False Step Page 2

A china cabinet held some porcelain figures which again were not new, but might fetch a good price at auction. Everything was slightly shabby. Dated, but comfortable.

  An elderly gentleman, then? Possibly living with inherited furniture?

  Bea looked at her watch. Time was passing. She tried the daughter’s number again; still no reply. She finished her cup of coffee and thought she might like to visit the loo, which meant finding a bathroom. She explored the hall – no loo. She didn’t really feel like going upstairs but needs must, even if it did feel as if she were invading the dead man’s privacy. Which was absurd, of course.

  The house was very quiet.

  She held on to the banister, as the stairs curled up to the first floor. This was a surprisingly large house for its narrow frontage; an estate agent might describe it as ‘characterful, needing some modernization’. The ceilings were low, and there probably wasn’t a straight wall or right angle anywhere.

  On the first floor landing sat a large plastic box containing cleaning materials, with several aerosols sticking out of it. Florrie must have brought it upstairs meaning to do the bathroom and on discovering the corpse, had forgotten to remove it.

  The room straight ahead was a double bedroom, the window overlooking the patio below. More magnolia paint, cupboards built into the wall. Light and airy, Laura Ashley and Sanderson furnishings. A guest bedroom, not often used by the look of it.

  The door to the master bedroom was on the right. It was ajar, but Bea avoided looking at it as she went into the bathroom on the left. Again, everything was dated, but functioned. There was an old-fashioned, claw-footed bath but the owner had installed a shower. Towels had been thrust at the rail, wedged in rather than folded and hanging free. There was a noticeable rim around the bath and one around the washbasin as well. The soap was dry.

  Bea washed her hands, thinking it was a shame that Florrie hadn’t got around to cleaning the bathroom before she discovered the body. A selfish thought, perhaps.

  The stairs went on upwards and Bea, bored with waiting, ascended them up to the second floor. Another double bedroom, also painted in magnolia, furnishings ditto. A small bathroom. Then came a tiny square room which contained nothing but garden furniture, including a table and a parasol. This room’s windows were barred. There was a locked door, whose window was also barred, which led out on to the roof garden. Presumably the bars were to protect against burglars getting in over the rooftops. Sensible.

  Bea peered out of the window. The roof garden was laid out with apricot tiles on the floor, more tubs, and a hammock shrouded against wind and rain. The sun was out, for a miracle. The rooftop must be a regular sun trap in the summer.

  Oh well. What now? She wished she’d brought something with her to read. Perhaps she’d borrow a book from the shelves below while she was waiting.

  She went down to the ground floor and then, having nothing better to do, continued down into the basement. Opening a door at the bottom of the stairs, she got the shock of her life, as a ghostly figure swam out of the darkness to meet her.

  She pulled the door shut and fell back, hand to heart. Who …? What …?

  There wasn’t anyone else in the house, was there?

  Ridiculous! She’d have heard, if there had been.

  Dear Lord, from ghosties and gremlins and things that go bump in the night, please deliver us. Or words to that effect. She couldn’t remember exactly how the prayer went, but the sentiment was spot on. Dear Lord, deliver us.

  Calming her breathing, she told herself that what she’d seen was just a trick of the light. There was nobody else there. Full stop.

  She thought of going back upstairs and waiting till the daughter could be contacted. She shouldn’t have explored, anyway. It was not right.

  She took a deep breath, pushed the door open and called out, ‘Hello there?’

  Silence.

  The ghostly figure was still there, one hand holding open the door, facing her. It was dressed in a pale-grey trouser suit, and had short, ash-blonde hair. In other words, she was looking at herself in a mirror! The relief was so great that she sagged at the knees. She told herself that this was all very amusing and some time or other it would make a good story.

  The room was in darkness. There ought to have been a window in it, because she had noticed a light well for the basement when she arrived. She found a light switch and shut her eyes momentarily as glaring neon strips came on overhead.

  Whatever she’d expected – a playroom with billiard table, a junk room? – it wasn’t this. The window had been blacked out, and all around were wardrobes and cupboards, some of metal, some of wood. She took one step more into the basement and recoiled again, for every wardrobe door had a mirror, and everywhere she looked, she saw herself. The room was cavernous and she experienced a moment of disorientation.

  She shaded her eyes against the dazzling strip lights. Opposite was an up-to-the-minute computer set-up, with an adjustable typing chair in front of it. Laptop, printer, fax, telephone … everything that a man might need to run a small business. A set of large speakers, a ‘desk’ such as DJs use, with microphone, etc. Had the man been in the music business?

  Nearby was a mirror surrounded by light bulbs with a wide ledge under it, and a stool in front. An old-fashioned tin box sat on the ledge, next to a box of tissues. She’d seen something like that before, somewhere. But where?

  What was this place? As she stepped forward, a floorboard shifted, and one of the mirrored doors swung open. A sunburst of colour met her eyes. And glitter. Women’s clothes, not men’s.

  What …?

  She pulled open the door of the nearest cupboard, to reveal ranks of shoes in a large size. The following cupboard was dedicated to wigs of all colours and lengths; some on stands, others on what looked like balloons.

  She realized that the ‘desk’ was for theatrical make-up. The box would contain the tools of his trade, perhaps.

  Whatever had been going on here?

  There was one way to find out. She put her head out of the door to listen for the noises of someone arriving, but there was nothing. She told herself that curiosity killed the cat, but yes, she was curious. Who wouldn’t be?

  She went to the computer desk and pulled out drawers till she found some business cards. All had ‘Magnificent Millie’ written on them. A woman? Bea had formed the impression that Florrie’s client had been male. Whatever was going on here? Ah, underneath the flourish of the words ‘Magnificent Millie’ was some small print. ‘Matthew Kent’, followed by a phone number, website and email address. Was Matthew Kent the same person as Magnificent Millie? Did he do a drag act for the clubs, perhaps?

  Bea pocketed a card, switched off the lights, shut the door to the basement, and climbed the stairs to the first floor, to the master bedroom. She really must catch a glimpse of the man or woman who had owned all this. Was he a transvestite, perhaps? Getting his kicks out of dressing as a woman?

  She pushed the door of the main bedroom open but all was dark within, so she groped for a light switch … and took a hasty step back.

  In front of an enormous old mahogany bed were a pair of shoes such as Bea had never seen out of the theatre or cinema. They reminded her of Dorothy’s shoes in The Wizard of Oz. They were bright red, with a small heel. They were covered with sequins and finished off with stiff bows, also in red.

  Bea blinked. Was she really seeing what she was seeing?

  She lifted her eyes to a tide of scarlet and gold. Spread over the bed was a travesty of a woman’s eighteenth-century costume in red and gold. The overskirt was of scarlet satin, frilled, ruched and garnished with gold bows. The padded petticoat was of gold silk, trellised with black ribbon. The bodice was of scarlet satin, low-cut in front with sleeves to the elbow, finished with falls of lace.

  It reminded Bea of the costume for the Pantomime Dame in the last act, where he-cum-she descends the stairs to thunderous applause from the audience. It covered the body on the bed almost completely.
The corpse wasn’t actually wearing it, but was covered by it, as it were by a blanket.

  Was it a man, or a woman? If it was a man, then he’d been made up to look like a woman, with lipstick and rouge, eye shadow and grotesquely painted-on eyebrows. A wide hairband such as tennis players wear was around his or her head, almost completely covering the hair, waiting for the wig to be fitted. The wig was still on a stand beside the bed.

  Man or woman? There was only one way to find out. Bea twitched up the dress to inspect the body beneath. So it was a man after all.

  Hand to throat, Bea said, ‘I don’t believe it! I simply cannot be seeing what I am seeing.’

  She looked around the rest of the room. The walls were a pale grey-green. The blinds and curtains, closely drawn, had been made to match. Restful. The rest of the furniture matched the bed, being Victorian and well-polished. On the bedside stand was a bottle of wine, an empty glass, and a packet which had once contained sleeping tablets. Plus a note.

  This wasn’t – couldn’t be – a death by natural causes. Bea’s mind whirled around what Florrie had told her about her client having died of natural causes. What had Florrie actually said? Not much, really.

  Natural causes, my foot!

  Florrie had taken one look, realized this must be a suicide, and … and what? Had she even phoned for the medics? Because if she had, wouldn’t they have done something else, phoned for the police, the doctor … whatever?

  Bea leaned back against the bedroom door, which shut with a click, startling her. Getting over the shock, Bea began to get angry. How dare Florrie drop Bea in it like this!

  That note … what did it say? The whole set-up screamed of suicide, but … perhaps a closer look …? She unglued herself from the door and rounded the bed, careful not to brush against the overhanging dress.

  The note was a mere scrawl. It said ‘Sorry.’

  So it was a suicide after all. It must have been, mustn’t it? Hadn’t Florrie seen the note? What on earth was the girl playing at?

  Bea went downstairs to phone the police.

  Lunchtime

  She took her sandwich to the tiny staff room in the basement, and made herself a cup of instant. The rest of the salesgirls knew enough not to talk to her when she didn’t want to be disturbed. She ran through a mental checklist. Clothes; disposed of. Broken wine glass; wrapped in paper and put in the bin. Diary; removed. Blood stains; cleaned up. Files on computer; deleted. Publicity flyers taken away. Telephone book left out with her number prominently displayed. She didn’t think they’d missed anything important.

  She glanced at her watch. Time to get back to work. She wondered how soon the police would track her down in order to break the sad news?

  Two

  Thursday evening

  By the time Bea got back home, she was both exhausted and angry. A bad combination for digestion. Maggie, who was not a particularly good timekeeper in some respects, could time a meal to perfection. Half past six, on the table. This allowed the two youngsters to go out for the evening and allowed Bea time to relax, chat to friends, watch telly or just sit and think.

  She looked at her watch as she let herself into the house. Nearly six o’clock.

  Oliver appeared like a jack-in-the-box from the basement. There was no sound of banging and crashing; presumably the workmen had departed for the day. Just as well. In her present mood, Bea would have been quite capable of yelling at them to get lost and never darken her door again. She knew in her head that it was entirely necessary for the agency quarters to be rewired, replumbed and redecorated. She just hated every minute of the disruption and noise and fuss concerned. And the cost.

  Oliver said, ‘Oh-ho! Don’t tell me it really was a murder!’

  ‘Certainly not!’ Bea glared at him. ‘Suicide. And no, I don’t know why. But I do know that if you don’t get me Florrie Green’s mobile telephone number at once, I shall … I don’t know what I shall do, but I’ll think of something! I need to speak to her before she finishes cleaning at the school and goes home.’

  Maggie appeared from the kitchen, followed by the sound of the telly. Maggie was tall, skinny, noisy and lacking in self-confidence. She was on her own mobile, but on seeing Bea, took it away from her ear long enough to ask, ‘Is there something, Mrs Abbot? I’m afraid the plumber’s got bad news. He’s found a patch of damp so we shan’t be back downstairs for quite a while. We’ll have to get the computers working on the ground floor, somehow.’

  ‘Sorry, both of you,’ said Bea. ‘I know I’m in a foul temper, but this is not directed at you. Oliver, if the computers are down, can you still find me Florrie’s mobile phone number?’

  Oliver, computer geek that he was, had his laptop up and running. ‘Just a sec … I think … yes, here it is. I’ve got this programme now which asks all our clients to keep their mobile numbers updated. Yes, I’ve got it. Shall I get her on the landline for you?’

  Bea told herself that he was worth his weight in gold and she ought not to be cross with him. It didn’t do any good. If he’d come within reach of her hand, he’d have got his ears boxed. Maggie, too.

  Oliver handed the phone to Bea but stayed close, listening. Maggie cut off her own phone and draped her length against the doorway, also anxious to hear what had made the usually calm Mrs Abbot lose her temper.

  ‘Florrie Green,’ said Bea, grinding out the words, ‘you dropped me right in it, didn’t you? I want you here, at my house, within ten minutes.’

  Florrie had had time to think what line she should take. ‘I don’t know what you mean, Mrs Abbot. What am I supposed to have done?’

  ‘The police want to interview you about finding the body. Naturally I cooperated, told them everything. I gave them your home address but just in case you can come up with a good explanation for your actions, I said I wasn’t sure where you’d be working this afternoon, so you’d better get over here and brief me properly before they get round to you.’ She crashed the phone down.

  Oliver narrowed his eyes. ‘Florrie found the body and told you it was natural causes. She left you there and went off to work? You found out it couldn’t be natural causes and called the police. Is that right?’

  ‘There was a pack of pills, empty, at his bedside. Ditto a dead bottle of wine. A note saying “Sorry.” That enough for you?’

  He was still hoping. ‘Not murder?’

  Bea told herself she was not going to scream at him, but perhaps the look in her eye informed him that he’d better make himself scarce. Which he did.

  Maggie went into mother hen mode. ‘You poor thing. Shall I get you a cup of coffee, some herbal tea? Oh, by the way, Mr Max rang here again and sounded quite cross that he couldn’t get hold of you. He’s out for the evening but will ring you again tomorrow, if that’s all right.’

  ‘Did he, now? Well, it can’t be anything very urgent. As for tea; no, thank you. I made tea for the police. I gave a statement. I was totally helpful, and calm and … I could kill Florrie! She knew perfectly well that it wasn’t a natural death.’

  Maggie said, ‘A cuppa is definitely called for.’

  ‘Grrr,’ said Bea. She knew she needed to calm down. But how? She raged about her pretty sitting room, stepping around the piles of files and equipment which had been brought up from below. Backwards and forwards she went, from the dining table in the front window overlooking the road, to the card table and chair at the back of the house where her dear husband used to sit and play patience in the evenings.

  Seated in his own big chair, he would look out over the garden below, see through the branches of the sycamore at the far end, to the spire of the church beyond. That view always seemed to give him pleasure. Normally, it gave Bea pleasure, too.

  But not tonight.

  She got the patience cards out and dealt to play Spider. Hamilton always said that the rhythmic slap of the cards kept the forefront of his mind occupied while the little men at the back of his head worked on whatever problem was bugging him. She didn�
�t, herself, find it so helpful. Slap, slap, went the cards.

  Playing patience didn’t do anything for her.

  The front doorbell rang and Oliver ushered Florrie into the sitting room.

  Florrie looked around her. Usually her business was conducted in the offices downstairs, and she hadn’t been up here before.

  ‘Well, Florrie?’ Bea continued to lay out her cards, slap, slap, slap. This game was not going to work out.

  Florrie seated herself, unasked. With an appearance of candour, she trotted out a prepared excuse. ‘Well, it was like this, Mrs Abbot. I’d never seen anything like it. It spooked me, completely. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. I thought you’d handle it better than me. With the police, I mean.’

  Slap, slap went the cards. Silence.

  Florrie fidgeted, her eyes touching everything and resting on nothing. She cleared her throat. ‘You’ve got some nice furniture here. Was it Mr Abbot’s, rest his soul?’

  Bea put the rest of the cards down. ‘Florrie, if you saw your client and realized he was dead, you also saw the packet of pills and the note. Right?’

  Florrie coloured up, unzipped her jacket, and zipped it up again. ‘If I don’t work, I don’t get paid. I knew if I called the police they’d keep me there for hours and I needed the money from the Mansfield cleaning job. I know what I did wasn’t right, but I wasn’t thinking straight. It was a shock, see.’

  ‘Oh, I see all right. What time did you get there?’

  Florrie’s nose seemed to sharpen as she drew in an audible breath.

  Bea raised her voice. ‘Oliver, shut that door properly, and find yourself something to do.’

  The door eased to, very quietly. The handle returned to its normal height.

  Florrie looked shocked. ‘He was listening?’

  ‘He may be young but he’s pretty good at knowing when people aren’t telling the truth.’

  ‘I am telling the truth.’

  ‘But not the whole truth. You didn’t tidy up well enough before I got there. You left a half-drunk cup of coffee in the kitchen. There was no scum on the top, and the contents hadn’t had time to dry out so it must have been poured that morning. You don’t make yourself coffee when you’re working. You told me yourself that you hadn’t made yourself a cup this morning. So someone else did. Who?’