Truth Will Out (22 page)

As he fell he heard the constable shout, ‘Drown, you bastard!’ and then, with a splash and a flurry of gurgling bubbles, the cold sea closed over him.

The following morning found Jane Dyer at the reception desk of the gallery as usual. It was nearly eleven o’clock and raining steadily, a fact that always seemed to deter people from browsing in art galleries. Normally Jane would have been in the small kitchen next to the office, making a pot of tea for herself and Mr Barlowe, but today she was being deliberately awkward.

‘Let him ask for it,’ she told herself irritably. He shouldn’t take her for granted. She was a paid employee, not a slave. He should consider her feelings more than he did. Since their disagreement over Mrs Brent and the list of paintings, Jane had cooled towards her employer. Not that she had ever liked him the way she liked Lionel Brent, but she had always been polite and respectful and ready with a pleasant smile. She enjoyed her job and her mother had advised her to be ‘biddable’ whenever suitable, but not ingratiating.

Today Jane’s pretty face bore the signs of strain as she turned to see her employer coming down the stairs, his face like thunder.

Now what has upset him?
she wondered. If he asked about the pot of tea she would give him an innocent smile and pretend she had forgotten the time.

Glancing round the gallery to satisfy himself that there were no clients to overhear, Barlowe pulled up a spare chair and sat down next to her desk. He looked shocked and Jane prepared herself for bad news.

‘There’s been some trouble, Miss Dyer. Serious trouble. You’ll have to hear it sooner or later.’ He rubbed his eyes.

‘Oh!’ She stared at him fearfully. ‘It’s not Mrs Brent again, is it?’ If he was going to try and involve her again in lies, she would walk right out of the gallery and go home. Then she would write a letter of resignation. Her mother had told her Mr Barlowe’s behaviour was unpardonable.

‘Not exactly.’ He leaned back and stared upwards, his mouth tight. ‘It’s Mr Brent. He’s . . . The police think he’s dead.’

Jane felt as though he had punched her. She sucked in air and then let it out again in a long trembling sigh. ‘Dead? Oh no! Not Mr Brent. What happened to him? Who killed him? Is he going to be all—?’
Don’t be stupid!
She stopped herself just in time. Of course he wasn’t going to be all right! He was
dead
. He would never be all right. Lionel Brent would never be anything but dead. Tears filled her eyes.

Barlowe said, ‘For heaven’s sake, don’t give way to tears. Not here. Save them until you get home.’ He shook his head. ‘I never really believed anything like this would happen. It all seemed so . . . unlikely.’

‘But who killed him?’ She fumbled for her handkerchief.

Barlowe drew in a long breath and let it out slowly. ‘He jumped into the sea and they think he drowned. So nobody actually killed him. It seems he attacked a policeman – several actually. Injured a couple of them.’

Jane wiped away her tears and shook her head vigorously. ‘No! Not Mr Brent. He would never do such a thing! Attack the police? Never!’

Her employer shrugged. Briefly he brought her up to date with the case. ‘That was them on the phone,’ he went on, ‘warning me to be on the lookout in case he didn’t in fact drown. It was pitch dark and they only saw him jump. They have to assume that he might somehow have survived. If he
has
survived and shows his face here, try not to let him in. He’s killed a man, remember. And the one called Fleet, the detective, is injured. Felled by a blow on the temple. Unconscious. Maybe in a coma.’ He tutted. ‘Brent’s very dangerous, Miss Dyer. Remember that.’

‘If he’s still alive, you mean.’ Her voice quivered.

‘Let’s hope he isn’t. Better for everyone.’ He pursed his lips, frowning. ‘It’s all very awkward at the moment. If he is still alive he’s definitely on the run and he’s still married to Mrs Brent, in which case he might try to take away some of our paintings.’ He wagged a finger at Jane who recoiled slightly. ‘
If
he’s alive and you help him in any way, you’ll be an accessory to a crime. If he sets foot in here call the police and on no account help him in any way.’

‘But . . .’

‘I’m only trying to help you, Miss Dyer. If you are foolish enough to help a wanted criminal – a wanted
murderer –
I won’t be able to bail you out. In fact, to be brutally honest, I wouldn’t want to bail you out if you had been so foolish as to ignore my advice. Just so you understand my position. I have to be seen to be beyond reproof – and so should you.’ He sat back in the chair and eyed her severely. ‘But I’ll tell you this – I shall be staying well away from him if he does turn up again. Lionel Brent is not going to ruin my life. When I think of the way he’s behaved and the lies he’s told . . .’ He leaned forward, his elbows on the desk, and covered his face with his hands.

Jane watched him, wondering what she herself would do if the man she had adored had survived and should ask for her help. If he needed money he might come to her to beg for one of the Cope paintings. Could she refuse him when he needed her most? She had never had a gentleman friend and her ideas about the opposite sex were mostly gleaned from the books she read, which her mother recommended from time to time – mostly the classics, but Jane did sometimes buy magazines, which she read avidly at slack times in the gallery and then threw away. She would never take them home.

Mr Barlowe asked, ‘What happened to the tea, Miss Dyer?’

‘Oh dear!’ She glanced at the clock with feigned surprise. ‘I didn’t realize it was so late, Mr Barlowe. I’ll make it now.’ She jumped to her feet but he was also rising.

‘I won’t have time to drink it now,’ he said. ‘The phone call has made me late already. I have to catch a train for Canterbury. This Miss Brompton seems promising. We sell quite a few miniatures . . .’ He paused to snatch up his hat and umbrella. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, Miss Dyer. Try to forget about Lionel Brent and concentrate on your work.’

She watched him go, pleased to see the back of him. She needed time to think about Lionel. Could he really be dead – and could he really have killed somebody? It was ridiculous. Perhaps he was being framed! She gasped. Had the police thought of that, she wondered? The Lionel she knew was a gentle soul. She smiled as his image rose in her mind. He had always treated her with respect, she thought, a faint smile lighting her face. Pushing aside the ugly accusations, she thought over the time she had spent working for the gallery. Mr Barlowe had always been fair, she conceded, but Lionel Brent had made her feel . . . desirable.

The bell jangled and a client came in. She recognized him as Mr Stewart from Hampstead who had bought several works over the past few years. He seemed a nice man and he was always polite to her. He leaned towards sea views, she recalled. Mr Barlowe would appreciate her quick recall, she reflected. All part of the job.

Jumping to her feet she greeted him. ‘We have a beautiful study of Loch Ness,’ she told him. ‘The artist was there on holiday recently. Very serene.’ She led him to the painting and they stood together admiring the watercolour. Mr and Mrs Stewart had spent several holidays in the area and Jane knew that Mr Barlowe had bought the Loch Ness painting with them in mind. They would expect her to bring a little pressure to bear on him but her thoughts immediately wandered to more important matters.

If Lionel were to ask for her help, would she be able to give it? How wonderful it would be to offer help. But of course, he would never dare show his face in the gallery. It was too obvious. Nor would he ever dare go back to his home in Folkestone.

She tried to concentrate on the potential purchaser. ‘Of course, it’s some years since the monster was last sighted,’ she said. ‘But it will always be a lure for holidaymakers.’

He nodded. ‘Last seen from the water in 1908. Last sighting from the shore three years ago. My wife is fascinated by the whole thing. This would have made a perfect birthday present for her except that it was last month and I bought her a bottle of very expensive French perfume.’

‘Perhaps you could give it to her for Christmas.’ She tried to summon up Lionel Brent’s face for a second time but now it refused to materialize and she sighed.

‘I like the hint of yellow in the sky!’ said Mr Stewart, his head on one side as he scrutinized the painting. ‘It is often there when the sun comes up, but for such a short time. Maybe only seconds.’

She nodded, trying to maintain an air of deep interest. She had secretly harboured romantic thoughts about Lionel Brent ever since they had first met and now she was reluctant to surrender them, hoping against hope that he was still alive somewhere. She thought she might be the one person in the whole world who would dare to help him in his hour of need. Her mother, of course, would be horrified if she found out. Jane’s face fell at the prospect.

‘And the two birds flying from right to left. Almost an afterthought.’ Mr Stewart half-closed his eyes. Then he turned. ‘Is it true what they’re saying – about Mr Brent?’

For a moment she was too shocked to speak. Did everyone know? She stammered, ‘I–I’m sure it isn’t. I can’t believe it. Can you?’

‘Lord knows. My wife says you can never tell with people.’

She didn’t want to have this discussion so she said, ‘The police have told us not to discuss the case.’

‘Ah! I suppose they would. Stands to reason.’

‘Yes. My mother says we should never speak ill of the dead!’

‘Dead? Is he really dead?’

‘Er . . . Well, I don’t think anyone knows for sure.’

‘They say he jumped to his death in the sea. Couldn’t swim. But that means very little. He could have clung to the pier supports until the tide went out. That’s what I’d have done in his shoes. Wouldn’t you?’

Jane felt a glimmer of hope. ‘I’m afraid the police said . . .’

‘Oh yes! You mustn’t talk about it. Well, I’ll think about the Loch Ness painting. Might bring my wife in to see it.’

It didn’t sound very convincing, thought Jane. He made his way to the door and put on his hat. ‘I’ll be seeing you, Miss Dyer.’

Jane watched him retreat. What a nasty little man. He just wanted to gossip about Lionel, she realized sadly, and he had almost persuaded her to do just that. With an effort, she returned to her dreams.

Maude stood in the garden at
Fairways
, a blank stare on her face. She was still in a state of shock, and still hardly able to grasp the immensity of what had happened – or rather what might have happened. She had insisted on going home to be with Aunt Biddy in the hope that, in familiar surroundings, her mind might function more satisfactorily. Her gaze travelled slowly across the grass and came to rest on a croquet hoop . . . then another. Aunt Biddy walked towards her.

‘It was the first night you were away,’ she said in answer to the unasked question. ‘We felt odd without you and Lionel, and sort of lost, so we thought we’d play croquet to pass the time.’

‘They’re not supposed to be left out.’ It suddenly seemed important to her.

Biddy said, ‘No. Shall we take them in and put them away?’

Maude nodded but didn’t move and Aunt Biddy began to collect the pieces. Maude said, ‘Where were they?’

‘In the cupboard under the stairs.’

‘They’d better go back there then.’

Biddy, fifteen yards away, gave her a quick, anxious glance. What on earth did it matter? How could Maude bother about anything as trivial as a croquet set when the entire structure of their lives was crumbling around them? She hoped that her niece was not going to slide into a decline because of this tragedy. Biddy was already severely shaken and drained of energy. Having to care for a depressive invalid would be beyond her.

Maude clasped her hands. ‘I wonder what has happened to Alice? It was terrible, seeing them take her away. She conspired, you see.’

‘So when did she tell you all this?’

‘While the police were trying to catch Lionel. We had to keep her at the hotel until they came back for her. She and I talked. She was desperate for my forgiveness but I–I couldn’t give it. Isn’t that dreadful?’

‘No, it’s not dreadful. It’s natural. I wouldn’t have forgiven her if I’d been in your shoes!’

Maude sighed. ‘They’re probably going to charge her and . . . and she’ll have to stand trial. Poor Alice.’

Biddy, walking back towards her niece, snapped, ‘Poor Alice, my eye! You’re not thinking straight, Maudie love. She made fools of us. She lied. She pretended to like us and we trusted her. Some friend she turned out to be. Scheming little madam!’ As she made her way back to the house, staggering under the weight of the croquet set, Biddy paused. She said, ‘I’d like to ring her neck with my bare hands! That’s what I’d like to do – God forgive me!’

Maude stared at her impassively and made no effort to help her. Trying to imagine life without Alice made her ineffably sad and thinking of Alice in a police cell was like a cold lump in her heart. She glanced across the lawn to the shrubbery. That was where Jem Rider had appeared with his missive for Lionel.
All part of the plot – a ploy to confuse the issue.
How easy it had been for Jem. A simple way to earn a shilling. And now he was dead – killed by Lionel, according to the police.

She made her way with faltering steps around the side of the house and looked up at her aunt’s bedroom window. The very window where Lionel had thrown the small stones, thinking it was Alice’s room. She frowned. Was that a mistake on his part or part of the plot? It was all so devious. She didn’t know what to believe.

One thing that she found impossible to believe was that she was not Mrs Lionel Brent. That title went to Alice, who had married Lionel a few months after the plan had taken shape in Lionel’s head after meeting Maude at home in Folkestone.

Slowly, Maude followed Biddy into the house. Her aunt had already stowed away the croquet set and was washing her hands in the kitchen.

‘What do you fancy for tonight, Maudie love?’ she asked. ‘I was wondering about lentil soup. It’s not heavy and I can make some fresh bread. And don’t tell me you’re not hungry.’

‘I couldn’t eat anything, Aunt Biddy. It would stick in my throat.’