False Pretences (10 page)

‘Mm. It's a good defence.' She set down her glass, still half full. ‘And the racial abuse?'

His eyebrows rose, but he didn't act surprised. ‘I've heard of none. I asked my fellow directors. They hadn't heard any, either. Zander has been an exemplary employee, and we are truly sorry that he feels he must move on. We had hoped he'd remain with us for some years, but perhaps – if he doesn't feel that a life working for others is quite what he wants – it is better that he goes.'

Bea grimaced. ‘What happened to moving with the times? Taking in the stranger at your gate? Adapting to a multicultural society?'

‘We tried, Mrs Abbot. We did our best. Sometimes – haven't you found this out yourself? – sometimes people can be, ah, prickly, shall we say? When no slight is intended.'

‘My friend Mr Cambridge has advised that Zander go to the police to report the abuse he's been subjected to.'

He spread his hands. Very white, beautifully manicured, long-fingered hands. ‘And who would he name in his complaint? A dead man.'

‘And, perhaps, a live lady?'

‘Ah.' He leaned back in his chair and was silent for a long moment. Finally he roused himself, his tone sharpening. ‘You understand our dilemma?'

‘Oh yes. I've met her. By the way, is she really Lady Honoria? I became confused, trying to work out whose daughter she was.'

He covered his mouth with one hand, his eyes dancing. ‘Now you've touched on a tricky subject. She's adamant that she is entitled to be called “Lady Honoria”, and it's true that she is descended from an ancient family though perhaps not by the straightest of lines? On the other hand, how would you deal with her, yourself?' Again he spread his hands, inviting her to sympathize with him.

Bea nodded. ‘I see your problem, and I see Zander's. Can you protect him from her while he works out his notice?'

‘I will see what I can do. Meanwhile, I have your word that our reputation remains solid?'

Bea wasn't sure he could deliver what he'd promised, but she nodded. ‘It's worth a try.'

The door opened and Lady Honoria stalked in. As Bea had surmised, Honoria scrubbed up well. She was wearing a black trouser suit and just enough make-up to give her the appearance of a businesswoman, rather than a country housewife.

‘Lady Honoria.' Lord Murchison struggled to his feet.

‘Fetch the police!'

Behind Lady Honoria came the startled faces of Zander and a couple of middle-aged to elderly gentlemen. Other members of the board?

‘I want the Milky Way boy arrested, now!'

‘What?'

She brandished the bronze statuette which Zander had delivered to her on Saturday. ‘When I came to check over the list of Denzil's effects, I saw this was missing. And his briefcase, too! So this morning I sent the Chocolate Boy out of the office and went through his desk. And there was the statuette, though still no briefcase! He's responsible. He stole it! So, what are you waiting for; fetch the police!'

Bea gaped. ‘He gave the statuette to you on Saturday, with the rest of your husband's things. I was there when you told him to put it in the window. You signed for it.'

‘You? I heard you were coming in. I suppose you feel you have to defend him, seeing as he's your toy boy!'

SIX

‘
N
o!' said Lord Murchison, his breathing uneven. ‘No police.'

‘I insist!' Lady Honoria's mouth curved in triumph.

Zander's mouth was open in shock. A couple of elderly gentlemen grasped his upper arms, though he'd made no move to escape.

Bea recovered some of her wits from the pit into which they'd fallen. Producing her tape recorder from her handbag, she switched it on and held it up. ‘Perhaps you'd care to repeat that accusation?'

‘What?' The woman didn't like that. ‘Put that away, you stupid woman.'

Lord Murchison had fallen back into his chair, his colour poor. ‘No police!'

Zander tried to reassemble his own wits. ‘You signed for the bronze! I have a copy.'

‘That item was crossed out on my copy,' said Lady H, not giving ground at all.

Zander shook his head to clear it. ‘Not on mine. And Mrs Abbot is not . . . Really she's not . . . Mrs Abbot, I'm so sorry.'

Bea kept her recorder on. ‘What he means, gentlemen, is that I am not the object of his affections. My much younger assistant is far more to his taste, and I can't say I blame him.'

‘So you say!' sneered Lady H, and such was the power of her personality that the men holding Zander were unsure who to believe.

Lord Murchison felt in his pocket for a pillbox, extracted a tablet and popped it into his mouth. He lay back in his chair, eyes closed. Stalemate.

‘On the other hand,' said Bea, resuming her seat. ‘Perhaps we're wrong to let this boil fester.'

Lady H bridled. ‘Are you calling me a boil?'

‘Certainly not,' said Bea, in a limpid voice. ‘I am referring to your insinuations. Perhaps we should explore them, get the poison out into the open. Lord Murchison, I implore you; call the police and get this sorted out. Zander has the copy of the release which you signed—'

‘Correction!' said Lady Honoria, flourishing a piece of paper. ‘I found his copy in his desk and I have it here. As you will see, the bronze has been crossed out and the crossing-out initialled by me.'

‘How very interesting,' said Bea, ‘since I took a photocopy of the release after you'd signed it and kept it for my records. The bronze is not crossed out on that. So I assume that the paper you are now holding has been tampered with since I made the copy?'

Silence while this sank in. The two men holding Zander released him and stepped back. One of them muttered an apology.

Lady Honoria hissed, ‘I suppose you know how to remove ink marks from documents. Have you had much practice faking them?'

Bea laughed. She held up her recorder. ‘Do carry on. You accused Zander of stealing a valuable bronze. I've proved this to be untrue. Slander can be expensive – for you.'

Lord Murchison struggled to his feet, his breathing still laboured but under control. ‘No police. Honoria, it appears you jumped to false conclusions, grief and so on, most understandable. Perhaps it would be best if you apologized to all those concerned and we draw a line under it, right?'

‘If there has been any misunderstanding, then I apologize,' said Lady H, lemon juice in her voice. ‘In return I expect Mrs Abbot to erase the recording she made; quite illegally made, I might add. And let that be that.'

‘Of course,' said Bea, with a sweet smile. She pressed buttons and returned the recorder to her handbag.

‘Splendid,' said Lord Murchison, reaching for his cane. ‘So now, in a spirit of charity, I suggest we adjourn for lunch. Zander, you may return to work without a stain on your character. Major, will you escort Honoria? And it will be my pleasure to take Mrs Abbot in.'

Luncheon was served in another panelled room, this time overlooking not Kensington Gardens but a small garden at the back of the house. More mahogany, more silver, more cut glass, more gilt-framed portraits on the walls.

Lord Murchison sat at the head of a long mahogany dining table, and he waved the others to sit on either side of him. The chairs were Hepplewhite, with brocade-covered seats.

A bony woman in black waitress uniform served a chilled clear soup, followed by a selection of cold meats and salad. Bea sat on Lord Murchison's right, and Lady H on his left. There was no sign of Zander. Did the lowly help eat sandwiches at their desks?

‘Forgive me, Mrs Abbot,' said Lord Murchison, all courtesy. ‘I have been much remiss in not introducing our board of directors to you. Honoria, I believe you are already acquainted with . . .? Yes, of course you are. Mrs Abbot, may I introduce Sir Cecil Waite, sitting on your immediate right. Cecil is the man who sees to our finances.' Sir Cecil was a shrimp of a man with a pronounced dowager's hump and an overlarge head. Slightly misshapen, but with a lively eye. Bea got the impression that he fancied her, which she thought rather amusing.

‘Major Buckstone is sitting next to Honoria. He has the responsibility for looking after our staff, both here and at our offices in the city. He is also responsible for the smooth running of these premises.' A tidy, well-brushed, white-haired man in his sixties; presumably this was the major who'd been courteous in his dealings with Zander?

‘Lastly – how selfish of me to keep you two ladies all to myself at this end of the table – Mr Trimmingham and Lord Lacey, who have the onerous tasks of keeping us on the right side of the law and of fund-raising for the Trust.' Two plump men with identical sharp noses poking out from fleshy cheeks; brothers, perhaps? No, perhaps not, for one was around twenty years older than the other. Possibly related, though.

‘Delighted,' said Bea.

‘There are a number of other directors, of course,' said Lord Murchison, whose breathing still seemed erratic. Asthma? ‘But on a Monday, and at short notice . . . These are the core, so to speak, of our fellowship.'

Some fellowship!
thought Bea, not much liking their looks.

‘They all have offices here, of course,' continued His Lordship, ‘and avail themselves of the talents of our secretarial staff. They used to call it a typing pool, but I gather nowadays they have some modern title that eludes me, all being computer trained and so on. What do you call your staff, Mrs Abbot?'

He was being deliberately obtuse, playing the part of a bumbling dodderer, out of touch with reality. In truth, he was probably sharper than most people whom Bea had to deal with. ‘My assistants? I call them by their Christian names. One is a project manager, another is our accountant, and the third – what do you call a computer expert who can do everything?'

Bea jumped as a warm hand was placed on her knee. Sir Cecil was smiling into the distance, but it was definitely his hand which was now working its way up her thigh. Bea put her knife on her plate and dropped her right hand below the table. Locating the back of Sir Cecil's hand, she took a nip of his skin and twisted it. Now it was his turn to jump. And to remove his hand. There was a flush of red on his cheeks which hadn't been there before.

She picked up her knife again and smiled angelically – well, perhaps not too angelically, come to think of it – at Lord Murchison, who had probably registered everything but wasn't going to say so.

Lady Honoria was tearing a bread roll into pieces, with vicious strength. ‘Are you a “Miss” or a “Ms” Abbot?' Trying to put Bea down, of course.

‘Twice married, once divorced. My ex is still living; my dear husband of thirty-odd years died last summer, cancer. So we are both widows, you and I.'

‘I am sure,' said Lord Murchison, waving a dessert of fresh fruit away, ‘that you have much in common.'

Bea wanted to laugh at this but managed to restrain herself. She had to admire the chairman's ability to pour fire-extinguishing foam over boiling oil. Perhaps his enforced peace would last out the meal? Coffee was served in fragile, translucent cups, hand-painted, with gilt rims. Bea only just managed to stop herself upending the saucer to check if they were Royal Worcester. She was pretty sure they were.

‘Would you care to bring your coffee into the library, Mrs Abbot?'

Lady H rose to her feet. ‘I'll bring mine, too.'

His Lordship was equal to the occasion. ‘I wouldn't dream of taking you away from the men, Honoria. Please stay and enjoy their company. I'm afraid my advanced age requires me to have an afternoon nap, but I want to show Mrs Abbot our first editions before she leaves.'

Bea picked up her cup of excellent coffee and followed His Lordship back to the library, where he subsided into the chair by the fireplace again. ‘You handle yourself well, Mrs Abbot.' A nicely graded compliment, with only a touch of patronage.

She inclined her head.

‘My friend Cambridge tells me your agency has occasionally been involved in – ah – crime solving.'

‘We are a domestic agency. We don't do murder.'

He was startled. ‘Who's talking about murder?'

‘Sorry. One of my assistants has an overactive imagination.'

Perturbed, he said, ‘Denzil had a heart attack.'

‘Did he jump, or was he pushed? Local gossip says he was pushed.'

‘Local gossip!' He spread his hands, dismissing it.

‘Forgive me, but did you follow up Zander's suggestion and demand to see the bank statements?'

‘Yes. Denzil said he'd fetch them, but before he could do so, he was taken ill. Under the circumstances we couldn't insist, and of course we expected him to return the following day, when we'd agreed to go into the matter further. I wanted to send him home with my chauffeur as I didn't think he was fit to travel, but he insisted on driving himself. He never returned.'

‘At that point you arranged for his office to be searched, with a view to unearthing evidence?'

A tinge of colour. ‘Yes, I did. No statements were found.'