False Step

by Veronica Heley

  Hamilton had often dropped into this very chair in the chapel, resting or praying for a while. Both, knowing him.

  She wondered if Matthew had liked to do the same. She wondered if they’d ever met here in this church, or perhaps passed by one another without knowing that one day Hamilton’s wife would be trying to find out the truth about Matthew’s death.

  She wondered what the truth really was.

  Dear Lord, I’m not good at crossword puzzles and conundrums and I wouldn’t be able to do Sudoku if my life depended on it. You know my limitations better than I do. What I’m thinking … fearing … wondering about … could it possibly be true? Because if so, it’s the worst possible crime that I can think of, and the mind that was capable of doing it … If I try to unravel the mystery, I’m going to have to go very carefully. Considering the personality involved, I’m going to need your protection to deal with this. Please.

  She came to with a start as someone switched on the lights in the main body of the church and lights came on in the chapel. People were arriving in droves for some service or other, or perhaps for a concert? She stumbled to her feet, and fled, not feeling up to making small talk, or of sitting through a formal service.

  Nineteen

  Back at the house, Bea noticed that the curtains and blinds had been drawn against the gathering darkness and, as she let herself in the front door, she was greeted by sounds of radio, television, and crashing of pans. Maggie was home and baking something spicy.

  ‘Blessings on you, child,’ said Bea, dropping on to the nearest seat in the kitchen. ‘What a pleasure it is to come home to your bright face. But what are doing, cooking at this hour of night? Is Oliver home?’

  Maggie was dressed in a bright orange sweater over a short, embroidered blue denim skirt. She had gelled and brushed her hair up and her nail polish matched her skirt. ‘I’m just throwing some biscuits together while waiting for Oliver to come back from the gym. He’s taking me out for a drink. I don’t really fancy going into a pub by myself.’

  Bea wanted to ask about her failed affair with the plumber, but refrained. Let the child tell all, or keep her own secrets. She was old enough.

  Maggie used oven gloves to take a tray of biscuits out of the oven. ‘Don’t touch. They’re hot. And don’t let Winston get at them. He’s no sense at all and will burn his nose.’

  Winston had just jumped up on to the table, so Bea picked him up and gave him a cuddle. ‘We’d best get him checked over by the vet.’

  ‘Mm. Oliver says you offered to adopt him.’

  Bea blinked. Now there was a nice change of subject! And how did Maggie feel about it?

  Maggie’s arms went akimbo. ‘That meant a lot to him. He said you’d like to adopt me, too, but of course that’s just not practical.’

  Bea shook her head. No, it wasn’t.

  ‘But nice,’ said Maggie, with one of her sudden, wide smiles. ‘We appreciate it. Both of us. But you won’t be upset if he says no, will you? He’s got to work this out himself. I told him I’d like to stick pins into a wax image of his father, and he said he’d like to do the same to my mother, but really neither of them can help what they are, can they?’

  Bea shook her head. No, they couldn’t.

  Maggie started transferring the biscuits to a rack. ‘Totally inadequate personalities, both of them. My mother’s a selfish, narrow-minded old crone, locked into the last century, and his father’s the same only worse. The thing is, we don’t have to use them as role models.’ She held out a biscuit on a spatula. ‘Want to try one? Careful. Still hot.’

  Bea took one, pushing Winston’s nose away as she did so. The biscuit was good.

  ‘I’m so glad you agreed we could sand and polish the floors downstairs. No more carpets, lots of light, lots of white or off-white paint, though not Magnolia, I think.’

  Bea nodded again, hearing footsteps behind her.

  Oliver with his gym bag, fresh from the shower, and dressed casually for a visit to the pub. ‘Evening, Mrs Abbot. Ready, Maggie? Are those cinnamon biscuits?’

  Maggie slapped his hand away. ‘Give me a minute to get my jacket. You can have a biscuit when they’re cooled down, but don’t let Winston get at them. He’ll have to go on a diet if he’s not careful, never stops eating.’ She pounded off up the stairs.

  Oliver dumped his smelly gym clothing into the washing machine. ‘Got any further with the Matthew Kent affair, Mrs Abbot? It’s been on my mind all day. He was murdered, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Something very nasty happened, I agree. But murder? I’m not sure.’

  ‘Of course he was murdered. That scene on the bed was staged to put us off the truth.’

  ‘Yes, I think it was, but—’

  ‘What it is, you know this friend who helps me with computer stuff? Well, he happens to be the sort of expert who gets called in by the police sometimes.’

  She ought to have guessed that.

  ‘I’ve told him what a puzzle this thing with Matthew Kent was, and he said … of course you don’t have to … but he said that if ever you wanted to talk to someone about things that were bothering you, well, he might listen.’

  ‘Thank you, Oliver. That might be exactly what we need. I’m going to try to find the answers to one or two questions tomorrow and then, if I’m lucky, you can give me your friend’s telephone number.’

  ‘You don’t want to talk to him tonight?’

  ‘Not enough information yet. Tomorrow.’

  That would do, wouldn’t it?

  When Maggie and Oliver had banged the front door shut on their way out, Bea carefully put the newly-baked biscuits into a tin that Winston couldn’t open, and switched the washing machine on. Oliver could make a computer dance a fandango, but hadn’t yet mastered the art of turning on a washing machine.

  The house was unusually quiet. She liked that. She went down the stairs, from which the builders’ sheet had been removed, and inspected the gleaming floors of the agency rooms, which looked ghostly in this twilight world. The reception room had already been repainted, but the other rooms still had plaster drying out on the walls. The electrician seemed to have finished, with new power points everywhere, and new light fitments.

  She remembered how it had been when she and Hamilton had run the agency between them, with one-day-a-week help from Miss Brook. Yes, the place had become slightly dingy over the years and yes, the plumbing and electricity had needed to be overhauled, but it gave her a nostalgic twinge to think of the way it had been for so many years.

  Oh well, we all wear out in time, don’t we? The future lay with Oliver and Maggie and the indestructible, ageless Miss Brook. Of course, Maggie was right, and the new flooring, lighting and plumbing were an improvement, but Bea hoped Maggie wouldn’t start to replace the furniture next … although, come to think of it, her old office chair – which had once been Hamilton’s – could do with a facelift.

  Winston explored with her, his claws clicking on the wooden floors. With his tail waving, he peered out of the French windows into the darkness of the garden, and then followed her up the stairs, where he bounded on to her bed in order to give himself a good wash.

  Bea read a little, dozed a little, prayed a little. Turned off the lights. Heard the youngsters return. Fell asleep. Woke at half past four with the feeling that something was amiss. The landing light was still on. She struggled out of bed and went to turn it off. Saw that the guest bedroom door was ajar. She pushed the door wider open and discovered that the bed was empty. Max had not returned. Was that a good thing? She hoped it was. Went back to bed with Winston lightly snoring at her back.

  Saturday morning

  There’s nothing like oversleeping to give you a muzzy head. Bea woke at nine to find the curtains open and her early morning cuppa cold on her bedside table. Bother.

  She hauled herself out of bed, grimacing at the thought of what she had to do that day. Suppose she couldn’t get any information out of Lily? Suppose Max had had a relapse and sp
ent the night in hospital?

  Well, it was a Saturday, so Miss Brook wouldn’t be arriving to quiver her nose at a boss who overslept. And there would be no Miss Townend. Good.

  Yawning, she went to check on the guest bedroom and found the bed still undisturbed. So Max definitely hadn’t come home last night. He should have phoned and left a message to say he was detained elsewhere, of course, but hadn’t thought of it. Unless, of course, he was back in hospital.

  When she went downstairs, there was only Maggie to be seen, shoving packages into the big, brightly coloured fabric bag in which she toted her belongings around. Maggie had also chosen some brightly coloured clothes; scarlet and emerald. Ouch. Hard on the eye.

  ‘One message for you,’ said Maggie, ‘Sylvester, his office, not his home number. Will you ring back when you can. I’m off to Brighton for the day. Never been. Sightseeing with a friend. Not Oliver. He’s gone to some computer exhibition or other, something new and mind-bending. Oh, and he left you this telephone number … where did I put it? Oh, here it is.’ She produced someone’s business card on which he’d written a mobile number. ‘And by the way, I meant to say yesterday, don’t go down into the basement yet, the polish needs time to dry before we walk on it, or it’ll have to be done again.’ Off she went, banging the door to behind her. Naturally.

  Not walk on the basement floors? Oh. Too late. Bea grimaced. Why hadn’t the child left a prominent notice to that effect where Bea could have seen it before she went down there? Oh well, if it had to be done over again, it did.

  Bea made herself some black coffee. Dialled the number of Sylvester’s office. ‘Sylvester rang me a while ago.’

  The voice at the other end was not that of Sylvester, nor of his son. ‘I’m sorry to tell you that Mr Sylvester passed away yesterday afternoon. Suddenly, after the party he’d been giving. It was very quick. He sat down to rest, and they couldn’t wake him up. He left a list of people he would like to be advised … we will be in touch soon about … details to come.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Bea, and put the phone down with a hand that was not at all steady. She reached for the box of tissues. She was alone in the house and it was all right to cry. Sylvester dead? Of course she’d noticed the signs. They’d even joked about it. He’d been around in the background of her life for ever.

  It was all right to cry for an old friend. She knew she was not crying for him, but for herself, who would miss him. She hoped he would get a sympathetic hearing when he arrived Up Top, and that his sins would be far outweighed by his intrinsic goodness. A generous heart.

  The landline rang when she was putting on her make-up.

  Max, speaking a little too loud and fast. ‘Mother, are you there? I thought I’d better give you a ring, tell you what’s happening.’

  ‘Where are you?’ She could hear background noise. Something rhythmic.

  ‘We’re in the train, of course. Nicole didn’t fancy the journey in the car. Going up to tell the old folk the good news … hang on a minute … no, darling, I know I said we wouldn’t tell anyone else just yet, but … Mother, are you there still? We’ll be back on Monday, come in to see you then, right?’

  ‘Yes, right.’ So Nicole had actually taken her advice and told him she was pregnant? And her parents, too?

  Oh. Bea wasn’t at all sure what she ought to feel about this development. Of course she would be ecstatic if Nicole really were pregnant. Or would she? No, she wouldn’t. She’d try to be pleased, of course. When she’d thought about it long enough she probably would be pleased. Her first grandchild. Nice thought.

  If Nicole were not pregnant, but just pretending … how long could the girl keep it up? And was it desirable that she should?

  Bea groaned. Dear Lord, I am such a fool. I rush in, making all sorts of suggestions that I should never even have allowed myself to think about, and this is the result. Ouch. Please Lord, whatever the case really is, can you look after Nicole and Max … if that is your will.

  I’m in such a muddle I don’t know what to think.

  The last thing Nicole said to me indicated that she might indeed be pregnant but hadn’t noticed. In which case, am I less or more to blame?

  She shuddered.

  She noticed the time and realized she was going to be late to meet Gail if she didn’t hurry up. Where had she put the card Oliver had left her? With a bit of luck, she might need it later on today. Come to think of it, she might as well take the inventory and the photographs and, well, everything that she had managed to put together about Matthew.

  Bea collected Gail and they drove through the traffic to Chartwell Avenue. A pleasant, tree-lined street, a mix of three-storey Edwardian and two-storey-with-a-loft-conversion houses. The holly hedge was still there.

  What was new was a ‘Sold’ sign nailed to the gatepost.

  ‘This begins to make sense,’ said Bea. ‘You know what to do? Look for anything that could tell us what Lily’s been up to, and in particular where we can find Bert.’

  They got out of the car and eyed the red-brick façade. It was a large house, but not a welcoming one. The holly hedge was a darkening influence on the tiny front garden, but the faded paintwork was also dark. A bad choice. The tiled pathway was not in good condition, but the gutters were functioning and the down pipes vertical.

  Gail pointed to a dingy brass plaque on the gatepost. ‘Cunningham, piano lessons. Was that him or her?’

  Bea rang the bell inside the porch. More tiling. Stained-glass panels in the heavy old door. A worn doormat. A pile of circulars in the green recycling box. A faint but persistent smell of … dry rot?

  Lily opened the door halfway and blinked. ‘What do you two want? Can’t you see I’m busy? Oh, I suppose you’ve brought back the things you stole.’

  Bea raised her eyebrows. ‘You mean the little silver jug and the china shepherdess? Mrs Frasier allowed Goldie to take them. Now, what we wanted—’

  ‘Oh, did she, indeed! I’ll have to have a word with Goldie. So, what did you want, then? Ah, you’ve brought me the keys? Or have you given them to the estate agent already?’ She opened the door wider.

  ‘No, I’ve still got them,’ said Bea, brushing past Lily into the cavernous hall. More tiling, cleared spaces where large pieces of furniture had once stood, dust in the air. An old coat-stand with female articles of clothing on it. Prominent among them was a long black coat, and a black scarf. Suitable for a Muslim woman.

  There were no men’s clothes hanging up, but a number of black plastic bags gaped open on the floor, containing what looked like men’s shirts and jackets. So Lily was having a clear-out of her father’s things already? And some of the furniture had already gone to the sale room, or wherever Lily intended to live?

  Bea said, ‘There’s a couple of things I wanted to check with Bert before I hand the keys over.’

  Gail almost stepped on Bea’s heels in haste to get in before the door was closed on them. ‘May I visit your loo?’

  ‘Oh, I suppose so. What do you want with Bert? It’s me who inherits.’ Lily closed the door on the outside world. There was only a dim light bulb in the hall and the air was chilly. Bea stepped through a door on the right, closely followed by Gail. They were in a large front room with a high ceiling and squared-off bay window. More dust. Drooping maroon curtains. Lighter patches on the wallpaper showing where more furniture had been removed. A grand piano was still there and a couple of glass-fronted bookcases, their doors hanging open, their shelves half empty. Stacks of sheet music. Cardboard boxes, half full of books.

  Communicating double doors led from this room into another equally large one at the back of the house. Bea pushed one of the doors wide open to reveal a combined sitting room, recording studio and office. There was a small armchair sitting in front of a television set, and spaces where a settee and other furniture had once stood.

  ‘Through here?’ Gail slipped into the second room.

  Lily made as if to stop Gail, but Bea took her by the arm
and turned her away towards the piano. ‘Leave her be. She’ll find the loo. Is this where you give music lessons, Lily?’

  ‘What if I do? All that’s finished.’

  ‘You’re moving, I see. Where are you going?’

  ‘None of your business.’

  ‘And Bert? I really need a word with him.’

  ‘What for? Forget him. His mind’s gone, He’s totally lost the plot, not making any sense since Uncle Matthew died. The shock sent him all funny.’

  ‘So what will you do? You can’t get into Matthew Kent’s house, can you? Your solicitor seems honest enough, if not the brightest knife in the drawer. He’s confused, what with two wills and two families wanting to move into that valuable property. He’s made it clear that nobody moves anywhere until probate is granted, right?’

  ‘No need to worry about me, I have a bed-sitter all lined up, but I won’t be there long. Half the furniture’s gone already, the rest goes Monday morning, except for the stuff the new people are going to buy. They move in Monday afternoon. So what do you want?’

  ‘I worry about you, I really do. You’ve lived here all your life. You’ve struggled to earn a few pennies by giving piano lessons. You’ve never married. It must have seemed that the world had fallen apart when your father said he was selling the house to move into a home. If he was your father.’ She knew that was a cruel thing to say, but she believed that what Lily had done was more than cruel, and it might provoke her into saying something unwise.

  Lily’s lower lip came out. ‘He was my father as long as it suited him, so long as I slaved for him, cooked and cleaned and ran all his errands, took him to the doctor’s and dentist’s and dished out his medication and got up in the night to help him to the toilet and back. Oh, he called me his lovely daughter then,’ said Lily, tucking her hair back behind her ears. ‘But do you know how he repaid me? He went behind my back to find a company which would give him an annuity in exchange for this house, arranging to hand it over to them for sale when he felt ready to go into a home. And he didn’t tell me until six months ago. Now I’m homeless and he’s in clover for the rest of his life. Is it surprising that I’m bitter?’