False Pretences

by Veronica Heley

  The meeting was to be held in the room which doubled as the Trust’s dining room, but there were far more people present than on the occasion of Bea’s previous visit. She counted six men on either side, with the major at the head of the table in the place previously occupied by Lord Murchison. The men were all in their sixties and seventies, all wearing dark clothes and downbeat expressions.

  Not one woman was represented on the board.

  The major fussed around, finding extra chairs for Lettice and Oliver. ‘Lettice, is it? Mrs Abbot asked if she might bring a colleague. And . . . Oliver, is it? Delighted.’

  Lettice gave no sign of the nerves which were afflicting Bea. Oliver, of course, was enjoying himself. Lettice and Oliver were given chairs on either side of Bea, but a little away from the table. Lettice crossed one knee over the other and, as one man, the men all switched their eyes that way. Lettice had nice legs and knew it, but she didn’t allow the knowledge to show on her face. Having caught their attention, she uncrossed her legs and pulled her chair closer to the table so the men could no longer see her knees. Pulling a pad and pencil from her briefcase, she turned slightly towards Bea, the very picture of an efficient PA.

  The major introduced Bea, saying that unfortunately Lord Murchison was still in hospital, but he had asked that they give Mrs Abbot the courtesy of, etcetera, as she had some important information for them, which they should all consider very seriously, blah, blah.

  He then introduced the board of directors to Bea. She recognized Sir Cecil of the straying hands, Mr Trimmingham the solicitor, and the man who looked rather like him but had a different surname. Birds of a feather, presumably. Smooth and possibly not all that honest.

  By their body language she could tell that not one of them wanted her to be there, and that they were not at all interested in what she had to say. Their minds were made up. Mr Trimmingham and his ilk had seen to that. Honoria had been taken to their hearts, full stop.

  Bea decided there was no point in being sweetly reasonable. ‘Gentlemen,’ she began, ‘I bring you messages from the dead. To be precise, from the Honourable Denzil, your fellow director and architect of the scheme which defrauded you of nigh on a million pounds.’ She turned to Lettice. ‘Do you have the exact figure there?’

  Lettice read it out in a businesslike voice. Several men, who hadn’t been properly briefed as to the amount the Trust had lost, winced.

  ‘Yes, gentlemen,’ said Bea, ‘that appears to be the sum he got away with. He did this by arrangement with Sandy Corcoran, a builder, who overcharged the Trust and then deposited a kickback in Denzil and Honoria’s joint account once a month. You would, of course, like proof of that. Lettice?’

  Bea turned to Lettice, who retrieved a bundle of paper from her briefcase. They had arranged that Lettice should have as much of the limelight as possible. Now she went round the table, saying, ‘These are copies of the fraudster’s bank statements over the last six months.’ She distributed several pages to each person. Some of the men gave the statements a quick glance, but others studied them intently.

  ‘As you can see,’ said Bea, ‘Large cheques were deposited in the bank account about the twentieth of each month, only to disappear by the twenty-ninth. The account was a joint one, operated by Denzil and Honoria. We have Denzil’s chequebooks and stubs. According to his chequebook, he didn’t withdraw these monies from the account, so I think we can safely assume that his wife did. This would indicate to me that she knew exactly what was going on.’

  ‘No, no,’ said someone. ‘It’s far more likely he transferred the funds to an offshore account somewhere.’

  ‘Perhaps so,’ said Bea. ‘In which case, she’ll have some difficulty in getting hold of the money now he’s dead, won’t she? Meanwhile, I have some messages which he left for you on his computer.’

  ‘What messages?’ asked Mr Trimmingham. ‘There were none.’

  ‘Oh, did you check?’ said Bea. ‘Well, they were very cleverly hidden in what appeared to be routine pin-up pictures of young girls. My assistant here will show you what he’s found. He’s also run off copies of the messages for each of you to read. Oliver . . .?’

  She sat down, handing the floor over to Oliver.

  ‘He concealed his messages by a method known as steganography, which involves hiding information within an electronically stored image without noticeably affecting that image. I had to try to open each picture with the decoding program in turn, guessing at the passwords until the program let me see the information.’

  He turned the computer so they could all see the image of a pretty girl and tapped on his keyboard. Something else then appeared on the screen. ‘You can see what he’d hidden in the picture – another image. This turned out to be a birth certificate for his wife.’

  ‘I have a copy for each of you,’ said Lettice, going round the table again. Some of the men were riveted by her back view, but she took no notice. When all had copies, she returned to her seat. By and large, the men gave the birth certificate sharp attention. Only Mr Trimmingham took one glance at it and looked away. He’d known all about it beforehand?

  ‘As you can see,’ said Lettice, ‘she was registered at birth as Bridget Honour Mulligan. Although her father bore an ancient title, her parents were not married, and therefore she is not entitled to call herself “Lady Honoria”.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Bea, ‘anyone can call themselves what they like. Princess or Duchess or Elvis Presley. It is up to us whether or not we go along with it. The second piece of information which Oliver discovered was a letter requesting his solicitor to keep the deeds to the Manor, which are in his name. Not hers, you understand. In his name. The third picture contained a reference to a report in The Times newspaper dated the second of February two thousand and one. Oliver downloaded the relevant part, and Lettice has copies for each of you.’

  Lettice started to distribute more papers. ‘You will see that on the first of February that year, Honoria Mulligan found her first husband and his mistress dead. Naturally she fell under suspicion and would have been charged with murder . . . except that she was given an alibi by a man named Sandy Corcoran.’

  ‘Ouch,’ said someone, softly.

  Someone else cleared his throat. ‘The same Corcoran who . . .? Oh.’

  This time they all read with concentration. Even Trimmingham.

  Bea continued, ‘Soon after Denzil’s marriage, his computer records show that he’d begun to steer contracts to Corcorans. It is difficult to avoid the conclusion that this was by way of pay-off for services rendered.’

  Someone choked. Sir Cecil Waite, he of the straying hands. He reached for one of the carafes of water laid out on the table. The chink of bottle against glass sounded loud in the silence.

  ‘And the next picture, Oliver?’

  ‘I couldn’t make out what it was at first.’ He tapped the keyboard and turned the screen so that they could all see. ‘It’s a gun certificate, made out to Honoria. It’s dated a month before her first husband was shot dead. It’s for a double-barrelled shot gun. Pellets, not bullets. Close to, it has a devastating effect.’

  ‘Oh, and by the way,’ said Lettice, ‘You will be interested to hear that Sandy Corcoran was found dead of shotgun wounds in his office a couple of days ago. We must suppose that he’d become a threat to Honoria since she wasn’t going to be able to continue sending contracts his way even though he’d covered for her when her first husband had been killed.’

  Several mouths dropped open and stayed that way.

  ‘And then of course,’ said Bea, ‘there was the murder of your ex office manageress two nights ago. Honoria must have been furious when Della Lawrence’s niece started making eyes at Denzil. Which of you helped to frame Della so that she got the sack? I’m sure the police will be very interested to interview you about it.’

  A gaping silence. Trimmingham’s hand shook as he in turn poured himself a glass of water.

  ‘Is there any more?’ asked the major
.

  Oliver grinned. ‘One last thing, yes. As you know, the deeds to the Manor are in his name, not hers. I found a copy of a letter to his solicitors, dated six weeks ago. Only a couple of lines, confirming changes to his will. Five pounds to his wife, and everything else to the Trust.’ He turned the screen so that they could all see.

  ‘What!’

  ‘That’s—’

  ‘Order! Order!’

  Trimmingham’s face was puce. Sir Cecil gobbled and choked on his glass of water.

  The major rose to his feet. ‘Have you run off copies of that letter?’

  Lettice distributed more copies. A dozen heads were bent over them. Finally the major sighed. ‘If this is genuine—’

  Trimmingham snorted. ‘It’s not witnessed. It gives notice of intent, but not of fact. He probably never carried through his intentions. Why, if this were proved in court, Honoria would lose the Manor.’

  ‘Yes, but the Trust would get it. We could sell the Manor and claw back . . . How much?’ said a soldierly man who hadn’t spoken before.

  ‘If all this paperwork were proved in court,’ said the legal eagle, ‘then Honoria would lose more than the house. It looks to me like an attempt to railroad her into jail.’

  ‘Perfectly appalling!’ bleated a man who was twisting a device on his hearing aid. ‘If this were to come out, even if nothing could be proved—’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Bea, signalling to Oliver to close up his laptop. ‘If this got into the tabloids, who knows how much damage it would do to the Trust? Gentlemen, I think you’ve had a very lucky escape. Copies of all these papers have been sent to the police, and they will no doubt act upon them.’

  ‘Fortunately,’ said Lettice, smiling brilliantly at the men, ‘Honoria is not currently a director of the Trust, and as Denzil is dead, there will be no need to drag any of you into this sordid affair. I shudder to think what might have happened if she’d been appointed to the board of directors and then arrested for murder. As it is, the Trust is now the fortunate owner of a most desirable Grade I manor house in beautiful countryside, well within reach of London. It should fetch a bomb, don’t you think?’

  Mr Trimmingham lost all the colour in his face and Sir Cecil choked, but most faces relaxed into a relieved smile.

  ‘Luckily,’ said Lettice, ‘Lord Murchison foresaw the need to bring new blood into the charity some time ago, and he’s asked Mrs Abbot here to consider joining you.’

  ‘I very much regret,’ said Bea, ‘I am not in a position to accept his very flattering offer, and indeed I really must be going as I have another appointment this afternoon. However, if you take my advice, I suggest you adopt Lord Murchison’s earlier suggestion of bringing in a professional man to manage your finances. It will cost you something, but the days are gone when you can leave that side of the business to amateurs; you’ve seen what happens when you do. You might also like to reinstate Zander as your office manager and recompense him for what Honoria has put him through lately. I understand that he put your interests before his. Not a bad reference.

  ‘And gentlemen –’ here she smiled at each of them in turn – ‘I can’t help noticing that you haven’t yet appointed any women to your board; apart from Honoria, that is. Women are notoriously good at the practicalities of life and charity work appeals to their nurturing side. Perhaps at some point you might like to look for a younger businesswoman or two to join you.’

  Prompt on cue, all eyes switched to Lettice, who appeared impervious to their gaze as she shut her briefcase. Glancing at her watch, she said, ‘Well, if there are any more questions . . .? Otherwise . . .?’

  The major stuttered, ‘We need to c–consider what action we should take most carefully, b–but I think I speak for all of us when I say that we appreciate your c–coming today.’

  The soldierly one addressed his next-door neighbour in a voice intended to be confidential, but which everyone could hear. ‘She seems to have an excellent grasp of the matter. What’s her background, eh? What?’

  It was Lettice’s chance to make her pitch, and she took it. ‘Business degree, King’s College, London. Two years working for a headhunter, based here in the City. After that I spent some time studying the political system in America, and since my return to London I’ve been working as a researcher in the House of Commons. I have no particular ambition to stand for Parliament, though it has been suggested that I do so. I am currently looking for an opportunity to work in a company where my talent for organization would be appreciated.’ She treated them to a smile, looking into the eyes of each one of them in turn, and followed Bea and Oliver to the door.

  Down the stairs they went, in silence. Once down in the hall, Bea and Oliver paused as Lettice exclaimed and dived into her handbag for her mobile, which had been set to vibrate. She noted who the call was from and killed it.

  A door opened above them, and they could hear someone else speaking on his mobile. Mr Trimmingham? He didn’t see them, concentrating on his phone call. ‘Honoria, something’s come up . . .’

  Oliver held the front door open as they passed out into the sunshine.

  ‘What are the odds they’ll take me?’ said Lettice.

  Bea shrugged. ‘Depends on how scared they are. I suppose they’re even now discussing you. Some will be all for having a woman on board, some will be against it. But the modernizers should win, I think. Knowing them, it will take several days for them to act. Then they’ll make you an offer, which I suggest you refuse – at first. They’ll up the offer. You’ll refuse again, but express some doubts about doing so. Eventually you’ll agree. I think you’ll be very good for them.’

  Oliver said, ‘I suppose I’d better drop by the police station to make sure they’ve found the letter about the will. Won’t Honoria be mad when she finds out!’

  ‘That thought does not aid digestion. Oliver, I want you to be really careful for the next couple of days, till the police catch up with her. They’ve got all the information we’ve managed to get together, and perhaps they’ll question her today, but it’s more likely that they’ll take some time to evaluate the evidence. We must drop the deadlock on the front door at the house, always remember to switch on the alarm, and never go out at night alone.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Oliver, buoyantly.

  He might remember, and he might not. Bea began to calculate how long it was likely to take before the police arrested Honoria, even they could be convinced that she was their man. Woman. Whatever.

  Lettice was wearing an abstracted expression. She caught Bea’s arm. ‘A moment.’

  Oliver lengthened his stride. ‘See you back at the ranch.’ And disappeared.

  Lettice put her arm through Bea’s as they followed him at a slower pace. ‘I suppose I’m safe for the moment, since Honoria doesn’t know where I live. But . . . I was just thinking. If I get the job, and make a success of it, then Piers would paint me, wouldn’t he?’

  Bea fought down impatience. What was it with these two sisters? Sibling rivalry at its worst. ‘He does paint the great and the good, yes. You understand that I have no influence there.’

  Lettice gave her an old-fashioned look. In many ways she was far more acute than her sister. ‘You don’t know what it’s like, being brought up in the shadow of a beautiful older sister.’

  Bea smiled, said nothing. They both seemed to think the other sister had blighted their lives.

  ‘I enjoyed dominating that meeting. You’re right; I could make a success of that job. If I don’t get it, though, would you be prepared to help me get something else?’

  ‘I could look around.’

  Lettice looked off to one side. ‘If you did . . . if I did get a good job . . . and Nicole produces a healthy baby, I promise I’ll give Max up. I’ll even give you his letters to destroy.’

  Bea felt her heart go thud. So Max had been stupid enough to put pen to paper? Of course – be still my heart – the letters might not be incriminating, they might be absolutely innocent in i
ntent. But in the hands of someone who wished him ill they’d be lethal.

  ‘Thank you, Lettice.’ What else could she say?

  Friday afternoon

  It was lucky she hadn’t been driving when Trimmingham rang, or she’d have crashed the car. She’d just left the solicitors, trying to come to terms with the fact that Denzil’s last will had cut the ground from under her feet. Talk about shock! She’d staggered out of his office, leaned against the wall, breathing hard, when her mobile had gone off. Trimmingham giving her the bad news.

  One moment she’d been on top of everything, and the next . . . It felt as if the earth had shaken and tumbled her off her wall. Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall. Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.

  The mobile dropped out of her hand. A passer-by picked it up for her, asked if she were all right. She stared at him, trying to focus. No, she wasn’t all right. She could hardly see straight. Was she having a stroke? Her vision cleared. She took back her mobile, straightened herself up.

  What to do now? How much was lost?

  The police had found incriminating evidence on Denzil’s computer? She didn’t understand. She’d erased all the pretty pictures, hadn’t she? So how . . .? That fool Trimmingham must have misunderstood. But right or wrong, the Abbot woman had placed the Trust beyond her reach and, what was even worse, had said Honoria had no right to call herself ‘Lady’.

  She got herself back to the Range Rover and locked herself in. Began to think.

  If she denied everything . . . what evidence did they have to connect her with Sandy’s death, or Della’s?

  Her overalls! They were in the washing machine but she hadn’t yet turned it on. The gun had been cleaned, of course. She always cleaned a gun once she’d used it. Gloves? Thrown away. She couldn’t for the moment remember where she’d thrown them. The hammer was wrapped in plastic, waiting to be soaked in water and Dettol.

  She put her head down on the steering wheel and gasped for breath.

  Could she rescue them before the police got to her? She was only a couple of miles from home. Yes, it would be worth trying that. And then what. Flight? It tore her apart to think of leaving the Manor, for which she’d done so much, made so many sacrifices.