Lady of Hay: An enduring classic – gripping, atmospheric and utterly compelling. Barbara Erskine

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       10

      Early next morning Sam paid off the taxi and stood for a moment on the pavement staring round him, Judy’s address scribbled on a scrap of paper in his hand.

      He looked up at the house then, slinging his case over his shoulder, he ran easily up the long flights of steps until he reached the shadowy landing at the top of the stairs. It was some time before the door opened to his ring.

      Judy stared at the rangy figure in the rumpled cord jacket and her eyes hardened. ‘What do you want?’

      ‘Hello there.’ He grinned at her easily. ‘I’m Sam Franklyn.’

      ‘I guessed that. So – what do you want?’ Her tone was icy. With paint-stained fingers she pushed back the scarf which covered her hair.

      ‘May I come in?’

      ‘Please yourself.’ She turned away and walked back into the studio. Picking up a rag, she began to scrub at her fingertips with some turps. ‘What have you come here for?’ she asked after a minute. She did not bother to turn round.

      Sam dropped his case in the corner and closed the door. ‘I rather hoped Nick would be here,’ he said mildly, ‘but I can see I’ve goofed. Where is he, do you know?’

      ‘I don’t.’ She flung down the rag. ‘But I can guess. He stood me up last night.’ She folded her arms and turned to face him. He could see now in the harsh revealing light of the studio windows that her eyes were red and puffy. There was a streak of viridian across her forehead.

      ‘Any chance of some coffee while you tell me about it?’ Sam said gently. ‘I’ve come straight from Heathrow and I’m parched.’

      ‘Help yourself. But don’t expect me to make polite conversation, least of all about Nick. I’m busy.’ She turned her back on him again.

      Sam frowned. He watched her for a moment as she picked up a brush and attacked the canvas in front of her. Every muscle in her body was tense, the angle of her shoulders set and defensive beneath the faded green denim of her smock.

      ‘Do you know,’ she said suddenly, ‘I hate her. I have never actually hated anyone like that before. Not so much that I would like to see them dead. Do you think I’m paranoid or something?’ Her tone was almost conversational as with cool deliberation she loaded her brush with cadmium red and blotted a small figure out of the painting.

      Sam watched her thoughtfully. ‘It sounds pretty normal to me,’ he said evenly. ‘Do I gather we are talking about Jo?’

      ‘Why don’t you make me some coffee too, while you’re at it,’ she returned sharply, ‘and shut up about Jo.’ Once again she pushed back the scarf which covered her hair.

      Sam gave a small grimace. He found his way across to the kitchen by instinct and pushed open the door, then he stopped and surveyed the scene. There was broken glass all over the floor. Two saucepans of food had been left upside down in the sink. Staring down at the mess, he sniffed cautiously. One had contained asparagus soup, the other some kind of goulash. Sam frowned. In the bucket below the sink were two china plates with the salad that had been on them. She had hurled out what appeared to him to have been a cordon bleu meal, complete with crockery.

      Glancing over his shoulder, he watched for a moment in silence as she worked, then he began to hunt for some coffee and set the kettle on the gas.

      ‘What do you call that picture?’ he asked several minutes later when he handed her a mug.

      She took it without looking at him. ‘What you mean is, what the hell is it?’ she said slowly. She stepped closer to the painting, eyes narrowed, and added a small touch of red to the swirl of colours. ‘I had better not tell you. You’d have me taken away in a strait-jacket.’ She gave a taut smile. ‘You’re the psychiatrist. Why don’t you tell me what it means?’ She rubbed at the canvas with her little finger and stared thoughtfully at the smear of red it left on her skin. Then she swung round to face him again. ‘On second thoughts, why don’t you drink your coffee and get out of here?’

      Sam grinned. ‘I’m on my way.’

      ‘Good.’ She paused. ‘I told her, you know. In front of the whole bloody world.’

      ‘Told her what?’ Sam was still studying the canvas.

      ‘What Nick said to you on the phone. That she would crack open if she were hypnotised again. That she is more or less out of her mind.’ She threw down the brush and crossed to the untidy desk by the window. Pulling open a drawer she extracted a newspaper clipping. ‘This was in yesterday’s Mail.’

      Sam took it. He read the paragraph, his face impassive, then he handed it back.

      ‘You certainly made a good job of that bit of scandal.’

      Judy smiled. She turned back to her canvas. ‘So, hadn’t you better rush over to Cornwall Gardens and see if Nick can spare you one of her hands to hold?’

      ‘That’s what I’ve come for.’ Sam drank the last of his coffee, then he put down his empty mug. ‘I take it,’ he added carefully, ‘that you think that Nick spent last night with her.’