Death Of A Nobody

by Derek Farrell

  “This is my own mix of ylang ylang and geranium,” she murmured to the back of Olivia’s head. It’s good for relaxing, and for uplifting. It’ll help you to obtain clarity and perspective.”

  I felt somewhat intrusive standing by as the massage was performed, and turned to glance at Caz, who rolled her eyes and pursed her lips in a way that suggested she considered the benefits of the scented oils were being somewhat overstated.

  “Shall we talk outside,” Kent suggested, ushering us into a courtyard garden filled with vast terracotta pots housing scented bushes and plants.

  “I’ve asked Goodman to bring us some iced tea,” he smiled, gesturing for us to seat ourselves at a round cast iron table. “It’s the little Americanisation I can’t quite shake.” He smiled at Caz, and seated himself. “Now, to what do we owe the pleasure of this visit?”

  We wanted to talk about Anthony Taylor, and who might have been trying to kill him when they brained poor Dave Walker, but I figured we should build up to that, so I started by raising the poison pen letters.

  “Ah,” Kent’s face darkened, “Yes. About those.”

  “Have there been any more?” Caz asked.

  “No,” he answered quickly, but I’m a little concerned that all of this attention on the negative, on the spite they spew is adding to Olivia’s state of mind. She’s really not been right, you know, for the past few weeks, and I wish, now, that we’d never raised the damn things with you, to be honest.”

  “But you did,” Caz reminded him.

  “And I’ve been doing some research,” I added. “We’ve been trying to locate Julie Roth.”

  Kent laughed, and, at that precise moment, the butler appeared with a tray bearing a jug and three tall glasses.

  After the iced tea was poured, the butler vanished, and Kent lifted a glass, silently toasted us, and sipped deeply from his.

  I took a sip. It tasted, to me, like liquid soap. Caz, I noticed, didn’t even make an attempt. The absence of anything with an ethanol base in the concoction had clearly put her off it for life.

  “Julie Roth,” Kent finally said. “There’s a name I haven’t heard in a long time.”

  “She was a friend of your first wife, I understand.”

  He snorted. “Hardly. Or, that is to say, she was a friend, but it all went very sour very quickly when Sophie invented the band. Her prototype was good, but crude, and so I took over, redesigned it, made it more functional, and user friendly, and when we launched, we had almost immediate success. But neither Sophie’s prototype nor my refinements owed anything to Julie Roth.

  “Still, wherever there’s success, there’ll always be people looking to skim a little of that success for themselves. So Julie sued.”

  “When she lost the case,” I reminded him, “She swore vengeance.”

  “You think Julie killed Sophie?” Kent shook his head, “She was angry, but I don’t think she was capable of something as terrible as that.”

  “What about writing poison pen letters?” Caz asked. “Was she capable of something like that?”

  Kent considered the suggestion silently. Before he could answer, I threw out another question: “What do you think happened to your wife?”

  At this, he sighed heavily. “I like to think it was an accident,” he said finally. “I told the cops all along that the boat had mainly been my toy, that Sophie wasn’t really a good sailor. She might have gotten into difficulties, fell overboard…” he trailed off, then, after a little more silence, during which I watched Jane Barton reach into the trolley and extract a series of towel-wrapped stones, which were deliberately placed on Olivia Wright’s back – he spoke again. “Or it might have been something else.

  “We were in trouble; the law suits, the vultures, the state of our finances. It might have all been just a little too much for Sophie. She’d been… down, for weeks before the event. But,” he shook his head, “I still think it was an accident. But how does this get us nearer to solving the poison pen letters?”

  “I’m looking for someone who would hate you enough to want to stop this marriage; to want to hurt you for some reason,” I said, “And Julie Roth was an immediate standout. She blamed you both for stealing her idea; she might have a vendetta against you. Still,” I sighed, “If not her, then it might be a friend of Sophie’s, someone who, clearly, blames you for her death.”

  Kent sipped from his glass, considered the suggestion. “Sophie had friends, of course, but I can’t see any of them doing something like this. Most of them started off supporting me when Sophie died, then they turned on me when the police and the press went into overdrive. By the end of the whole thing I’d been exonerated so totally that the same friends came crawling back to me to apologise. I don’t see any of them sending poison pen letters today.”

  “Well someone wants to stop you two marrying,” I said.

  “Oh, beware, my lord, of jealousy,” Jane Barton appeared behind us, placed a hand softly on Kent’s shoulder and, with a gesture suggested that he should replace her at Olivia’s side, “It is the green-eyed monster which doth mock The meat it feeds on.”

  As Kent moved off, Jane took his seat, and smiled at us. “Yes, she said, I know about the letters.” She turned back over her shoulder, glanced at where Olivia lay dozing as Kent stroked her calves. A look of genuine fondness crossed her face. “We keep no secrets,” she said.

  “So who do you think is sending the letters?” I asked.

  She turned her attention back to me, the almost worshipping glaze fading, “Like you say,” she answered, her voice a low, slow rumble, “Someone who’s jealous of their love, and who wants to ruin it.”

  “Do you think that what happened at the pub might be linked to this?”

  “What happened at the pub?” She said. “That poor man? How could that be linked to this?”

  “What do you remember of the afternoon?” I asked, avoiding actually answering her question.

  Jane pursed her lips, which made the moustache on her upper lip bristle a little. “It was hot,” she finally said, “and crowded. Noisy. People were coming and going. Then that cousin of Olivia’s arrived, and put the cat amongst the pigeons. But, really: why would what happened there have anything to do with Olivia and Kent?”

  I was about to suggest that it might have had more to do with Olivia’s cousin when the lady herself – swathed in a white towelling dressing gown, and accompanied by Kent – strolled on to the patio and dropped herself into a chair.

  “So,” she asked, wasting no time on preamble, “have you found out who’s sending those vile things yet?”

  Before I could answer, Goodman reappeared, a silver salver in front of him. On it was a glass of what looked like slurry. He deposited it, wordlessly, in front of Olivia, and retired.

  “This,” Jane intoned in her baritone, “is wheatgrass, Psyllium husk, goji berries, chia seeds, Siberian ginseng, ginger dried placenta and purified water. It’ll energise your chakras.”

  And clean you out like a dose of salts, I thought, as Olivia lifted the brown sludge, sipped it, made eyes like it was the nectar of the gods, and turned back to me, awaiting a response to her question.

  “We’re working on it,” I said. “If there was nobody from Kent’s first marriage who might still be around and looking to stop this marriage, the question occurs whether there’s someone in your world who might not be keen on your marrying.”

  “My world?” Olivia seemed shocked by the thought. “Why would anyone I know want to stop us getting married?”

  “Maybe one of your friends doesn’t believe in Kent’s innocence,” I answered. “Or maybe there’s another reason.”

  Caz spoke up. “What about James Kane?” She asked. “He and your cousin didn’t seem exactly matey.

  “He’s the solicitor, right?” I prompted.

  “Well he’s more of an executor than a solicitor,” Olivia stiffened. “And all that was just a silly misunderstanding. Nothing serious.”

  “T
hey were strangling each other,” Caz said, before adding “and why is he more an executor than solicitor?”

  “It’s true that Kent’s marrying an heiress,” Olivia said, “But I’m not as rich as people think. Well, that’s to say, I don’t have the money in my own hands. My parents left a sizeable amount of money in trust till my 30th birthday.”

  “I’m not marrying you for money,” Kent insisted, pouring himself another glass of iced tea. “I’m marrying you because I love you with all my heart,” he lifted her hand, and kissed her palm, his eyes never leaving hers.

  Olivia smiled, and leaned in to kiss him.

  Caz coughed. “So the principal’s untouchable till then,” she prompted, pulling the two back to the now.

  “That’s right,” Olivia agreed. “I get the interest – which, as you can see, isn’t paltry – today. And, up till now, James has been managing the funds. Once I’m married, Kent will work with him. There are so many business opportunities out there, and Kent’s proven he can make fortunes. I mean, look at the Drastic Band…”

  “I sensed some hostility between you two,” Caz pressed, turning to Kent. “You and James not seeing eye to eye?”

  Kent sighed, “The little weasel’s been trying desperately to keep total control of the money, and I won’t stand for him bad mouthing me around the – oh…” Kent suddenly stopped, his eyebrows knotting together in an angry look. “I see what you mean. You think he’s trying to stop the wedding?”

  “It’s possible,” I said. “Or what about Anthony Taylor?”

  “Tony? Why on earth would he want to stop the wedding?” Olivia considered the idea for a moment, then shook her head. “No, Tony wouldn’t have had any reason to write those letters.”

  This was my opportunity to get the spotlight on Taylor. “He does like stirring up antagonism,” I prompted.

  Olivia tilted her head to one side, considered, once again, the concept, and shook her head again, going off on what a good heart Taylor had. “Underneath it all.”

  “I mean,” She said, “Poor Tony had the most horrendous childhood,” she simpered, as though she’d been paid to do a PR piece for him. “He was a tricky teenager, and, yes, he’s made some mistakes, but now he’s back, people will see him for what he is, and they will learn to forgive him. They will.”

  The last was said with such steely determination that I decided to drop the subject.

  For now.

  At that point, Goodman – still resplendent in his morning suit, and not breaking a sweat, despite the fact that the patio was already feeling like a tiled sauna – appeared in the doorway to announce the arrival of Desmond Everett.

  I looked at Caz, who raised an eyebrow, took the opportunity created by the diverted attention of the assembled to pour the contents of her glass of iced tea into a large bronze planter, and smiled at me.

  “Saves on cab fare,” she murmured, and, before I could remind her that my dad rarely accepted payment for ferrying us all over the city, Everett arrived, air kissing Jane and Kent, and hugging Olivia tightly.

  When he got to Caz, the air kiss was repeated, but I got the hug.

  And it was a tight hug.

  And it went on a little longer than I might have accepted.

  And, just as I felt sure it was about to break, he squeezed me a little tighter, brought his lips close to my ear, and whispered “I have to talk to you. In private. It’s urgent.”

  He pulled away from me, turned back to the table, and announced he wanted to borrow me for a moment.

  The announcement was greeted with complete acceptance from everyone but Caz, who raised two eyebrows and sipped from a glass now filled with clear liquid.

  Everett put his arm around my shoulder, and pulled me back into the drawing room, past the massage table, and on to the grouping of antique sofas and delicate chairs gathered around a low coffee table.

  He sat, and patted the cushion next to him.

  “Listen,” he said, “I know this is truly atrocious timing, but I’m supposed to be sorting out Kent’s stag do. Last thing I’m sure you want to hear, what with the whole dead waiter situation.” He mimed someone hammering a nail into a plank, and pulled a grimace.

  “Indeed,” I said blankly, then, apropos of nothing, “You’ve been friends with Kent for long?”

  “Oh, good Lord, No!” He guffawed silently – actually threw his head back, displaying a total absence of noticeable fillings, and mimed the guffaw whilst no sound came from him. I dwelled on the thought that, if Posh Spice and Bertie Wooster had had a child, and then had it lobotomised, the result might have resembled Dopey Des.

  At length, the conniption passed. “No,” Everett intoned, “I’ve only known him a while. Seems like a damn good egg, mind you. I’ve known Olivia for – ooh – ages. That right, Livvy, old thing?” He shouted across the room.

  “What right, Dessie?” Olivia asked from across the room.

  “Ages,” he responded, “Known each other?”

  “Oh God,” Olivia fanned herself with a magazine, rolled her eyes back in her head like some mystical going into a trance, and attempted to calculate how long she and the Honourable Des Everett had known each other.

  I gritted my teeth and tried to decide whether – Caz and I excluded – there was a single person in the room with an I.Q, score in double digits.

  “Well you met Binks at prep school, and I suppose we must have met on one of the holidays home,” she finally finished. “So, what? Fifteen? Twenty years?”

  “Steady on, old gel,” Everett guffawed, “Giving away the age, what?”

  “So you know all about the family,” I prompted. “Any idea why Anthony Taylor would come back now?”

  “The family?” He took me by the elbow and pulled me closer. “Things you need to know,” he said.

  “Olivia has had a pretty tough run of it. The whole family were a rum lot. Even Binky – best friend, you know – was a bit of a bounder. All her life she used to get terrible panic attacks. Then, she was orphaned. Her only family were the old woman or Anthony. Neither of them exactly stable, if you know what I mean. Oh, don’t get me wrong: Old Maggie did what she could – ill of the dead and all that – but she was from another age.”

  “And Anthony?” I prompted again.

  I may as well have prompted the massage table. Dope Des clearly had a topic in mind, and would let go of it only when he had completed what he set out to do.

  “We all want this wedding to go off without a hitch. And that includes the stag do. Thing is: I’ve never done one of these things. No idea where to begin. And I’m wondering: you being a publican and all that, whether you had any ideas?”

  A publican. I wondered whether Desmond had ever actually visited the twenty-first century, or experienced its marvels. “Depends how wild you want it to get,” I answered.

  “Wild?”

  “Y’know: I mean what do you want: Shots? Strippers? Hookers? Midgets? A live sex show? A donkey?”

  “Oh no. No no no no no no no.” He shook his head. “None of that. Livvy would be horrified.”

  “Um…” I hesitated to correct Desmond, as he seemed a little confused re the attendees of a stag do, “Olivia won’t be there.”

  “Won’t be there?” His eyes searched mine, desperation growing behind them. “Of course she’ll be there. Its, well, it’s part of the pre-wedding celebrations.”

  Jesus. How did people like this survive to their thirties. “Desmond; it’s called a stag do because only stags – men – go on it.”

  His horror increased. “Men? It’s a stag do because… Oh cripes,” he dropped his head into his hands.

  “Desmond, why did you think it was called a stag do?”

  “The horns,” he moaned. “I thought we wore hats with horns on them.” He gasped, as another realisation dawned, “I was only doing this cos I thought Olivia would be there. How in the name of Buggery am I supposed to do kill an evening with Benson? I don’t even know the man.”

&
nbsp; “It’s not just you and him,” I explained, “It’s you, him, and all his friends.”

  Desmond looked at me as if I’d just suggested he go drinking with Kent and his coterie of invisible elves. “Kent doesn’t have any friends,” he explained as though I were the idiot.

  “Well you’ll have to start making up some, then,” I said. “Just people who know him, people he spends time with. They’ll come. Everyone will understand that he’s new to the UK and rally round.”

  He nodded. “Yes,” he said, “you’re right. It’s in September. Let me have your number and I’ll text you the details.”

  “What?” My jaw dropped. “No, I don’t want to come,” I tried protesting, but Desmond had already pulled out his phone, so I gave him my number, wondering how an attempt to find out more about Anthony Taylor had gone so wrong so quickly.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  We were ushered directly in to James Kane’s office. It was almost as though he’d been waiting for us.

  It was, in fact, exactly as though he’d been waiting for us; because he had been.

  “Olivia called,” he confirmed, as soon as we were seated and had declined offers of tea or coffee, and awaited, silently, the delivery of his requested cup of Earl Grey. “I have to admit, she was a little vague as to the purpose of your visit, but she did instruct me to assist you in any way I could, so…” He held his hands out, palms up, as though inviting us either to bring our woes to him, or to inspect his stigmata.

  The black suit had been replaced, today, by an immaculately cut cream linen suit, which only increased his resemblance to Colonel Saunders, if the Colonel had had a cut glass RP accent.

  “How, pray tell, may I help you?”

  I told him about the poison pen letters. My plan here was to extract any information he could give us on the letters while also attempting to ascertain if Kane might have murdered Dave Walker in a botched attempt to brain Anthony Taylor.

  That was my plan, but I had no idea how I was actually going to get any of this out of him.