House of Lies

by Terry Lynn Thomas

‘What if they think I’m the one who stole it? What if they think I had second thoughts, and returned the chalice out of guilt?’

  ‘Don’t tell them.’ Vera put the chalice back in the rucksack, which she zipped up and tucked under the table out of sight. After arranging the plates and putting the food on the table, she sat down and started to serve them.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just take it back to the house and leave it on the doorstep. You can wait in the bushes to make sure no one interferes. No need to explain yourself. Once the chalice is safely back in the house where it belongs, you creep away with no one the wiser.’

  ‘Which still leaves me at Margaret’s mercy.’

  ‘Oh, but it doesn’t,’ Vera said. ‘Margaret doesn’t need to know you returned the chalice. In fact, best for her to think you’ve got it hidden somewhere. I know it’s not true vengeance for your dead friend, but at least you have the satisfaction of making your wife uncomfortable.’

  ‘You’re brilliant,’ Hugh said.

  ‘Not brilliant. Just sensible,’ Vera said. ‘I feel guilty at being so petty. But I’ve lived with a husband who has betrayed me over and over. Vengeance is against God’s will, I know that. But sometimes …’ Hugh understood what she meant. He squeezed her hand, grateful when she didn’t pull it away.

  They ate in comfortable silence. When they finished and Vera had stacked the plates in the sink, Hugh said, ‘Tell me about George.’

  Vera turned and met his eyes, an expression on her face that he couldn’t place. Worry? Guilt? She wouldn’t meet Hugh’s eyes. Instead she folded her hands on her lap and looked down. The shame she carried broke Hugh’s heart. He wanted to reach out and take her hand, but he didn’t, opting instead to stay quiet while she told her story.

  ‘I’ve never told anyone this.’ Her voice had a jagged quality to it. She cleared her throat and found her voice. ‘The weekend that we married, George had an affair with a 19-year-old shop girl. I caught them in the act. I’ve never been so humiliated in my life. George confessed, explaining the girl seduced him. I was so young and foolish. George was so handsome back then. I wanted to believe everything he told me. In fact, as I look back, I remember being amazed that a man like him would love me. I forgave him and tried to forget about the incident. He assured me it would never happen again.

  ‘He worked for my father at the furniture store, until one day he came home and said he had taken another job and that we were moving. He demanded I sell this house, but I didn’t. I found out later he had been stealing from my parents. They didn’t want to tell me.’ Vera shook her head. ‘We moved to Hendleigh for a while, but soon George lost that job, too. I had my small income from my grandmother, which kept food on the table, but we struggled. And fought. The war did something to George, I think. There were times when he seemed to just lose his reason. We no sooner moved to Hendleigh, than I heard George had gotten a young girl pregnant.

  ‘I hated my husband, hated myself for being such a fool. One night George went to the pub, I packed my bag and came here, fully expecting to never see George again.’

  ‘Obviously he came back to you,’ Hugh said.

  Vera looked up, meeting Hugh’s eyes for the first time. ‘I can’t take this anymore, Hugh.’

  She wept. Without thinking, Hugh pulled Vera to her feet, wrapped his arms around her, and kissed away her tears.

  ‘We’ll get through it, Vera. I love you. It’s like no time has passed. I won’t let you get away again.’

  She sobbed again, as a fresh wave of grief washed over her. He let her cry, holding her and comforting her all the while.

  ‘Tell me you love me, Vera,’ he whispered in her ear.

  ‘Of course I love you. I’ve never stopped’ She wrapped her arms him and buried her face in his chest. Finally, shaking her head, she pushed away from him. ‘I’m sorry.’ She wiped the tears with the back of her hand. ‘I can’t.’

  Chapter 13

  Alex tucked himself between two overgrown hawthorn bushes and waited in the cover of darkness for Margaret Bettencourt. The night was quiet, save for a pair of owls who hooted at each other every few minutes. Alex longed to extricate himself from Michael Grenville’s clutches. Under normal circumstances, once he had the chalice safely in hand, he’d slip away and never be heard from again. But Margaret Bettencourt had changed that scenario.

  Like a fool, Alex had allowed Margaret to manipulate her way into his world, turning his simple existence entirely upside down. Careful to keep her at arm’s length with regard to his business dealings, they had spent an intoxicating weekend together in Edinburgh in an opulent hotel under the name of Mr and Mrs Peter Smith before coming to Rivenby. Alex didn’t like small villages, preferring the anonymity of London or Edinburgh. The last thing he wanted was to be noticed. That wouldn’t do at all.

  Replaying the series of events that had enabled Margaret to finagle her way into his work life, Alex recalled the day he got the telephone call with the information about the chalice. She had been in the bathtub, doing all the things with potions and unguents designed to keep her looking young. He didn’t give her a second thought as he wrote down the logistics of the job, the name of the man to whom he would deliver the chalice and the address of Stephen Templeton, the vicar who had the chalice now. He hadn’t realised Margaret was stood behind him, eavesdropping. After Alex hung up the phone and tucked the piece of paper into his jacket pocket. Margaret stepped close to him, a sultry smile on her beautiful face.

  ‘Who were you talking to?’

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t sneak up on me. No one important. Work. You smell divine.’ When she didn’t answer him, he met her eyes, surprised by the look of sheer rage he saw there. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘I heard what you said. Who’s Thomas Charles?’ Margaret’s voice became shrill, the portent of yet another emotional storm. Alex – in a metaphorical attempt to batten down the hatches – held up his hands in supplication as he stepped away from Margaret. ‘You need to stop eavesdropping on my conversations, Margaret. That was a work phone call. It doesn’t concern you.’

  She nodded at his coat pocket where the piece of paper lay. ‘Thomas Charles? In Rivenby? What is your business with him?’

  ‘You know this man?’ Alex realised he had made an egregious error and had underestimated Margaret.

  ‘Let’s just say dear Mr Charles has something that belongs to me. You’re going to steal from him, aren’t you?’ She crossed her arms, allowing her dressing gown to fall open, revealing a bare shoulder and just enough of her breast to titillate. ‘He’s quick, smart and – no offence, darling – much more powerful than you will ever be. Bet your friend on the telephone didn’t tell you that.’

  Alex had learned early on it was easier to just let Margaret have her way than try to dissuade her. When she had come up with the idea of burying the chalice in the woods, he had been duly impressed. ‘What if this Mr Grenville takes the chalice from you and doesn’t pay? Best not to turn the chalice over until you’re holding the money.’ In hindsight, Alex realised he had been so busy focusing on the job at hand, he had failed to notice Margaret’s increasingly erratic behaviour.

  Their plan had gone off perfectly. The chalice had been removed from Thomas Charles’s house in less than five minutes. Now they were going to retrieve it, so Alex could give the chalice to Michael Grenville and get his money. Once Alex had the chalice in hand, he would have to find a way to escape Margaret once and for all.

  Where was she? It started to rain, more like a gentle mist, pretty to look at but chilling to the bones.

  ‘Over here, darling.’ Margaret stepped into the moonlight, dressed head to toe in black, her hair pulled back from her exquisite face and held in place with a dark scarf. God, she was beautiful. He felt the familiar stirring as she walked up to him and stood on her tiptoes to be kissed. ‘I’ve had the most marvellous day of rest. Saint Monica’s is a really lovely home.’

  ‘And the woman who owns it just to
ok you in out of the blue?’ Alex hoped she wouldn’t detect the incredulity in his voice.

  ‘She did.’ Margaret twirled like a schoolgirl in a new skirt. ‘I’ve got the loveliest room, with lots of light and a silk counterpane. And the cook – she’s rather surly, but she is masterful in the kitchen.’

  Stepping close, he took Margaret into his arms and whispered into her ear, letting his lips linger there. Gently touching Margaret’s cheek – she responded to physical affection like a spoiled cat – he said, ‘Keep the noise down, love. Let’s get what we’ve come for and get out of here.’

  Margaret took his hand and led him through the woods. ‘What I wouldn’t give to see the look on Thomas Charles’s face when he discovers his precious chalice is missing.’

  ‘Why do you hate him so?’

  ‘Never mind that, darling. That’s a story for another day. The minute I get the money, we’ll get out of here. Where shall we go?’ He lied easily, knowing that he was going to have to slip away from her.

  Alex stepped over the trunk of a toppled tree, offering his hand to Margaret. She took it and jumped over, spry as a deer. Margaret tightened her grip on his hand. As if reading his mind, she said, ‘You’re not going to leave me, Alex. I won’t let you.’

  Just then the moonlight bathed the fine planes of Margaret’s face. Alex met her eyes and saw the steely determination there, along with something wild and unfathomable. Good god, I’m afraid of her. Taken aback by this revelation, Alex acknowledged Margaret Bettencourt had some sort of an agenda, and his stupidity had allowed her to use him to carry it out. Maybe Margaret was after Thomas Charles. Maybe she was simply on a reckless thrill-seeking mission. Her motivations didn’t matter. Alex had to get away from her before she ruined him.

  They trudged along in the moonlight for a good ten minutes before Margaret pushed Alex aside and walked ahead of him on the narrow path. Through the bushes he could see the outline of Thomas Charles’s house, Heart’s Desire, against the night sky. The windows were dark from the blackout curtains.

  ‘Oh, my god,’ Margaret cried out, as she broke into a run. She came to a stop by a pile of dirt. Alex stood beside her, and together they stared into the empty gaping hole.

  ‘I cannot believe this. The bastard. He took it.’ She kicked at the mound of dirt before she turned and strode towards the house. She had just stepped onto the large expansive lawn, in plain view of anyone who cared to look out one of the many windows that faced it, when Alex caught up with her. He grabbed her hand and pulled her back into the bushes.

  ‘Let go of me.’ Her shrill voice cut through the night, silencing the rustling nocturnal creatures. She broke free from Alex and kept running. He hurried after her, this time wrapping his arms around her from behind and holding her fast. As he picked her up and carried her back to the protection of the woods, she started to scream. As soon as they reached cover, Alex pushed Margaret against a tree and used one hand to cover her mouth. He nearly screamed himself when she sank her teeth into the fleshy skin of his palm.

  ‘Be quiet. Do you want them to hear us?’ He waited until she stilled in his arms. ‘If I take my hand away will you keep quiet? If you scream, I’m leaving. I mean it, Margaret. I’ll throw you to the ground and disappear into the night. You’ll never hear from me again. Do not think for one minute you can outsmart me.’ He took his hand away but kept her arms pinned, just in case she decided to dart back towards the house.

  ‘I’m sorry. He makes me so mad.’

  He turned her to face him. ‘Who is Thomas, Margaret? Tell me.’

  Her eyes blazed with unabashed hatred. ‘He’s my brother. And he stole my inheritance.’

  Her brother? Oh, god. What had he done? For the first time in his entire adult life and professional career, Alex acknowledged the error of allowing Margaret to get close to him.

  ‘This is what we need to do.’ She spoke quickly, her words merging together in one long maniacal rant. ‘We’ll rob him. Yes. That’s it. When he leaves the house in the morning, you will attack him from behind. Not too bad, just enough to knock him out. Then I’ll steal his keys …’

  Careful to keep his voice low and calm, Alex rubbed her arms in a slow, sensuous movement. ‘Listen to me.’

  She stopped talking, but her eyes were wild. He kept stroking her, as if trying to calm a frightened animal.

  ‘Of course I’ll help you,’ Alex lied easily. ‘But I won’t be part of your plot to seek revenge. Seeking revenge will get us caught.’ He kissed Margaret’s forehead. ‘It will be all right. We both need a good night’s rest. Let me see you back to Saint Monica’s, and we can decide how to proceed tomorrow.’ He interrupted her before she could continue, stepping close and pulling her to him. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll get the chalice back.’

  ‘I don’t care about the chalice,’ Margaret hissed. ‘My brother needs to pay for what he’s done.’ She grabbed Alex’s arm, harder this time, her fingers like claws, relentless hooks that would surely trap him if he didn’t extricate himself from this situation.

  Alex took a deep calming breath. With a gentle touch, he cupped Margaret’s chin, and spoke to her in a gentle, coaxing voice. ‘Let me do my job. Then we can discuss your brother. How does that sound?’

  With a violent shift her mood changed. The wild recklessness replaced by utter sorrow. Her body weakened. The tears came. She sobbed so hard her shoulders shook. Not knowing what else to do, Alex took her in his arms and cradled her like a child. ‘Don’t cry, Margaret. Everything will be all right. I promise.’

  When she stopped crying, he dried her tears and, taking her hand, led her through the woods back to Saint Monica’s, neither of them speaking. When they arrived at the clearing near the house, Alex kissed her forehead, careful not to trigger another emotional tirade.

  ‘Sleep well, my love. Come to me tomorrow.’ Alex waited until Margaret slipped into the kitchen door, knowing that he would never see her again. As he walked back to the cottage, he made plans. He would pack quickly and find another place to stay, a safe place where Margaret couldn’t find him. Then he would figure out his next move. Margaret’s mental state gave him pause. The poor thing needed medical help. Her brother would need to be warned. Alex exhaled. Things had become very complicated indeed.

  Chapter 14

  ‘I’m leaving her sliced bread and butter. She needs to eat, but I don’t want her cooking in my kitchen,’ Bede had said. ‘She’ll have to make her own tea. Aren’t you worried about leaving her here alone?’

  ‘Not really,’ Cat said. She wove her arm through Bede’s as the two women stepped out of Saint Monica’s and hurried down the lane to the bus.

  ‘You are a trusting soul, Mrs Carlisle,’ Bede said.

  ‘Bede, you liked Margaret just fine when she was praising your cooking.’

  ‘I couldn’t be rude, could I? She’s every bit as bad as Lucy Bardwell – forgive me for speaking ill of the dead.’ Bede slid into her seat next to Cat, ignoring the woman across the narrow aisle who turned to stare at them.

  As the bus pulled away, Cat leaned into Bede and whispered. ‘Keep your voice down. Everyone’s listening.’

  The bus was filled with mostly women office workers, en route to their office jobs in Hendleigh, along with a few women who – as evidenced by the shopping bags they carried – were off to market. As the bus sped away from Rivenby, Cat had second thoughts. What if Margaret robbed her blind? She envisioned Margaret running off with their linens and clothes. She shook her head. Stop being ridiculous. Bede had fallen quiet as the bus left the village and wound through the countryside.

  ‘I’m glad Mr Charles will be involved with this one,’ Bede said. ‘He’s got a good head on his shoulders. If Margaret Smith is up to no good, he’ll see right through her.’

  ‘Bede, just because Lucy Bardwell conned us – conned me’ – Cat corrected herself when Bede’s expression became indignant – ‘doesn’t mean everyone else is a liar. Margaret couldn’t have faked her injuries.
’

  ‘Oh, really? And did you examine her? Did you see the bruises on her skin? See the swelling on her allegedly injured knee? I didn’t think so. Don’t you find it strange she spends so much time in her room? How much sleep does a body need?’

  ‘I do not think it’s strange. She’s exhausted.’ Cat wondered if she had given Bede too much authority by asking her to be involved in vetting Margaret. ‘I don’t want to speak of this again. You’ll have your say when we sit down with her. Meanwhile, we will treat her with respect until we are given a reason to do otherwise.’

  ‘Very well, but I’ll say one more thing, if you don’t mind. How did she come to show up on your doorstep? At least ask her that,’ Bede said, turning her back on Cat and staring out the window, leaving Cat alone with her worries about Lucy Bardwell’s murder and the mysterious woman who she had left alone in her home.

  ***

  Dark ominous clouds greeted them when they got off the bus in Hendleigh. Rather than get stuck in the rain, Cat and Bede opted for a taxi ride to Ambrose Bardwell’s house.

  ‘Will you look at this garden,’ Bede said, as the taxi pulled up in front of Ambrose Bardwell’s detached cottage. Fat cabbages sat in rows, ready to be picked in the small area in front of the house. ‘There’s not a weed among them.’ Bede stooped and picked up a handful of the black soil, running it through her fingers. ‘This dirt looks so rich. He must be using some special fertiliser. Do you think he’ll tell us what it is?’

  ‘It’s manure mixed with water.’

  Bede and Cat turned to face a man dressed in work clothes, who had come around the side of the house. His right leg was missing from the knee down. His right hand clenched a single crutch. His left hand held a trowel. ‘You have to be careful not to make it too strong or you’ll burn the plants and you can’t use it until they are well underway. I let it sit for a couple of weeks, and then use one cup of that mixture in ten gallons of water.’ He dropped the trowel and walked over to them, surprisingly graceful, despite his missing leg. ‘I’m Ambrose Bardwell. You must be here about Lucy.’