False Alarm Read online

  ‘You have keys to one another’s flats?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘When did you first suspect Lucy had set the trap for Sir Lucas on the stairs?’

  ‘It wasn’t meant for him, but for Lady Ossett. Only, she went out for the evening and he was caught instead. I told Lucy that was very naughty of her, and she promised not to do it again.’

  ‘It was she who poisoned the cat Momi?’

  A half smile. ‘That cat used to dig up the plants in Lucy’s pots. He was a pest. I don’t like cats much, either.’

  ‘You must have realized Lady Ossett would be very frightened by the cat’s death?’

  ‘Well, yes. But as Lucy said, she deserved it, and there was no great harm done, was there?’

  ‘Did she tell you she’d pushed the caretaker over the edge?’

  ‘No, no. Surely she didn’t! She couldn’t! Oh, I can’t think!’ Tears. Real tears.

  Bea said, ‘Would you like some water, Carrie?’ And held the cup while the old lady took a sip or two.

  ‘You’re doing so well,’ said the inspector. ‘Now, if you can just keep going a little longer . . . Tell us what happened when the caretaker died.’

  ‘I really don’t know. We were both up and down the stairs, in and out of the lift, trying to find someone to release poor Harvey. I think I must have been downstairs talking to the young couple on the ground floor when the caretaker fell, but of course we didn’t find out about it till Mrs Abbot spotted him. He wasn’t a very nice person, but . . . Oh dear.’

  ‘You asked Lucy about it afterwards?’

  Carrie’s eyelids flickered. ‘I’m sure it must have been an accident.’ In other words, she’d suspected it hadn’t been but had decided not to confront her friend about it.

  ‘And Harvey’s death?’

  ‘Poor Harvey.’ Tears welled up. ‘He used to love my carrot cake. It was my turn to make a cake for tea, and we usually took some down to him, but that day it was snowing and I had a sore throat, so Lucy went down with a piece for him.’

  Bea intervened. ‘What did you put in the chocolate biscuits you brought down for us the other day?’

  ‘They weren’t mine, dear. They were Lucy’s. I’d run out of cocoa powder, so she made them instead. She bakes lovely cakes.’ Again tears welled.

  ‘But these biscuits made us ill.’

  ‘Really, dear? I wonder why. She did say they were rather special, but I didn’t have any because I was eating up some of her Victoria sponge which she’d made the day before, which wasn’t quite fresh but still very pleasant.’

  ‘She warned you not to try the chocolate biscuits?’

  ‘I don’t remember. Maybe she did . . . Oh dear, this is all so terrible!’

  The inspector pressed on. ‘You must have discussed the matter with your friend and wondered where all these deaths would end.’

  A nod. ‘We agreed it was just too awful for words, and that it would probably end in tears, but I didn’t imagine . . . Not really . . . She couldn’t! But if she did . . . Poor Lucy. She seemed so normal, but she must have been suffering so much.’

  ‘She says you tried to commit suicide.’

  ‘Oh no, dear. I would never do that.’

  ‘So why did you swallow all your sleeping pills?’

  ‘I don’t have any. Well, only some herbal tablets, but they’re harmless. It’s true I had been feeling a little run down, the anxiety you know, so many terrible things happening. Lucy brought me some hot chocolate and said I should drink it, and I did . . . and I never thought, not once, that she’d turn on me. Oh dear, oh dear . . .’

  Carrie closed her eyes and turned her head away. No more questions.

  The inspector and Bea left the ward together, leaving a police officer behind to take a formal statement from Mrs Kempton when she was sufficiently recovered.

  The inspector said, ‘Lucy blames Carrie. Carrie says she really didn’t know anything. I have my notes, but even if Carrie recovers sufficiently to give us a proper statement, would it stand up in court? Would it be sufficient to convince the Director of Prosecutions to act? And if not, where’s the proof that Lucy is a murderer and ought to be locked up?’

  Bea shrugged. ‘Lucy tried to kill Carrie with a hot drink laced with sleeping pills – which were not Carrie’s. I expect you can find the doctor’s prescription for the sleeping pills and the treatment for Lucy’s labyrinthitis in her flat. And she did attack me. Thank you for saving my life, by the way.’

  ‘Think nothing of it. We’ll check with Lucy’s doctor, of course, and if he confirms the pills were for her, then that will help. But, unless we get a confession, we’ll have to go with the attack she made on you, and you’ll have to testify in court. Are you prepared to do that?’

  ‘Yes. But you’ve arrested Lucy and will keep her in custody?’

  ‘I have and I will – provided she doesn’t produce a tame solicitor with a silver tongue who can get her out on bail.’

  Bea grinned. ‘Not if Sir Lucas is told who caused his fall down the stairs. I’m sure a word from him might result in a failure of nerve on the part of most solicitors. He’s a powerful man; let’s make use of him for once.’

  ‘Hah! A good thought. I’ll see that he is informed straight away. You’re looking much better today, Mrs Abbot. Back to your usual form, I take it? May I give you a lift back home?’

  Friday evening

  ‘My mother is a cow!’ Maggie wept. ‘And I feel guilty, even thinking that!’

  Bea put on her most reasonable tone of voice. ‘Your mother is a past master – or mistress, if you prefer it – of the art of making people feel guilty, but in this case I really can’t see she’s got much to complain about. Sir Lucas is giving her the penthouse and a more than comfortable amount to live on, she’s got the Professor dangling after her, and she’s sure to pick up some more admirers on her cruise to the West Indies in the New Year. Tell her you’ll only hamper her style if she keeps asking you to accompany her.’

  Maggie stifled a giggle. ‘Do you think I dare?’

  ‘Of course you can,’ said Oliver, who was frowning over a list he was making. ‘What’s more important is who we invite to our end-of-year party. I’ve got Max’s list; he keeps adding to it everyday—’

  ‘Forget his list,’ said Bea. ‘I see no reason to hold a party just so that he can return favours to the important people he knows. Nor, may I add, do I see any point in inviting the directors of Holland and Butcher to celebrate a merger which I’m pretty sure I don’t want. I am not, repeat not, going to give a party for business reasons.’

  Maggie dried her eyes and blew her nose. ‘Can’t we have a party just for ourselves? I know we’re not proper family, exactly—’

  ‘We are more proper family than most I can think of. Our family has more to celebrate than most at this time of the year, so I thought we’d invite lots of people who are not in a position to give a party themselves. I was thinking about CJ, for instance; he’s a widower, and lonely now his son has moved out; then there’s Piers, my ex, who has no family to speak of unless it’s me and Max. Next on the list is you, Oliver. How would you like to invite some of your university friends? Ones who have nowhere else to go in the holidays? They can bring sleeping bags and doss down upstairs in your quarters. Maggie; the same applies to you. Your boyfriend must come, of course. Then who would you like to invite? Old friends or new? Customers who have become friends?’

  Maggie gulped. Her eyes were enormous. ‘You’ll scream, but . . . could I invite my mother and the Professor? I mean, they probably wouldn’t want to come, and if they did come, they’d probably look down on everyone else but . . . I’d like to give them the chance.’

  ‘Why not?’ said Bea. ‘I have a couple of old friends who are going to be on their own as well. Let’s do the whole thing in slap-up style. There’s always chefs and waiters on the agency books who want to work over the holidays; we’ll have all the food and drink brought in and served for us,
and cleaners to restore the place to normal afterwards. We won’t even do the washing up ourselves. We’ll have gifts for everyone who comes; nothing too expensive, possibly vouchers from Harrods food hall? We can invite as many people as we like, the only proviso being that we have enough chairs to seat them all. Any other suggestions?’

  Oliver said, ‘I think Carrie Kempton might find it too much—’

  ‘She’s going into sheltered accommodation, poor thing,’ said Maggie.

  Oliver gave Bea a wicked look. ‘How about we invite Carmela Lessbury?’

  Bea ironed out a smile. ‘Hospitable I may be. Stupid I am not. She’d have Piers and CJ asking if they might call on her in five minutes flat.’

  Oliver grinned. ‘That’s rather uncharitable of you, isn’t it?’

  ‘I’ve been taking lessons from a mistress in the art of being a cow. Carmela gets an invite over my dead body. Besides which, she owes me fifty quid for finding out who put her phone number on the call-girl cards, not to mention the fact that I ruined two perfectly good pairs of boots in the course of duty.’

  Oliver’s grin widened. ‘Wasn’t Sir Lucas happy to reimburse you?’

  ‘He sent me a nice cheque by way of a thank you, and I’ve seen just the pair of boots I want in Harvey Nicholls. With killer heels. And no, Maggie; he doesn’t get an invite, either. And that, my dear ones, is my last word on the subject.’

  Maggie giggled. ‘Mother Hen is a cow!’

  Oliver aimed a blow at her and missed. He was laughing, too.

  ‘Enough!’ said Bea, trying to look stern. ‘Now, back to work!’