‘Then you don’t think I . . .’
‘You and Miss Crewe must be under a great deal of pressure, Miss Cope, and that is affecting you. Your mind is playing tricks, perhaps, but I suggest that is a temporary problem and that as soon as the police have solved the crime, you will once again be restored to your normal cheerful self.’
Biddy found this bland assessment irritating. ‘But I can’t sleep, Doctor Courtney, and I can’t think straight. I–I made a Christmas pudding a few days ago. Miss Crewe thought I was quite mad!’
‘Forgive me, Miss Cope, but Miss Crewe is not a doctor and doesn’t understand the workings of the mind. Can you tell me today’s date?’
‘The date? It’s the sixteenth.’
‘And is Queen Victoria on the throne?’
‘No. She died a long time ago.’
He smiled faintly. ‘There you are then. I rest my case. If you failed to answer either question correctly I would worry about you. But you didn’t fail!’
She opened her mouth to add something but he held up his hand to silence her. ‘I am going to give you a sedative. Not only to help you sleep at night but to calm your nerves and help you through the next few days. A few spoonfuls of medicine, Miss Cope, and I guarantee you will see no more strange men.’
Around the same time Maude sat down opposite the bank manager with a comparatively light heart. The end was near. She told herself so at intervals and was beginning to believe it. All she had to do was deliver the money and Lionel would be released and they would go back to Fairways together. Time would pass and they would forget all about it.
She smiled at Mr Franks. She had always liked him. He had managed their affairs for as long as she could remember and must be due to retire soon.
He greeted her rather nervously, she thought, but grasped his plump outstretched hand as warmly as usual.
‘So sorry to keep you waiting, Mrs Brent.’
‘I’ve only been here a few minutes.’
He lowered himself into his chair, avoiding her gaze.
Maude felt the first frisson of doubt as she watched him assemble the papers he had brought with him. She said, ‘It should soon be over, Mr Franks, with your help. As I told you on the telephone . . .’
He glanced up unhappily. ‘I shall do all I can, of course, but I have to be guided by Head Office. I have explained exactly what we need – a loan – but they are still deliberating.’
‘Deliberating?’ It was little more than a whisper.
‘Considering how best to deal with the . . . the difficulties. It is a most unusual request, Mrs Brent, and we do have a responsibility to our shareholders . . .’
‘I am one of them!’
‘Ah! Yes, you are indeed but . . . these things take time, Mrs Brent. A thousand pounds is a very large sum and one you do not have in your account.’
‘But you know we are able to afford the ransom. You know I have my father’s pictures, which are possibly worth twice that amount. We are not paupers, Mr Franks! We have goods to a value far above the loan I am asking for. I don’t have to tell you that. You have the file in front of you. Look at it!’
To her dismay he shook his head. ‘It’s not as simple as you imagine, Mrs Brent. We also owe a duty of care to you, as one of our clients, to give you sound advice and, in this instance, Head Office feels that we should all step back and take a deep breath before we rush into something we might—’
‘I shan’t regret it, Mr Franks, if that’s what you’re implying. I want my husband home safe and well. I can’t begin to imagine what he is going through with his life hanging by a thread. He is relying on me and the police and you, Mr Franks, to save his life. Who is this nameless man at Head Office? Let me speak to him. I’ll tell him what I think about a man in his position who dithers at a time like this!’ Breathless, she pressed a hand to her heart. ‘I wonder just how different his reply would be if his wife had been kidnapped! Very different, Mr Franks, and you know it.’ She glared at him, her chest heaving with anger.
‘Really, Mrs Brent, you must calm yourself!’ he begged, taken aback by her uncharacteristic attack. ‘We only have your best interests at heart. The police believe, they have told me, they fear it will not be the last payment you have to make. They also think you should delay the—’
‘Oh, I see it now! You’ve been in touch with the police behind my back! That’s despicable, Mr Franks! What happened to client confidentiality? You have betrayed me!’ She leaned across the desk, stabbing her finger at him so violently that he drew back in his chair in alarm.
‘Mrs Brent! You are beside yourself!’ he gasped.
‘And you are the reason, Mr Franks, for my anger. You and Head Office are driving me to the point of hysteria! Every minute wasted is a minute nearer to my husband’s death!’ She flung herself back in the chair, almost choking with fear and anger. She took several deep breaths in an attempt to compose herself. This, she told herself, was not the way to win them over. Tears might have been the best option but she was far from tearful. She steadied her voice with an effort. ‘Please allow me to speak directly to someone at Head Office.’
‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible.’
‘Please try, Mr Franks.’ She pointed at the telephone.
For a moment they stared at each other, both refusing to give ground, but then the manager shrugged. Without another word to her, he reached for the telephone and asked the operator to connect him to his Head Office. They waited in silence for the connection. When he was put through, Mr Franks said, ‘I have one of my clients with me. A Mrs Lionel Brent . . . Yes. That Mrs Brent. She is insisting on speaking to someone . . . I see. Perhaps you would tell her that.’ He handed the telephone to her.
A young male voice said, ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Brent. There is nobody available to speak with you. They are all in a meeting. I’m so—’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘I beg your pardon!’
‘I think no-one wants to speak to me so you have been told to tell me they are all in a meeting!’
Mr Franks rolled his eyes and then shook his head.
The voice continued but there was now a distinct edge of irritation to it. ‘I’m sure Mr Franks can help you. You can trust him to give you good advice and the police have briefed him. That’s all I can say at this point.’ The line went dead.
Slowly she handed back the telephone.
‘Everyone is “in a meeting”! You really think, Mr Franks, that I am convinced by that?’ She eyed him coldly. ‘They are ashamed of the line they are taking and nobody will speak to me.’
‘Really, Mrs Brent, that’s . . . I’m sure that’s quite untrue.’
She stood up. ‘I shall have to take the pictures instead of the money. I shall hand them all over to the kidnappers – and you should be prepared for my husband’s response when he learns how narrowly he escaped death – and no thanks to your bank. We shall be closing our account. Rest assured of that!’
Ignoring his protests, she jumped to her feet and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her as loudly as she could.
As all the heads in the public area turned to stare she shouted, ‘Don’t ever rely on this bank to help you in an emergency! Take my word for it – they won’t!’ Aware of the shocked and puzzled glances that followed her to the door, Maude pushed blindly past the doorman, ran outside and into the taxi. She pulled the door shut and burst into tears of rage and frustration.
Utterly betrayed by the bank manager’s reluctance to provide the money she needed, Maude finally dried her tears, scrubbed at her eyes with a handkerchief and set off for the nearest telephone box to contact the police.
‘I need to speak with Detective Constable Fleet,’ she told them. ‘Is that possible?’
The reply was not helpful. ‘I’m afraid not. I dare not interrupt them, Mrs Brent. DC Fleet’s in with DI Merrit. Detective Inspector Merrit. He’s the big man here. They’ve decided the two crimes are linked, you see – the
murder and the kidnap. They just don’t know how exactly. Seems Jem sort of knew the hostage.’
‘Knew him?’ Distracted from her immediate purpose, Maude blinked in surprise. ‘Lionel knew Jem Rider? What makes them think that?’
‘His mother turned up, first thing this morning. Wanted to know when she could have her son back. Her son’s body, I should say. Wants to bury him, poor soul! Who’d be in her shoes, eh?’ He tutted. ‘She saw a photograph of your husband stuck up here on the wall.’
‘Oh that. It’s not one of his best,’ she protested. ‘I was in rather a hurry when they asked for one. He looks quite ordinary.’
‘It’s good enough because she said she recognized him when he came to the house looking for Jem. Anyway the two big noises are “in conference” and not to be disturbed.’
For a moment Maude fumed helplessly but then she snapped, ‘Tell him Mrs Brent will deliver the paintings instead of the money. He’ll know what that means.’ Simmering with anger, she pushed open the door of the telephone box and climbed back into the taxi. ‘Drive me to Folkestone. I’ll give you directions when we get nearer.’
‘Whatever you say, missus. You’re the guv’nor!’
The guv’nor? Maude rolled her eyes. Little did he know just how helpless she felt in the face of the police’s unyielding attitude towards her preferred options. Lionel was her husband and she genuinely believed that she knew what was best for him. Now that she was being prevented from delivering the ransom, she would offer the pictures instead.
When Maude returned to Fairways she paid her fare and dismissed the taxi. ‘Home!’ she murmured gratefully. She would make the most of it. If possible she would take time out for a quick walk to the beach with Primmy. Anything to bring back a sense of normality into her fractured life, and the fresh air would do her good.
It would take a long time to collect and prepare all the pictures, but then she would call for another taxi. She would not contact the police again, she told herself. DC Fleet had betrayed her by persuading the bank not to make the money available. From now on she was going to deal with the kidnappers herself.
Biddy met her at the door and for a moment they clung to each other in silence, both fighting back tears, each trying to comfort the other.
Maude said, ‘The bank won’t help so I’m giving the kidnappers the pictures. It’s as broad as it’s long. Alice must help me because some of them are too heavy for one person and we have to carry some of them up from the cellar.’
Biddy said, ‘Alice is in a funny mood this morning. She won’t get out of bed. We had a bit of a fright in the middle of the night and–and a few sharp words.’ She led the way into the sitting room and they both sat down.
‘Won’t get out of bed? Is she ill?’
‘Maybe. She won’t say very much – just keeps telling me to leave her alone.’
With an effort Maude dragged her thoughts from the pictures and tried to make sense of Biddy’s disturbing news. ‘What happened in the night?’
She listened in growing dismay to her aunt’s account of the events of the previous night.
‘And so today,’ Biddy continued, ‘I went straight round to see Doctor Courtney and asked him for the truth and he was very reassuring.’ She tossed her head triumphantly. ‘I’m not going senile at all; I’m just becoming forgetful. And I was not sleepwalking and it’s nothing a few spoonfuls of medicine won’t cure. It’s all because of the strain we’re under with Lionel being kidnapped and everything. So I did see a man in the garden, even if he was a poacher, and so why did Alice insist I was imagining things? She’s upset me dreadfully, Maude – and why shouldn’t I make a Christmas pudding in June? I live here. It’s my home. She can’t tell me what to do.’ Her voice shook.
Maude said, ‘Of course you can make a pudding, Aunt Biddy, whenever you like – and I’m sure it will be delicious. It will have longer to–to mature. Try to forget all about it and, since I’m here, I’ll have a word with Alice.’ Seeing that her aunt was about to continue, Maude said quickly, ‘What have we got to eat? I shall be starving by midday.’
Her aunt’s expression changed. ‘We’ve got a bit of beef. I could make some rissoles with a bit of onions and some herbs . . . or we could have the sausages I was keeping for tomorrow and take them out of their skins and layer them with slices of potato under a pastry lid . . . Have I got enough lard? I think so . . . Yes, sausage and potato pie sounds nice and filling. You’ve lost weight, Maudie love, but that’s to be expected . . . I noticed some early courgettes in the vegetable patch . . .’
Having found her aunt something purposeful to do, Maude hesitated. She would have to talk to Alice but first she wanted to discuss the pictures with Lionel’s partner. Standing in the hallway she waited for the operator to connect them and was relieved to learn that Frederick Barlowe was in the gallery that day and not away following up new artistic talent.
She listened in silence for a moment or two as he commiserated with her on the situation and then she explained what had happened at the bank and how angry she was. ‘I feel it’s a sort of conspiracy to prevent me from saving Lionel. First the police and then the bank manager! So I’m going to take some of my father’s work in lieu of the money. He can sell them – the kidnapper – and get the money that way.’
Frederick Barlowe interrupted her. ‘Not in this country, surely! The name is very recognizable and the kidnap has been reported in the newspapers. Who would buy stolen paintings?’
‘They wouldn’t be stolen, Mr Barlowe. Not if I give them to the kidnapper.’
‘They would be “obtained under duress”!’
‘Oh! For heaven’s sake! The wretch can sell them abroad. I don’t care where they go and I know my father would approve of what I’m going to do. All I need from you, Mr Barlowe, is an idea of each picture’s proper value. You have a list, I know, somewhere in the office in the gallery. The pictures are numbered and some you have already sold. You will be able to see at a glance which ones are still here in our cellar. If I can find enough works to add up to a thousand pounds I can—’
‘Please, Mrs Brent!’ His voice was rising. ‘This is not a good idea! I do think you should let the police advise you on this.’
Maude bit back a sharp retort and counted to ten. No point in antagonizing him. She needed his help. ‘If you can’t guide me in this I shall just have to make a wild guess at their value.’ She waited. In the kitchen she could hear Aunt Biddy clattering spoons and crockery and the occasional thump of the rolling pin as the sausage and potato pie took shape.
She heard Frederick Barlowe sigh. ‘Very well. I will find the list and ring back when I have worked out a few prices, but I shall write a letter to my solicitor, spelling out my reluctance in case there are problems later that rebound against me. I don’t want to be blamed for something that is against the law.’
‘Thank you so much, Mr Barlowe,’ she said sarcastically. ‘You must do as you see fit. I’m sure Lionel will be grateful later when he learns later of your “assistance”.’
‘There’s no need to take that tone. I think you are misguided, Mrs Brent, and I think you may live to regret your hasty actions.’
‘I would regret it more if Lionel dies, Mr Barlowe! I love my husband. If your wife would not do anything, in similar circumstances, to save your life, then I’m sorry for you!’ She hung up, breathing hard and fighting back doubts as she set off up the stairs to see if she could get any sense out of Alice.
She knocked on the bedroom door and Alice called out in a muffled voice, ‘Come in!’ To Maude’s surprise, Alice was still in bed, huddled under the bedclothes.
‘Alice! What’s the matter? Are you ill?’
‘Please just go away. I want to be on my own for a while.’
‘But why? You’re not usually like this. Something must have happened. Are you upset?’ She moved to stand beside the bed. ‘Talk to me, Alice! How can anyone help you if you hide away under there?’
‘I don�
��t want to talk to anyone. I don’t need help. I need to be on my own – to think about things.’
Maude tugged at the bedclothes. ‘Sit up, for heaven’s sake! I don’t have time for all this nonsense. Is it because of what happened in the night . . . or because Aunt Biddy went to see the doctor?’ There was no answer. ‘Alice!’ she shouted, losing patience. ‘Sit up and talk to me.’
At last there was a reluctant movement and slowly Alice’s head emerged from the bedclothes. She pulled herself to a sitting position and glared at Maude. She looked very pale and had been crying.
An unwelcome thought entered Maude’s mind and she had to hold back a groan. Was Alice expecting a child? Was it possible that she had been keeping secrets about her relationships? An unwanted pregnancy would certainly be enough to bring about this extreme reaction. If it were true, would Alice know? Would she recognize the symptoms of a pregnancy? Maude decided, rather than ask an outright question on such a delicate subject, that she would try a roundabout route to the truth.
‘Are you ill, Alice? Feverish, maybe or . . . sick?’
Alice shook her head.
‘Has anyone . . . upset you? A man, perhaps.’ Maude’s thoughts flew to the man Aunt Biddy insisted she had seen the night before. This was obviously why Alice had denied seeing him in the garden. Her heart sank at the prospect of more worries – as if she didn’t have enough. ‘You can tell me, Alice. I’ll do my best to understand. Don’t we know each other well enough by now?’
‘No! We don’t! That’s the whole point!’
Maude reached out to take Alice’s hands in hers but the girl snatched them away.
‘Don’t touch me! Don’t talk to me. Don’t try to help me, Maude, because you can’t. Nobody can, so just let me sort it out for myself.’
Maude glanced at the small clock on Alice’s bedside table. She had to go down to the cellar and look through the pictures so she could decide which ones to give to the kidnappers. Or kidnapper. Was there only one or two – or maybe a gang? Thank heavens she didn’t have to hand the pictures over in person. That would have terrified her. And thank heavens she had to leave them at the entrance to the pier and not the end of it. She would have had to struggle to carry the pictures all that way and dare not let anyone accompany her.
Truth Will Out Page 11
