Page 113 of The Last Kiss Goodbye

She knocked on a door at the far end of the house.

‘Lady Vee, you have a visitor,’ she said, popping her head around the door.

Abby was glad that she had phoned ahead. Not wanting to turn up at Appledore unannounced, she had rung and arranged an appointment with Victoria Harbord, explaining that she was a journalist friend of Rosamund Bailey’s.

At first she could see no one in the room. Her eyes moved around the space, taking in long French windows, a small double bed with a floral duvet, a desk covered in a dozen silver-framed photographs. Finally her gaze rested on a wing-backed chair facing the garden, and she could just make out the profile of a tiny woman, so pale that she almost faded into the background.

‘Er, Lady Harbord. Hello. My name is Abby Gordon.’

The old woman appeared to be hard of hearing and took a second to register Abby’s voice.

‘Ah, yes. Come and sit. Get a chair and move me around a little.’

Abby adjusted the position of Victoria’s chair and put her own opposite so they could talk.

‘What a pretty girl you are,’ Victoria said in a soft, plummy voice. ‘I like the colour of your dress.’

Ros had supplied Abby with a few details about Victoria Harbord. Apparently she had been quite the glamour puss in her day, with an exotic house in the South of France, a country estate in Buckinghamshire and closets stuffed with haute couture. Abby was quite shocked at how geriatric the woman looked, though it wasn’t really surprising considering she was touching ninety years old. Unlike the much younger Ros, who was mature but well preserved, everything about Victoria Harbord was ancient. She was so slender she looked as if she might snap. Her skin was crêpey, a series of lines and contours on her face like the ageing maps in the RCI archives. But she was immaculately dressed, with a huge diamond ring on her finger and pearls the size of petit pois in her ear lobes.

‘So, a journalist begs to see me,’ she said more archly. ‘I haven’t had that since House and Garden persuaded me to do a cover story on Batcombe in the seventies.’

‘Did you say yes to them too?’ asked Abby.

‘Oh yes. It was a glorious twenty-four-page spread. Then again, Batcombe was worth it. They described it, quite rightly, as one of the most beautiful homes in Europe.’

Her wistful eyes rested on Abby.

‘Still, I’m glad to have visitors these days. Batcombe was always full of people, but things are a little different for me now.’

She paused.

‘So you work for the Chronicle,’ she said. ‘I recognised your name. You wrote the piece about Dominic, didn’t you?’

‘Actually, I work at the Royal Cartography Institute. But I did find the photo of Dominic and Ros in our archives, and I collaborated with the Chronicle to promote our exhibition.’

‘It was a beautiful photo,’ nodded Victoria. ‘I was never aware of it.’

‘The Royal Geographical Society and the RCI have a huge collection of photos from hundreds of expeditions over the years,’ explained Abby. ‘Generally, if an expedition had some sort of sponsorship or financial support, a photographer would be sent along to get pictures. You knew Dominic well?’

‘Very well,’ smiled Victoria, with a hint of smugness. ‘People used to joke that the two of us should marry. Perhaps that would have happened except for two minor details. I was already married to Tony, and I don’t honestly think Dommy ever thought of me like that.’

She looked at Abby, her expression sharp, pointed.

‘Aren’t you going to pull out one of those dreadful dictaphones?’

Abby hadn’t thought to buy one. She had brought a notebook and pen, though goodness only knew if she could keep up with what Victoria was saying. Remembering that her phone had some sort of recording device, she plunged her hand into her bag, pulled out her Galaxy and fiddled around with it.

Victoria smiled as she waited.

‘I thought you young people knew all about new technology,’ she said, appearing genuinely fascinated.

‘So,’ said Abby finally, pressing the record button, ‘did you read the Chronicle story about Dominic?’

‘I did,’ said Victoria, taking on a more self-important look.

‘And do you believe he was a Russian spy?’

Victoria Harbord frowned. ‘Miss Gordon, this was all such a long time ago, I wonder what the purpose is in dredging it up again. You’ve sold your papers, your photographs . . .’