False Pretences (9 page)

Bea picked up her handbag and checked to see what the weather was doing outside. Still fine and bright. There was no breeze moving the leaves of the tree outside, so it was probably safe to go without a jacket. ‘Well, I probably won't ever meet her again. Shall we go?'

‘Er, yes.' Now he was back to worrying again. ‘Fact is, I know I've been a bad father, hardly took any notice of Max till he was grown up, and of course we do meet occasionally now, and I'm pleased to hear he's so well regarded. Hard-working, painstaking, trustworthy, and all that.'

Ouch. She'd already guessed what was coming.

‘There's been some talk. Nicole's pregnant, isn't she? Of course people don't expect her to accompany him all the time when she's not feeling well, but a couple of times recently he's been seen with a piece of arm candy whom I'm told is Nicole's younger sister. I wouldn't normally say anything, but I understand the bimbo's been acting as if she owns him. Max, I mean. Is there anything in it?'

‘Letitia,' said Bea, making it sound like a curse. ‘Letitia the Limpet. And yes, she's a threat. She tried to get him to leave Nicole last year, and only stopped when Nicole got pregnant. The idiot! No wonder Nicole's upset.'

‘Mm. The thing is, with my track record, I can hardly warn him to be careful, can I? I wondered if you might.'

The last thing Bea wanted to do was interfere, but she saw that she might have to. What a bore. ‘The thing is, Max seems unable to say “no” to the scheming little minx.'

She caught Piers' sceptical eye and laughed at herself. ‘All right, he finds it difficult to fend her off.'

‘Humph!' said Piers, eyebrows working overtime.

Bea went pink. ‘Yes, yes. He's inherited your genes and will probably always have a problem in that direction. Yet he does love Nicole, and he's thrilled at the idea of becoming a father.'

‘The reality,' said Piers in a gravelly voice, ‘doesn't always live up to the promise. How will he cope with nappies and sleepless nights?'

‘How will Nicole?'

They contemplated this picture of unhappy parenthood in silence.

Bea nerved herself to look on the bright side. ‘I'm sure they'll both be enchanted by the baby when he comes and turn into parents who can't talk about anything else.'

Piers snorted. ‘I know I didn't.'

‘True. But she could have a day nanny for the first couple of months, so she doesn't get too tired. You and I couldn't afford it when Max was a baby, and I know his wailing in the night drove you crazy, but Max is in a much stronger position financially than we were then, although he has many other expenses and . . . I'm not sure exactly how they are fixed, come to think of it. Maybe I'll have to pay for a nanny. Oh dear. As if there weren't enough calls on my purse. The guttering at the back of the house needs replacing and it means scaffolding and I keep putting off doing anything about it.'

‘Want a handout? I was never able to give you a proper amount of maintenance in the old days. I didn't earn enough then. I remember feeling guilty because you had to go out to work even before Max went to school.'

‘I ended up working for Hamilton and look how well that turned out.'

‘Yes, but scaffolding and workmen, they need paying with real money.'

‘I'll manage.' She thought back over her recent conversation with Max. ‘I wonder if Max was trying to ask for help when he rang me. He talked all around the subject of Nicole but didn't mention Letitia. Well, I'm seeing Nicole in the week, but if you could just let Max know that gossip is circulating, it might do some good. Children!'

‘Lucky we only had the one.'

She gave him a dark look. ‘If only he'd inherited the streak of toughness you hide under your famous charm.'

‘He did get your good looks, my dear.' He smiled down at her, and although she knew he was deliberately exercising charm, she allowed herself to smile back. He was not going to change, was he?

She set the alarm and let them out of the front door. ‘So tell me; who are you due to paint next?'

As Bea and Piers let themselves back into the house she heard the phone ringing. She managed to kill the alarm and pick it up just as it switched into answerphone mode.

‘Is that Mrs Abbot? Lord Murchison here. A friend has suggested we might meet. Are you free tomorrow lunchtime, by any chance?' A clear-cut voice, good BBC intonation.

‘I could be,' said Bea, thinking that Mr Cambridge had wasted no time in arranging this meeting. ‘Where do you suggest?'

He gave her an address in Kensington, and she wrote it down.

‘Would twelve o'clock be too early for you? Time for a sherry before lunch, not that I have much of an appetite nowadays.'

‘I'm sorry to hear it – the lack of appetite, I mean. A good meal is still one of the great pleasures of life.' Now wasn't that a trite thing to say?

‘Indeed. I look forward to seeing you there.' He cut the call.

She put the phone down and reached for her A to Z. A prestigious address, not far away. Overlooking Kensington Gardens?

Piers was interested. ‘A lunch invitation? Anywhere decent?'

She looked it up. ‘I think it's at the Kensington headquarters of Lord Murchison's Trust, though he didn't say.'

‘Well, that'll be interesting, won't it?'

Indeed it would. Particularly if there were going to be fireworks between Zander and Lady H next day.

Bea dressed with care. She hadn't bothered about her appearance when she'd gone with Zander to see Lady Honoria in the country, but now she picked out first one outfit and then another, trying them up against her. The morning sun slanted in through the window overlooking the road. Another hot day? The sky was cloudless.

Eventually she decided to wear a sage-green silk dress with a lowish neckline, and matching low-heeled shoes – not the ones she'd worn on her trip to the country. She didn't wear high heels nowadays for two reasons. First, she was a tall woman and didn't want to tower over her customers, and second, high heels could cause problems. If you ricked an ankle over the age of sixty, you might have to spend time in trainers, which were definitely not her type of shoe.

She fastened a thin gold chain round her neck, donned gold stud earrings. To complete the outfit she picked out a handbag that was a shade darker than her dress, but it was useful because it was big enough to take her notebook along with reading glasses, make-up, purse, keys and all the other bits and pieces she might need. And her mobile phone.

After some thought, she added a small tape recorder. What other precautions could she take? Indigestion tablets? Pepper spray? A Colt .45? Not that she owned one of those. Would anything less than a .45 stop Honoria in her tracks?

Down in the agency offices, she brought Oliver up to date about Zander and his decision to return to work. Oliver threw up his hands and said there was none so strange as folk, and what were the odds that Zander would last the course? Oliver wanted to drive Bea to the rendezvous, but she said she didn't think she'd be kidnapped by white slave traders within walking distance of home.

Maggie thudded down the stairs, mobile clamped to ear, screaming with laughter to one of her friends. Declaring she didn't need any breakfast, and with papers flapping under her arm, Maggie went off, slamming the front door behind her. She was project managing the modernization of a flat locally and was, of course, late for her first appointment of the day.

Miss Brook, their elderly but efficient accountant, had had a few days holiday but was now back at work in reception. So the agency could be left to run itself for a while.

Bea considered it was too hot to walk, and she didn't want to take the car because it was so difficult to park in that area. Instead, she hailed a taxi.

Tudor Trust occupied an imposing residence, probably Georgian; George II rather than George VI. It was bow-fronted, five storeys high if you included the basement. Stucco, cream-painted. Old glass in the windows; Bea could tell it was old glass because it had a slightly greenish tinge to it. Six steps from pavement to glossy front door. Brass door furniture, nicely polished. A plate on the wall advertising the Trust; everything in good taste. Georgette Heyer would have approved of it as the background for one of her Regency romances. The family home of an earl, perhaps?

‘No Parking' signs were everywhere. Did the directors also come by taxi, or did they use public transport?

A gleaming Bentley drew up and the chauffeur helped an elderly gentleman out and handed him a silver-knobbed cane. So that was how it was done. With money and a chauffeur. The elderly gentleman mounted the steps, ramrod upright, a full head of silver hair gleaming in the sun. A superb silk suit. A forceful personality.

‘Mrs Abbot? Delighted to meet you.'

‘Lord Murchison.' It couldn't be anyone else.

He flourished a key, and the door opened. He waved her inside, courtesy itself. He'd probably bow the Queen inside in the same way. Centuries of breeding, decades of having his own way. Aged eighty or ninety, she could see why he was still chairman.

Inside the hall, a black and white tiled floor was interrupted only by a staircase gently winding to the floors above. A lantern in the roof flooded the place with light. Gilt-framed pictures and rococo side tables along the walls. A stately home in miniature. They should charge entry fees.

A door to the right was marked ‘Reception', but Lord Murchison ushered her up the stairs to the first floor – he held on to the banisters all the way – and into a panelled room which shrieked of privilege and looked like the library of a gentleman's club – which in essence was what it was. The room was empty of people but full of leather armchairs and glass-fronted bookshelves, all shining with evidence of tender loving care. A huge bow window overlooked Kensington Gardens.

Thermos flasks of coffee were laid out on a side table together with silver jugs of cream and bowls of cube sugar. On a matching side table was a silver tray burdened with decanters and cut-glass tumblers, all twinkling away.

Bea made an informed guess as to how much they paid a housekeeper or cleaning company to keep the place in such good condition. Hm. Zander hadn't mentioned that expense.

‘You'll stay for lunch, of course? Something light. One's appetite fades as we advance in years, doesn't it? Sherry; medium or dry? I won't insult you by suggesting you like it sweet.'

‘Thank you. A small dry.'

Abandoning his stick against the arm of a leather chair by the fireplace, he handed her a glass of sherry rather larger than she would have taken if she'd poured it out for herself. Gesturing that she take a seat opposite him, he sank into his chair with what she could see was an effort to hide pain. Or perhaps he was putting it on? His smile appeared to be friendly, pale blue eyes appraising her and apparently appreciating the sight. She reminded herself not to be taken in by his charm.

He said, ‘I expect you've been wondering how a charitable concern can afford this rather wonderful old house. Grade I listed, of course. Well, my grandfather gave it to the Trust after his wife died and he retired to the country. I have a small flat nearby which I use during the week, but I still think of this dear old place as mine. Totally wrong of me, I know.'

Oozing charm. Sharp eyes watched to see how far he'd succeeded in disarming her.

‘Understandable,' said Bea, sipping the excellent sherry. ‘A wonderful house.'

‘When I go, it will be up to the board of directors what they do with it. Turn it into an art gallery, or rent it out to the offices of an airline, I shouldn't wonder.'

He sighed. A theatrical sigh, but probably genuine. ‘Ah well, we have to move with the times, however painful it may be. No room for sentiment, nowadays. Hard business practice. You must have found that in your line, Mrs Abbot? I understand you had to take over the agency when your husband died. And your only son is a Member of Parliament? How very satisfactory for you.' He indicated the drinks tray. ‘May I top you up?'

She shook her head. ‘Thank you, no. To complete my CV, my first husband was Piers—'

‘The portrait painter. Yes. I only made the connection yesterday. He was kind enough to paint me and my wife some years ago, when she was still with us. I've always admired his work. I must get him round sometime, ask him to quote for a group portrait of the current board of directors. It's something of a tradition here, and one I've neglected, I'm ashamed to say. Are you fond of tradition, Mrs Abbot, or do you think it should be booted out of the window?'

She sipped, smiled in what she hoped was an enigmatic way, and waited for him to come to the point.

‘Ah yes, tradition. You probably think more of reputation than tradition, whereas I have to consider both: the long tradition of service to others, which is the hallmark of our Trust, and our reputation. If someone questions the reputation of a Trust, then they're in trouble. Wouldn't you agree?'

‘It depends, perhaps, on how widely the question is known.'

‘We are in agreement so far.' He lifted the sherry decanter towards her, but she covered her glass with her hand and shook her head. He said, ‘I knew I could rely on your discretion. My friend Cambridge promised me that.'

Bea understood that she'd been hooked into agreeing something she wasn't all that sure about. ‘You expect me to keep quiet about something I've heard which reflects badly upon your Trust.'

A half smile. Old he might be, but he still enjoyed a good clash of minds. ‘Dear me. That was rather baldly put. And really not all that accurate. I am deeply perturbed that we allowed one of our directors to outrun his budget, and I was horrified to hear that the worry this caused him may have been a contributory factor in his untimely death. It reflects badly on us that we didn't pick up on the matter sooner. We are all agreed that in future we must be careful to lay out our funds better, perhaps not always employing the very best in the business, but doing the best we can with what we have. You understand, of course. This sort of . . . overenthusiasm is something charities need to watch out for. We failed. We must do better.'