by Cathy Ace
‘So, tell me, Alexander, how did you and Clemmie meet? You didn’t tell us much last night.’
‘Quite right, you didn’t,’ said Henry, peeling the skeleton from the small trout that lay on his plate.
‘We met at an art gallery,’ said Alexander.
‘Ha! That makes sense,’ said Henry, pushing the bones to one side of his plate. ‘Clemmie seems to live in those places. I hope it was one of the better ones, with real art in it, not one of those dreadful modern places she espouses.’
Christine and Alexander exchanged a glance which betrayed gentle amusement at their host. ‘I’m afraid it was a terribly modern one,’ replied Alexander. ‘Over in the East End of London, which is where all the really avant-garde stuff is being developed these days.’
Henry looked up from his fish and said, ‘Codswallop. Usually a load of old rubbish. What was it? Horse hair and old bits of string?’
Alexander smiled broadly. ‘As a matter of fact it was a collection of installations featuring barbed wire and reclaimed wood. They were, shall we say, “challenging” pieces, though there were some very interesting models of the face of the artist who created them on the walls, made with the use of 3D printers by someone else.’
Henry looked triumphant. ‘What did I tell you? Just a lot of people who can’t be bothered to learn how to paint, saying they are artists. And Clemmie encourages them. So, what’s your excuse? Listening to you go on about those teeth I’d have thought you to be a man possessed of better taste.’
Henry was attending to his fish, so Alexander looked directly at Christine as he replied. ‘I knew of your collection, discovered where I might encounter your sister, and set about securing myself an invitation.’
Christine’s eyes widened. This man was brazen. He’d connived an invitation to an exhibit, which was now discovered to have been burgled, and he was being quite open about the whole thing. Christine wondered if this was a clever bluff on the part of the darkly suspicious man.
Henry looked up from his plate. ‘What’s that? You made a beeline for Clemmie just to come and see my collection? Weren’t thinking about trying to buy it from me, or steal it from me, were you?’ said the duke, now fully alert.
Alexander looked from Christine to Henry. ‘I would have offered you a good price for it,’ he replied calmly, ‘and I still would, for the Churchill piece. Why? Would you be interested in selling?’
Henry wiped his mouth. Christine was fascinated as she watched Alexander operate.
‘I can’t see that it wouldn’t hurt to discuss a figure,’ replied Henry cannily. ‘Of course, I might not be able to do anything until the insurance people, and the police, say I can. But it would make sense for the Churchill piece, at least, to be in the possession of someone to whom it means more than it does to me.’
‘Then maybe we should have a quiet chat after lunch,’ said Alexander. Returning his attention to Christine he added, ‘So that’s my true motive for being here out in the open. Now what about you?’ He didn’t bat an eye.
‘I say,’ said Henry.
Christine weighed her options. She’d been a champion chess player at her school, which had the best chess team in the south of England, so it didn’t take her long to make her decision. No members of staff were present, the police had left the premises, and she felt, for some reason she couldn’t properly name, that she could trust Alexander. And not just because of his warm voice and piercing eyes.
‘With your permission, Henry?’ she asked her client.
Henry looked alarmed. ‘Are you quite sure?’
Christine nodded.
‘Very well then,’ acceded the duke. ‘Tell him everything. I could do with being brought up to speed myself.’
Christine spent the next twenty minutes pouring out the whole story to Alexander, who interrupted only to ask pertinent questions, which Christine answered.
When she had finished, Alexander said, ‘I’m very sorry to hear about your colleague’s mother. I wish her either a speedy recovery, or a swift and painless passing. Mavis MacDonald struck me as a woman who has seen a great deal of suffering in her time, and has borne it with selfless patience and fortitude.’
Christine was taken aback, but thanked him. She’d never thought of Mavis in that way, but, upon reflection, suspected that Alexander’s assessment was apt.
Alexander continued, ‘The critical other matters are, what has happened to the body of the young man the dowager saw in the Dower House and, of course, who was he, and who killed him? And the current location of your other colleague, Annie, of course.’
Christine nodded again. ‘I’ll admit I am very concerned about Annie and Carol hasn’t got back to me with a number for the Saxby family yet.’
‘That’s something with which I might be able to help,’ said Alexander.
‘How?’ asked Christine and Henry in chorus.
‘I know someone who knows him,’ replied Alexander coolly.
‘Do you know someone who knows everyone?’ asked Henry, flummoxed.
Alexander smiled. ‘Not quite, but I do have a good number of acquaintances, who, themselves, are very well connected. In this instance Wayne Saxby is someone I know of because I, too, am involved in the world of London property. Not in the same way that he is tied up with large redevelopment projects, but on a smaller, more domestic scale. I believe I could make a few calls and come up with a number. I suspect your Carol might face something of a problem; Wayne Saxby likes to remain as private as possible.’
‘Why is that?’ asked Christine, pretty sure she wouldn’t like the answer.
Alexander considered his response. ‘If what I have heard about him is to be believed, he has some rather questionable friends. He is known to be a man who prefers that deals work out exactly as he chooses. Sometimes his questionable friends are able to make that happen for him.’
Christine shuddered. ‘I wonder if Annie knows that.’
‘If she doesn’t, let’s just hope she doesn’t find out in an unpleasant way,’ replied Alexander. ‘I tell you what, why don’t I make my calls, you try to contact Carol, fill her in on what I’m up to, and we’ll get some coffee. I’m sure Henry could arrange that?’
Henry nodded, coffee was ordered and phone calls were made.
TWENTY-EIGHT
With coffee and notes at their sides, Alexander and Christine sat opposite each other, with Henry in attendance.
‘Clemmie said she would join us, but I hope she doesn’t,’ said Henry blackly.
‘If she does, I believe that we shouldn’t discuss this in front of her,’ said Christine.
‘Oh, come along now, she’s my sister. She can’t possibly be involved,’ said Henry unconvincingly.
‘Links to the East End of London, links to artists, access to both the hall and the Dower House?’ said Christine. ‘I’m sorry, Henry, you asked me to enquire into these matters, and I am putting two and two together and coming up with the possible involvement of Clemmie.’
‘But why?’ whined Henry.
‘Money,’ chorused Christine and Alexander, each smiling at the other’s perspicacity.
Christine nodded for Alexander to proceed, which he did, with some delicacy. ‘Despite her background, her ability to live in palatial homes, and her title, your sister lives an expensive lifestyle, Your Grace.’
‘Oh for heaven’s sake, Alexander, it’s Henry. I’ve told you before. Call me Henry. If you’re accusing my sister of being a thief, at least you can address me by my given name. I am not feeling terribly gracious at this moment.’
‘And I am guessing that’s because you think we have a point. Am I right?’ said Christine pointedly.
Henry nodded. ‘Clemmie has an allowance, but she runs up some dreadful debts. I’ve bailed her out a few times, but Mother says I must stop, that she must learn to live within her means. But it reflects so badly on the name, you see. I can’t have it. It’s one of the reasons that I’m always so hard up when it comes to spending m
oney on this place. I’m pinching pennies on restoration, and she’s out supporting artists who are only starving because they have no talent.’ Henry deflated as he spoke. Christine’s heart went out to him. He really did seem to feel the weight of responsibility upon his shoulders.
Even Alexander looked apprehensive as he continued. ‘Has Clemmie got into any trouble of this sort before, Henry? Has she, maybe, taken items from here without your permission?’
Henry looked horrified. ‘I … I wouldn’t know. I mean, if something large were to go missing I’d notice, of course, but there is so much that I do not see, especially in the east wing. As Mother pointed out, the insurance people do visit each year, so they would raise a hullaballoo about something not being right, and that’s never happened. Well, except for the spoons, and that was next to nothing.’
‘Spoons?’ asked Alexander.
Henry waved away the question. ‘It was a misunderstanding. One of the lists said we owned two fifteenth-century silver spoons, but they were, in fact, two seventeenth-century silver spoons. It was all cleared up. It was something and nothing.’
‘Hardly,’ said Christine. ‘Fifteenth-century silver spoons are exceedingly rare, whereas seventeenth-century ones are much less so. There would be a huge variation between the value of two such sets.’
‘They are merely spoons,’ replied Henry dully.
‘I have to agree with Christine,’ said Alexander. ‘I own a business, Coggins and Sons, which trades in antiques, and I happen to know that there could be a difference in value of many thousands of pounds.’
Henry stewed as he sipped his coffee.
‘I don’t suppose you know Tristan Thomas, the antiques dealer here in the village, do you, Alexander?’ asked Christine.
‘I don’t, but I am due to receive a phone call from an acquaintance of mine who might,’ replied Alexander, smiling.
‘You’re like another Carol,’ replied Christine. ‘Speaking of Carol, I managed a brief chat with her, and she confirmed that, even with her wonderful abilities, she hasn’t been able to get a number for any member of the Saxby clan, nor for the house. You were clearly correct in your assumption that Wayne Saxby likes to keep his private life private. She did discover, however, that Mickey James is known to be often in the company of a young man who works at the Mile End hospital. He’s in his early twenties, is Asian, possibly Bangladeshi because he’s from the Brick Lane area originally, and plays on the Hoop and Stick pub football team with Mickey. Althea pegged the dead body as having dark, coffee-colored skin. It might be a fit, but Carol hasn’t been able to pin down who the young man is, or whether he’s even missing. So it might be nothing.’
Alexander reached into his pocket as Christine was talking and pulled out his vibrating phone. ‘I’ll take this,’ he said and did so. Listening, he nodded, then hung up. He pushed a few buttons then held his screen toward Christine. ‘Here’s Wayne Saxby’s home phone number. Will you phone him, or shall I?’
‘I’ll do it,’ said Christine.
‘What will you say if he asks how you got his number?’
‘I’ll wing it,’ smiled Christine, punching the numbers into her phone. ‘It’s ringing,’ she whispered. ‘Hello, yes, could I speak to Mr Saxby, please? Really? Would this be his mother, Olive, by any chance? Oh, good. Look, I’m a friend of Annie Parker. Yes. Yes. I know. Well, I wondered if she was with you? No? She left yesterday. Yes. No, I rather hoped you did. Yes, we spoke and she mentioned that. No. Yes. I certainly will. Thank you, Mrs Saxby. Bye. Yes, I will. Bye.’
‘Not there?’ said Henry.
Christine shook her head.
‘That was the mother?’ asked Alexander.
Christine nodded.
‘Do you think she was telling the truth?’
‘I think so. She sounded pretty genuine, or else she’s a very good actress. Does your source suggest that she’s involved in any of her son’s funny business?’
Alexander shook his head. ‘Do you want to get in touch with the police? Or would you like to join me in a visit to the Coach and Horses to see if there are any clues there as to her whereabouts?’
Christine was on her feet in an instant. ‘Coach and Horses. If we take our luggage and our own vehicles we can meet there, see what’s what, and decide what our next move should be.’
‘You can’t leave Clemmie here with no way to get back to town,’ wailed Henry. ‘And what about Mother’s bobble hat and my teeth?’
Alexander sounded impatient as he replied, ‘Henry, I am sure you have sufficient vehicles here for Clemmie to drive herself back to London, or she could take the train. And it might be that all these issues are connected. So we will, indeed, be trying to find out if there are links between each of these elements. But, for now, a missing person must take priority over a missing corpse and some dentures, however wonderful they might be. But, speaking of dentures’ – he scribbled something on a piece of paper and handed it to Henry – ‘this is what I’d be prepared to pay for the Winston Churchill piece. You can think about it and I’ll be in touch. My pal from Scotland Yard will be trying to get hold of you later today and I know he’ll want to come here to get the lie of the land. Brace yourself for some harsh words about your utter lack of adequate security in the east wing, Henry, but be open and honest with him, and just let him poke about as much as he likes. He’s got a well-deserved reputation for being able to follow the most obscure of shipment routes. Don’t forget, Henry, your collection might have been stolen, but it might not yet have reached its intended, or final, destination. If it isn’t yet resting in the bowels of someone’s very private collection, there might still be hope.’
Alexander looked across the room at Christine, who was already at the door. ‘Let’s get a move on. I’ll meet you at the stable block and we can leave at the same time.’
‘Right,’ said Christine. ‘I’ll be in touch, Henry,’ she called, as she dashed up the stairs to her room.
Henry Twyst was transfixed by the number he saw on the piece of paper Alexander had handed to him. A smile crept across his face as he mouthed the figure quietly.
TWENTY-NINE
When Mavis MacDonald entered her mother’s small room at the nursing home in Dumfries, it was immediately clear to her experienced eyes that she’d arrived just in time to say her farewells. She’d been hugging her son upon her arrival at the home at four thirty, and by a quarter past five, it was all over. Her mother had never regained consciousness after suffering the stroke in the early hours of the morning, but Mavis was quite convinced that she had known her daughter was with her at the end, which comforted her somewhat.
Having been the matron of an establishment that provided housing for retired servicemen, Mavis was well acquainted with the process that followed the death of an elderly person who had been under the care of a resident physician. She, the doctor in charge and the matron of the home had a very professional conversation, after which she left with her son, having arranged to stay with him for a few days and to return to the home first thing in the morning. It was expected that the funeral directors’ staff would arrive within a few hours to remove her mother’s remains to the funeral home, and Mavis was relieved, if not happy, that she and her mother had taken the time to discuss her wishes for her final arrangements when she had still possessed the wits, and the ability to speak, to be able to make her desires known.
Mavis was ambivalent about her mother’s death. She had loved her, and would miss her, of course, but she would have hated to see her exist, rather than live. She finally understood the truth in the words she herself had spoken on so many occasions as a part of her duties. ‘It was a blessing.’
She helped her son, Duncan, explain to her grandchildren what had happened to their great granny, though they seemed more excited to have her in the house than to be bothered by the idea of a death in the family.
Mavis succumbed to the convenient temptation of haggis and chips from the chip shop on the corner of the street
where Duncan lived, and regretted it within half an hour of having eaten the plateful. Walking around her son’s kitchen with a hot cup of tea, rubbing her tummy, she realized she owed it to her colleagues to let them know what had happened and that she would be staying in Scotland for a few days.
She couldn’t face talking to them; listening to their words of consolation would upset her. She decided to send a text to each of them, explaining what had happened and her plans. She told them she’d let them know as soon as she had a date for the cremation and, finally, wished them all well. As she crawled into the small bed in the miniscule spare bedroom in her son’s neat and pretty bungalow, she felt her age. And also knew that she was, finally, an orphan. When she eventually managed to find sleep, the loss of her mother filled her dreams and her pillow was wet with tears within the hour.
THIRTY
Carol was sitting at her dining table, petting Bunty and her little bump when she got the text from Mavis. She pondered her friend’s loss even as she countenanced the new arrival in her life, and how she’d have to begin to plan for the future. Frustrated at not having been able to find a phone number for the people she was sure Annie must now be staying with, she’d been pleased to hear that Christine was making progress, thanks to the intervention of the enigmatic Alexander Bright. But she was terribly worried about Annie.
Realizing that there was only so much she could do from her Paddington flat, by way of a diversion she began to investigate the mysterious stranger who had turned up at Chellingworth Hall and with whom Christine seemed quite taken.
She was surprised at what she discovered about Mr Bright.
One of Carol’s fortes was to be able to discover information about people by searching seemingly unrelated sources, and putting the pieces together. What she’d discovered was that Alexander Bright was the pretty anonymous head of a great number of companies, and the very open owner of several more. Her interest had been piqued by his desire for privacy, so she’d set about finding out more. Unusually for Carol she’d hit a big, fat, dead end. There had been no electronic trace of Alexander Bright until he hit the age of about thirty-four, when he seemed to emerge as a moneyed investor in property, from, literally, nowhere. But, other than tracing three British-born Alexander Brights, and discounting two of them, she was left with a scant record of a son born to a Marion Bright of Brixton. She noted that her address was close to where the riots of 1985 had begun. Since one of Alexander Bright’s businesses was named Marion, Carol was pretty sure she’d found the right person. What she couldn’t fathom was how someone could be, essentially, invisible to all record keeping between the ages of six and thirty-four. She didn’t like it. But she wasn’t sure what it meant, or whether she should alert Christine.
