The Blue Virgin by Marni Graff Page A

Davey from downstairs would bring her pastries from his bakery, and she shared them with me on many occasions. She didn’t have loud parties, and her stereo was not usually kept on too late. I had no complaints.”
      Declan nodded in understanding. “And where do you work?”
      “I lecture on Thomas Hardy at Trinity two days a week but work largely from here—I’m finishing a biography on Fanny Burney, an influence on Jane Austen and others.”
      He heard the pride in her voice and remembered the name from an enthusiastic literature teacher in school. “Satire was her specialty, right?” he ventured.
      Miss Isaacs nodded and smiled. “I’m impressed, Inspector.”
      He smiled back. “I understand you heard arguing last night from Miss Wallace’s flat. Can you tell me what you heard, from the beginning?”
      “I’ve been going over and over it in my mind all day—I know it’s important. The stereo was on low, later than usual for Bryn, but I decided she must have had company. I was working in here at that time. I heard raised voices just before the 11:15 chime—my mantel clock chimes every fifteen minutes. I have acute hearing, and it was the first time I’ve heard arguing from her flat.”
      Declan leaned forward. This must be the argument Val Rogan admitted to. Could you hear anything that was said or identify the voices?”
      “Not really. I mean, there were two voices and both were female registers, so I assume it was Bryn and another woman. But I couldn’t hear distinct words and I wasn’t trying to.”
      “Of course not,” he reassured her. “How long did the argument last?” The timing here would be important.
      “Not long, less than ten minutes, I’d say, and then it was quiet. I thought I heard the flat door open and close, but the arguing started again before a quarter to 12, only lower this time. It was distracting to me, so I went into my bedroom—I couldn’t hear it in there—and put in my earplugs and went to sleep. I always sleep with earplugs due to the traffic noise,” she confided, then added wistfully, “I’m sorry I did that now. Maybe if I’d heard something extreme I could have helped Bryn, at least called the police, and she might have been revived.” Her voice was stricken with regret.
      “Don’t feel that way, Miss Isaacs. From the injuries she sustained, it would appear her death occurred quite rapidly.” Declan hoped she wouldn’t press him for details.
      “I see. I guess that might be considered a blessing,” she said sadly.
      “Can you tell me anything else?” Declan’s mind was racing ahead. He had enough evidence in his mind now to ask Val Rogan to bring in the clothing she had worn the previous night.
      “Not that I recall. I sleep soundly with the earplugs, but of course that poor boy screaming got through them and woke me. The stereo was still on when I went to my door. When I opened it, he was there, crying hysterically, telling me to call the police. I did that immediately and tried to calm him until they arrived. I didn’t go into the flat.”
      “What exactly did Mr. Haskitt say to you?”
      “He was crying, and he kept saying, ‘She’s gone, she’s really gone’ over and over. I made him tea, and he eventually calmed down enough to tell me he’d gone up to her flat because her stereo stayed on all night, the same song repeating, and he was concerned she had fainted or was ill. The police arrived then and took him from here. I do hope he’s all right?” she inquired. “It must have been terribly upsetting for him.”
      “Yes, I think he’s quite recovered by now,” Declan answered, remembering the eagerness Davey had exhibited when being questioned. “Did you by any chance see any visitors when they left? Perhaps you were putting your garbage out?” he asked hopefully.
      Her quick smile broadened as Althea Isaacs took off her dark glasses. Opaque lenses stared blankly at him, and Declan knew he