by Stuart Woods
“I see.”
“I thought you, Erica, Monica, and I ought to get our stories straight.”
Now Stone was awake. “Straight?”
“We should be in agreement.”
“About what?”
“About what happened.”
“Is there any disagreement about what happened?”
“That depends on how you see it.”
“The yacht gybed, and James went overboard, then I did.”
“The yacht didn’t gybe; Sarah gybed it. She knew what she was doing.”
Stone resisted the thought. “Lance, how much sailing have you done?”
“None, to speak of.”
“Then you don’t really understand what happened. Boats accidentally gybe all the time; people sometimes get hit with the boom. James was unlucky.”
“So that’s the story you’re sticking to?”
“It’s what happened; I was there, too, remember?”
“You weren’t on the yacht after James went overboard.”
“No. Did something happen then?”
“Very little. Sarah seemed . . . Well, I had the distinct impression that her only real concern was getting you out of the water.”
“Tell me exactly what happened after I went in.”
“I heard you yell, ‘Stop the yacht,’ and then Sarah yelled, ‘Gybing back.’ Or maybe it was the other way around. Why would she gybe back?”
“To get the sails on the same side of the boat.”
“But she didn’t gybe back,” Lance said. “She just turned into the wind.”
“That was the right thing to do,” Stone said. “When I looked back and saw the yacht, the genoa was aback, and that would stop the yacht.”
“Sarah wouldn’t start the engine—not at first, anyway. I asked her to, and she ignored me.”
“She did start the engine; she came back for me.”
“Only after I pointed out that you were still in the water.”
“She would have been stunned by what happened,” Stone said. “We were lucky she was able to function at all.”
“She was as cool as ice,” Lance said.
“Lucky for me.”
“All right, Stone,” Lance said. “You’re the lawyer. How should we handle the inquest?”
“Tell the truth; relate the facts as they happened; don’t offer any opinions, unless you’re asked, then be circumspect. The family is certainly going to have a lawyer there, and—”
“He’s already arrived,” Lance said. “Sir Bernard Pickering, QC. Very famous barrister, I’m told. A polite shark.”
“Then he’ll tear you and the others to pieces if you begin to imply that what Sarah did was intentional. Stick to the facts; don’t make reckless charges. Have you been questioned by the police?”
“Yes, but not the girls. I told the police they were too upset to talk yet.”
“What did you tell the police?”
“I played dumb, told them I don’t sail, don’t know anything about it.”
“Which was the truth.”
“After a fashion.”
“What do the girls think happened?”
“They don’t seem to have a clue.”
“Did they question Sarah?”
“No, she’s been locked in her room, except to have meals brought in. She won’t even talk to her parents, but I think the barrister is probably talking to her by now.”
“That’s as it should be.”
“So you don’t think what Sarah did was deliberate?”
“Of course not. I know her quite well, you know, and I’ve never seen her exhibit any behavior that would cause me to think she might want to kill her fiancé. She was marrying him, after all; if she wanted to be rid of him, she’d have dumped him in a straightforward manner. She’s a very decisive girl.”
“And you don’t think that’s exactly what she did?”
“I mean she’d have broken the engagement, told him to get lost. That’s pretty much what she did with me, except that we weren’t engaged.”
“How did all this happen?” Lance asked.
“We’d been seeing each other for a while, had been mostly living together in my house. Somebody from my past turned up—a man my partner on the NYPD had sent to prison for murder some years before. He began killing people close to me, and Sarah was, naturally, very frightened. Then he planted a car bomb outside a gallery where Sarah was showing her paintings. We managed to get everybody out before it went off, but after that, she just wanted to leave the country as quickly as possible. She asked me to come with her, and initially, I agreed, but then, at the airport, I changed my mind. She got on the airplane and, as far as I know, never looked back. I didn’t hear from her again after that.”
“Cool and decisive,” Lance said.
“That doesn’t make her a murderer.”
“I guess not.” Lance stood up. “I’ll take your advice, Stone. I don’t suppose anything I could say at the inquest would make a great deal of difference.”
“Not after the barrister got through with you,” Stone said.
“He wants to talk to you; you’d better get dressed and come downstairs.” Lance left the room and closed the door behind him.
Stone sat and thought about the scene on the boat for a minute. Lance couldn’t be right, could he? Of course not. He got up and headed for a shower.
13
STONE SHAVED, SHOWERED, DRESSED, and went downstairs; the house was very quiet. He walked into the library and found a man sitting before a fire reading a leather-bound volume. “Good morning,” he said.
The man rose; he was of Stone’s height but much slimmer, balding, with pale gray eyes. “Good morning.” He held out his hand. “I’m Bernard Pickering. I expect you’re Barrington.”
Stone shook the hand. “Yes.”
“I’ve ordered us some breakfast,” Pickering said, nodding at a small table at the end of the room that had been set for two. As if on cue, a maid entered the room bearing a silver tray. “Come,” Pickering said, leading the way.
“I understand you’re a lawyer back in the States,” Pickering said, pitching into his eggs.
“That’s right.”
“Have you done any criminal work?”
“Yes, and I was a police officer for many years before I began to practice law.”
“And you’re a partner, now, in Woodman and Weld?” the barrister asked, rasing his eyebrows.
“I’m of counsel. I work out of my own office.”
“I see,” Pickering replied, though clearly he didn’t.
“I do much of their criminal work.”
Pickering’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, I see.” Now he really did. “Well, that should make our conversation easier. I’m glad you’re someone who will understand the, ah, limits of my questions.”
“You mean the limits of my answers, don’t you?”
“Quite so. A death of this sort is always a delicate matter, and, if we handle it properly, we can dispose of the entire incident at this inquest.”
“I hope so,” Stone replied.
“I’m a bit concerned about Mr. Cabot’s attitude.”
“We talked about it. I don’t think he’ll be of particular concern to you.”
“James Cutler’s body came up in a fisherman’s trawl in the middle of the Channel, late last night. It’s being examined now.”
“I expect that death will be determined to have been caused by blunt trauma to the head or drowning, or both,” Stone said.
“Very probably. Will you give me your account of the events of yesterday?”
Stone related his story quickly, without embellishment.
Pickering nodded as he spoke. He took no notes. “Tell me, Mr. Barrington,” he said, “are you an experienced yachtsman?”
“I’ve done a lot of sailing, but not recently.”
“Are you aware that the standard procedure in such an event is for the crew not to enter the water to help?”
&
nbsp; “Yes, I’m aware of that, and I considered it before going after James.”
“And what was your thought process, may I ask?”
“If someone goes into the water after a man overboard, then there are two men to be rescued, instead of one, but in this instance I believed that the blow from the boom would have rendered James unconscious, and that he would be unable to help himself.”
“Mmmm,” Pickering muttered in an affirmative fashion. “I expect you did the right thing. Did you see or touch Cutler after you went in?”
“No, I swam to where I thought he might be and dove for him, but I never saw or touched him.”
“Are you familiar with the tides in the Solent?”
“No.”
“The tide turned while you were sailing toward Cowes, so by the time you came off the wind and sailed toward the Beaulieu River, the tide would have been ebbing, and you might have had a couple of knots under you.”
“That would have made no difference in my search, since James, the yacht, and I would have all been equally affected by the tide.”
“Good point,” Pickering said. “Did Sarah say anything to you during this incident?”
“No, she didn’t have time before I went into the water, and I was in no state to have a conversation with her after they got me aboard again.”
“Good,” Pickering said, almost to himself. “Do you recall any display of attitude or emotion on her part after you were back aboard?”
“No, I was shivering too badly to notice, then I must have fallen asleep or passed out. I don’t remember being brought from the yacht back to the house.”
“Good,” Pickering repeated. “Well, I think that’s all; we can enjoy our breakfast now.”
“Have you spoken to Sarah?”
“Yes, about an hour ago.”
“How is she?”
“Grieving, feeling guilty that she may have done something to cause James’s death. That’s preposterous, of course.”
“It’s not preposterous, but in my judgment, for what it’s worth, the whole thing was an accident.”
Pickering gazed over Stone’s shoulder and out the window. He seemed to be considering something. “Tell me, Stone,” he said finally, “if I may call you that . . .”
“Of course.”
“What do you know of Sarah’s personal circumstances?”
“Not much. I haven’t seen her for a year or so, since she left New York.”
“I understand you were, ah, close, while she was there?”
“Yes, that’s true.”
“Have you had any contact with her since she left New York?”
“None at all, until we met here on Friday evening.”
“No letters or phone calls? Email?”
“No.”
“And how did you come to be here this weekend?”
“I was invited by Monica Burroughs.”
“Did you know that the house party was to be at the home of Sarah’s parents and that the occasion was the announcement of her engagement to James Cutler?”
“Not until we were driving down here from London.”
“So Sarah was surprised to see you?”
“No, I asked Monica to call her and explain that I was coming.”
“Had Monica not planned to tell her?”
“I don’t believe so.”
“Why ever not?”
“I believe that Monica had intended my visit as a surprise.”
“I see.” He did not.
“I think it was probably mischievous on her part.”
“Oh, I see.” Now he did.
“But in any case, embarrassment was avoided by all because of Monica’s call to Sarah.”
“Good.”
“Do you think I could see Sarah? Is she up to it?”
“I suppose she is, but I’d rather no one who will be testifying tomorrow speak to her until after the inquest.”
“Would you tell her, then, that I asked after her and that I send my condolences?”
“Of course I will. I have one other question for you, Stone, and I would like this part of our conversation to be kept in the strictest confidence for the time being.”
“All right.”
“Are you aware that Sarah is James Cutler’s heir?”
“You mean she’s the beneficiary of his will?”
“Very nearly the sole beneficiary.”
“Is that sort of arrangement before a marriage common in this country?”
“It is not. I doubt if it is in the States, either.”
“In the States—or in New York, at least—they would be more likely to have a prenuptial agreement limiting Sarah’s benefits in the event of a divorce—or James’s, depending on Sarah’s circumstances.”
“Sarah’s circumstances are that she is a well-regarded painter with a nice income from her work, but she possesses no serious assets, except a long lease on her London flat. Whether she will inherit much from her father depends on the outcome of a number of lawsuits filed against him in connection with the collapse of an apartment building last year.”
“Was James particularly well off?”
“Let’s just say that Sarah is now the largest independent importer and distributor of wines in the United Kingdom, and she has widespread holdings in various French and Italian vineyards. She also now owns something upwards of a hundred and fifty wine shops and two hundred pubs. I doubt if she has much interest in running such a business, but it would bring a very large price if sold to one of the big wine and spirit conglomerates. Are you beginning to get my drift?”
“I believe I am,” Stone said.
Stone spent the remainder of the day reading more of Jane Austen in the library and joined the others for dinner, except Sarah, who dined in her room. Dinner was a quiet, almost somber affair, with little conversation. Everyone went to bed early, and Stone was not visited by anyone after retiring.
14
STONE LEFT THE HAMPSHIRE COUNTY Council building and found Monica waiting for him outside with the motor running. His baggage was already in the boot of the car, and he had said his good-byes to Lord and Lady Wight, but not to Sarah, who was still sequestered, pending her testimony to the coroner’s jury.
“How did it go?” Monica asked, putting the Aston Martin in gear and driving away.
“As planned, I think; Pickering seems to have everything well in hand.”
“I was surprised at how subdued he was when he questioned me,” she said. “He has a reputation as a tiger in court.”
“I think he went out of his way to give the impression that he was unconcerned about the outcome. He would not have wanted the coroner to think that he was defending Sarah of a charge.”
“Then he’s clever.”
“Yes, he is.”
“Did he need to be?”
“It never hurts, if a lawyer can avoid being seen to be clever.”
They drove in silence for half an hour. Finally, Monica spoke again. “Lance seems to think that Sarah did it deliberately.”
“None of the evidence I’m aware of supports that view.”
“So you think it was an accident?”
“Yes.” And he would continue to prefer to think that. Then he thought about Sarah’s late-night visit to him two nights before. A fling on her part, nothing more, he told himself.
She dropped him at the Connaught. “Dinner this week sometime?”
“Let me call you; I don’t know yet how long I’ll be here.”
She handed him a card. “Home, gallery, and cellphone.”
He thanked her and followed the porter into the hotel.
“You have a number of messages, Mr. Barrington,” the concierge said, handing him some small envelopes.
Stone waited until he was back in his suite to open them. Two were from John Bartholomew, or whoever he was, one was from Dino, and one was from Bill Eggers at Woodman & Weld. Stone dialed the New York number for Bartholomew. The number rang, then was interrupted, then
rang again.
“Yes?”
“It’s Stone Barrington.”
“I’ve been trying to reach you, but the phone I gave you wasn’t working.”
Stone looked over and saw the phone resting on its charger. “I’m sorry; I forgot to take the phone with me when I went away for the weekend.”
“I read about your weekend in the morning papers,” Bartholomew said.
Not the New York papers, Stone thought. Bartholomew was still in London.
“Hello?”
“I’m still here.”
“What have you learned?”
“That Cabot calls himself an independent business consultant.”
Bartholomew made a snorting sound. “Of course.”
“And that Erica Burroughs is not your niece.”
Now it was Bartholomew who was silent.
“And her mother is not dead, though her father is.”
“It’s not necessary for you to know everything,” Bartholomew said.
“Perhaps not, but it’s necessary, if we’re to continue this relationship, that what I do know is true and not a lie.”
“My apologies,” Bartholomew said stiffly. “What do you want to know?”
“Why do you want Lance Cabot in an English jail?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Is your interest in him personal, or are you working for someone else?”
“Both.”
“Who are you?”
“Do you wish to continue to represent me in this matter?” Now Bartholomew was angry.
“I don’t much care one way or the other,” Stone replied evenly, “but I don’t like to be kept in the dark about the motives for my investigation.”
“I’m afraid it will have to be that way for a time, but I’d like very much for you to continue.”
Stone made his decision. “All right, I’ll continue.” Until I find out what the hell is going on, he thought.
“Good. But please keep the phone I gave you on your person at all times. I don’t like not being able to reach you.”
“All right.”
“Contact me again when you have something to report.”
“All right.”
Bartholomew hung up without further ado.
