False Pretences

by Veronica Heley

  The front doorbell pealed, long and hard. Not an ordinary visitor’s tentative ring. An official-sounding peal, one intending to be answered. Bea shot to her feet. She knew the peal of doom when she heard it, and this was undoubtedly it. CJ? The police? Or both?

  Friday morning

  Honoria hummed as she set the washing machine going. The hammer lay in a bowl of warm water, liberally treated with Dettol. Her shoes – a pity, but sacrifices had to be made – were on a bonfire in the kitchen garden. The gloves she’d disposed of in a litter bin on the way home. Nothing remained to link her with the murder.

  Goodbye dear Della, inefficient office manageress and leech. No more fifty-pound notes will be coming your way, dear.

  It was amusing to speculate how much damage the fire would have done to Della’s place. Such a heavy smoker deserved to die by fire. To be accurate, to die by fire after she’d been hammered to death.

  Zander was safely locked up in prison, and the charity was hers to do what she liked with.

  She’d never realized how exciting life could be till she started taking out those who wronged her. How dull things were going to be when she’d finally come to the end of her list! Not yet, though. She was enjoying herself too much to stop now.

  FIFTEEN

  Friday morning

  Bea went to the door to let in not one but three people; CJ came first, looking even frailer than before. Behind him toiled along two policemen in plain clothes, holding up their IDs and giving her their names – neither of which registered with her. Now what was Max going to say to this visitation?

  ‘Do come in,’ she said, ushering her visitors inside. Max was still standing by the hearth, legs apart, waiting to continue their discussion. Well, tough. ‘Sorry, Max. Business. You had a meeting to go to, I believe?’

  ‘What, what? Oh –’ a quick glance at his watch – ‘I suppose so. Ring you later. Don’t forget to speak to Piers about . . . you know what, will you?’

  ‘Of course not, dear.’ She saw him out, mentally shook herself to attention, gave a passing thought to wondering what Chris was up to – surely not still watering the garden? – and returned to the sitting room.

  ‘DI Warner.’ Thickset, fiftyish, rubicund complexion, small bright eyes. A man who smiled without meaning it. A smooth front; a man of authority. Not to be trifled with. He glanced at CJ, who as usual was effacing himself. ‘May we have a word in private?’

  ‘Is it about the attack on Mrs Lawrence last night?’

  They nodded.

  ‘In that case, you will probably want to hear what Mr Cambridge has to say as well,’ said Bea.

  Both policemen transferred their eyes to CJ, who was looking out of the window, probably thinking about Tommy and the Trust. Probably not wondering if the sun was going to be with them all day.

  ‘Mr Cambridge?’ said the DI. ‘Ah. Saves us a journey.’ Again came that flicker of a smile.

  Bea realized they thought that CJ was Chris, who they would indeed need to speak to about the previous evening’s entertainment. ‘Well, actually,’ she began, and then shook her head. ‘Coffee first, explanations later. Or tea? If we’ve got enough milk, that is.’ Any excuse to get away and think what she ought and ought not to be saying. First and foremost, how to convince them that Milly needed protection?

  ‘No, thank you,’ said the DI, and he took a seat, unasked. As did his sidekick.

  Bea hesitated, and then did likewise. She said, ‘How is Mrs Lawrence? I ought to have rung the hospital to find out this morning, but—’

  ‘I’m afraid she didn’t make it.’

  Silence. And in the silence, Bea heard the faint swish of water from the hosepipe in the garden outside.

  ‘That’s bad,’ said Bea, glancing over at CJ, who kept his station by the window, divorcing himself from their conversation. One down and one to go. CJ, this can’t go on.

  ‘Now, could you tell me how you came to be calling on Mrs Lawrence so late last night?’

  ‘Late? It wasn’t late. We got there about seven forty-five, I suppose. Give or take a few minutes.’

  The DI had a notebook out. ‘It says here that you were with a Mr George Bundell when he reported the fire at coming up to half past nine.’

  Bea crossed one knee over the other, leaned back in her chair. She looked at CJ’s back, which continued to be uninformative.

  ‘Mrs Abbot?’ The DI was going to insist on answers, and of course he was right to do so. This was no burglary that had gone wrong. This was murder.

  Bea sighed. ‘I’m sorry, CJ, but they’ve got to know what’s been going on.’

  He shook his head, and said in a voice that didn’t rise above a murmur, ‘Tommy’s dying.’

  ‘I dare say,’ said Bea, ‘but Mrs Lawrence is dead and so is Mrs Perrot, Zander and Oliver have spent time in police cells, and this has gone way beyond a joke. And what about Milly? Now you may have promised Tommy to keep quiet whatever happens, but I haven’t.’

  ‘Discretion,’ he said, still in that thread of a voice. ‘For the benefit of all concerned.’

  ‘Murder!’ said Bea. ‘Milly’s next, remember.’

  Silence.

  The DI hadn’t missed a word of this. ‘Shall we start at the beginning?’ No smiles now.

  ‘Heavens above,’ said Bea, tried beyond endurance, ‘I don’t know where to begin, and I suspect CJ doesn’t, either. With her birth certificate, perhaps?’

  CJ swung round to stare at Bea. ‘You’ve found her birth certificate? Where?’

  ‘Where Denzil the dirty-minded left it, of course. On his computer. You’d have found it yourself if you hadn’t been doing so much hospital visiting.’ Bea switched back to the DI. ‘And before you ask who Denzil is, and what he’s got to do with this, all I can say is, ask CJ, not me. This is his story, and I’ve only been dragged into it right at the end.’

  The DI leaned back in his chair. Against all the odds, it seemed that he really might be enjoying this, for there was a flicker of amusement in his eyes and a twitch at the corner of his mouth. ‘I expect that at some point one or other of you will say something which makes sense. Am I to understand that you two have been withholding essential information from the police?’

  ‘Oh, not just me,’ said Bea. ‘Zander and Oliver and the whole caboodle, I wouldn’t wonder. And Tommy, of course. Lord Murchison. He’s ninety plus and probably in intensive care at the moment, so I shouldn’t think you’ll be allowed to question him today, or tomorrow. Your best bet, from what I’ve gathered of the man, is to hold a seance and try to get through to him after he’s dead.’

  The DI laughed, genuinely amused, but his sidekick went red in the face and looked as if he’d rather like to hit someone.

  Bea got to her feet. ‘Sorry about that. But this has gone far enough. CJ, if you don’t start talking, I will. Meantime, I need caffeine. I’ve already had two strong cups this morning, but just for once I’m going over my limit. Coffee all round?’

  This time the DI nodded, though his sidekick shook his head. Bea stormed out to the kitchen and tried to switch on the new coffee machine. Needless to say, it refused to cooperate. She picked it up and dropped it back on the work surface. It said ‘Glop!’ fizzed, and died.

  Bea screamed, fairly silently. A mouse squeak.

  Chris came through the kitchen door, wearing Winston around his neck rather like a feather boa. ‘Ah, coffee?’

  Bea eyed him with dislike. ‘I hope you don’t get bitten. I haven’t given Winston his flea medication for a while.’

  ‘He don’t mind me, and I don’t mind him,’ said Chris, reaching past her to switch this and press that. The machine obligingly burped into life. ‘Lucky I went out to get some milk. I saw you hadn’t got any. Oh, and some ginger-nut biscuits, too. I like dunking them in coffee, don’t you?’

  She struggled with a desire to bop him one over his head. ‘I hope you remembered to turn off the hosepipe in the garden or we’ll be flooded. Oh, and thank you for th
e milk. I’m grateful.’ She didn’t sound grateful, and she knew it. She tried to soften her tone. ‘Your father’s here and so are the police. Della Lawrence didn’t make it.’

  ‘Really?’ He was more excited than depressed by the news. ‘That’s one up for Oliver. He said you could do with another murder as it boosted the coffers nicely. Where is he, anyway?’

  ‘Investigating,’ said Bea. ‘And no, I don’t know what and I don’t know where.’

  Leaving her to gather mugs, milk and sugar together, Chris drifted off into the sitting room, from which came the quiet murmur of CJ telling the police some, if not all, of what had been happening. Bea followed, kneeing open the door with some difficulty and depositing the tray on the low table before the settee. Chris was now sitting in her chair, sharing a bag of crisps with Winston.

  Bea poured coffee and handed it round, while CJ murmured to a close. ‘So you see, there’s absolutely no proof that we can offer you. We can prove that neither Zander nor young Oliver killed Mrs Perrot, but any ideas that we might have as to who might have been responsible are only that; ideas.’

  The DI was spellbound but not stupid. ‘Tell me, Mr Cambridge, why you went to see Mrs Lawrence last night.’

  Chris blew into the empty crisp packet, held the mouth closed with one hand and exploded it with the other. Everyone jumped but him. Winston treated him to a look which in a human being would have meant ‘Oh, grow up!’ and jumped down to the floor, tail waving.

  ‘That was me,’ said Chris, ‘not my father. I went with Mrs Abbot to find out why Mrs Lawrence had phoned Zander the day of Mrs Perrot’s murder. But she hadn’t. Phoned him, I mean. At least, that’s what she said, and I believed her – didn’t you, Mrs Abbot?’

  He transferred his smile back to the DI. ‘By the way, did you find the keys I left at her house? I mean, that’s why we went back, because I’d left them by my chair. Or in my chair. Whichever. We knew she was expecting to meet up with her niece at the pub so Mrs Abbot went off to the Feathers to see if she could find her there, but she couldn’t. So she came back and looked through the window. And that’s when Mrs Abbot saw the fire and called the police and fire brigade.’

  The inspector was stone-faced. ‘I’m sure that if we find the keys, you’ll get them back in due course.’ He turned to Bea. ‘So what did Mrs Lawrence tell you?’

  ‘Not much,’ said Bea. ‘She gave us some background about the way she’d lost her job at the Trust, saying she’d been framed by Denzil because her niece had been getting ideas about becoming his second wife.’

  ‘Dear me,’ said CJ. ‘But that’s hearsay, isn’t it, Inspector?’

  The DI sipped his coffee, added sugar and milk. Took his time about it. ‘What you’re all saying is that you think you know who is responsible for the murders of Mrs Perrot and Mrs Lawrence, but you can’t prove anything, and so therefore you won’t tell me who it is?’

  ‘I’ll tell you, Inspector,’ said Bea. ‘Because I don’t think it’s just two murders that we’re looking at. What about Sandy Corcoran? She’s done him in, too, hasn’t she? Oh, and if you don’t look sharp, Della Lawrence’s niece will probably be next on the list.’

  ‘Sandy – Corcoran? Who’s he?’ The inspector treated her to a long stare.

  ‘A builder. Mixed up in a scam Denzil was running at the Trust. Found dead in his office yesterday morning.’

  The DI put down his coffee cup, got out his mobile and, walking over to the French windows at the back, pressed numbers and spoke into it.

  Chris rubbed his hands together. ‘What a girl! Now you’ve done it!’

  ‘I hope so,’ said Bea. ‘Sorry, CJ, but this woman has got to be stopped.’

  Oliver let himself into the room. He grinned at Bea and waved some sheets of paper in the air. ‘Eureka!’

  ‘The Internet triumphs, I assume?’ said Bea. ‘What have you found?’

  The inspector shut off his mobile and rejoined them, with the air of one squaring up for a fight. ‘I’ve just been hearing about the Corcoran murder. So how does that tie up with what you’ve been telling me, and who –’ looking at Oliver – ‘are you?’

  ‘Oliver is my right hand,’ said Bea. ‘He’s an expert on computers and what they can do, trained by CJ. He’s already found Honoria’s birth certificate, which proves she had no right to the title she’s been claiming. What else, Oliver?’

  ‘And just who is this Honoria?’ The inspector was beginning to lose his temper.

  ‘The woman who aims to take over Lord Murchison’s Trust,’ said CJ.

  ‘Your murderer,’ said Bea.

  Oliver was smiling. ‘Three times at least.’ He addressed the inspector. ‘I’ve just been checking on the Internet. Bridget Honour Mulligan – known to us as Lady Honoria – has been married twice. The first time to a Sidney Watts-Long, with whom she was in partnership as a dog breeder – Staffordshire bull terriers, as you might have guessed. On February first, two thousand and one, Sidney was found dead in bed with a young girl beside him, also dead. Shot at point blank range. Apparently he’d been having an affair with the girl for some months. Naturally suspicion fell on his wife, but they couldn’t break her alibi for the night, which was given her by . . . Sandy Corcoran!’

  ‘This begins to make sense,’ said Bea.

  ‘The one who’s just been found murdered?’ asked the inspector, faint but pursuing.

  ‘According to The Times, dated February second, he swore she’d been dining out with him that evening, that he’d accompanied her back to her house to pick up some literature, and that they’d found the couple dead together. The murder was eventually put down to a burglary which had gone wrong, since Sidney’s mobile phone and laptop had gone missing.’

  ‘What was that name again?’ said the inspector.

  Oliver continued. ‘I’ll let you have a copy of the report. At some point Denzil must have wondered if he might be next for the high jump, because he’s gone to a lot of trouble to hide clues to her background in girlie pictures on his computer.’

  Oliver distributed papers all round. ‘I imagine that she paid off her debt to Corcoran after she married Denzil, by getting him to channel the Trust’s building work through the man who’d given her an alibi for her first husband’s death – and, incidentally, providing herself with a nice line in kickbacks. Once Zander had pulled the plug on that project, she realized that had to stop. Corcoran must have got restive, seeing his cash flow dry up. And so she silenced him.’

  Everyone else was silenced, too.

  At length Bea said, ‘This is a very dangerous woman. If you’re right, Oliver – and I’m sure you are – then everything starts with the fact that she’s illegitimate and resents it. She wants to be accepted as her father’s daughter, as a member of the nobility. After that she requires the status of being married and money to keep her ancestral home going. If anyone threatens what she’s got, she switches into revenge mode.

  ‘Zander exposed Denzil, which threatened both her income and her partner in crime. Denzil dies, and she faces financial ruin. So she lashes out at those she thinks responsible. She couldn’t get at Zander himself, so framed him for Mrs Perrot’s murder. Mrs Perrot was elderly and frail and expendable. Sandy Corcoran was always a threat and only kept sweet with the money from the Trust; when that ended, he had to be taken out. Della and her niece threatened her position as Denzil’s wife. Even though Denzil was dead and the women were no longer a threat, Honoria felt insulted by what they’d done. So Della had to be eliminated.

  ‘Now what about her niece, Inspector? I think she must be next on the list. She proposed to stay at the pub where she’s been doing evening work. Now that her aunt’s dead, how long is she going to be safe? She doesn’t even know she’s in danger. And she is, isn’t she? As I see it, Honoria thinks she can murder with impunity. She enjoys it!’

  The inspector closed his mouth with a snap. ‘What pub?’

  ‘The Three Feathers. George the biker can tell you where i
t is exactly.’

  ‘We shall look into it, of course. Also, we’ll need to take a look at that computer of yours.’

  ‘Not our computer,’ said Bea. ‘What you mean is that you need Oliver’s memory stick, which I am sure he will be happy to give you.’ She didn’t think he’d be at all happy about it, but needs must. ‘Oliver?’

  ‘I’ll get it for you.’

  She glared at him, meaning that he was not play any tricks, such as substituting his memory stick for another one. He smiled angelically and slid out of the room, meaning . . . what? That he was prepared to do as she’d asked? Hmph. Maybe. He could be a tricky Dicky at times.

  She gathered the empty cups together and put them on the tray. ‘Before anyone else asks, was Denzil’s death entirely due to natural causes? It was lucky for her that he died when he did, wasn’t it? Granted that he had a heart condition; I’m beginning to wonder if she frightened him to death.’

  The inspector got to his feet, looking a lot less smooth than when he’d arrived. ‘We’ll have to make some enquiries and get back to you.’

  ‘Don’t forget my keys,’ said Chris. ‘I left them on the arm of the chair I was sitting in, so they may have dropped down to the floor, or at the side of the cushion.’

  ‘They’re not his keys, Inspector,’ said Bea. ‘They’re mine. A transponder for the car, house keys, and keys to the agency in the basement. I hope you find them soon as it is extremely inconvenient to be without them.’

  ‘I’ll bear it in mind,’ said the inspector. He followed Bea as far as the door and stood there, making it clear he wasn’t moving till he’d got Oliver’s memory stick. Up the stairs came Oliver, still wearing his innocent face.

  ‘Careful with it,’ he said and handed it over.

  ‘I’ll give you a receipt for it.’

  They all waited while a receipt was written out and handed over. Bea saw the policemen out and drew in a deep breath. Whatever next!