The Perfect Solution

by Catherine George

  THE PERFECT SOLUTION

  Catherine George

  Pennington – Book 3

  The wife is always the last to know ...

  Joanna Clifford's marriage was over long before her husband died in a car accident. Still, she was surprised to find out that he'd had a mistress and a child. But even more shocking was the other woman's dying wish--delivered by her disturbingly handsome brother, Marc--that Joanna take care of Polly.

  Joanna could hardly turn her back on the little girl, so she agreed to the request. Although that meant spending far too much time with Marc--who made it abundantly clear that he saw Joanna as more than a surrogate mother for his niece.

  CHAPTER ONE

  By three in the afternoon the ordeal seemed endless. But at long last the subdued buffet lunch was over and the mourners began to depart. Reiterating condolences to the pale young widow, some shook her hand, others kissed her cold cheek, closer friends gave swift, sympathetic hugs. Eventually Joanna Clifford closed the door on the final compassionate face, the shell of her composure at cracking point now it was all over.

  Except that it wasn't over, quite. There was still some unfinished business to attend to before she came to grips with the everyday reality of widowhood. First on her list of priorities came a vote of heartfelt thanks to Doris Mills. Doris, who normally came in twice a week from the village to help with the housework, had been a tower of strength since early morning, her eagle eye everywhere as the hired caterers served the funeral feast. She brushed aside Joanna's thanks in her usual no-nonsense manner.

  'No trouble at all, Mrs Clifford. I've seen the caterers off and everything's in order. I'll be off now. See you in the morning. There's a nice fresh pot of coffee waiting for you in the drawing-room.'

  This last unlooked-for solicitude was almost too much for Joanna. She blinked hard, squeezing Doris's hand by way of thanks, then went back to the drawing-room, where Jim Fowler, financial adviser to her dead husband, waited in front of the fireplace. Joanna poured coffee for than both, then sat back in silence, waiting for him to begin. Jim Fowler was a thin man in his late forties. Through thick-lensed spectacles his eyes peered at her, red-rimmed, their normal shrewd gleam replaced by a blend of grief and misgiving as he confronted his friend's weary young widow. He'd been hit hard, Joanna knew. Jim Fowler and Paul Clifford had been born and brought up in the same part of London's East End, thick as thieves all their lives, each one the only man the other ever trusted.

  'How do you feel, Jo?' he asked. 'Really feel, I mean. You look terrible.'

  'So do you.' Joanna leaned back in the corner of the sofa, allowing herself to relax now only Jim was there to see. Her eyes met his with a trace of defiance. 'If you want the truth, the only emotion I seem capable of is guilt.'

  'Guilt? What the devil have you got to be guilty about? It's Paul ‑' He stopped, biting his lip.

  'I feel guilty, Jim,' went on Joanna, eyeing him curiously, 'because after five years of marriage surely I should feel some grief for Paul! But at the moment I don't. There's a great deal I need explained before I can bury my dead. So start talking, Jim.'

  He gazed at her hopelessly. 'I feel like one of those old-time messengers who got their heads chopped off when they brought bad news.'

  Joanna smiled sadly. 'Don't worry, Jim. I'm handier with a garden trowel than a hatchet.' She looked towards the window, her eyes heavy. 'In fact I was planting wallflowers when the police arrived to tell me Paul was killed. They were so kind. They even made tea for me in my own kitchen. For shock.' She turned her head to look Jim in the eye. 'More shock than they knew. I thought Paul was in America. Instead he was smashing himself up in his Ferrari right here in the UK. And he wasn't alone in the car when he did it, either.'

  Jim rotated his head wearily to ease his tense neck muscles. He sighed. 'All right, love. I wish it weren't me who had to tell you. But I will.'

  Joanna sat up, bracing herself, her eyes like blue flames in her pale face. 'Thank you, Jim. Perhaps afterwards I can get on with the rest of my life.'

  He nodded, opening the briefcase he was never without. He looked across at her with a wry smile. 'In those old films it was always the family lawyer who got this job, not a run-of-the-mill accountant.'

  Joanna, who knew that Jim Fowler was a great deal more than that, paid close attention as the shrewd financial adviser took over from the family friend. Jim began by explaining that Paul's factories had taken a recent hammering due to high interest rates and fierce competition.

  'To put it in a nutshell, PC Plastics is in a bad way, Jo.'

  'How bad?'

  'On the verge of bankruptcy ‑'

  'Bankruptcy!'

  'Paul's trip to the States was a last bid to save it from the chop.' He rubbed a hand over his face wearily. 'It was no use. He came back early. Even if he'd lived it would still be curtains for PCP.'

  Joanna stared at him in shock. 'Dear heaven, Jim, I had no idea. Paul never said ‑' She stopped short, shrugging. 'But then, Paul rarely said anything at all to me lately.' She frowned in concern. 'But what will happen to you, Jim—and all the others?'

  He shrugged. 'Don't worry about me. I've got plenty of irons in the fire. And the rest are young enough to find jobs. You need to look out for yourself, love.'

  There was a brief, tense silence. Joanna's mouth took on a bitter curve as she looked about her at the familiar, comfortable room. 'Rather a joke if I'm forced to sell the house in the end, after all.'

  Jim mopped his forehead with a handkerchief. 'It needn't come to that. This house is your personal property. The mews cottage in Chelsea will have to go, of course.'

  'But Paul sold that years ago!'

  'No, he didn't. He—well, he just told you he did.'

  Her eyes widened. 'What are you saying?'

  Jim looked miserable. 'I wish there was some way I could put this that wouldn't sound like a slap in the face. But there isn't.'

  'Oh, for crying out loud!' snapped Joanna, suddenly at the end of her tether. 'Get on with it, Jim.'

  'He kept the Chelsea place because ‑' Jim swallowed. 'Because that's where he spent a lot of his time when he wasn't down here with you.'

  She stared at him blankly. 'What are you talking about? He always stayed at his club.'

  'Did you ever speak to him there?'

  She thought for a moment. 'No—now I come to think of it, I suppose not. I left messages when necessary, which was once in a blue moon.'

  Jim nodded. 'He stayed there part of the week, the rest of the time he went off to Chelsea—and Rosa.'

  Joanna felt the colour leave her face. Jim sprang to his feet, but she waved him away, managing a smile. 'I'm all right.' She leaned forward to pour herself more coffee, her hand shaking only slightly as she filled the cup. She sipped in silence, then raised blank blue eyes to Jim Fowler. 'Who is Rosa? No need to ask, I suppose. There was bound to be another woman. For years all I've been to Paul is a presentable doll to produce for special occasions.'

  'Not in the beginning.'

  'No,' she repeated in a dead voice. 'Not in the beginning.' There was an awkward silence. 'This Rosa,' went on Joanna after a while. 'I suppose she was the passenger with him in the crash?'

  Jim nodded.

  'And did she survive?'

  'Only for a few hours.' Jim came to sit beside her, taking her cold hand in his. 'Jo, I'd give anything in the world to avoid hurting you like this ‑'

  'But you knew,' she said dully. 'You knew all the time.'

  'Yes, love. So did my Maisie. But we couldn't tell you.'

  'No. I can see that.' Joanna shrugged. 'Right. So Paul had a mistress. I don't know why I'm making such a fuss. Besides, as Marlowe says, "the wench is dead". And so i
s Paul.' Suddenly her self-control disintegrated. Snatching her hand away from Jim, she turned her face into the sofa cushion and gave way to the tears she'd kept at bay for days.

  Jim watched in anguish for a moment, then bent over her, patting her shoulder awkwardly. It was a long time before Joanna could pull herself together. She accepted the starched handkerchief he offered, mopping herself up vigorously.

  'Sorry,' she croaked when she could speak.

  'Nothing to be sorry for, girl. You needed to let go.'

  'I suppose so.' Joanna sat straight. 'But don't misunderstand. I'm crying for myself, Jim. Don't pretend you don't know what it was like between Paul and me lately. Because of his religion there was no possibility of divorce. But he wouldn't hear of a separation. To him it was a public admission of failure, and Paul hated failure.' Joanna looked up sharply. 'Jim—he didn't—I mean the accident wasn't some kind of suicide attempt, was it, because Paul failed to get American backing?'

  Jim looked shocked. 'Not with Rosa in the car, Jo!' He shifted in his seat uncomfortably. 'Besides, Paul was brought up a strict Catholic, remember. He'd never have killed himself.'

  'But he did, in the end, didn't he?' Joanna sighed heavily. 'It's getting late. You should be getting back to Maisie. How's her arthritis, Jim?'

  'Bad. That's why she isn't here today. She wanted to come. I wouldn't let her.'

  'Give her my love. Tell her I'll come and see her.'

  'She told me to bring you back with me tonight, wants you to stay with us for a bit.'

  Joanna shook her head. 'Tell your lovely wife I'm grateful, but for the moment I'm better on my own—heaven knows I'm used to it.'

  Jim reached across for his papers. 'If that's what you want, Jo. If you change your mind, any time, you know where to come. Now. Sorry to keep at you, but I'd like to get the financial position straight before I go.'

  'I won't touch a penny of Paul's money,' said Joanna vehemently.

  'Now then, love. I can understand how you feel. You've had a bloody awful shock.' Jim smiled tiredly. 'But you'll feel different tomorrow. You love this house. And if you refuse any money at all you might have to sell it.'

  'Perhaps I should! If it weren't for this place things might have been a lot different. On the other hand,' she added bleakly, 'you know where you are with a house.'

  Jim gave her an unhappy look, then plunged into a morass of facts and figures. The factory itself, although no longer viable as a going concern in its present form, was situated on land wanted urgently by a property developer. Once the sale had gone through the widow of Paul Clifford could not only keep her home, but live there in reasonable comfort.

  'So if I could just have Paul's will, Joanna,' said Jim, standing up.

  She frowned. 'Haven't you got it?'

  'No. It wasn't with the rest of the papers. I assumed it must be down here.'

  'Paul never mentioned it. Perhaps it's in his desk in the study. You look for it, Jim. I'll make more coffee.'

  But when Jim rejoined her in the drawing-room he looked grim. 'Not a sign of it. I suppose it could be in the Chelsea house.'

  Joanna shrugged. 'Perhaps he altered it in favour of his mysterious Rosa. Cut me off with the proverbial shilling.'

  'Don't talk like that! Have a look upstairs, please,' said Jim rather sharply. 'The damn thing must be somewhere.'

  Paul Clifford had been obsessive about tidiness. The search through his belongings, though undertaken with reluctance, took Joanna no time at all.

  'Sorry,' she said, as she rejoined Jim. 'Nothing. Not even a scented billet-doux in one of his pockets. Paul covered his tracks very efficiently—the same way he did everything else.'

  'Try not to be bitter, Jo. Paul was proud of you in his own way. Rosa was—was something separate.'

  Joanna bit back a cutting retort. 'Was she, indeed! Just who the blazes was she, anyway? Rosa what?'

  'Rosa Anstey. She was Paul's secretary for years. You used to know her quite well.'

  Joanna's eyes widened incredulously. 'Miss Anstey! Are you serious?' She shook her head, trying to take it in. 'But I was very fond of Paul's invaluable Miss Anstey. She was such a friendly person, warm dark eyes and rather plump—not even very young!' She stared at him blankly. 'I assumed Paul's mistress would be some brainless young bimbo.'

  Jim took in a deep breath. 'Jo. There's something else—' He broke off as the telephone interrupted them.

  Joanna answered it then handed it over to Jim in consternation. 'Jim, it's for you. Maisie's had a fall!'

  Jim barked a few staccato sentences into the receiver, then crashed it back on the handset, looking distraught. 'She's in hospital. Tried to reach something on a high shelf and fell. Broken her leg.' Feverishly he stuffed papers in his briefcase, then raced outside to his car, with Joanna hard on his heels. He opened the car window, and waved a peremptory finger at her. 'Look for that will again, Jo.'

  'Stuff the wretched will!' snapped Joanna. 'Just get yourself off to Maisie, and you mind you ring me tonight and tell me how she is!'

  Joanna watched the car out of sight then went back into the house, utterly shattered by Jim's various revelations. Then, as she looked about her at the square familiar hall, she became conscious, for the first time in years, of feeling totally alone. The house felt eerily empty. She shook off the feeling impatiently. She was used to solitude here. Paul had never been in the house for more than two or three days at a time during their entire marriage. Their holidays together, such as they were, had been spent abroad.

  And the rest of his life had belonged to Rosa Anstey.

  I wonder, thought Joanna bitterly, what Rosa did on weekends? Did she have a weekend lover, in the way that I had a weekend husband? What did I lack that plain, unassuming Rosa Anstey was able to supply?

  She paced through the familiar rooms of her home like a tigress in a cage, humiliation and resentment burning inside her. If Paul's mistress had been younger and sexier than herself it would have been easier to bear. But Rosa Anstey had been ten years older and so thoroughly nice.

  Joanna made a sudden dash for the stairs, wrenching down the zip of her dress as she went, unable to bear her mourning black a moment longer. She ran into her bedroom, peeling off the dress as she went. She pulled on a bright yellow sweatshirt and faded Levis, thrusting her feet into ancient old sneakers, the type of clothes Paul had detested. She tugged the pins from her hair, releasing the heavy, straight weight of it to brush it until it shone like expensive butterscotch against the creamy pallor of her face. Red patches of colour burned along her cheekbones as she wielded the brush, accentuating the kingfisher-blue of eyes which gazed back at her in defiance. Portrait of Joanna Clifford, widow, she thought scathingly.

  She turned away, her attention caught by the king-sized bed. It was hard to believe now that Paul had ever shared it with her. Now he never would again. In the beginning it had been so different. In the early days of their marriage he would rush her upstairs to bed the minute he arrived for the weekend, eloquent in his delight with the bride who made him feel like a young stud again. But all that had ended, abruptly, long before their first anniversary. Nothing was ever the same again. She sighed. What a gullible fool she'd been never to suspect that Paul had a mistress.

  The struggle to come to terms with her husband's long-term infidelity bleached the transient colour from Joanna's face. She slumped down on the bed in deep depression, huddling there for a long, black interval, until the telephone shrilled, intruding on her misery. Who, she thought in despair, could possibly want to talk to her tonight, of all nights? Only the possibility that it might be Jim Fowler moved her to pick up the receiver at last.

  'Mrs Clifford?' asked an unfamiliar male voice.

  'Yes.'

  There was a pause. 'My name is Marc Anstey ‑'

  Joanna dropped the telephone. She grabbed at it, her hand shaking as she put the receiver to her ear.

  'Hello?' said the caller. 'Mrs Clifford? Are you still there?'

/>   'Yes,' she said tonelessly. 'I'm still here. Would you repeat your name, please?'

  'Anstey. Marc Anstey. And it's very important that I see you as soon as possible. Tonight, if you will.'

  'No!' she said vehemently. 'I mean—this isn't a good time. There's been a funeral here today.'

  'I know.' The voice was distinctive, with a gravel-based timbre which hinted of origins other than Anglo-Saxon. 'I've just been to one myself, Mrs Clifford—Rosa's funeral. She was my sister.'

  Joanna was silenced. 'I'm sorry,' she said after a moment. 'But why should you want to see me, Mr Anstey?'

  'I promised to deliver something to you. From Rosa.'

  Joanna felt suddenly cold. 'From Rosa? I don't understand.'

  'It's not something one can discuss over the phone,' he said curtly. 'If you'd be kind enough to spare me a few minutes I'd be grateful, Mrs Clifford. I won't keep you long. I quite understand your reluctance to talk to me under the circumstances, but I promised Rosa I'd get in touch with you personally to carry out her wishes.'

  What about my wishes? thought Joanna with resentment. 'Oh, very well, Mr Anstey. Where are you?'

  'About a mile away in the village. I can be with you in ten minutes.'

  'Make it half an hour, please,' she said firmly.

  'Very well. Half an hour, then. And thank you,' he added.

  Joanna replaced the phone in a daze, wondering if her nervous system could stand much more in the way of shocks. What could Rosa's brother want with her?

  She wondered whether to change back into the black dress, but decided against it. This Anstey man could take her as she was. In her particular circumstance mourning black was sheer hypocrisy anyway.

  By the time the doorbell rang Joanna had herself firmly under control, all her defences shored up and ready as she opened the door to face a man who was enough like Rosa Anstey to confirm his identity. But where Rosa had been round and plump this man was tall and lean, a curious look on his face as he took in her appearance.

  'Mr Anstey, I presume,' she said coolly. 'I'm Joanna Clifford.'