Piers held the door open for Bea to pass into the sitting room and shut it after them. ‘I’m all ears. I see you’ve got a house full. Is this your way of saying you don’t want me back in your bed?’
He didn’t seem too annoyed. Good. ‘It just happened. I’m going to try to get Jeremy back into his own house, and Oliver’s only here for a few days, but . . . you’re right. I don’t think it would work.’
‘Oliver calls you “Mother Hen”. You collect lame ducks, don’t you?’ A frown. Correction; he was annoyed that his plans had been thwarted, but he wasn’t spitting mad.
‘Given a fair chance, they’re all winners, not losers.’
‘So you say.’ He let out a long sigh, but relaxed into a smile. And then a laugh. ‘Well, I must say I’m disappointed; but if I’m honest I’ll admit I’ve had qualms about it, too.’
‘Some new woman turned up in your life?’
‘Oh, her. Yes, I suppose you could say . . . But nothing that will last. I don’t “do” permanent, you know that. Except for you and Max, who are and always will be permanent in my life, I hope.’
She smiled. ‘At a distance.’
‘Max told me you were selling up, which started me thinking about the future – yours and mine. But it was never going to work, was it? You don’t really want to retire yet, do you?’
‘It was his idea, not mine. I think he’s come across someone who might want to buy me out. He’s encouraged them because he thinks that if I sell up, he can buy this house off me. Once he gets an idea into his head, it sticks, so I’ve got a fight on my hands there.’
‘I’ll back you, any day. Let me know if you need any help.’
‘Thanks. Stay for supper? And by the way, the police need some help identifying who Josie’s clients might have been in the past. May I pass on the tips you gave me? We can disregard the man who called himself Basil, who was collecting his mother’s portrait, but what about Sir Thomas, who said he enjoyed a little extramarital flirting now and then, and the cigar-smoking Sir Charles, who is aiming for the House of Commons?’
He hesitated. ‘People talk freely when I’m painting them, but there’s a tacit understanding that what they tell me goes no further. They could make out a case that I’ve abused their trust even by passing on various items of gossip to you.’
‘Enough said. But if you hear of anything else, do you think you might tell the person concerned that the police are anxious for information and suggest they pass their news items along?’
‘I could try.’ Clearly, he wasn’t hopeful that the strategy would work, and neither, come to think of it, was Bea.
Piers stayed for supper. Bea had to wrench Oliver away from his computer downstairs to join them. Actually, Oliver was using the computer in her office, but that was a minor detail.
Jeremy seemed to have recovered his appetite, but hadn’t forgotten about making a will. He asked Oliver if he’d found some information for him.
Oliver hit his forehead. ‘Sorry. Forgot. It can’t be that urgent, and I’m a bit tied up at the moment. I’ll look it up for you in the morning, right?’ He took an apple from the bowl on the fridge and disappeared.
Jeremy dropped his fork and looked upset.
‘Never mind,’ said Piers who, like Maggie, had begun to treat the little man as a somewhat backward if talented child. ‘Here . . . write down your intentions on the back of this shopping list . . . Bea usually keeps a pad somewhere . . . Yes, here it is. Have you a pen? . . . Use mine. Now, all you have to do is write down that you leave everything to the National Trust or Battersea Dogs’ Home, or whatever, and sign it. Maggie and I will sign below as witnesses, Bea will pin it up on her noticeboard by the door, and Bob’s your Uncle.’
‘Would that be legal?’
‘A notice of intent is legal,’ said Piers. ‘It will do fine till you can get to a solicitor, who will wrap it up in obscure language and charge you for it.’
Jeremy scribbled away. ‘I want to pay for Josie to have a proper burial, too.’ Piers and Maggie signed as witnesses, and seconds were eaten by all.
‘And now for some music,’ said Jeremy, abandoning the supper table, with all its dirty plates, and leading the way to the sitting room.
Oliver didn’t reappear. Bea had caught a glimpse of his profile as he left them and she recognized that look. When Oliver was on the trail of something, he became a hunter – just like her, and the inspector.
Jeremy treated them to an impromptu concert of light music, ending with some jaunty little tunes which he said he’d written for a children’s television show. He asked, wistfully, if Maggie could sing, as he wanted to hear someone warble Josie’s song. Maggie declined the honour, saying she was pretty well tone deaf.
He didn’t ask Bea, which annoyed her, even though she didn’t think her voice was up to much.
When Jeremy stopped playing and said he needed an early night, the group broke up. Piers said he’d best be on his way, and Maggie went off to join some friends for a drink in the pub. Knowing that the inspector was off duty for the rest of the day, Bea left a message for him to contact her in the morning.
The house lay quiet around her. So where was Oliver? Bea descended the stairs to tell him to pack it in for the night and found him still at the computer in her office.
He looked up with a grin. ‘I think I’ve found the people who might want to buy you out. I was looking in the wrong place. Do you know how many employment agencies there are in this area, any one of whom might cast a greedy eye upon your client list? Dozens. Only a few are specifically for domestic situations, but even then, there are too many to count. Max said it was a double-barrelled name, but it’s Someone and Someone, which is not double-barrelled.’
‘Not Jackson’s, then?’
‘A different kettle of fish.’ He scrutinized the screen, nodded, and printed off a sheet of paper. ‘I think this is it.’
‘Holland and Butcher? But this isn’t a domestic agency, and they’re not even in London.’
‘Not far out. Grand house. Training for silver service, butlers, etcetera. Honourable mentions wherever you go in society. It’s like saying your nanny was Norland-trained. Here’s their website. The younger generation – that’s Mr Butcher – is aiming for political life. Conservative, of course. Max might very well have come into contact with him as he’s standing for some safe seat or other . . . Surrey? Oh, look! He’s on Twitter, trying to build a faithful following of fans.’
Bea looked over his shoulder. ‘Can you go back to the website? I thought I saw something . . .’
Oliver returned to it. He said, ‘They’re high class, stylish, and expensive. They’ve been turning out butlers and other high-earning functionaries since the days of Jeeves and Wooster. The career openings for such people may no longer be in grand country houses, but they’re still needed in embassies and by the nouveau riche, Russian millionaires, pop stars and highly paid footballers. Remunerative, very. Ah ha! Is this what you mean? At the bottom it says that all clients who are successful in passing their exams at the end of the training period will be referred to a highly reputable domestic employment agency, who will endeavour to place them in a suitable position. Will you just look at the name of the agency they’ve been using!’
It was Croxtons, the agency who’d folded earlier that year. Bea let out a long sigh.
Oliver nodded. ‘I’ve got the creeps all up and down my spine. The Holland and Butcher website isn’t exactly up to date, is it? You’d expect them by now to have deleted the name of the failed agency and substituted a new one. They desperately need to reassure people that there will be a job for them at the end of the courses they’re running. No jobs, no takers for tuition, right?’
‘So why haven’t they done so?’
‘Can you think of another really high class domestic agency who’d fit the bill . . . apart from ours?’
She thought about it. People in the business tended to circulate news and views all the time. Clients report
disasters and triumphs. A picture emerges. ‘You’re right. There are one or two middling good agencies around, but they’re not supplying the embassies or Millionaires’ Row as we are.’
‘What would I do, if I were in H and B’s shoes? I’d try out another agency on the sly, without committing myself. The only mystery to me is why they haven’t contacted you before now, whether they’re interested in buying you out or just coming to a mutually-beneficial agreement.’
‘Our reputation hasn’t been spotless of late. I’ve let things slide, and there’s been complaints. I suspect we’ve been trying to place too many badly-trained personnel.’
‘If you had well-trained people to offer, you’d be laughing all the way to the bank. An arrangement with Holland and Butcher would suit both parties.’
It made sense. ‘Good work, Oliver. I’d never have thought of this, but it feels right. Only, I don’t see where Ianthe fits in. Perhaps I’ll find out tomorrow.’
He grinned. ‘She’s going to go spare when she realizes Maggie’s back in her own office with one of the agency computers. I wonder if your little tape recorder is good enough to tape your confrontation with her? I’ll set you up with something more efficient in case she tries to throw a strop.’
‘I think she’s more likely to cry. She’s the sort of woman who thinks tears will get her what she wants.’ Except that every now and then Bea had spotted the iron fist under the velvet glove on Ianthe’s hand.
He shuddered. ‘Tears? Ugh. Sooner you than me. How many times have you reminded her to give you the password every day?’
‘Three. I took the precaution of photocopying each reminder before I put it on her desk, and yes, I know that’s grounds to sack her. But she does get through a mountain of work, and if I sack her, how would we cope?’
He shrugged. ‘I can stay on for a day or two till you get a replacement.’
She had hoped he’d say that. ‘That would be generous of you, and I’d be eternally grateful if you could, even though I know I shouldn’t be keeping you from whatever it is you’re supposed to be working on at the moment. But before I give her the sack, I want to find out exactly what she thinks she’s doing.’
He looked at his watch. ‘I said I’d join Maggie and her friends at the pub for a drink before they close for the night. All right by you?’
Monday morning
Some Monday mornings are worse than others. The thought of what she had to do that day filled Bea with dread. Ianthe . . . Jeremy and Eunice . . . Whatever had possessed her to say she’d help the little man get his home back?
She did the power-dressing bit with a white silk blouse over black, tailored trousers. She took care with her make-up and forced herself to eat some breakfast.
If she had to sack Ianthe, how soon could she get a replacement? Advertisements would have to be put in the newspapers, and then time allowed for people to reply . . . and more time before interviews could be arranged . . . and then if the candidate were already employed elsewhere, she would have to give notice at her present job. Say two months in all? Oliver could stay to help for a week, maybe more. But not for two months. No. Out of the question.
Another thing; she must tell the inspector about what had happened to the van with the body in it, and give him the tape-recording of her conversation with ‘Miss Butt’ and the photo she’d taken of her – not that it would do him much good, as the woman had been heavily disguised.
Jeremy hadn’t yet appeared for breakfast. He’d been humming something soft and low in the spare bedroom when she went up to bed. A lullaby? It had certainly rocked her off to sleep.
She took her second cup of coffee down the stairs. The door to Maggie’s office was open, and she was inside, talking volubly on her mobile phone while leafing through some papers. Her computer was already up and running. Oliver must have fixed it to respond only to Maggie’s new password – whatever that might be. Bea could only hope the girl had written it down somewhere not too easy to find, and also that she could remember where she had put it. Maggie was a wonder in many ways, but remembering pin numbers and passwords was not her forte.
After her down the stairs came Oliver, yawning and carrying his own cup of coffee. He followed Bea into her office and made sure she knew how to start the larger recording device he’d installed in the top drawer of her desk. ‘You understand how to start and stop it?’
She gave him a Look. Did he think she was a complete idiot?
He grinned, said, ‘Good luck,’ and went to join Maggie, closing the door of her office behind him.
Bea booted up her computer and fed in the new password. Some emails had come in over the weekend. Nothing much to worry about there. No complaints; thank goodness.
She shut her eyes and made herself be still. Dear Lord, grant me wisdom to deal with this.
She could hear the girls arriving next door. Ianthe would be among the earliest, in order to give out the new day’s password to the rest of the staff so that they could access the system.
Ah. Sounds of alarm. Ianthe had discovered the loss of one of her computers, and then the smashed lock of her desk drawer. More sounds of confusion. Cries of ‘Ianthe, I can’t get on to the computer!’
Surprise, surprise. Bea sighed deeply, switched on the recording device Oliver had installed in her top drawer, and opened the French windows on to the garden. It was a cool, overcast morning, though it would probably warm up later.
‘Mrs Abbot? I’m sorry to say there’s been a break-in. We’ll have to inform the police. My desk drawer has been forced, and one of our computers is missing.’
‘No problem, Ianthe. I had to gain access to your drawer yesterday, so I broke it open. I’ll get someone in to fix it. And I’m selling one of our computers to Maggie, who needs one.’
‘What? But . . .’
Cries from the girls in the big office. ‘Ianthe, can you give us the password?’
Ianthe disappeared, saying, ‘Just a moment . . .’
Bea waited.
Ianthe returned, looking flushed. ‘There’s a fault in the system, and we can’t get in. Who do we call to get it fixed?’
‘No problem. I’ll give you the password, and you can get everyone started.’
A hesitation. ‘There’s a new password?’
‘Yes, I put it in. A new one for each day. A splendid idea of yours. Shall I write it down for you, or can you remember it? It’s the usual jumble of letters and figures, upper case and lower.’
Another hesitation. ‘Perhaps you’d better write it down for me.’ Sensible girl.
Bea wrote it down on a Post-it note. ‘Oh, and by the way, Maggie’s office is out of bounds in future. I’m getting in a part-time secretary for her, and Miss Brook will be coming in to do her accounts every Friday afternoon. You are quite right; Maggie needs to run her own office now.’
Ianthe took the Post-it note, got as far as the door, and stopped. ‘How are we to manage? We’ll be short of a computer.’
‘Get the girls started, and we’ll have a chat about it.’
Ianthe left. Bea let out a long breath. That had gone well, hadn’t it? Would Ianthe understand that she’d lost control, and accept it? That would be the best scenario, wouldn’t it?
No. Back she came. ‘I’ve accessed today’s password, but I can’t seem to change it.’
‘Why should you? I’ve had the computers reprogrammed so that the only computer that can set the password is this one – and I have to input another password to get into the system. All right?’
Ianthe closed the door and sat, unasked, in the client’s chair in front of Bea’s desk. So she was going to fight, was she?
Bea sat back in her chair, steepled her fingers, and smiled at Ianthe over them. If the woman wanted a fight, then she should have one.
Ianthe was wearing a white blouse and black skirt. Bea’s outfit cost at least twice as much.
Ianthe looked as if she’d come straight from the hairdresser, but Bea’s ash-blonde mop had been
cut by a master.
No contest. Such apparently small points can sway fortunes in battle. Bea didn’t rejoice that she had more money at her disposal than Ianthe, but she did feel it gave her a slight advantage.
Ianthe said, ‘I thought you trusted me to run the office for you.’
Bea picked her words with care. ‘Perhaps I didn’t spend enough time with you when you first came, explaining the way I like things done. The agency is my baby and my livelihood, after all.’
‘But you’re going to sell it.’
‘What gave you that idea?’
Ianthe reddened. ‘But I thought . . . I was told . . .’
‘Who told you? What did you think?’
Ianthe fidgeted. ‘Well, we could see, we all could, that you weren’t . . . that you’d lost interest. There were signs, little mistakes—’
‘And it was your job to put the mistakes right? Or to make them seem worse than they were?’
‘Of course not!’
‘That’s what you did with Miss Brook, wasn’t it? You arranged things so that she would feel she was losing her grip. When she told me she wanted to resign, I was shocked. It seemed to me that her brain was as sharp as ever, and that if she had made one or two slips, she was still worth her weight in gold to the agency. But, I believed that if she wanted to retire, I had no right to ask her to stay.
‘However, time has passed since then, and she’s had time to reflect on what happened in the weeks before she left. I spent an hour on the phone to her this past weekend and was delighted to hear that she still misses us. I asked how she’d feel about returning for a few hours each week, and after some persuasion, she said she would . . . but that she didn’t feel able to work with you any more.’
‘Naturally. She’s well past her sell-by date.’
‘She says you “forgot” to post her invoices to customers, or sent them out incorrectly addressed.’
‘And you believed her?’ A light laugh.
‘Oh yes. I’ve never known her to lie about anything, and why should she make up such a story? I also spoke to Celia, to ask why she’d felt it necessary to leave us after so many happy years. Like Miss Brook, she’d felt bruised by the treatment you’d given her, though it seems she suffered a more subtle offensive. There were unkind remarks meant to be overheard, and laughter behind her back. There’s a thousand different ways a group of people can make someone in their midst feel unwanted. The question is: why did you want to get rid of Miss Brook and Celia, and all the other girls who’d been working for me for a long time? I had a good team out there when you arrived, and now there’s no one whose face I recognize.’
False Report Page 18
