False Pretences (8 page)

‘He is, and I think he does a good job. He's also the vice chair, who takes meetings when Lord Murchison isn't well enough to do so.'

‘Can you trust him to see that the Trust is run properly in future?'

An uneasy silence. ‘I think his heart is in the right place.'

‘What about his liver and lights? Sorry. Didn't mean to be frivolous. Zander, let me tell you how I see this next month developing. You return to the office and ensure that it runs smoothly. Everyone is pleased. Lady Honoria is delighted because now she knows that, whatever names she calls you, you won't walk out on her. Are you looking forward to that?'

He hunched his shoulders. ‘Maybe someone will have a word with her.'

‘Why should they? You've committed yourself to a month's torture.'

‘I can always walk out, if she starts on me.'

‘But would you? I think not. You'd think of the good of the Trust; you'd grit your teeth and stay.' She realized that she'd started off wanting Zander to stay and fight, and now was urging him not to do so. What on earth was the matter with her, changing her mind every five minutes?

He said, ‘What can I do? What would you do?'

Bea shook her head. ‘I see the attraction of the job for you, and a month's wages is worth having, but I wouldn't put up with any abuse, and I don't see why you should, either. The law is on your side. May I give you a word of advice? Keep your mobile phone switched on when she's anywhere near you. Record any abuse, and then take it to the police. You might not even have to take it the police. Just the threat to do so should be enough to make her keep a civil tongue in her head.'

‘But I couldn't stay on after I'd done that. It would be equivalent to walking out on them.'

‘That's their problem, not yours. You have the right to be treated properly.'

Zander pushed his empty plate away. ‘It's all very well for you. You don't know what it's like to—'

Bea was sharp. ‘Stop being sorry for yourself. You've had a bad time and—'

‘I used to think I was immortal, until I got beaten up and knifed. Then I realized I was as vulnerable as any child.'

‘Huh! If you go around expecting people to beat you up, it's as if you've inked the word “victim” across your forehead. You cringe even before they lift a hand to strike you.'

He leaped to his feet, reddening.

‘Oh, sorry,' she said, one second wishing she could recall the words, and the next deciding that no, they had to be spoken.

He paid the bill for their lunch and stalked out. She followed, grimacing. How awful; she'd allowed her temper to get the better of her. She opened the car up, but he made no move to get in.

He spoke over her head. ‘I must get back to the church, prepare for the afternoon.'

‘Of course. Let me give you a lift, and of course I'll reimburse you for lunch.'

He still wouldn't meet her eye. ‘What you said . . . You're right, of course. I hadn't realized just how far this has got to me.'

‘Keep your mobile switched on when she's in hailing distance?'

‘Maybe.' He saw her safely off into the traffic and walked away.

Bea told herself she was an idiot. Even a child could have handled that better. She'd patronized him. Instead of building up his self-confidence, she'd undermined it further. She hit the steering wheel in frustration. How could she have been such an idiot?

FIVE

B
ea got home to find the house as quiet as the grave. So, no Maggie. No Oliver. She relished the peace. She stopped herself wondering what the youngsters were doing. They were old enough to look after themselves. Mostly.

She pottered around, watering the big pots in the garden. The shushing noise of the hosepipe calmed her even more.

Finally she told herself that she couldn't put it off any longer and went indoors to phone her daughter-in-law.

Nicole answered the phone straight away, but didn't sound pleased to hear from Bea. Nicole was seven months pregnant and finding the hot weather difficult. According to Nicole, no one in the world had ever suffered more in pregnancy from the heat, swollen ankles and sickness than she did. Almost ten minutes was taken up by Nicole telling Bea how dreadful she felt, and how appallingly selfish Max was being, not helping to amuse her or rub her back or anything. In fact, he was out now, at that very minute, when she'd asked him specially to find her some green tea, which she thought she might fancy.

Bea listened and made the appropriate noises. She did sympathize with Nicole because being pregnant in hot weather was no joke, but she also had a sneaking sympathy with Max, who might perhaps be finding Nicole's complaints a trifle tedious – particularly since all suggestions to make her life easier were turned down out of hand.

A nasty, cold thought slid into the back of Bea's mind. Max loved Nicole; of course he did. But he was a not unappealing man, being tall, dark and handsome. True, he was running a trifle to seed, but he was still photogenic. He also had a soft heart, which meant he was not good at managing women. His wife would be the first to agree about that.

Perhaps, thought Bea, that was her fault? No, she didn't see how it could be. She'd always tried to support him in everything he decided to do. The alternative was to recall that his father was not only a portrait painter at the top of his profession, but also a ladykiller who could charm the pants off women without even thinking about it. Max hadn't inherited much of Piers' charm, but perhaps something in his genes made him super-attractive to the opposite sex?

To his wife's much younger and not pregnant sister, for instance?

Bea killed that thought. Surely he had more sense than to tangle with someone else while his wife was pregnant?

‘So where's Max today?' Bea asked, interrupting Nicole's sighing complaints.

‘How should I know? He said he'd be back at three, and it's a quarter past already.'

‘Wouldn't it be easier for you if you went back home to the constituency for a while? I'm sure it's not as warm up there as it is in central London, and your parents would be around to help.'

‘I would, but Max is on some important committee or other which means he has to be here throughout the summer. It's a great honour to be asked of course, but—'

Which reminded Bea. ‘You don't happen to have come across a Lady Honoria, do you?'

‘Lady Honoria what? What's her husband's name?'

‘Not sure. She calls herself Lady Honoria, recently widowed, manor house in Bucks. A squareish woman with a hard face.'

‘Daughter of who?'

‘Unknown. She might legitimately be calling herself “Lady Honoria”. I don't know.'

Nicole was almost interested. ‘You think she's trying it on?'

‘Mm. Maybe. She's not a woman to tangle with unnecessarily. If you remember, could you ask Max when he comes in?'

That set Nicole off again. Bea arranged to see her later in the week and put the phone down.

She was restless. Although she didn't usually work on Sundays, Bea decided to go down to her office and record everything she could remember of her visit to the manor house, of the gossip Oliver had extracted from the woman selling apples and plants, and finally, what she'd learned from young Kylie.

Something was bothering her. The front doorbell. Someone was leaning on it. Now who . . .? Ah. Piers, her ex. He did sometimes pop round on a Sunday when he was in town, but he usually telephoned first. Of course – here she shot a guilty look at the winking light on the answerphone – she hadn't picked up her messages recently, had she?

It was indeed Piers, his shock of dark but greying hair a trifle too long, his over-thin body dressed in expensive casual clothing. Piers, dancing with energy. He gave her a hug and a kiss on her cheek, and she laughed out loud. He nearly always had that effect on her.

Sometimes she wondered how they'd ever got together, the up and coming young artist and the naive girl straight out of school. They'd married young and produced Max, but Piers' tomcat ways had finally made Bea face the fact that he'd never keep his marriage vows. And so she'd divorced him, even though she didn't in theory agree with the practice. Still didn't. Still felt slightly guilty about it.

As a single parent, life had not been easy. Piers had not then been earning enough to support her, and she'd worked all hours at all sorts of jobs until at last she'd met and married Hamilton. Her dear second husband had adopted Max and given them both stability, and a deep, abiding love.

After Hamilton's early death, Piers had reappeared in her life. Apparently Hamilton had made Piers promise to keep an eye on her! An idea which made her laugh and shake her head. She didn't believe Piers could be trusted to look after her now, any more than he had ever been. However, now she'd accepted that he'd never change, they'd become friends of a sort.

‘Was I expecting you?'

‘No, no. At least, I did phone and ask if you were going to be free tonight. Thought we might go out into the country somewhere for a bite to eat.'

She thought of Kylie, wondered how she was getting on and whether she'd accepted another sugar daddy yet. ‘Twice in one weekend? I had a pub lunch in the country yesterday. Would you mind if we went somewhere local?'

She looked around for her handbag. Where had she left it? ‘Piers, you mix in the very best society. You haven't come across someone calling herself Lady Honoria, have you?'

‘Not the Graves-Bentley woman?'

‘Dunno. Manor house in Buckinghamshire. Husband died recently.'

‘A square head on top of a square body, on top of thick legs? Single-minded and ferocious. Reminds me of a pit bull. I believe she used to breed them at one time. They say owners get to look like their dogs. Or perhaps it's the other way round and owners choose dogs which look like them?'

‘That's her. So her name's Graves-Bentley?'

‘Something like that. I met her at some “do” or other. Fixated on her ancestral home. Husband made noises about having his portrait painted but she put a stop to that, saying that if anyone was to have their portrait done it would be her, because it was her family home, not his. An odd argument. Fortunately she didn't want to pay my prices. I try not to prejudge when asked to paint the notoriously nasty, but in this case I was happy she didn't want me. I heard the husband had died. Not that I knew him at all. Not my type.'

‘If you don't want to go out to eat, I could rustle up something here. The youngsters are both out.' Normally he could sit down and relax with her, but today he seemed jumpy, avoiding her eye.

‘What?' He'd gone to look down into the garden. ‘Oh. Just as you like. Somewhere local, fine.'

‘So, what was Lady Honoria's husband like?'

Piers was clearly worrying about something but not yet ready to tell her about it. ‘The husband? A nonentity trying to make out he was important. Well connected in a younger son sort of way, not that that counts for much nowadays. Hadn't made much of a mark for himself in the world; worked for a small Trust somewhere. I don't think I know anyone who's going to the funeral.'

‘Lord Murchison?'

‘What? Yes, I know him. Painted him some years ago. What do you want to know about him?' He focused on her. ‘Bea, don't tell me you've got into another fine mess?'

‘Sit down, and I'll tell you. I'd be grateful for any gossip or insights you can give me . . .'

She told him what had been going on, and he concentrated, pulling a face at the end.

‘Bea, my gut feeling is: keep out of Lady H's way. Tommy Murchison's all right but ancient, might pop his clogs at any minute. Did some good in the House of Lords in his day, a clear brain, one of the best of the old school. Major . . . Buckstone? Don't know him. Most of them drop the title when they leave the army.'

‘But you've met the Lady Honoria.'

He frowned, made as if to say something, changed his mind.

‘Out with it. Is she, or is she not, entitled to call herself Lady Honoria, rather than Lady Graves-Bentley?'

‘Or whatever his name was. Fact is, I know some people are sticklers about titles, get all upset if they're addressed wrongly. In my line of business I have to try to remember who's who, but after the first introduction very few people insist on the formalities. I mean, it's the person behind the title that you're dealing with, not the handle itself. I think – looking back – I think there were one or two well-concealed sniggers when she informed me that she was Lady Honoria.'