False Pride Page 9

  ‘If the different members of the family are so alike physically, could it be one of the more distant cousins who’s landed in hospital? There are others, aren’t there?’

  ‘No, no. Ridiculous!’

  Bea wasn’t so sure. There was a ring at the doorbell. That would be the police. She said, ‘Piers, will you answer that? I expect the police will want to interview each of us separately. Magda, you won’t be able to stay on here afterwards. When they’ve finished with you, would you like to come back with me for a few nights till you can get yourself sorted out? Here’s my card. I may be released before you in which case I’ll probably have gone home. You can get a taxi and follow. Ring me on my mobile when you’re on your way, right?’

  They all three turned to the door but nothing happened, except that the doorbell rang again, twice. Meaning it. Bea saw that Piers hadn’t moved.

  Magda said, ‘I’ll go,’ and disappeared into the hall.

  Piers was lolling in his chair, eyes closed and limbs relaxed. Bea hesitated. There’d been a niggle at the back of her mind ever since she’d found Piers lying asleep on Lucas’s bed that morning. He’d said he was just having forty winks, but … surely there was no need to worry about Piers, was there? Except, of course, he had been hit on the head.

  And, he’d winked at her. At least, she thought that was what he’d done. Was he shamming illness, or did he need to be returned to hospital?

  Magda let a couple of police constables into the hall. One man, one woman. Magda introduced everyone by name, saying that Mrs Tarring was her boss, and that Bea and Piers were just friends.

  Bea kept quiet.

  Magda waited for Bea or Mrs Tarring to say something, but they didn’t, so she went on, ‘Yes, well. We did find a body. In my bed. Would you like to see?’ She led the way out of the room and up the stairs.

  Bea checked on Piers. ‘Piers?’ She shook his arm, and he woke, slowly. And treated her to another wink. Then he washed his face with his hands. ‘Can’t a man close his eyes for a minute around here?’

  ‘No,’ she said, pushing his chin back so that she could check on his eyes. Were the pupils dilated? She couldn’t be sure. ‘You have been concussed. The hospital ought not to have let you go. You need to be monitored to make sure you’re not developing any serious symptoms.’

  He yawned. ‘I’m perfectly all right. I am not, repeat not, going to go back to hospital. Have the plod arrived?’

  Had he not heard the doorbell?

  She looked at her watch. ‘No argument. You ought never to have been discharged. I’m taking you back there, now.’

  ‘No way!’ He tried to get up, and made it at the second attempt.

  She said, ‘I insist. And, I’m coming with you, to make sure you get seen.’

  Mrs Tarring rose from her chair, looking upset. ‘Oh, the poor man. But really, you can’t walk out now. You can’t go anywhere till the police have finished with us.’

  Bea said, ‘Piers is suffering from concussion and I’m taking him back to hospital. You can tell the police what they need to know. You know far more about what’s happening than we do, anyway. We’re just unfortunate bystanders. Don’t forget to remind the police of the tie-up with the assault at Piers’s studio this morning.’ She got out her mobile and summoned a taxi to take them to the nearest hospital with an A & E department.

  Mrs Tarring took a few steps to the door, and back again in agitation. ‘You can’t go till the police have taken your statement. I won’t let you.’

  ‘Watch me,’ said Bea again, putting her mobile away and picking up her handbag.

  There were noises off as the police descended, also on their phones, calling for back-up and Forensics and goodness knows what else. They went out of the front door, and returned. And clattered up the stairs again.

  Piers remained seated, head hanging, until Bea judged that the way out was clear. Then, over Mrs Tarring’s protestations, Bea pulled Piers to his feet and steered him across the hall, down the stairs and out into the fresh air. The taxi drove up and she put him into it, asking the driver to take them to the nearest A & E department.

  Piers sat with his eyes closed throughout the journey. She sat beside him, holding his hand till they were decanted at the hospital. She got him out, leaned him against the wall, and paid off the taxi.

  ‘Now!’ she said, turning on Piers.

  He bounced upright, grinning. Fully alive and full of energy. He swept his hands back through his hair, and adjusted the collar of his shirt. ‘Home from home. This is where they brought me this morning. The coffee bar is at the far end. We can use the facilities and have a cuppa before we go off again. It’s time we tracked down the elusive Rycrofts, don’t you think?’

  She had to smile. ‘I do. Sorry I took so long to work it out that you were acting concussed, although,’ she gave him a close look, ‘I’m not entirely sure that you were.’

  ‘I did hit my head, and I did feel dazed for a bit, but I’m not sitting around for hours in a hospital while I feel all right.’ He led the way into the hospital, indicated where the coffee bar was, and said he’d have an Americano and a sausage baguette, which proved to her that his stomach was in order, even if his head wasn’t. She had a latte and an egg sandwich.

  Over food she said, ‘You know something about the Rycrofts? Something you weren’t prepared to share with Magda and Mrs T?’

  ‘Correct. Oh, boy! What a can of worms! Look, when I was first contacted about painting Lucas, I didn’t much want to do it. Another dull academic, I thought. I’d got enough on as it was. You remember I told you that the twins knocked a couple of my half-finished paintings about? I’ve enough work on to keep me busy for another year, maybe eighteen months. I could murder those twins! All those hours of work! Ah well. Anyway, I was grumbling to one of my old friends about being asked to fit Lucas into my schedule, and he said he’d heard some amusing gossip about the Rycroft family. He wouldn’t say what it was and, when I asked, he clammed up. Naturally that intrigued me.

  ‘So, I put my thinking cap on, and wondered who I could ask. People do tell me all sorts, you know. Mostly it goes in one ear and out the other. I believe hairdressers get exposed to the same treatment. That weekend I met an old friend at an exhibition and she, Lady Catherine – the one I was supposed to be meeting for lunch today – was happy to share what she knew with me. A delightful woman. I’m distressed that I had to stand her up for lunch today. She will be quite cross with me, and I shall no doubt come in for a scolding. She’s coming up to ninety years old, by the way, so you needn’t be jealous.’

  Bea suppressed an urge to hit him. ‘Go on. What did she know, and how did she know it?’

  ‘Mrs T was discretion itself when talking about the Rycrofts, wasn’t she? Or maybe she really doesn’t know. Perhaps it was before her time? Lord Rycroft, descendant of generations of blameless landowners and shrewd investors in this and that, had done the expected thing in his twenties and married a suitable heiress. Between them they produced the equally blameless and trustworthy Kent. But upon his wife dying early, the old lord broke with tradition and fell for … wait for it … a dancer! Not that I have anything against dancers, you understand. I have known many, and painted a few. Admirable creatures, driven by their talent. They don’t think about much else. However, Melisande – that’s what she called herself – had only one talent, and that wasn’t for dancing. Lord Rycroft was besotted. He married her, bedecked her with pearls, and took her everywhere.’

  ‘Owen was the result of this second marriage?’

  ‘You’re going too fast. Lord Rycroft may have been a terror in the boardroom – though my friend indicated he was more of a pussycat than a tiger, hence his handing over the Rycroft estate to a trust fund – but it seems he failed to satisfy his new bride in the bedroom. She began to bestow her favours elsewhere, starting with her husband’s two brothers, Lucas and Nicholas.’

  ‘Lucas! You astound me! From what Magda said about him … Wait a minut
e! When did all this happen?’

  ‘Twenty-odd years ago. Lady Catherine told me about it because I’d asked her if she knew anything about Lucas, and of course she did. She said that the liaison with Lucas hadn’t lasted long and had soured him for life … hence he’d never married, nor had his name been linked with another woman. After she’d tasted and abandoned Lucas, Melisande had moved on to the youngest of the brothers, Nicholas. He already had a wife and twin boys … that’s Tweedledum and Tweedledee. Oh, by the way, Mrs Nicholas is said to have knocked her husband about a bit before, during and after their marriage.’

  ‘No!’ Bea grinned. ‘Good for her!’

  ‘Mm. Well. Maybe. The dancer eventually got tired of Nicholas, or Mrs Nicholas warned her off, I don’t know which. The dancer moved on, and Nicholas turned to drink. This is all gossip, you understand. It may not be true.’

  ‘It sounds true.’ Bea smothered a laugh. ‘Mrs T did imply that Mrs Nicholas was a hefty creature.’

  ‘Quite so. But that’s not all. Brace yourself, for there’s worse to come. Melisande’s next conquest was a playboy much younger than herself, who was found stabbed to death in his car at the races. You can imagine the scandal! She was charged with murder but got off on a technicality, though everyone believed she was guilty. After the trial she disappeared for a couple of months, only to reappear with baby Owen in tow. She said he was a Rycroft, but that she personally had no idea which of the three brothers might have been responsible. As the boy had been born before Lord Rycroft divorced her, the boy is technically – and maybe correctly – her husband’s legitimate son.’

  ‘His Lordship didn’t ask for a DNA test to decide which brother had been responsible?’

  ‘I’m not sure that scientists then could distinguish between the offspring of three brothers, could they? Anyway, he didn’t. He was so shattered, so humiliated, that he paid her off. He became paranoid about publicity. He believes that the merest hint of scandal, a parking or speeding ticket, for instance, and the papers would rake up the whole sorry story all over again.’

  ‘Hurt pride. So that’s why Melisande went to Australia, to get away from the scandal?’

  ‘With her son. She married again. Nobody here gave the child a thought until he reappeared some months ago, saying his mother had died and he was claiming his birthright. Lady Catherine made me promise to tell her what, if anything, happens next.’ He rubbed his hands. ‘She’ll be thrilled to hear the latest instalment.’

  Bea was thoughtful. ‘It does rather look as if it were Owen’s arrival which upset the status quo in the Rycroft family. Talk about letting the fox into the henhouse! Magda says one moment everything was sweetness and light, and the next, every member of the family was on to Lucas to do something. Lucas refused to take action. Magda said she had heard that the old lord was going gaga, but somehow I think that was a red herring and the real problem was what to do about Owen.’

  Piers said, ‘You know, I’d imagined, from what I’d heard of Lucas, that he was a somewhat weak character, a small-time academic who wouldn’t repay my attention. I’d half decided not to accept the commission, but Lady Catherine said she thought Lucas had developed into an interesting man, and that I should meet him before I decided. So that’s what I did. I wonder what he really is like.’

  Bea mused, ‘Owen doesn’t seem to have been a very pleasant character, and what’s more, whatever his ambiguous background, he must be considered, legally, as the younger son of the old lord. This means that on his arrival there would be one more claimant on the resources of the Rycroft purse. We know the twins were agitating for more money, even before he came. I suppose they might have thought that if Owen were out of the way … but no, I really don’t believe that they would have laid him out on Magda’s bed after they’d killed him. It would be more their style to bash him over the head, and leave him wherever it was they’d found him … or perhaps they’d dump the body in a dark alley and try to make out his death was a robbery gone wrong. No, putting it into Magda’s bed was malicious and … and yes, it was sly.’

  ‘Owen was suffocated, wasn’t he?’

  ‘It looked like it. Not recently. He was quite cold, and limp. There’ll have to be an autopsy. I really don’t understand what’s happening. First Lucas disappears, and then Owen turns up dead. And Kent? If it wasn’t Kent who’s been laid out cold at your studio, then who is it?’

  Piers shrugged. ‘Mrs Tarring can identify him, I assume. Or his father.’

  ‘But where is Lord Rycroft? Shouldn’t he have arrived in London by now and have picked up his messages? What a mess.’

  ‘Hang about …’ He disappeared down a corridor, reappearing with a notebook and pen. ‘Bought from the shop. I’ll draw my victim for you.’

  ‘That’s no good. I’ve never seen Kent, remember?’

  Piers ignored that. He concentrated, swiftly sketching the head of a youngish man with a short beard. His eyes were closed, his hair dishevelled. ‘His face was untouched. Only the back of his head was … you know. Shall I draw you the twins as well?’

  Bea shuddered. ‘What for? I mean, I’ve met them. Once seen …’

  ‘Mm.’ He turned a page and sketched them in, saying, ‘I looked Lucas up on Facebook at one point. An academic of some standing. Belongs to this and that revered art institution. Publishes papers. Is asked to go on committees. I could only find his likeness in a group photograph, taken somewhere in Italy. Big man, standing at the back. Indistinct features. Clean-shaven. Fair hair. That’s as far as I could go.’ He threw the notebook onto the table.

  Bea said, ‘We have to find someone who knows the family and can identify your body.’

  With some difficulty Piers extracted pieces of a smashed phone from his pocket and laid them on the table. ‘If I could resurrect my phone, we could start asking around. Have you any idea how to extract a SIM card from one phone and put it in another?’

  She picked up her handbag. ‘Let’s find a mobile phone shop and let them do it for us.’

  Bea’s phone rang.

  It was a woman’s voice on the phone. Bea thought she knew it but couldn’t put a name to the person for a moment. ‘Bea? Are you there? We’ve been waiting and waiting. Have you had an accident? Is my little daughter all right? We’re worried half out of our wits.’

  It was Bernice’s mother, in a state! With a start, Bea remembered that she’d planned to take Bernice over to see her mother, stepfather, and delightful but noisy baby half-brother that afternoon. When Bernice had rung to say she was on her way down to the south coast, Bea had told the child to ring her mother and make her apologies. Bernice had failed to do so?

  ‘I’m really sorry,’ said Bea. ‘Bernice rang me this morning to say she was on her way down to the Isle of Wight with her best friend, as they’d been invited to go sailing this weekend. I was not best pleased, as you can imagine, as we had made plans to visit you and we have tickets for the theatre tonight. I asked her to speak to you direct to apologize. She ought not have altered our arrangements without permission, and I’m going to have to have words with her about that. Do I take it that she hasn’t rung you?’

  No, of course she hadn’t.

  ‘Oh dear, oh dear. She can be so very headstrong.’

  ‘Too much so.’ Bea would very much like to wring the child’s neck. Well, not exactly that, but … ‘Trust me, she won’t do this again.’

  ‘We stayed in all afternoon, waiting for her.’ Bernice’s mother was a sweetie, but she did tend to whinge rather than shout and scream when upset.

  Bea said, ‘Lord Morton has taken her down to the south coast with his granddaughter. They’re staying somewhere on the Isle of Wight. I’ve spoken to their hostess for the weekend. She promised to take good care of them.’

  ‘I’m afraid Bernice just doesn’t think! Which is all very well, but—’

  ‘I agree. It doesn’t excuse her behaviour. I’ll get her to ring you as soon as she gets back. Also, I think she should write
you a note of apology.’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t want you to go to extra trouble. I mean, she is a lovely girl, if a bit wilful. I mean, I wouldn’t want her to be punished or anything.’

  Bea set her teeth. Letting Bernice act as she pleased was no way to show her how to get along with other people. ‘I’ll let her decide her own punishment. All right?’

  ‘You won’t be too harsh on her, will you?’

  ‘No, I won’t.’ Bea clicked off her phone.

  Piers seemed to find the situation amusing. Bea said, in her sharpest tone, ‘You try bringing up a lively youngster who knows she’s got more brains in her little finger than most people have in their whole bodies—’

  ‘And the knowledge that when she grows up she could buy up half of Mayfair without feeling it? A fearsome prospect for any parent. I gather her own mother can’t cope.’

  Bea sighed. ‘No, she can’t. She’d let Bernice walk all over her.’

  Piers said, ‘I must meet this ward of yours one of these days.’ He didn’t mean it.

  ‘It is a relief,’ said Bea, feeling disagreeable, ‘to recall that you have never been interested in children.’

  His eyebrows peaked. ‘Touché.’ He’d never been particularly interested in their one and only child until the boy had grown up and gone out into the world. ‘Shall we go?’

  EIGHT

  Saturday late afternoon

  They took another taxi to the nearest shopping centre and, while Piers busied himself selecting a new phone and getting the SIM card transferred, Bea found a seat in a nearby coffee shop, ordered a drink which she did not need and delved into Lucas’s address book which, surprise!, had somehow found its way into her capacious handbag.

  Soon enough Piers arrived, scowling at the price he’d been asked to pay for his new phone. The first thing he said was, ‘Shouldn’t you have turned that book over to the police?’