The Word Is Murder(48)

‘You weren’t afraid of her getting addicted?’

Dr Buttimore smiled benignly. ‘Forgive me, Mr Hawthorne, but if you knew anything about medicine, you’d know there’s very little chance of addiction with temazepam. It’s one of the reasons I prescribe it. The only danger is short-term memory loss but Mrs Cowper seemed generally in excellent health.’

‘Did she talk to you about visiting a funeral parlour?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘She went to a funeral parlour. She arranged her funeral the very same day she died.’

Dr Buttimore blinked. ‘I’m absolutely astonished. I can’t think of any reason why she would have done that. I can assure you that apart from the anxiety problem, she had no reason to believe her health was in decline. I can only assume the timing of her death was a coincidence.’

‘It was a burglary,’ his wife insisted.

‘Exactly, dear. She couldn’t possibly have known it was going to happen. It was a coincidence. Nothing more.’

Hawthorne nodded and the two of us moved away. ‘Fucking prat,’ he muttered, as soon as we were out of earshot.

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Because he didn’t have a clue what he was talking about.’

I looked puzzled.

‘You heard what he said. It didn’t make any sense,’ Hawthorne said.

‘It made sense to me.’

‘He’s a prat. Just make sure you write that down.’

‘A fucking prat? I assume you’d like the expletive.’

Hawthorne said nothing.

‘I’ll just make sure it’s clear it was you who said it,’ I added. ‘That way, he can sue you instead of me.’

‘He can’t sue anyone if it’s the truth.’

We moved on to Charles Kenworthy, the lawyer. He was still in the corner, talking to a woman I assumed to be his wife. He was short and round with curling, silver hair. She was a similar shape but heavier. The two of them could have come down to London from the country as they both had a horsey quality, with ruddy cheeks from all that fresh air. He was drinking Prosecco. She had a fruit juice.

‘How do you do? Yes, yes. I’m Charles Kenworthy. This is Frieda.’

He could hardly have been more affable. As soon as Hawthorne had introduced himself, Kenworthy made it his business to tell us as much about himself as he could. He had known the dead woman for more than thirty years and had been a close friend of Lawrence Cowper (‘Pancreatic cancer. Absolutely shocking. He was a remarkable man … a first-rate dentist’). He still lived in Kent – in Faversham. He had helped Diana sell the house after that ‘dreadful business’ and move to London.

‘Did you advise her at the time of the trial?’ Hawthorne asked.

‘Absolutely.’ Kenworthy couldn’t help himself. He didn’t just talk. He gushed. ‘There was no case against her. The judge was absolutely right.’

‘Did you know him?’

‘Weston? We’d met once or twice. A fair-minded chap. I told her she had nothing to worry about, no matter what the newspapers said. Still, it was a difficult time for her. She was very upset.’

‘When did you last see her?’

‘Last week … the day she died. At a board meeting. We were both on the board of the Globe Theatre. As you may know, the theatre is an educational charity. We rely very heavily on donations to be able to continue.’

‘What sort of plays do you put on?’

‘Well … Shakespeare obviously.’

I wasn’t sure if Hawthorne really was unaware that the Globe was a reconstruction of a theatre that had stood on the south bank of the Thames four hundred years ago and that it specialised in authentic performances of mainly Elizabethan plays. There was nothing about him that suggested he had any interest in drama – or, for that matter, literature, music or art. At the same time, though, he was remarkably well informed about a great many things and it was quite possible that he was simply trying to get under the lawyer’s skin.

‘I understand that you had a bit of an argument that day.’

‘I wouldn’t say so. Who told you that?’

Hawthorne didn’t answer. It was actually Robert Cornwallis who had heard raised voices when he had called Diana Cowper to ask about plot numbers in Brompton Cemetery. ‘She resigned from the board,’ he said.

‘Yes. But that wasn’t because of any particular disagreement.’

‘So why did she resign?’

‘I have no idea. She simply said that she’d been thinking about it for some time and that she would leave with immediate effect. Her announcement took us all by surprise. She had been a passionate supporter of the theatre and a driving force in our fundraising and educational programmes.’

‘Was she unhappy about something?’

‘Not at all. If anything, I would have said she was quite relieved. She had been on the board for six years. Maybe she thought it was enough.’

Next to him, his wife was becoming uneasy. ‘Charles – maybe we ought to be on our way.’

‘All right, dear.’ Kenworthy turned to Hawthorne. ‘I can’t really tell you anything more about the board. It’s confidential.’

‘Can you tell me about Mrs Cowper’s will?’