False Pretences Read online

  Backwards and forwards . . . The house was quiet around her. The youngsters went out; she heard the front door bang once and then again. Good. She didn’t want them coming in with cups of tea, asking if they could do anything to help. To and fro. The church clock marked the hours, and so did she.

  Would she sleep tonight? Perhaps. Perhaps not.

  Only, if she didn’t, she’d be good for nothing in the morning.

  Saturday morning

  ‘Pretty around here,’ said Oliver, in the driving seat. ‘It’s what I think English countryside ought to look like.’

  ‘A painting by Constable?’ said Bea. ‘Complete with broken-down cottage and poverty-stricken but happy peasants?’ She’d slept for a few hours, but her mood was still on the cusp of dangerous.

  Oliver grinned. ‘Define “peasant”.’

  ‘Someone on social security?’

  Oliver laughed out loud. ‘Come off it. The peasants worked hard and received a wage and a tied cottage in return. By that definition I’m the modern peasant, and you’re my tight-fisted employer.’

  Zander, sitting in the back, didn’t smile. Lost in his own thoughts, he may not even have heard the exchange.

  Oliver had bullied Bea into getting a satnav, so he was threading his way through the country lanes without any difficulty. Substantial, brick-built stockbroker type houses flitted past the car windows. Tall beeches almost met shadowed lanes. There were passing places here and there for the occasional car, and horses at pasture. Down an escarpment they went, past an inn which looked popular. Up a steep, curling hill. They hung a sharp left by a church squatting among ancient yew trees and passed along a tree-lined lane to be met by a gate marked ‘private’.

  Zander would have got out to open the gate, but Oliver insisted it was his job as acting chauffeur. The gate swung open without a sound. The immaculate private drive now branched right and left. To the right you went through an archway which was decorated with a charming blue-faced clock – unfortunately not working – into a stable yard. There were no horses to be seen.

  To the left, you swished round to the front of a building which looked as if it might have started in Saxon times as a large farmhouse and thrown out a wing here and a wing there in subsequent generations. The roof had recently been re-tiled, and the lath and plaster walls had been painted white between silvery-grey oak timbers.

  There was a stunned silence in the car.

  Zander shook his head. ‘I thought it would be a small stately home with a portico, perhaps Georgian.’

  ‘I imagined a Tudor building with barley-sugar chimneys,’ said Oliver, peering up at the uneven roofline.

  Bea got out of the car, and stretched. ‘Manor house, umpteen generations, the owner probably owned all the land around here at one time. I wonder if the doorbell works.’

  She told herself she could go through with this, of course she could, and put out her hand to steady herself on the oak front door with its original studs. The door was the genuine thing, accept no substitute.

  There was a heavy iron bell pull, which roused the neighbourhood. The sound seemed to echo from the surrounding hills. At that point she realized she had a ladder in her tights and had chosen the wrong shoes for a foray into the country. And of course, it was a bad hair day. Well, there was nothing to be done about her appearance now. And did it matter, anyway?

  ‘No dogs,’ said Zander, at her elbow with the cardboard box, ‘or they’d be barking like mad.’

  The door opened. ‘You’re late.’

  A heavy-set woman with a magnificent torso. She was about Bea’s age but carrying far more weight. Thin lips. Pale eyes in a pale face, pale hair cut to chin length, heavy-duty slacks, a man’s shirt, boots. You might be fooled into thinking this was a dedicated countrywoman, but Bea noticed that an expert had cut the woman’s hair and care had been taken with understated but effective make-up. The woman would probably scrub up well.

  ‘Lady . . .?’ Bea had forgotten the woman’s name. How dreadful of her!

  ‘You may call me Lady Honoria.’ Her eyes switched from Bea to Zander. ‘I was expecting the Chocolate Box, but I didn’t expect it to come with an entourage.’

  Chocolate box! And she’d referred to Zander as it!

  Zander reddened, but he didn’t lack for courage. ‘This is Mrs Abbot, a friend of mine. She was kind enough to give me a lift.’

  Eyebrows pencilled in grey rose. ‘Really? I relish the unexpected, but this really takes the biscuit. With a chauffeur, no less? Tell him to take the car round to the stable yard but not to expect tea in the kitchen. Are your shoes clean? I don’t suppose you’re accustomed to visiting important houses such as this one, which was mentioned in the Domesday Book . . . if you know what that means, which you probably don’t. Don’t stand there dawdling; I’ve no time to waste even if you have.’

  Bea nodded to Oliver – who had his own ideas about what to do that morning – and stepped inside after Zander to enter a dimly lit, panelled, flagstoned hall. Would this be the oldest part of the house? It smelt of dog yet no dogs had come to the door to investigate the visitors.

  ‘Put the box there,’ said Lady Honoria, indicating a circular mahogany table, probably early Victorian, in the centre of the hall. There was an assortment of dogs’ leads and a flat brass dish containing bundles of keys on the table along with newspapers and junk mail. Zander put the box down, pushing some of the dogs’ leads aside.

  ‘You were expecting to be met by my husband’s Labradors? I’ve never liked Labradors, so I found them another home. Bull terriers, now; they’re more my sort. I’m told your kind are always afraid of dogs,’ said Lady Honoria, contempt in her voice.

  Zander set his teeth but refused to rise.

  Bea jumped in. ‘I’m more of a cat person, myself.’

  The woman stared at Bea with pale eyes and dismissed her as being of no importance. Turning, she led the way through a doorway slightly too low for Zander’s six foot two height.

  A vast room, with heavy beams crossing the ceiling. An enormous brick-built fireplace, probably Tudor. A worn carpet of many colours, shabby upholstered chairs of different styles, an empty vase on a piecrust table with a crack across its top. Curtains which looked as if they’d shred at a touch. Dust motes dancing in the air as the sun made its way through latticed windows.

  To set against this picture of mild decay, the walls had been painted within recent memory and modern central heating installed. Also, there was a huge, modern plasma screen and state-of-the-art stereo system which must have cost a small fortune. Bea wondered if they were ‘his’ or ‘hers’.

  The lady of the house threw herself into an armchair before the empty fireplace. She didn’t suggest that they seat themselves but Bea did so, anyway. Zander hovered and then sat as well.

  Their hostess sighed. ‘I suppose I’d better check that you haven’t pinched anything on the way over. Bring the stuff in here, and set it out on the table.’

  Zander got up without a word and went to fetch the box, taking everything out of it and placing it on the table beside Lady Honoria.

  Bea understood that the woman was intent on breaking Zander down. Fetch this, go there, do that, keep your mouth shut. Oh yes, Lady Honoria knew what she was doing all right. She ignored Bea, who kept quiet and used her eyes.

  ‘Is that a chip off the bronze? I shall hold you responsible for any damage . . . No, I suppose it’s all right. Put it on the window sill over there . . . No, not that window, stupid! The other one. An inch to the right. Now turn it slightly . . . Haven’t you the sense to see that it should face the room, not the outside world? Do I have to do everything myself?’

  Zander was becoming clumsy under these directions. Bea really had to hand it to the woman; she was a bully, but a successful one. The place was clean enough, so presumably she was able to get someone in to do the dirty work for her. Bea hoped the cleaner exacted double pay for putting up with the woman.

  Zander returned to his s
eat, looking pale rather than red.

  The lady of the house surveyed him from top to toe, and said, ‘Humph. So you’re the creature who drove Denzil to his death, eh?’

  Zander muttered that he’d had no such intention.

  ‘What? Speak up, don’t mumble. I can’t be doing with people who swallow their words. Now; did you or did you not, totally without proof, accuse my husband of fraud?’

  ‘I–I asked the directors about a discrepancy which—’

  ‘You had no proof.’

  Zander swallowed, his colour receding further. He shook his head. ‘But –’ he was trying to fight back – ‘when I asked if he’d show his bank statements to—’

  ‘How dare you try to justify your actions! You knew any strain might bring on a heart attack—’

  ‘No, I—’

  ‘Don’t you dare contradict me. It was common knowledge. You must have known. Everyone did. It was you and you alone who drove him to his death. Admit it!’

  Zander bowed his head. ‘I did what I thought was right.’

  ‘No, you didn’t. You didn’t think. I doubt if you are able to. What you saw was an opportunity to embarrass a fine, hard-working man in front of his peers. So without asking him, without giving him any opportunity to explain, you went behind his back in an effort to destroy his reputation, everything that he stood for. Out of envy! Jealousy! Heaven forgive you, for I doubt if I ever shall.’

  Zander was silent. Hands twisting, eyes on the carpet. Every word striking him like physical blows.

  Bea wanted to intervene but couldn’t think what to say. Dear Lord, she’s flaying him alive. Please, give me something to say, to deflect her. God was silent. Or perhaps she wasn’t listening hard enough?

  Lady Honoria threw herself back in her chair, and exhaled. ‘I suppose you think that if you apologize I’ll forgive you, but I’m not made like that. Forgiveness has to be earned, and so far I’ve seen nothing to persuade me that you are sincerely sorry for what you’ve done and want to make amends.’

  Zander frowned, looking up. ‘Amends?’

  ‘Well, I am not one to hold a grudge against a man of poor education and little sense. I don’t suppose you’ve ever been taught the meaning of loyalty, or discretion.’

  Zander winced.

  ‘The directors have begged me not to prosecute. At first I was very inclined to ask for my pound of flesh, but they have persuaded me to consider another option. I am to take my husband’s place at the Trust, with a proper salary, of course. Three days a week, in charge of maintenance, with a brief to find a cheaper firm than Corcorans for all the maintenance work.’

  Zander gave her a steady look, difficult to read. Was this the price the directors were having to pay to hush the death up?

  She sighed. ‘How I shall miss him, my dear, dear husband. But work, they tell me, is a great help in times of grief. I start next week. So now we have to decide what to do with you, eh? Do I keep you on or let you go?’

  Zander frowned. She was playing with him, cat and mouse. If he was kept on to work for her, she’d make his life miserable. Could he bear it? Should he? ‘I don’t think—’

  ‘You’re not required to think. On balance I think you should stay on. How else can you make amends, Sander?’ She made the ‘s’ quite clear.

  ‘Zander,’ he said. ‘With a ‘z’. It’s a contraction of my Christian name, Alexander.’

  ‘I shall call you the Sand Boy. Easier to remember. It reminds me of all the work that still needs doing in this old place, sanding down old paintwork, then putting on the primers, the undercoats and finally the top coats. My dear husband never would take more than expenses from the Trust, but now I’m going to work for them, for a proper wage, I’ll be able to get some more repairs done. Sander. It suits you. A manual labourer. Well, I think that’s all. I shall expect to see you at the office on Monday morning next.’

  Zander rose to his feet, clearly torn between throwing the job back at her and remembering how much he’d enjoyed it at first.

  Lady H also got to her feet. ‘In future you’ll leave all decisions about who the Trust employs to me, right? You stick to making the tea and running errands, and I’m sure we’ll get on very well.’

  He wasn’t finished yet. ‘I will have to think about this. Perhaps it would be better to make a clean break.’

  She put steel into her voice. ‘Oh, you owe me, Sander. You owe me big time. And by the way, they’re docking your salary to help pay for my services. A very reasonable adjustment, I thought.’

  He was dignity itself. ‘I will give you my decision after the weekend. Meanwhile, will you sign for your husband’s belongings? I made out a list in duplicate.’

  She narrowed her eyes at him but signed one copy with a scrawl, before giving it back to him. ‘Wait a minute; where’s his briefcase?’

  Zander frowned. ‘It wasn’t in his office when we cleared it.’

  ‘It’s not in his car. I looked.’ Her lips thinned even further. She was not pleased. ‘Well, you’d better find it for me on Monday.’ She said no more and let them out through the hall into the sunshine.

  As the door thudded to behind them, both Bea and Zander let out a sigh of relief. Zander wriggled his shoulders. ‘I rather think I’ve had enough of the aristocracy.’

  Oliver had had an errand to run in the village below and had taken the car with him, so Bea and Zander set out to walk down the hill.

  Bea said, ‘The members of the aristocracy that I’ve met have perfect manners. She is definitely not typical. EPNS rather than solid silver, perhaps?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She reminds me of electroplated nickel silver. It looks real but isn’t.’

  ‘Ah, yes. My gran had some. The silver wears off eventually, doesn’t it?’

  Bea was annoyed with herself for wearing the wrong shoes. This particular pair had a nasty habit of rubbing her left big toe, and she had difficulty keeping up with Zander, who was sensibly shod for walking in the country. ‘I suggest you let me photocopy the list she signed, just in case. By the way, I thought you kept your temper admirably.’

  He rolled his shoulders. ‘She’s a sadist. She’d take pleasure in destroying me, if I worked for her.’ A flicker of a smile. ‘I begin to have some sympathy for her husband.’

  Bea set her teeth, remembering how the woman had called Zander ‘a chocolate box’. And referred to him as ‘it’. ‘Oliver and I will find you another job.’

  He lifted his head, breathing deeply. ‘That would be the easiest thing to do. But would it be right? If I went, wouldn’t I always wonder . . .? I do owe her something, when all is said and done.’

  They didn’t speak again till they reached the car, parked under some trees opposite a pub. No Oliver. Ah, here he came down the road, smiling and clutching a plastic bag full of apples.

  Neither Bea nor Zander were smiling. Bea was kicking herself for keeping quiet throughout the interview. Why hadn’t she stood up for Zander when he was being used as a football?

  ‘Lighten up, you two,’ Oliver said, unlocking the car and putting the apples inside. ‘Lunchtime, and the pub’s got a decent menu.’

  Zander hesitated. ‘I’m not sure I fancy any food. I feel as if I’ve just been handed a black spot – that was the sign that you were marked out for death in Treasure Island, wasn’t it?’

  Oliver grinned. ‘Did she make your blood run cold? That’s nothing to what the locals say about her. I’ve been chatting to the lady who was selling these windfalls. Want to hear her take on the Lady of the Manor?’

  Bea took Zander’s arm. ‘Everything will look better after we’ve eaten. Come on, Zander; Oliver’s hungry.’

  Saturday noon

  Honoria locked and bolted the front door behind her visitors, thinking that the Chocolate Boy wouldn’t give her any more trouble. She knew his sort. They needed to be shown who was boss. They might need a twitch on the leash now and then, but when all was done and dusted, he would do as he was told
in future.

  The nerve of him, asking her to sign a receipt for Denzil’s bits and pieces! Although, come to think of it, the statuette was worth a bit. Not that she’d ever cared for it. But maybe, just maybe, she could find another use for it? She smiled. Yes, why not?

  Now, back to business. Luckily Denzil had had his electronic notepad in his car when he died. She’d grudged him the money he’d spent on it at the time, but there . . . he’d had to have the very latest to show off with, hadn’t he?

  Had he really thought using a password would stop people accessing his files? What an idiot! She’d known for ever that he used the name of whichever bit of fluff appealed to him at the time. Recently it had been ‘Kylie’.

  Kylie! The very name of the chit sent her blood pressure up. Well, one of these days she was going to deal with Kylie.

  Once into the system, she’d been horrified to find so much soft porn. She hadn’t realized just how far he’d gone down that road, downloading pictures of young girls. Disgusting! Delete, delete. The only file she’d kept was the one for his staff records. Knowing the way his mind worked, it hadn’t been hard to discover which file contained the home addresses and telephone numbers and hours worked for everyone who worked for the Trust, and she needed those for getting even with people who’d tried to wrong her.

  Soon, very soon, she was going to make them pay for it.

  THREE

  Saturday noon

  The pub had a Georgian frontage, but the building behind it was ancient, consisting of a series of small rooms on different levels. An extensive garden at the back boasted a stretch of lawn dotted with picnic tables, each with its own umbrella. All the tables were occupied on this fine summer’s day.

  Bea found her appetite had returned and enthusiastically ordered a steak and kidney pie with vegetables, but she refused to sit outside in the sun. ‘Ants,’ she said. ‘Wasps. If there are any within fifty miles, they’ll make straight for me. No, we’ll find ourselves a table inside like civilized people.’