False Charity

by Veronica Heley

  Piers reached out a long arm and unhooked a mug for her, gesturing that she should help herself to coffee, which she did. Bea shovelled croissants out to everyone.

  ‘Hope I’m not too early for you,’ said Ms McNeice, meaning that she’d been up with the lark, and thought them very lazy for not having done the same. ‘Is that girl of yours all right?’

  Bea moistened her mouth with coffee. ‘Still asleep.’

  ‘Good, good. Well, I came straight round because I thought you ought to know that all bets are off. The police have arrested Noel Briggs – or whatever his name is – for the murder of our barman.’

  Bea and Piers suspended operations on their croissants, eyes and mouth wide.

  ‘Good news, isn’t it?’ smiled Ms McNeice. ‘It gives us a cast iron excuse to take that money and distribute it to the poor and needy. Yes, I wouldn’t mind a croissant. Thank you. Much appreciated.’

  Bea found her voice. ‘But how … what about …?’

  ‘I’d better start at the beginning, hadn’t I? I stayed at the hotel overnight. I was worried about our receptionist, whom you may have noticed was not exactly herself. We have a room set aside for staff, so that’s where she spent the night. She’s perfectly all right this morning, planning an expensive holiday on her share of the proceeds. I sent her off home this morning in a taxi, just before the police arrived. During the night they’d been called to a disturbance at a block of flats not far away, and found an elderly man who said he’d been assaulted and robbed of his mobile phone by someone living in the flats. The police went upstairs to question the man and he went berserk, assaulted one of the policemen. So he was arrested for that as well.’

  Wordless, Piers pushed a second croissant in Ms McNeice’s direction.

  Smiling, she accepted it. ‘Yes, you’ve guessed it! It was the man we know as Noel Briggs, though whether that’s his real name or not, I don’t know, and neither do the police. Anyway, when they searched his pockets, they found the victim’s mobile phone and … and, wait for it! … the key to our honeymoon suite! That rang bells with the police, so they asked him why he had that key, and he started shouting that it wasn’t his fault that it was so easy to kill people, some girls he’d picked up, and our barman, of course. I think our two young things have had a lucky escape, don’t you?’

  Ms McNeice cast down her eyes, trying to look meek. ‘The police wanted to know if I knew Noel and of course I said he was the son of the woman who’d been organizing a function at the hotel last night, that he’d been the photographer, in fact. I didn’t say anything about fraud, or a notebook or millions going missing. Or diamonds.’

  Bea blinked. ‘Won’t the police find out?’

  ‘They don’t know anything about a late-night meeting in my office. They don’t know that we’ve managed to retrieve the stolen money, and it seems to me that they’ve no need to know. If they did know, they might impound the money as evidence and although we could put in our claim for it, it might be months and months before the matter came to trial, and the Crown Prosecution Service might keep it and the charities would suffer, wouldn’t they?’

  Bea exchanged glances with Piers. Was this ethical?

  Ms McNeice chased crumbs around her plate. ‘The thing is, Noel is down for manslaughter at the very least, plus the assault on the policeman, plus the assault on his victim last night; whoever he was, poor man. Noel’s going to go down for a few years, isn’t he? So he really doesn’t need to have any extra charges brought against him for the assaults on your Maggie and my little receptionist, which saves them a lot of hassle and court appearances.’

  ‘And it means we can recompense them for what they’ve suffered at his hands,’ said Piers, thoughtfully. ‘What about Mrs Somers-Briggs and her partner?’

  ‘Nowhere to be found,’ said Ms McNeice. ‘They didn’t return to the flat last night and the police are looking for them as Noel’s accomplices. We’ve got their cash, I’m putting out a warning on the website to other hoteliers to beware of them. On the whole I’m inclined to think that if they disappear, all well and good. I’m content with that, if you are.’

  Bea wasn’t sure what she thought about that. ‘Are we doing the wrong thing, in order to right a wrong?’

  Piers took the last croissant. ‘Possibly. But if we don’t keep more than a small percentage to cover our costs, that’s OK in my book.’

  ‘Precisely,’ said Ms McNeice, draining her mug of coffee. ‘I must be off. My day to take my mother out for a run. She’s in sheltered accommodation, you know, and really looks forward to Sundays. Oliver, as soon as you’ve got the money into your bank, let me know, and we’ll arrange a time and place to start repaying everyone, right?’

  ‘Right,’ said Oliver, beaming. He at least had no doubts that they were doing the right thing. ‘I’ll see you out, shall I?’

  Bea and Piers were left sitting opposite one another. She said, ‘What on earth would Hamilton have said?’

  Piers shrugged. ‘All’s well that ends well?’

  She looked out of the window, across the garden, to the church spire beyond. She wasn’t at all sure that Hamilton would have gone along with Ms McNeice’s solution, but she couldn’t for the moment think of a better alternative. No, wait a minute; she did know what he’d say. He’d say it was poetic justice.

  Piers stretched, yawning. ‘I suppose I should shave. I’d like to get back to the work today, do some more on Hamilton’s portrait. Thanks for putting me up, Bea. You’ve been great.’

  She recognized the signs that he was getting restless and making moves to depart. ‘I’ve appreciated your help. Thanks.’

  ‘Any time.’ His mind was obviously moving on. He was flexing his fingers, anxious to get back to his paints. He went off with a light step.

  Oliver came bouncing back. ‘All we have to do now is wait for the money to arrive in our account. I’m taking bets that it goes through. Shall I take a cup of coffee up to Maggie now?’

  The money went through without a hitch. After a small percentage had been deducted for the Abbot Agency, and everyone else had been paid their due, a sizeable sum was sent anonymously to each of the international charities who worked in areas struck by natural disasters.

  Ana, the Asian accomplice, was never traced. Presumably her relative in Southall took care of her. When the police searched Mrs Somers-Briggs’ flat, they found a heavy paperweight, coated with what proved to be blood and hairs from the barman, which had rolled under a table and been forgotten. The fingerprints on it were Noel’s. If Mrs Somers-Briggs had been a better housekeeper, she’d have found and disposed of it. As it was, it provided vital evidence in sending Noel down for life.

  The fraud squad tried to make sense of Mrs Somers-Briggs’ accounts. They suspected they were on to a massive scam, but all the people mentioned in her books seemed to have been paid off and the lady herself had vanished, so that case was eventually shelved.

  Leo discharged himself from hospital, battered and bruised but in good spirits. Coral took him in for a couple of days, declaring he really wasn’t fit to look after himself, but once Leo had been paid everything that was due him, he returned to his own place, and set about rebuilding his contacts in the trade. Coral’s first grandchild was named after him.

  Bea took some time to recover her equanimity, finding it hard to concentrate for long. She began to sleep better, and to dispose of Hamilton’s clothes. Maggie bobbed up like a cork upon water, crashing around the house, singing at the top of her voice, making plans – a different plan each day – to sell the diamond earrings which had fallen to her lot as part of the spoils. She bought some clothes which fitted her new, less raucous image, and went out on a date with the tall lad who’d danced with her at the hotel.

  Oliver took delivery of the expected packet of papers from his father, enabling him to apply for jobs.

  Neither Oliver nor Maggie seemed to want to talk about the future, which worried Bea, who had begun to worry about it for them.
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  She couldn’t justify keeping them on, could she? She was fairly well off, but to employ Oliver and Maggie was not sensible. She simply couldn’t afford it. And what would they do with their time if she did keep them on? They were young, they had their own lives to lead. Her mind went round and round in circles and came to no decision.

  It crossed her mind a dozen times a day that she could reopen the agency, but she wasn’t sure that she was up to it. Hadn’t the case of the false charity proved that she was not cut out for such traumas? And if she did reopen the agency, she’d have to find good staff to help her, and that meant Oliver and Maggie. Now Oliver was someone she felt she could live with and work with, but could she really put up with Maggie’s hee-haw laugh and bossy behaviour? Bea wasn’t at all sure she could.

  Also, didn’t she have enough to do, trying to get herself sorted out?

  Max rang several times to check that Bea was all right. He was very relieved that nothing had got into the papers about Noel’s arrest … nothing, anyway, that could be referred back to him. Nicole did eventually start removing their belongings from Bea’s closet, and Bea began to reply to the huge pile of sympathy cards and letters.

  The weather took a turn for the worse and Bea developed a scratchy sore throat. Several of her old friends – including Velma Weston – rang to ask her out, but Bea put them all off, saying she didn’t feel up to it yet.

  For hours at a time she sat at the window, looking down on the rain-sodden garden, just existing, letting the minutes pass by. Resting. Recovering. Sometimes she wondered if Hamilton had been right, and that she ought to sell up and move away. Inertia kept her where she was; that and a feeling that she was waiting for something to happen to make up her mind for her.

  On Friday morning – Oliver and Maggie’s last day – Bea had an appointment at the beauty salon for a haircut and manicure. She told herself she’d feel better once she was at the salon, but there’s always a crumple in the roseleaf, as her mother used to say. Her favourite stylist was off sick, and though another of the girls did a pretty good job, it wasn’t quite the same. Also, the manicurist rushed her work, so that Bea felt more jangled than rested as she walked back home.

  There she met with a problem. Her nails were still slightly tacky and her keys were at the bottom of her handbag. There was no way she was going to poke around in her bag and ruin a perfectly good manicure. She decided to go down the outside steps to the office and get Oliver or Maggie to let her in that way.

  On the bottom step, however, sat a large, capable-looking woman of Afro-Caribbean descent, middle-aged and ever so slightly scruffy. She had brought a cushion to sit on and was making herself at home, drinking out of a thermos flask and chewing on a roll.

  Bea blinked. ‘Isn’t anyone in the office?’

  ‘You work here, love? I been trying to get in for ever.’

  ‘I used to work here once, but not now.’

  ‘Ah, closing up, I hear. I got to speak to someone, if it takes me all day. I tried everything else. Phoning. Calling round. Even been up Westminster, chasing that Mr Max that ought to be ashamed of himself, asking for work to be done and then not paying me for it.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Bea, recognizing that this woman was the same type as Coral, with the same terrier tendency. There was no way you could brush her off for good. The only thing to do was to listen and, probably, pay her off. ‘I think I’ve heard about you. Come on in and tell me all about it.’

  She rang the bell and asked Oliver to let them in. He did so, pulling a face when he saw who walked in behind Bea. ‘But, Mrs Abbot—’

  ‘That’s all right, Oliver. I’ll take our caller into my office.’

  Once seated there, Bea said, ‘Now, I’m Mrs Abbot. My husband used to run this agency but when he became ill, my son took over and began to run the agency down. Some staff left and records were not properly kept. If we owe you money, then I will see that you get it. Would you like to tell me your story?’

  The woman sighed with relief. ‘About time, too. The name’s Morris. Belle Morris. Me and my friend Bobby – she’s a girl my age, spite of her name – we used to work together, cleaning an office in the High Street these many years. Now and then she’d get an extra job through Abbot’s, special clearing out of places when old ladies and gentlemen go into homes, know what I mean?’

  Bea nodded. ‘Not nice work. I used to do it for the agency, and I know. Very often the relatives can’t face it.’

  ‘That’s it. So Bobby’s knee let her down, coupla months back. Real painful, it was. She had to give up work and go and stay with her daughter that lives in Milton Keynes. Not that she’ll be there for long, seeing as she’s a proper Londoner and hates the country. Anyway, she said would I do this job for her, she’d square it with you. I was to keep note of my hours and get paid the going rate. Some old lady lived and died in this flat, and there was no other family left in London. The nevvy had taken one or two bits that he fancied, there wasn’t anything else he wanted, I was to clear out the rubbish, get the house clearance people in for the rest, clean the flat up ready for it to go on the market. I said, fine, and she give me the keys, right? Up Lancaster Gate way. Nice flat but pooh, what a stink, know what I mean?’

  Bea nodded. The old woman had probably been doubly incontinent. It happened, despite everything the family or social services could do.

  ‘So I throw open the windows and I start bagging stuff up, old clothes, bedclothes, cushions, taking loose covers off the settee, you know? And I come across where she’d been stashing her pension money, been doing it for years, I should think, some really old notes, know what I mean? Wrapped up in those old thick stockings that you can’t hardly get now, stuck behind the pipes in the airing cupboard. Near on two thousand quid.’ She unearthed a stiff roll of banknotes from her bag and laid it on the desk.

  ‘Ah,’ said Bea. ‘The nephew hadn’t checked?’

  ‘Didn’t know enough about old ladies and their little ways, I reckon. Or he was put off by the stink. And then –’ she pulled a wad of clean tissues from her pocket ‘– I found these.’ She unfolded the tissues and spread five rings out on the desk for Bea to see. They were old-fashioned, heavy gold rings, two men’s, and three women’s, set with what looked like reasonably weighty diamonds.

  ‘Wow!’ said Bea, putting on her glasses for a better look. ‘They look real. Are they?’

  The woman shook her head in frustration. ‘Might be glass, might not. Set in gold, though, so they’re probably worth something. I did wonder about getting them valued, then I thought I better not, because they might have thought I’d stolen them, which a course I haven’t.’

  ‘No, indeed,’ said Bea. ‘Where did you find them? No, let me guess. Stuffed into the toes of some old shoes?’

  ‘Wellington boots, would you believe! So, there’s the key to the flat and a note of my hours. The flat’s been cleared and cleaned fit to put on the market, and I’d be obliged if you’d give me a receipt for the money and the rings, and pay me what’s due.’

  Bea reflected that the woman could easily have helped herself to money and the jewellery, but hadn’t. She pressed the intercom for Oliver to come in. ‘Oliver, some more detective work. Some time ago, before you arrived, Max gave a clear-out job on a flat in the Lancaster Gate area to a Mrs … what did you say Bobby’s name was?’

  ‘Lucas. Bobby Lucas.’

  ‘Mrs Lucas didn’t know the client’s name?’

  ‘She was given the key and an address and that’s all. She said she trusted you, and that you’d see me right.’

  ‘Which we will. Oliver, can you see what you can find for us? We know the job wasn’t filed under the name of Morris; look instead under Lucas. Bobby Lucas. We need the name of our client, urgently, to let him know the flat has been cleared and is ready to go on to the market. And make out a cheque for Mrs Morris to this amount. Oh, and also please count the money and give her a receipt for it and for these five rings which belong to our client.�
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  Oliver’s face showed he didn’t know whether to tell Bea she was being taken for a ride, or to believe Mrs Morris’ story. But by the time Bea had offered Mrs Morris a cup of tea – which offer had been graciously declined – Oliver was back with a slip of paper giving the client’s name and contact details.

  ‘He lives in Northampton,’ said Bea, putting on her glasses again. ‘No wonder he needed someone to clear the flat out for him. I’ll get in touch with him right away. Oliver, the cheque for Mrs Morris?’

  ‘A pleasure to do business with you,’ said Mrs Morris, accepting payment. ‘And a great relief to pass the money and the rings over to you, I must say. If ever you need something similar done …?’

  ‘Leave me your address, and we’ll be in touch,’ promised Bea.

  She saw Mrs Morris out, and returned to the office to put the valuables away in their safe. Then she sat back in her chair, musing on how nearly she had missed hearing Mrs Morris’ story, and what might have happened if she had made time to listen to the woman earlier. She felt a giggle rising inside her.

  From giggling she went to a soundless laugh. From laughing in silence, she laughed out loud. How absurd she’d been, thinking she couldn’t cope any more. Of course she could!

  She looked up to see Maggie and Oliver gazing at her with identical expressions of concern. ‘Are you all right?’ asked Oliver.

  ‘We’re a bit worried about you,’ said Maggie, arms akimbo, ready to do battle.

  Bea swiped the back of her hand across her eyes. ‘I’m fine. It wasn’t really that funny, but it just struck me that way.’

  Oliver and Maggie exchanged glances. Maggie said, ‘We wondered whether …’ Her voice trailed away.

  ‘The thing is,’ said Oliver, ‘that we don’t like to think of you being left all by yourself in this big house, and we wondered, that is we thought … we know you can’t afford to keep us on, but …’ His voice trailed away, too.

  Maggie pulled herself up to her considerable height. ‘What we thought was, we could pay you a rent for our rooms here so that you’d have some money coming in, and we could easily get ourselves jobs elsewhere. That is, if you like the idea.’