘That’s right.’
‘I’ve been hearing good things about him,’ Keith said craftily. ‘A lot of people seem to rate his work.’
‘Oh yes, he’s good,’ Marion said at once, and pointed to a small watercolour. In it, a dilapidated, crumbling red-brick river bridge spanned a small stream at the height of summer. The water was low and translucent, the river weed almost lime green in colour and flowering with tiny white flowers. A large stand of bulrushes, in the foreground, added a velvety contrast. Tiny drifts of gossamer seeds floated in the air. It was charming – well painted and almost brought the sound of gently flowing water into the room.
‘That’s one of Col’s. It took me and Jude all year to save up for it, but we had to have it. Didn’t we, Jude?’
‘I love it,’ the younger woman confirmed with a grin.
‘Do you have any of Wayne Sutton’s paintings?’ Keith asked, and again the
A tall young woman, also with masses of dark curly hair and small dark eyes, was just folding her length into a comfortable-looking chair.
‘Oh, yes, please sit down,’ Marion said. ‘This is my daughter, Jude. Her real name’s Judy, but she refuses to answer to it. Don’t know why. It isn’t even as if she likes the Beatles,’ Mrs Druther said, without pausing for breath, making her daughter scowl at her fondly.
‘Don’t worry, Sergeant, she’s not mad. Just scatter-brained. Now, what is it we can do for you? Mum, stop hovering.’
Marion Druther sat down, smiling vaguely.
‘It’s Constable Barrington, ma’am,’ Keith corrected her with a smile. ‘And I’m part of the investigation into the murder of Wayne Sutton. I take it you’ve heard about that?’
Mother and daughter swapped looks. ‘Yes. Millie phoned us last night. Millie Fairweather. She used to be a member of the club, but she dropped out last year. Couldn’t afford the price of real ale anymore, or so she said,’ Marion began, then subsided as her daughter cut in.
‘I’m sure the constable doesn’t want to know about Millie’s problems, Mum,’ she said, just a touch of warning in her voice. ‘Millie always has her ear to the ground, so she’s our source of all information really,’ Jude Druther carried on. ‘We tend not to watch too much telly, and we never get the papers. Far toodepressing. And when we’re in the workshop we only have the radio on Classic FM, so without her we’d be totally out of the loop. But yes, we know about Wayne. It was a shock, wasn’t it, Mum?’
‘I’ll say. You don’t expect anyone you know to be murdered do you? I mean, you know it happens, but you don’t think it’ll ever be someone you actually know .’
Keith, who’d come across this reaction often in the past, nodded his head sympathetically. ‘So, what can you tell me about him? You must have known him well?’
‘Well, yes and no, really,’ Jude said, when her mother cast her a rather helpless look. ‘The club meets every fortnight, at some pub or other, and we have a drink and swap success stories. Some of us have small businesses, others just sell the odd commission here and there. Wayne … well, Wayne was almost the only professional artist amongst us. Even Colin has a day job.’
‘This would be Colin Blake?’ Keith clarified.
‘That’s right.’
‘I’ve been hearing good things about him,’ Keith said craftily. ‘A lot of people seem to rate his work.’
‘Oh yes, he’s good,’ Marion said at once, and pointed to a small watercolour. In it, a dilapidated, crumbling red-brick river bridge spanned a small stream at the height of summer. The water was low and translucent, the river weed almost lime green in colour and flowering with tiny white flowers. A large stand of bulrushes, in the foreground, added a velvety contrast. Tiny drifts of gossamer seeds floated in the air. It was charming – well painted and almost brought the sound of gently flowing water into the room.
‘That’s one of Col’s. It took me and Jude all year to save up for it, but we had to have it. Didn’t we, Jude?’
‘I love it,’ the younger woman confirmed with a grin.
‘Do you have any of Wayne Sutton’s paintings?’ Keith asked, and again the
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