Chapter Sixty-Five
I was struggling to suss out Mrs Matton.
As we wandered from room to room, I couldn’t help sneaking a glance at my wristwatch. Unlike the last viewer, this one was taking her time. Moonlight Manor was not a small property. Including the cellar, it spanned four levels. I was starting to get twitchy about how much longer this would take.
The woman walked through each room almost too slowly. She touched things. Her slim fingers left a trail over sofas, console tables, even the kitchen worktop.
She lingered in Peter’s office, as if absorbing the remaining contents. She lightly touched my husband’s desk, and then the big leather swivel chair.
‘A strong man,’ she commented.
‘Sorry?’ I said, disconcerted.
‘This room,’ she explained, giving an enigmatic smile. ‘Everything about it smacks of masculinity. I wouldn’t assume it to be a space that you personally have worked within.’
Even though Peter’s paintings and personal stuff had long been removed, the bespoke desk and heavy filing cabinets remained.
‘Sometimes I worked in here,’ I said carefully. ‘I assisted my husband as a sort of overflow secretary. His PA could never keep up with the volume of work he produced – so I’d help with documentation at home. But you’re right,’ I nodded. ‘This study was very much to my late husband’s taste.’
‘I agree,’ she said, with an expression I couldn’t fathom.
As we worked our way around, she continued touching everything, drinking in the very essence – or so it seemed – of the house. Occasionally she’d make a vague comment about our choice of decor or suspected habits.
To be honest, I was starting to find her manner a little peculiar. Surely it would be more usual to ask where the nearest convenience store was, or whether the local council ever gritted the road when it snowed, instead of caressing the bedroom drapes and commenting about the thick fabric?
By the time we were in the master bedroom, there was a definite tension – polite but charged. I’d picked up on it before we’d even mounted the stairs to the first-floor landing. The atmosphere was now so prickly it was obvious to both of us that this was not a conventional viewing.
‘Did you say you have a property to sell?’ I asked stiffly.
According to Leslie, she didn’t, but it was time to engineer this woman’s exit. I didn’t know why she’d made an appointment to view given the apparent lack of interest as a buyer. So why was she here? I didn’t have long to find out.
‘Was your husband happy here?’ she blurted.
‘What?’ I said, confused.
She moved over to the window. Folded her arms over her chest. A defensive gesture.
‘I heard he died here.’
I opened my mouth to say something, but nothing came out. Leslie had assured he wouldn’t be giving anything away about Peter’s demise. So how had she found out?
The energy between the two of us was shifting faster than sand through an hourglass.
‘Who are you?’ I found myself asking.
The woman’s face suddenly crumpled.
‘Sorry,’ she muttered. Her hands dropped to her sides. ‘I shouldn’t have come.’
I shook my head, bewildered. What the hell was going on?
Was this woman a wannabe burglar – a burglarette?
Had she made an appointment under false pretences to case the joint?
Is that why she was studying each room so carefully?
Was she assessing what might be of value? What loot could be quickly removed?
‘Are you interested in buying this house, or not?’ I croaked.
‘No,’ she confessed. ‘I’m not interested in buying this house.’ Her voice was little more than a whisper.
‘In that case’ – I asserted shakily – ‘I’m going to have to ask you to leave, Mrs Matton. If that’s even your real name,’ I added coldly.
‘Matton?’ she frowned. ‘It’s Hatton. Joyce Hatton.’