Finished Off (A Bellehaven House Mystery Book 2) (18 page)

Essie said something that Meredith didn't hear. She was too busy pursuing the thoughts running through her head. For some reason Felicity's words had rung a bell, though she couldn't quite grasp the significance.

"Don't you think, Meredith?"

Essie's voice roused her from her musing. "I beg your pardon, Essie?"

"I said, it's such a shame you couldn't help that poor child. I simply hate to think of her wandering all alone out there, just longing to be with her family."

It was on the tip of Meredith's tongue to tell Essie she had seen the ghost a few minutes earlier in her office, but caution prevailed. It would be best if she didn't mention the ghost again, until she had something more substantial to offer.

Thinking of Emma reminded her of the pound notes that had captured the child's attention. "I'll be taking the carriage to town again tomorrow," she announced. "I must take the money we raised at the summer fete and deposit it in the bank. I'll open up a special account for the art studio."

"That is a sound idea."

Meredith glanced at the other woman. "I was wondering, Felicity, if you would mind keeping an eye on my class in the morning. I will set the tasks, but I'll need someone to supervise and make sure the students complete their assignments."

"As long as you don't expect me to paint something." Felicity yawned, and stretched her feet out one at a time. "As you well know, I have trouble drawing a straight line."

Meredith smiled. "All you'll have to do is sit at my desk and read. I'll have the assignments written on the blackboard."

"I think I can manage that." She looked up. "Are you sure you want to trust me with your students? You're not afraid I'll lead them down the path to destruction?"

"I'd trust you with my life," Meredith assured her. Although secretly she wished Felicity would use a little more restraint. She wasn't looking forward to another confrontation with Stuart Hamilton.

The following morning she left early for her journey to Witcheston. The sun shone brightly in a clear blue sky, and Reggie was in high spirits. Even Major seemed a little more energetic, and they arrived in the town in record time.

Carrying the pound notes carefully concealed in her handbag, Meredith entered the bank and went directly to the counter. This time she was the sole customer, and was served immediately by the smiling clerk, who informed her that Howard Clark was away on business.

He assured her, however, that he could open an account for her. "I'm also the assistant manager," he told her. "Desmond White, at your service. I took over from Mr. Clark when he took George Lewis's position."

"Thank you. I really didn't want to carry all this money back to the school." Meredith emptied the pound notes onto the counter.

"My, that is a lot of notes." The clerk gathered them up and expertly flipped through the corners to count them. "I make it forty-three pounds. Is that right?"

"Quite right." Meredith smiled at him. "Were you acquainted with Mr. Lewis?"

"Indeed, I was." The clerk looked around as if making sure he could not be overheard. "Very nice gentleman, Mr. Lewis. I was shocked to learn how he'd died. The whole family, too. Terrible." He stacked the notes together and snapped a rubber band around them.

Meredith hesitated, then decided she had nothing to lose. She might as well explore every avenue open to her. She leaned forward and said quietly, "You must have been even more shocked to learn he'd embezzled money."

Desmond looked up. "George? No, there had to be some mistake there. I never believed it, anyway. George Lewis was an honest, upright man. I can't believe he
would take money that wasn't his. Now, if it had been Mr. Clark, I'd be more inclined to believe that. Shifty, I call him. He spends money like it's water. You'd think he was a blinking millionaire to hear him talk, if you'll pardon my language."

Meredith raised her eyebrows. "Mr. Clark is wealthy?"

The clerk shrugged. "I don't know about that. Though he's always bragging about the things he's bought. Jewelry, fancy clothes, nice things for the house. I think he's trying to catch up with the way George Lewis lived. Always jealous of George, he was." He leaned forward and lowered his voice. "George's wife was the one with the money. Came from a good family, she did. It was her house they lived in, I'm told."

"I take it from your tone that you don't much care for Mr. Clark."

"That I don't. He's always complaining, nothing I can ever do pleases him. I really miss George." He straightened, opened a drawer in front of him, and took out a new passbook. Writing down an account number inside the first page, he added, "George always treated the staff like they were family. Good worker, too. He was working late the last day he was here. Said he had an important appointment the next morning and wanted to make up the time. Not many blokes would do that. Especially when they're the manager and don't have to answer to no one but themselves." He shook his head. "I remember that last day. He was acting strange, like he was really worried about something."

Meredith leaned forward. "Did he say what the appointment was, or with whom?"

To her disappointment, Desmond shook his head. "No, he didn't. I got the impression it was something he wanted kept secret." He handed Meredith the passbook. "There you are, Mrs. Llewellyn. All taken care of. Your money is safe and sound now."

"Thank you, Mr. White."

"My pleasure, m'm, I'm sure."

Meredith tucked the passbook in her handbag. "I suppose Mr. Lewis kept an appointment book?"

Desmond stared at her, one hand wandering to his tie. "Er . . . well, yes, I suppose, but . . ."

She smiled at him. "I realize this isn't quite protocol, Mr. White, but if I tell you that it's extremely important I know where Mr. Lewis intended to go the morning after he died, would you perhaps permit me a quick peek at his appointment book?"

Desmond narrowed his eyes. "I'm not exactly sure if it's still here."

"Could you at least take a look for me?"

Still he hesitated, while she held her breath. She had tried so hard to find out why George Lewis had needed money desperately enough to steal it. This mysterious appointment might just answer that question.

After a long, tense pause, Desmond gave her a quick nod. "I'll take a look. It's probably with the rest of his things. They're packed in a box waiting for someone to pick them up."

He disappeared through a door behind him, and emerged a moment later with a black book in his hand. "Here it is. Don't know if it will tell you what you want to know, though."

Quickly, Meredith thumbed through the pages until she reached the last entry. There it was, printed in a neat hand across the page.
Ten o'clock. Meeting with Inspector Edward Dawson of the Witcheston Constabulary
.

Meredith swallowed, then handed the book back to the curious clerk. "Thank you, Mr. White. I appreciate your cooperation. There's no need to mention this to anyone else."
Especially Howard Clark
, she added inwardly.

Desmond briefly placed a finger against his lips. "Mum's the word, m'm."

"By the way, do you happen to know where Mr. Clark went today?"

"Yes, I do, m'm. He went to London for a meeting at our main branch. Won't be back until tomorrow."

Meredith's jaw dropped as she stared at him. Now she remembered why Felicity's words had rung a bell.

Desmond's face focused in front of her and she realized she was still staring at him. "Er . . . I was actually thinking of calling on Mrs. Clark," she said hurriedly. "Could you give me her address?"

Obviously baffled, Desmond wrote the address down on a piece of paper and handed it to her. "I don't know what's going on," he said quietly, "but if you need my help for anything, just let me know."

Caught up in her excitement, she nodded her thanks and hurried from the bank.

George Lewis had intended to meet with a police inspector. Was it to confess his own guilt, or to accuse someone else of the embezzlement? Someone such as Howard Clark, for instance.

Howard had told her that he'd returned from London the day after the fire. Which he couldn't have done, since Felicity had waited all afternoon for a train that never came. Had Howard simply made a mistake in the day, or had he deliberately lied about going to London in order to establish an alibi?

It was certainly a possibility. But that's all she had. Possibilities, suspects, theories, but no proof of anything.

"Where to now, m'm?" Reggie asked when she had returned to the carriage.

She handed him the piece of paper. "Do you know where that is?"

He frowned at the address in his hand. "Not sure, m'm, but I'll find it." He helped her up into the carriage. "Do you know who set the fire yet, m'm?"

"Not yet, Reggie. But I do believe I'm getting closer."

His eyes sparkled with excitement. "You'll let me in on it when you know, right, m'm?"

"Of course I will." She settled back on her seat, wondering if she'd ever know for sure.

The journey to Howard Clark's house was a short one. The cottage sat at the very edge of the town on a beech-shaded lane. Its thatched roof dipped low over latticed windows, and purple and gold chrysanthemums still bloomed in the front yard.

Reggie halted the carriage at the gate and helped her down. "Want me to come with you, m'm?" he asked hopefully, and seemed disappointed when she declined.

"I shan't be but a moment," she assured him, and tramped up the garden path, her feet scrunching on the gravel.

A disgruntled-looking housekeeper showed her into the parlor, and a few minutes later Sophie Clark entered the room. She was a thin-faced woman of middle age, with sad eyes and lines of discontent dragging down her mouth at the corners.

She seemed disinclined to listen as Meredith explained she was from Bellehaven and needed volunteers to help with the Christmas pageant. "I realize it's more than two months away," she said, determined to hold on to the woman's attention, "but it's never too early to ask for help."

Sophie regarded her with a sour look. "What brought you to my house, may I ask?"

Meredith crossed her fingers behind her back. "I happened to be at the bank and overheard someone mentioning your extraordinary talent in organizing such events. I just had to come and ask you to give us the benefit of your experience."

Sophie wore the stunned look of someone being honored for a false accomplishment. She began stuttering. "Well, I . . . don't know what to say . . . I can't imagine who . . . I mean—"

Although the cottage was far more modest than the Lewis home, the furnishings in the parlor were of the highest quality. Fine china vases sat on a lovely oak sideboard, oil paintings graced the walls, while two Chippendale armchairs accompanied an elegant cream brocade settee that must have cost a small fortune.

Desmond White hadn't exaggerated Howard Clark's
spending spree, Meredith reflected as she eyed the lush Axminster carpet.

"My," she murmured, "you certainly have a beautiful home."

Sophie's attitude was improving considerably from Meredith's flattery, and she now seemed eager to entertain. "Howard—my husband—has been most generous." She sat on the edge of the settee as if afraid it would break.

"It all looks so new." Meredith sniffed the air. "I do so love the smell of new furniture."

"Yes, it is. Quite new, I mean." Sophie picked up a small fan and began waving it in front of her face. "My husband recently came into an inheritance. An aunt of his died and left him a large sum of money." Her laugh sounded forced. "Most unexpected, I must say. Howard had made no mention of her until then. He couldn't imagine why she should name him in her will. It just goes to show, one never knows what will happen next."

"Yes, indeed." Meredith folded her hands in her lap. The inheritance was entirely possible, of course. Then again, the woman could be lying, or perhaps speaking what she thought was the truth. If Howard was guilty of embezzling, he wasn't likely to tell his wife.

If only she could take a look at the bank's records. She'd had enough experience with accounting to be able to spot discrepancies if they were there.

"Would you like some tea?"

Meredith started at Sophie's voice. "Oh, thank you, but I must get back to the school." She rose, anxious to put her next plan into action. "Perhaps another time?"

"Oh, yes, do call again. I don't get many visitors. It's not much use having fine things to show off if there's no one to show them to, is it. I don't get out that much and Howard is always gone somewhere. He's in London today, at a bank meeting."

Meredith paused on her way to the door. "Does he have to do that often? Go to London on business, I mean."

Sophie sent her an odd look. "Not very often, no. Maybe twice a year."

"Oh, so he wasn't in London about two months ago?"

The woman's expression grew even more puzzled. "No, not that I know of."

Meredith nodded. "Well, thank you for your time, Mrs. Clark."

"It was a great pleasure meeting you, Mrs. Llewellyn. And you can count on me to help with the pageant."

Meredith had completely forgotten her excuse for calling and tripped over her next words. "That was . . . er . . . is so good of you . . . I . . . we appreciate your help."

"Not at all. I shall look forward to it."

Meredith heard the door close behind her with a sense of relief. She wasn't at all experienced in fabricating stories and making excuses. It didn't come easy to her and she regretted having to stoop to such levels to find out the truth.

As it was, she still didn't have all the answers. So far she had two viable suspects. Howard Clark had come into money, and had lied about his trip to London, but that could have been for any number of reasons.

As for Blanche Pettigrew's nephew, Will Barnard, he knew more about the Lewis house than he was willing to admit, and he'd been amply rewarded for a task he had performed for his aunt. But that didn't make him guilty of murder.

Reggie greeted her with a question in his voice, and she had to shake her head at him in defeat. She was no closer to discovering who had set the fire in the Lewis home, or even establishing the fact that murder had been committed. For every step she took forward, she fell two steps back.