False Step

by Veronica Heley

  Just at that moment the phone rang. By the time she got back inside and had traced the phone to where it sat on the floor at the side of the Chesterfield, an answerphone had clicked in. It gave Bea more goosebumps to hear Matthew’s voice.

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t come to the phone at the moment, but if you’ll leave a message, I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.’

  Well! thought Bea. He might have cancelled that before he committed suicide! Whoever was ringing, hadn’t left a message. The answerphone light was blinking. There were six messages, unanswered.

  She got out her pad and pencil, and listened to them. An enquiry as to whether Matthew could entertain a senior citizens do after Christmas; a voice confirming that they wanted Matthew on a certain date and would he please confirm the cost. Three hang-ups. A woman with a breathy voice wanting to know if he’d be able to judge a children’s fancy dress parade for the church, same as last year.

  Business as usual, thought Bea. There was a leaflet from St Mary Abbots church stuck into the bookcase at the side of Matthew’s big chair. Bea wondered why the funeral wasn’t taking place there. Obviously he was known there, and had attended a service recently. Bea wondered if she’d ever been at the same service as him. She might well have done. Hamilton, of course, had attended regularly …

  She veered her thoughts away from Hamilton as the front doorbell rang.

  This time it was Oliver, sheltering from the rain under an umbrella – one of Hamilton’s, by the look of it – and carrying a laptop plus a bulging shopping bag.

  ‘Maggie thought you might be a bit peckish, since you missed elevenses. Also she made me bring one of your good sweaters since the weather’s turned colder. And she’s put up some sandwiches and a Thermos of hot soup for our lunch.’

  ‘Oliver, you’re not supposed to leave the office unattended.’

  ‘Couldn’t resist. I got your old bookkeeper in to hold the fort. She’s such a dragon, nothing can go wrong with her around. Maggie’s in love with the new plumber, by the way, so don’t expect much in the way of sense from her. Oh, and Mr Max has been asking for you.’ He thrust a thick grey sweater at Bea, who donned it with a shiver. Maggie had been right. She did need something warmer to wear.

  Oliver was through into the sitting room and looking around him before she could stop him. ‘Is this where he was found? It doesn’t smell like an old man’s room, does it? Isn’t there any central heating? Where shall we eat? Then I’ll help you with the inventory and we can get it done so much quicker. That’s why I brought the laptop. Oh, and you were right. The funeral’s at Mortlake on Friday at noon. I haven’t told Sylvester yet. The soup is hot, courgette and Brie, one of Maggie’s best.’

  Bea threw up her hands and followed him out to the kitchen. Maybe he was right and two heads were better than one on this job. Certainly the inventory would be done more quickly if she dictated the list and he took it down on his laptop.

  Oliver found the central heating control on the wall by the broom cupboard. He fiddled with it, and was rewarded with a click. Soon the house would be warm enough to work in.

  She took a seat at the table and reached for the shopping bag. ‘Let’s get one thing clear, shall we? There is no murder. Matthew committed suicide. The trouble with you, Oliver, is that you want life to be exciting, to be full of high-speed chases and beautiful spies—’

  ‘No, that’s the Thirties.’

  ‘Real life is about making inventories and trying to see that the right people get the right jobs and are properly paid for them.’

  Oliver filled a mug to the brim with steaming hot soup and handed it to her. ‘Yes, of course.’ He didn’t sound convinced. He said, ‘Actually, I thought that I could ask you something. Sometime when you’re not too busy …’

  ‘Mhm?’ What was biting the boy now?

  He wasn’t looking at her, but at the sandwich in his fist. ‘The sandwiches are ham and Maggie’s own sweet pickle. Good, aren’t they?’

  ‘You wanted to ask me something?’

  A distinct wriggle. ‘It’s nothing, really. Just, I was thinking of applying for a passport. A couple of mates from the gym want me to join them, skiing in Austria in January. Should be fun.’

  Bea frowned. So what was the problem? Ah, of course. Young Oliver had been thrown out of the family home after he’d discovered porn on his father’s laptop. Maggie had rescued the lad, rather as she might have retrieved an abandoned puppy, and Bea had recognized his talents and given him a job as a live-in assistant. Bea had also helped him retrieve his belongings from his father’s house and demanded that Mr Ingram send Oliver his highly successful A level results; also his birth certificate. She had suspected at the time that brown-eyed Oliver might not be the birth child of two blue-eyed parents. His skin and hair were perhaps a fraction darker than normal for a lad of Anglo-Saxon heritage, but she’d said nothing about this. Had Oliver shared her suspicions that he’d not been Mr Ingram’s son at the time? Possibly not.

  She said, ‘Well, if your father hasn’t sent your birth certificate across, you can always get a copy.’

  ‘Mm. I’ve never been sure; is it better to travel hopefully than to arrive?’

  Ouch. So Oliver did share her suspicions. ‘You have to decide that for yourself.’

  He nodded. ‘There’s a chocolate brownie for each of us for afters.’

  The subject was closed.

  After they’d eaten Oliver said, ‘Coffee?’

  Bea licked up the last crumb of cake. ‘Damaris took the contents of the fridge away with her, so there’s no milk.’ She stared at the fridge. Did suicidal people leave a fridge full of food before they killed themselves? No, they didn’t. They weren’t interested in eating, only in dying. So why …?

  Oh, well. Obviously the suicide was a spur of the moment job. Obviously.

  Oliver crumpled up the sandwich papers, and threw them into the bin under the sink. ‘So what do we do first?’

  ‘I must ring Sylvester and give him the details of the funeral. You can start making an inventory here, in the kitchen.’

  Oliver pulled a face but opened his laptop and began work. The central heating ticked merrily away. Bea grinned to herself; how dare Damaris ask people to work on her behalf in a cold, dark house?

  She used Matthew’s phone to call Sylvester and give him the news. He wasn’t answering his phone, so she left a message on his machine. After that, she found Gail’s telephone number – engaged – and did the same for her. She hadn’t got Goldie’s telephone number, so had to leave that.

  The rain seemed to have set in for the day so she switched on all the side lights. Oliver came in from the kitchen. ‘Done that. What next?’

  ‘I haven’t got a marvellous sense of smell, Oliver. You said this didn’t smell like an old man’s room and it doesn’t, does it? But I don’t think he was that old, or incapable. He was still working, even though there was some talk of his retiring. But then, if he was getting crippled with arthritis … oh, I don’t know.’

  She beckoned him over to the big chair. ‘Tell me what you smell on the arm of this chair.’

  Oliver obeyed. ‘Wine. A red, heavy and sweet.’

  She got down on the floor. ‘And on the hearth and carpet?’

  ‘Wine and …’ He sniffed again. ‘I think … is it blood?’

  ‘I’ve tried to clean it up, but yes, I think it’s blood. What must have happened is that he knocked his wine glass over on to the arm of the chair, it fell on the tiles and smashed in pieces. He cut himself clearing up. All right?’

  Oliver looked bewildered. ‘When was this?’

  Bea sighed. ‘Wish I knew. I don’t suppose it matters, though.’

  Oliver stood up and inadvertently trod on the suspect floorboard. The piano string twanged and he jumped.

  Bea patted his arm. ‘It’s all right. It’s only the piano reacting to a loose floorboard. It startled me, too.’

  ‘I thought …! Ridiculous!’

&nb
sp; ‘I know. Let’s try something else.’ She led him down the stairs to the studio, turning on all the lights and ignoring the images that leaped out at her from the mirrors.

  ‘Wow!’ said Oliver. ‘Will you look at this! That tape deck, the speakers, all that stuff … a new Apple Mac. That’s a good printer, by the way. Even better than ours. This lot cost a pretty penny.’

  Bea opened the first wardrobe to inspect the dresses within. Each costume had been carefully put on a padded hanger, and fitted into a zipped plastic cover. Full-length dresses, sequinned, cut high across the neckline, three-quarter sleeves. Shimmery sheaths. The grey satin outfit he’d worn for the portrait. Not much black. No red. Nothing to hint at a pantomime dame.

  She pulled a full-length dusky pink sheath out at random and held it out to Oliver.

  ‘How tall are you? You’ve grown a bit recently. Five nine? About that. Do me a favour, and try this on.’

  Oliver gaped. ‘No way!’

  ‘Don’t be absurd, Oliver. I need to test a theory, a suspicion of … just do it, will you? I promise not to take photographs.’

  ‘I couldn’t.’

  ‘The colour’s too bright? Let’s try this blue outfit, then.’

  The blue outfit had a feather boa to go with it. A fine silk jersey, with a draped bodice, slender over the hips. She held it out to him with an expression that meant, Do this or else!

  He winced, stripped off his heavy sweater and put the dress on over his T-shirt and jeans.

  Bea walked around him, twitching the fabric here and there. Matthew was obviously broader in the shoulder and at the hips. The hem of the skirt pooled on the floor. ‘Of course, he’d be wearing high-heeled shoes.’ She rummaged in the shoe closet, noting the shoes were all of the same size from a well-known theatrical costumier. No red shoes. She flourished a pair of blue ones that matched the outfit. Oliver screwed up his face as she set them on the floor before him. He shucked off his trainers, though, and stepped into the blue shoes. The skirt still dragged on the floor.

  ‘I’m not wearing a wig!’

  ‘That’s an idea,’ said Bea, opening the next cupboard along. She produced a dark, curly wig and handed it to Oliver. He gulped but put it on, checking himself in the nearest mirror to see if it were straight.

  There was a long silence while Oliver looked at his image in the mirror, and Bea mused on the difference clothes could make to a man. She knew Oliver was very much a male and, from all accounts, Matthew had been, too. Yet with those clothes on, Oliver suffered a sea change. From sallow teenager, he turned into a striking woman.

  Oliver said, ‘That’s not me. It’s someone else. Someone different. The shoes aren’t very comfortable, though.’

  ‘I expect they were made for him. You can get back into your own clothes now.’

  Oliver shrugged himself out of his finery. ‘So what was the point of that little exercise?’

  Bea shrugged. ‘I’m not sure. I’m trying to get a picture of this man. He’s a couple of inches taller than you, judging by the length of the skirt. He’s broader than you across the shoulders and hips, but his head size is about the same as yours. That wig almost fits. In what way are the shoes uncomfortable?’

  ‘You don’t want me to take up cross-dressing, do you? The shoes are a trifle big for me, but they pinch across the top. I’ve got a higher instep, I think. How can women wear high heels?’

  ‘With practice.’ Bea helped Oliver to stow away the finery. ‘So why didn’t his red shoes fit? And where’s the red dress he had on top of him when he died?’

  ‘Perhaps his computer will provide some answers?’

  ‘You do worry so. Everything’s just fine!’ The harsher voice of the two.

  A whining reply. ‘From your point of view, maybe. But what about me? I’ve got to be out of this house in a week’s time.’

  ‘I told you, we’ll split everything from Matthew’s house down the middle.’

  ‘It’ll take months before anything comes in. You have to wait for probate, and then put the house on the market and … who knows how long that’s going to take? In the meantime, I’ve got to live. Suppose you’re in a car accident or something? Where would I be then? Your husband would get the house and I’d be in real trouble.’

  ‘I don’t see what we can do about it.’

  ‘Suppose you got sick, would your husband pay me my half?’

  ‘You can hardly expect me to tell him what we’ve done.’

  ‘What I think is that you should make out a will so that I get the house if you pop your clogs. If nothing goes wrong, we divvy up as suggested. Your husband won’t need to know anything about it, and you can make a new will when everything’s settled. That way I’m covered for all eventualities.’

  ‘I don’t like it. Suppose … no, that won’t do. I agree nobody else must know. Very well, then. I’ll make an appointment for us to see the solicitor.’

  ‘I’ve got a will form here. I’ll make it out for you, shall I? Everything of which you die possessed to your family in the usual way, except for Matthew’s house which comes to me. We can take it to the solicitor this afternoon after you finish work, to get it checked over and signed. All right?’

  ‘I suppose so. It shouldn’t be for long.’

  Seven

  Monday afternoon

  Oliver homed in on the computer. Bea followed, more slowly. Wasn’t accessing a dead man’s computer a trifle tacky?

  Oliver turned it on. Frowned. Swivelled round in his chair. ‘Someone who didn’t know much about computers has been playing about with it. All his files have been deleted. Now why should that be?’

  ‘You’re the whizz-kid with computers. Didn’t you say there’s always stuff left on the hard drive?’

  Oliver grinned. ‘You want me to do a little exploring?’

  Bea hesitated. ‘I know your friend’s father taught you all sorts of tricks to do with computers, but—’

  ‘He’s on the side of the angels, professionally, if that’s what you mean. Look, you know and I know that something very odd is going on here. You don’t really think Matthew Kent committed suicide, do you?’

  ‘I really don’t know what … no, I suppose I don’t.’

  ‘His nearest and dearest has provided us with a perfect opportunity to find out what’s really been going on here. So I’m just going to press a couple of keys and see what happens. All right?’

  Bea was uneasy about Oliver’s use or misuse of his talents, but he was right in thinking there was something wrong with the situation. She braced herself. She started turning out drawers, looking for files, bills, general correspondence.

  There weren’t any. She was sure there had been some when she looked before, when she’d come across his business cards. She still had one in her handbag.

  So why had they been removed? There weren’t any professional photos of Matthew, either. She could see where files had been stacked in a cupboard by the side of the computer, but now … nothing but space. She started on the drawers below, looking for memory sticks, floppy discs, anything on which Matthew might have stored the daily details of his life.

  What about his engagement book, for instance? He must have had a diary. And an address book. Yes, of course. Florrie had mentioned that she’d underlined Damaris’s address in his book, and left it for Bea to find. Up the stairs went Bea to look for it. She was not terribly surprised to see that it was no longer where it had been. Damaris – or someone – had been thorough.

  But, perhaps, not thorough enough. Bea had already found a leaflet from St Mary Abbots church tucked into the bookcase at the side of the big armchair. A convenient place to stash something which Matthew might need to refer to later.

  She began tipping up the books, two by two, to see what other treasures might come to light. Nothing on the top shelf. Nothing on the second shelf. The third disclosed a reminder to pay a subscription to some actors’ charity, plus another leaflet, dated a fortnight before, from the church. The bottom she
lf yielded a leaflet about a forthcoming watercolour exhibition, a National Trust flyer, a couple of shopping lists in a rounded hand, every item crossed through.

  She sat back on her heels. The lead to the church had turned up twice. Did that mean something or nothing?

  Oliver came up the stairs, looking smug. ‘Everything was still in the computer, in the recycle bin. It all seems pretty harmless. Appointments, business correspondence, friends and family, a file for charities, material for his monologues, notes for sketches and a play he’s writing. What you’d expect, really.’

  ‘Then why delete them in the first place?’

  Oliver shrugged. ‘Dunno. I copied everything on to a memory stick for you, in case you want to look at it later. Which reminds me, did you walk off with a letter from a client the other day? Someone’s been ringing, saying they’ve asked for an appointment, but I can’t find anything in the files.’

  She pulled a face, remembering that she’d noted down Matthew’s address on a letter when Florrie rang to report that she’d found a body. ‘Sorry, yes. It must still be in my bag. I’ll give it you when we get back.’ She got to her feet and shook out her skirt.

  Matthew’s phone rang. She and Oliver stood still while the caller left a message. Someone checking that Matthew had returned a costume that had been hired for a performance of The Gondoliers. Please to ring soonest.

  The phone clicked off.

  Bea said, ‘We can’t ring back. Really, it’s up to Damaris to let people know what’s happened.’ Only, she doesn’t seem keen to do so.

  ‘I wonder what part he’s playing,’ said Oliver. He went to the piano and checked the sheet music resting in a pile on the top of it. ‘Here it is, the full score of The Gondoliers. Was Matthew a bass?’

  Bea clicked her fingers. ‘Got it! He was playing the Duchess, and that’s why he had that outrageous dress. It really is a stage costume, rented for the production. He must have brought it home for some reason – probably needed to put some extra padding around the bra area. That’s why it doesn’t fit the image we’ve been getting from the clothes in the studio.’