Kissed a sad goodbye - Deborah Crombie [79]
In the sitting room, dark green velvet drapes had been pulled wide to admit the smallest breeze. Gemma caught the faint scent of dust, and of something it took her a moment to recognize as glue. A pair of men’s dress shoes sat neatly beside the sofa, and the cushion at one end bore the imprint of a head.
As she sat on the chintz-covered chair Hammond indicated, a glimpse into the adjoining room made Gemma catch her breath. “Oh, how lovely,” she said, rising and going to the doorway for a better look. A model ship stood on a dining table, its slender masts a delicate sculpture, its hull gleaming like satin. “Is it the Cutty Sark?”
Hammond smiled. “No, this is the Sir Lancelot. She made the China-to-London crossing in a record eighty-eight days.”
“She’s exquisite,” Kincaid said, joining them. “I remember attempting something from a kit when I was a boy, but this—” He touched the curving hull. “This is a work of art.” Looking round the room at the other ships gracing the shelves, he asked, “How do you model them? I understood that the Cutty Sark was the only clipper of its class left in existence.”
“It takes a good deal of research,” Hammond admitted. “I use written accounts as well as paintings, sometimes with a dash of artistic license thrown in.”
“It must take amazing patience.” Gemma imagined the hours needed to complete the painstaking detail. She thought of her own aborted attempts at simple hobbies like knitting and needlework, and wondered again at her foolish determination to play the piano.
“What began as a childhood interest has become a bit of an obsession the past few years, I’m afraid. But since my wife died it’s helped fill the hours, and now …” William Hammond gazed at the model, lost for a moment in a private contemplation, then he seemed to shake himself and return to them. “I’m sorry. And I’ve forgotten my manners. Let me get you something to drink—some tea, perhaps?”
Merely the thought of a hot drink made beads of perspiration appear on Gemma’s upper lip. “No thank you,” she said quickly. “This won’t take a moment.” At a small nod from Kincaid, she continued, “It’s about your childhood, oddly enough, Mr. Hammond. We understand from your daughter that you were evacuated during the war.”
They had returned to the sitting room, and Hammond sat down slowly on the sofa, his expression puzzled. “Yes, that’s true, but why on earth should you be interested in that?”
“You were sent to your godmother’s, in Surrey?”
“Just northeast of Guildford. A place called Friday Green. My godmother had a large estate there. But what—”
“I know the village,” Kincaid said, smiling. “There’s a nice pub—probably goes back that far. It’s a lovely area. Paradise for a boy, I should think. Did you spend the whole of the war?”
“I … yes, I did, as a matter of fact. My mother was convinced we would be bombed here. As it turned out, we were very fortunate, and Hammond’s suffered only minor damage.”
“And it was during your evacuation that you came to know Lewis Finch?”
“Lewis Finch?” Hammond stared at Gemma blankly.
“I understand he’s quite a prominent developer in the East End these days, known for his commitment to restoration.”
“I—it’s been a great many years but, yes, he was a fellow evacuee.” He shook his head. “But what has this to do with my daughter’s death?”
“Bear with me a moment, Mr. Hammond. According to Jo, you warned her and Annabelle not to have anything to do with Lewis Finch or his family.”
“That’s nonsense,” he replied impatiently. “We simply don’t move in the same social circles.”
“Jo seemed to feel there was some sort of feud between you, and that it had to do with the war,” pressed Gemma.
“A feud?” Hammond sounded surprised. “I can’t imagine where Jo could have got such a melodramatic idea.” With a slight frown, he added, “I might have said that I felt Lewis took advantage of his stay in my godmother’s house to better himself, without giving credit where it was due, but