I sighed. ‘I hate to disavow my homeland, but honestly, sometimes I’m really glad I’m officially English now. And before you say what you were about to say, yes, I do know British politics aren’t immune, either. I just … I suppose I’m an ostrich, but I’d rather not know. Alan will tell you I stand and cry every time I look at the Palace of Westminster, just because it’s the home of Parliament, and thus of democratic government. And I know it isn’t the original building, and I know not everything that goes on there is admirable, but I get sentimental about it anyway. So sue me.’
‘“Without vision, the people perish.” Whoever wrote the Proverbs had the right idea. You hang onto your idealism, my love. Just temper it, from time to time, with a bit of realism.’ Alan smiled and poured me a little more wine.
‘I confess to a certain tendency to idealism myself,’ said John. ‘Even years with the police haven’t knocked it out of me. Along with greed and hatred and all the rest of the sins that you uncover in the slime, you also find genuinely good people, the ones who live their lives by the rules and try to help where they can.’
‘But are they in the minority? It often feels like the slime is winning.’ The hard knot was back in my stomach. I put down my fork.
‘No!’ John’s voice rose. ‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to shout. But I have to make it clear: no, the slime is powerful, and its actions – their actions – make the headlines. But the quiet people will win in the end. There are more decent people in the world than thugs. If I didn’t believe that, I couldn’t go on fighting the battles.’
‘And you do go on, even though you’ve retired,’ said Amy. ‘No one’s paying you to fight the slime, to put yourself in jeopardy, but you keep on. Sometimes I wonder if I fell in love with Don Quixote.’
‘Oh, definitely,’ John replied. ‘Isn’t that a windmill I see out there?’
That lightened the mood considerably, and we talked about Cervantes’ wonderfully batty hero through the rest of the meal.
But after we’d polished off the strawberry shortcake and I’d made a pot of decaf, I brought up the subject again. ‘I really hate to do this, but I – we – need to know more about Paul and his world. I have no understanding of the super-rich, nor of the power-hungry.’
‘Power-hungry, right,’ said John. His smile held no amusement. ‘We call him pH. For Paul Hartford, and power-hungry, but also for the acidity scale. Actually, pH0, because that’s the most acidic you can get. Battery acid. We pronounce it Foe, which seems appropriate.’
John and Amy looked at each other. Amy began. ‘Dorothy, you have to understand we can’t offer an unbiased opinion. Any picture we try to draw of the man will be coloured by the damage he’s inflicted on me and my daughter.’
‘And on me,’ John added, ‘not only second-hand but directly. I’ve always tried to believe there’s good in everyone, but if there’s any in Mr Paul Hartford, I’ve never found it.’
‘Why?’
They all looked at me.
‘I mean, why is he the way he is? Granted he’s thoroughly nasty, guilty of every sin in the calendar, and a danger to humanity – and I think he probably is all those things – but why? What made him the way he is? I’m not looking to excuse him, but sometimes understanding a person can make it easier to deal with him. Find his vulnerable spot, and use it.’
Amy shivered. ‘His vulnerable spot is his ego. That’s obvious. He has to be the best, the finest, the biggest, the most important. When that superiority is questioned, he flies into a fury, and at that point, he’s totally irrational. I think, you know, it actually goes back to his childhood.’ She looked at John.
‘Most things do, for most people, I think,’ he responded. ‘Raise a child sensibly, with lots of love but also firm discipline, and most of the time you’ll end up with a well-balanced adult. In Paul’s case, none of that happened. His father was wealthy, so Paul had every material thing that he needed or wanted, but almost no parental guidance. He was sent off to school at the first possible opportunity. Not in BC, of course – way off in Ontario, almost on the American border. No expense spared. No guidance given.’
‘That’s not quite true, John. Paul never talked about his childhood, except once early in our marriage, when he’d had too much to drink and got maudlin. He said his father scrutinized his school reports, and jumped on every comment that was even slightly uncomplimentary, every grade below one hundred per cent. I don’t think he beat the child physically, only with words. Which can hurt far more, of course.’
‘And was he praised for the excellent reports?’ I had a sick feeling I knew the answer.
‘Of course not. Stellar work was simply what was expected. Anything else was unacceptable. So of course, since diligence won him no rewards, he went off the rails whenever possible. Drink, drugs, women – even then. He had a car, something fast and expensive, and zoomed all over Canada getting into trouble. And Daddy raged and raved – and protected him from the law, because no son of his was going to rot in jail with the common people.’
Alan and I shook our heads in unison. ‘I think I have my answer,’ I said, a catch in my voice. ‘If he’d been beaten, he would probably have become a child abuser himself.’
‘Oh, he did,’ said Amy flatly. ‘The same way he was abused. With words. That was the other big reason I left him. I’m tough. I could take it. But it took years of counselling for Sue to stop being afraid of everything. She never knew, when she was little, when something she would say or do would bring down the wrath of her father.’
‘But she’s all right now?’ I asked anxiously.
‘She’s better. She has more self-confidence. She’s learned that she’s bright and capable, and can make intelligent decisions, and all that. I got her away almost in time, before she hit adolescence. But she’s nearly thirty now, and has never had a serious boyfriend. Or girlfriend, come to that. I think she’s afraid to love anyone, lest she be betrayed.’
There was nothing to say to that.
They left shortly afterward; I was too shaken even to do the gracious hostess bit. Alan poured me a stiff bourbon without even asking. I sipped at it and then put it down. There are some hurts that don’t respond to soothing chemicals.
‘You asked for it, darling,’ said Alan.
‘And I certainly got it. A lot more than I bargained for. Alan, if that man were here right now I’d strangle him with my bare hands. And plead justifiable homicide.’
‘And I’d claim it was self-defence. He is … there are no words, are there?’
‘None that I care to use. Alan, to treat a child that way! Cold, pitiless …’
‘He knew nothing else, remember. It was the way he was treated. And as he would probably have said, he turned out just fine. Wealth, public esteem, all the women he wanted. What more could anyone want?’
‘But he does want more. And more, and more. And it will never be enough, because he’s looking for the wrong things.’
‘He’s looking,’ said Alan with a sigh, ‘for his father’s approval, though he probably doesn’t know that. He’s the poster child for Narcissistic Personality Disorder, so badly in need of Daddy’s approval he’ll do anything. And he’ll never get it, even if he does achieve his political goals. He could become Prime Minister of Canada and it wouldn’t be good enough.’
‘Is his father still alive?’
‘Probably not, given Hartford’s age. But even if he is, the man plainly had no idea how to love his son. Once that pattern is set, it seldom changes.’
‘So if Hartford senior is still around, he won’t really be surprised when Paul is arrested for murder.’
It was the first time we’d laid it out openly. We thought, or anyway I thought, that Paul Hartford was responsible for all the ‘nastiness’, including the murder of Elizabeth George.
‘We’re a long way from that, Dorothy.’
‘I know. Suspicion, even if it amounts to certainty, isn’t evidence. So how are we going to get the evidence?’
‘Okay, then, how are we going to get enough information to lead the police in the right direction?’
Alan put his glass down and raised his hands in the classic gesture of baffled frustration. ‘How, you mean, are we going to persuade the authorities that they should arrest one of the most powerful and influential men in the province?’
I put my glass down, as well. ‘You know, I keep forgetting that part. We’ve built up in our minds this picture of a monster, but to most people he’s a charming benefactor to mankind.’
‘And/or a man with the money and power to manipulate events in his favour. A formidable adversary, my love.’ He paused for thought. ‘You know, if we’re right about Hartford, we’ve done what John asked us to do. We’ve identified the culprit. We could hand over our conclusions to John and the RCMP and go home.’
Home. What a beautiful word. Home, where our pets were waiting for us. Home, where the soft rain of England was keeping the grass of the Cathedral Close a brilliant emerald, with no need to waste water, and roses were getting ready to burst into fragrant bloom. Home.
Alan was watching me. I stood. ‘We’d better get the dishes done. And then tomorrow, when our heads are in better shape, we decide how we’re going to nail Mr pH0 to the wall.’
‘I think I want to meet the amazing Alexis,’ I said to Alan over the breakfast table after coffee had brought me to full functioning.
‘I hardly think she’d be your cup of tea. Nor, for that matter, would you be hers.’
‘No. Except that I’m filthy rich, and looking for a way to spread my largesse around in Canada.’
Alan didn’t miss a beat. ‘Who are you, then? Because Hartford knows quite well that Dorothy Martin isn’t a zillionaire. And presumably what he knows, she knows.’
‘How does he know what’s in my portfolio? His spies can’t pry into everything. They’re too busy carrying out his nefarious plans. My name is Dorothy Martin-Rothschild, but I don’t use the hyphen because it sounds ostentatious. I’m one of those reverse-snob women who delight in looking and acting like a peasant.’
‘And where do I fit into all this?’
‘I haven’t worked that out yet. Give me a break! I’ve only had two cups of coffee. Maybe you’re my boy-toy, kept around because you’re so good-looking and sweet to me.’
‘I’m older than you are.’
‘What does that have to do with it? And you’re not that much older. And you are in fact a handsome man.’
He leered at me, and then sighed. ‘We’re behaving like children.’
‘Yes. Acting silly to take the taste of last night’s stories out of our mouths. And I actually have no idea how I’m to approach Alexis. How I despise that name!’
‘Think of her as Al. She’d hate that.’
‘Mmm.’ I pushed around the last of my toast. ‘I suppose I just need to think of a way to approach her directly.’
‘Here.’ Alan shoved the morning paper across the table. ‘There’s a whole section in here about arts events. If there’s a gallery opening or a fundraiser for something or other, it would be easy enough to find out if the Siren is going to be there.’
‘Yes, but pH0 might be with her.’
‘Possibly. Would that matter a great deal? The man already knows we’re in town and making nuisances of ourselves. I’d be with you, and I doubt the man would care to try anything drastic in a crowd of the sort of people he needs as supporters.’
‘I might not get any chance to talk to Al.’
‘On the other hand, you might. And you could observe the dynamic between the two of them. I take it your aim is to work out what part, if any, she plays in all this. You’re very good at sensing that sort of thing, far better than I.’
‘My feet are getting very cold. What was that you said about going home and forgetting the whole thing?’
‘You know quite well you’d risk frostbite before you’d abandon a mission.’
‘Oh, very well.’ I looked over the listings in the Arts section of the Times Colonist. ‘Here’s one that sounds promising. A gala concert next Wednesday in honour of the new concertmaster of the Victoria Symphony. Champagne reception following the concert. Black tie.’ I looked at Alan. ‘Do you suppose you can hire dinner clothes here the way you can in England? Or America, come to that?’
‘A local version of Moss Bros? I imagine so. Did you bring anything splendid in the way of evening wear?’
‘Of course not. I have exactly one garment worthy of such an occasion, that dark blue thing with the sequins, and I wasn’t about to drag it halfway across the globe.’
‘Then we’ll just have to go shopping, won’t we?’
‘Well … but first we have to find out how we get invited to the bash. It’s the sort of thing that’s by invitation only, I imagine, and it probably costs an arm and a leg.’
‘Amy will know all that. And if our underwriters aren’t prepared to consider the cost a legitimate expense of the investigation, I’ll take it on myself. Who knows, we might have a good time.’
‘I very much doubt that. True, none of the charity functions I’ve attended have been quite this fancy. I’ve never moved in those exalted circles. But there were some back at Randolph that I, as a faculty wife, had to attend. They were terminally boring. All right, if you’ll get in touch with Judith and Edwin, I’ll call Amy. We need to get a move on. The shindig’s on Wednesday, and today’s – what, Alan?’
‘I believe that’s a Sunday paper, love.’
‘Sunday! Oh, good grief!’
A quick search found the church listings. There was a pretty Anglican church not far from us, and with a bit of hustling we managed to get there just as they were finishing the first hymn.
After church, we went home and got back to our phones. I found it surprisingly easy to get an invitation to the gala. Amy knew everybody, and was able to open the right doors. Apparently the only criterion was to know somebody who knew somebody important and/or wealthy, the two categories not necessarily coinciding. That and the willingness to plunk down a sizeable sum to spend an evening with people we didn’t know, some of whom we didn’t care to know, some of whom we wished fervently to avoid.
Judith willingly agreed to foot the bill, including the cost of dressing up. ‘Not jewellery, though,’ she told Alan. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to make do with fakes.’ I could hear the smile in her voice as Alan relayed her words.
Well, I don’t wear much in the way of jewels, anyway. Discreet earrings now and then, and a rather nice strand of pearls Alan gave me as a wedding present, that I happened to have brought along with me.
So, with Amy’s advice about shops, I set out on Monday morning to try to find an evening gown that would pass muster. I was appalled at the prices I encountered, until Alan pointed out that a Canadian dollar was worth only a bit over half of a pound sterling. ‘Still,’ I said, pointing to a price tag on a rather nice gown. ‘I’ve never paid this much for anything in my life!’
‘You’ve never posed as Lady Gotrocks before, my dear. I think you’ll look splendid in this. Go try it on.’
It did look nice, I had to admit. It had almost a period look, with a floor-length skirt and a high neck that covered up lots of wrinkles and would look good with the pearls. The soft rose satin flattered my white hair, and the bits of lace trim seemed entirely suitable to an old lady.
Not only that, it actually fit, and the cut disguised the extra pounds I couldn’t seem to get rid of.
‘Yes,’ said Alan. ‘Quite nice.’
‘It’ll be perfect for the next time the Queen invites me to a ball. Other than that, I can’t imagine where I’d ever wear it again.’
‘I’ll see what I can do about that ball, when we get home. Meanwhile, buy the thing before your conscience rebels.’
‘You buy it. Maybe if I don’t actually see the transaction I won’t feel so guilty. I have to go find some shoes. They’ll ha
rdly show, but I don’t think sneakers will do.’
SIXTEEN
Amy and I decided I’d better get my hair done. The casual look I prefer wouldn’t fit the image I was trying to project. So I spent a large part of Tuesday in a beauty shop. I hadn’t been in one for years – back in England I get my hair cut in a barber shop – and I discovered that I actually rather enjoyed being pampered. I also discovered that the conversations during the ministrations were just as inane as those I remembered from back when I was young. I listened, though. One never knows when some bit of information might be useful.
I decided to go the whole nine yards and get a facial, too. I doubted there was much to be done with a face my age, but what the heck. Judith was paying, and I might as well find out what it was like.
The results, when I got home and looked in a mirror, were startling. I almost didn’t recognize myself. The image in the mirror was pleasant, but … ‘Alan, I miss the wrinkles. I suppose they’re not beautiful, but they’re me. I’ve earned them over the years. This face doesn’t have any character!’
‘They’ll come back, love. I miss them too. I’m going to feel quite shy for a few days about living with this gorgeous young woman. Your hair, too …’ He trailed off.
I nodded. ‘It’s the silver rinse. I suppose they asked me if I wanted it; I wasn’t paying much attention. And again, it’s nice, but it’s not me.’
By Wednesday night I was a mass of nerves. I had worried all Tuesday evening that my hair would look awful by morning. It didn’t. I had worried that my face would react to all the creams and lotions and pummelling and come out red and puffy. It didn’t.
‘This was an utterly idiotic idea,’ I said, my voice muffled in the folds of the gown I was struggling into. ‘Why on earth didn’t you stop me?’
That was a rhetorical question that Alan wisely made no attempt to answer. He freed the zipper slide, which had caught in my hair, and zipped me up.
‘Where are my shoes?’
‘On your feet, love. Here, let me fasten the pearls. Now, take a look at yourself. You’re beautiful.’
Death in the Garden City Page 12
