by Roz Goldie
“Margaret! How lovely to see you.” Veronica almost got to her feet, but gave up as a surge of intense pain shot through her ankle.
“Don’t get up, for Heaven’s sake!” Margaret spoke commandingly – expecting to be obeyed. “I didn’t come here to have you make your injuries worse!”
“Yes. Point taken. Anyway it is great to see you – it has been such a long time!”
“Less than four weeks – but I imagine you feel it is longer – what with all these dramas. Now tell me your news.” She left the flowers and fruit on a nearby table.
The two women sat talking and exchanging news for the next hour. Veronica was reluctant to go into detail about the business of the house in Glenbannock, but gave an outline of the details.
“Surely Harry was not always so truculent? I do agree about the smoking, however. Of course you won’t want to hear that just now.”
“No, he seemed changed when he came home. I don’t know why and he was not in any form to make conversation about that.”
“So you are now looking for somewhere to buy?” Margaret asked in a voice that made Veronica suspect she had something in mind.
“Yes, but I want to stay here until I find somewhere suitable. I don’t want to buy something just because I need a roof over my head, and I don’t even know where I want to buy.”
“It’s rather impractical to live in a bedroom for more than a few weeks, Veronica – although I must say this seems a pleasant enough establishment.” Margaret had not lived in such accommodation for so long that she imagined the landlady locked the doors at ten at night and had a no-male-visitors rule for lady residents.
Veronica took a deep breath, preparing to explain. “Margaret, I don’t need much more room at the moment. When I cleared out my office, I found I had a small box of things, and when I sorted out my wardrobe I only wanted enough to fill two suitcases. The rest is now in thrift shops. Harry wanted to buy the contents of the house – and especially his beloved kitchen, so there’s not a lot of moving to do.” She’d not admit that she did feel rather like an itinerant student once again and missed her worldly possessions. It was embarrassing to own up to the fact that her identity was so bound up with the paraphernalia of everyday living – rather than some strong core of personal principles and individual beliefs.
“A fresh start then – and maybe no bad thing!” Margaret sounded rather like a friendly girl-guide mistress, providing Veronica Pilchard with a large degree of reassurance.
“Now, tell me about your travels, Margaret.” Veronica was eager to hear every detail of the Mediterranean cruise.
Margaret described the highlights of her travels, including the stopovers in Genoa, Naples, Sicily and Split. She had been very taken with Diocletian’s Palace in Split and the modern museum in Syracuse. She omitted to recount her holiday romance with a retired army colonel which had been as torrid as it was brief. Margaret was not predatory in such liaisons but had a healthy appetite for firm if not young flesh, reminding her of her own athletic youth and many love affairs. Lady Beightin was certainly not the shrinking violet that DCI Bill Adams chose to imagine.
Margaret stayed for an hour, and then made her way to the opening of the annual Royal Arts Society Exhibition, expecting to meet the wife of President Sir John Colliers. She had enjoyed the company of Cressida Colliers during the cruise, as Margaret was a lone traveller and Cressida was there with her daughter Belinda.
Although Margaret and Cressida had been firm friends at school, their paths diverged and now they only encountered each other occasionally. It was, therefore, a special pleasure for them to have time away from formal events and the chance to have conversations of some substance.
Cressida had braved the cruise for one day more than Margaret but as soon as Belinda fell victim to the norovirus, they left immediately. Cressida was now unexpectedly home and had invited Margaret to the opening exhibition with enthusiasm.
“Do please come as my guest, Margaret. I was hoping to miss the round of arty chat and false admiration.” Cressida was not a willing first lady of the Royal Arts Society.
Margaret Beightin retained the sense of collegiate solidarity from her school’s days and accepted the invitation with good grace – although in the hope that the exhibits would not all be the modern art school abstract works that totally baffled her.
* * *
Jack Summers had informed his father about the rescue of Nico and been instructed to act in loco parentis.
“Jack, the lad has no parents now. He has elderly grandparents in a farm near Verona. If he is willing and able to travel to them, you must set that up for him. If he wants to stay in the house, you make sure that he is properly looked after.”
“Dad, I am not a total idiot. Nico has had a thorough medical examination and has spoken to the counsellor attached to the police. The only visible sign of trauma is that he has started smoking again.” He made sure his tone was light-hearted and repeated his assurances that he would see that Nico was in good health, and might well take up the offer of a free trip to his grandparents. “Actually, what I have done is get him a new phone. I will get him to ring you when I hang up and you can talk to him yourself. Is that okay?”
“Grand, thanks Jack. I appreciate that. I was just worried…”
“That I’d been in the police so long, I had forgotten both my manners and lost part of my humanity?” He guffawed.
“Now son, don’t tease!”
Father and son ended the conversation with warmth. Neither wanted to concede the possibility that Jack had lost much of the tenderness he’d had as a young man. Neither was prepared to argue in what was apparently likely to be the last year of the old man’s life.
“And I’ll take care of the house Dad!” Jack sounded like the shy teenager he had once been. “I promise it will be clean and tidy when you get back.”
It was the sad truth that Jack’s father would not live much longer and had had chosen to spend his time in Italy rather than at home under specialist care and therapies that were unlikely to add a day to his allotted time. George Summers kept his own counsel on the subject however, leaving Jack with only a vague idea of his condition.
Not only had the middle-aged policeman lost all hope of a marital reconciliation, but he was about to lose his only remaining parent. The experience was changing his outlook and leading him into areas of thought he had never before considered.
* * *
The Annual Royal Arts Society Exhibition was as much a social as an aesthetic or artistic event. As President, Sir John Colliers was privy to all the decisions of the selection panel, although in theory he did not influence their choice of exhibits.
The Royal Arts Society Exhibition had a category of best new artist and more often than not, the recipient was known to the President. Each year, hopeful entrants made a point of crossing his path – and his palm. Colliers made a tidy sum in cash and in social cachet from this and his other honorary positions.
What he most coveted was national governorship of the BBC. Colliers knew plenty of establishment figures – being one of them – and made an extra effort to align himself with those who would appoint the incoming post-holder. He hoped that his wife would enjoy being party to that rather more than the Royal Arts Society.
For that reason, he had welcomed the prospect of Lady Margaret Beightin attending the opening night. She was a woman of some importance, however much she despised the formalities of public office, and he was eager to be in her favour. If she endorsed a man, it was an honest recommendation and thus, her advocacy was seen as 100 per cent legitimate.
Sir John and Lady Cressida were enthroned on the specially erected stage in the grand hall of the castle. Two other seats were reserved for invited dignitaries, of whom Margaret Beightin was one. As the artists, collectors, critics and earnest viewers mingled, Margaret arrived, to find herself escorted to the stage, alongside the latest Secretary of State, Clive Heedon.
Margaret had met Colliers n
o more than a handful of times and found him personable, if lacking in warmth and charm. She braced herself for the formal ceremony for the sake of her friend, Cressida. Clive Heedon was a stranger to her and her first impressions were not entirely favourable. She shook hands with her hosts and the other special guest and took a seat – preparing for an experience rather like a poor sermon from a newly ordained minister. The event would be excruciating but must be endured and discussed in terms as kindly as possible. She was grateful that there was not to be a formal dinner to follow.
Heedon was a man of around 50, sporting a thinning head of dyed blonde hair and an expensive sun tan. He was slightly stooped and his head nodded involuntarily when he got enthusiastic about a subject. His voice was reedy and nasal and he spoke in tones that deliberately attempted to obscure what was clearly a public-school accent. He was probably the one person whose attendance the media would cover, and thus reflect on the glory of the President himself.
Clive Heedon was an avid, if not educated, art collector. He had found to his cost, having completely disregarded the advice of civil servants, that he’d been conned into buying fake works by local artists at a sizeable cost. Sir John Colliers had arranged that the dealer accepted a return of these pictures and thus, saved him even greater loss of face – and though social media quickly spread news of these events, the story never made the news.
Colliers had courted the approval of Heedon, and was pleased to have the Secretary of State in his debt, as his powers extended to influencing the appointment of the governor of BBC Northern Ireland. Tonight, the President would introduce Clive Heedon as an aficionado of the arts and devoted collector of Irish works and invite him to open the exhibition.
Margaret found the abject toadyism nauseating and looked for an indication of how Cressida was taking this flattery. Her friend was standing bolt upright, straining to maintain a neutral smile but on further inspection she saw her folded hands had knuckles of ivory white. Lady Beightin nodded impartially and smiled towards her old friend with a twinkle in her eye. Cressida mouthed a silent ‘thank you’ in reply.
Both women were grateful that someone had scripted the Secretary of State a short speech, which was followed by a somewhat perfunctory announcement of the year’s awards. In 40 minutes, the charade was over and they could drop the pretence, taking another and very welcome glass of wine.
“I must not overdo it Cressida. I’m driving.”
“Bugger that! Margaret you were good enough to come to my rescue. You can leave the car at the castle and you will be driven home.” Cressida looked at her nervously. “Unless that is where you prefer to go before dinner?”
“In for a penny!” Margaret laughed. “Just tell me there will not be speeches!”
“Oh, no, John will spend the evening sucking up to Mr Heedon and his cronies. You and I can chat away – we don’t have to network.”
Margaret wondered how long Cressida had been so unhappy. Clearly, these social occasions were anything but pleasant for her and she was merely there for show. And yet Cressida had made no mention of this during the cruise.
“And the food here is excellent – so it’s a deal!” She winked conspiratorially at her old school pal.
The meal was potentially a trial for Lady Beightin because she did not eat fish or any meat, and she was a moderate drinker. However, there was plenty of well-cooked food that she could digest. In contrast, Cressida ate heartily at each course and consumed a large quantity of wine – without losing any composure. She relaxed as the next two hours elapsed and was genuinely smiling when they parted company.
Unlike her good friend, Veronica Pilchard, Margaret Beightin was an astute judge of character and after the evening was over, she held both Colliers and Heedon in fairly low esteem. They had shown the minimum of courtesy towards herself and Cressida, preferring to talk among themselves, huddled among a group of fawning cronies, laughing a little too loud and addressing the waiters in imperious tones. Cressida must have become inured to this boorishness. Either that or she covered her embarrassment and shame very well. Margaret was shocked that the wife of such a prominent man seemed to be so socially isolated – and had not kept contact with her friends from school or college. She resolved to keep in touch with Cressida.
* * *
Jack Summers had established that Nico preferred to remain in Belfast and did not want his frail grandparents to hear a word about his ordeal.
“The shock would kill Nonno!” He spoke in determined tones. “My grandfather has become very emotional with age and I am the only grandson he has. Promise me that they will not be told, please.”
“Of course, Nico. Not a single word.” Jack felt almost paternal towards the young man. “You need to eat up and put some weight on.” He hesitated and then made a suggestion, “If Veronica is up for it, do you fancy an Italian take away from Alberto’s at her place this evening?”
“Oh, yes! I’d love that!” Nicola Tebaldi beamed like a happy schoolboy. “I want to get her some flowers or something as a ‘thank you’.”
“We can start with food – Veronica really enjoys her food.”
Within an hour, the three were seated in the otherwise abandoned sunroom at five Montague Road, at a table groaning with the best of Alberto’s fare and two bottles of good wine.
Marianne had tactfully rejected their invitation for her to join them. “I think you three have enough to talk about. Any other time and I’d gladly indulge.”
* * *
Eliza Taunter returned to her home, having been informed of the kidnapping incident that had taken place on her property – in a manner that left her potentially under suspicion and, therefore, less likely to make a complaint about DI Summers.
The professor was at her most supercilious at the start of the formal interview but soon realised that the police were less easily impressed than her academic colleagues by her usual patronising tones.
“Professor Taunter, I don’t think you quite understand. This is a very serious criminal matter!” The uniformed sergeant particularly disliked the arrogance of academics, which he usually encountered through his duties concerning the university or – worse still to his mind – in the form of the graduate fast track new police officers. He, therefore, felt a raw gut dislike for this scrawny-faced woman.
Eliza blanched and changed tack. “I apologise, Officer. It has all been very upsetting for me. I no longer feel safe in my own home.” Her tone was less than convincing, and she looked up at the uniformed policemen as he coughed.
“I think we should start at the beginning. Can you give me details of the dates when you were abroad and the contact details of anyone who has a key to your home, Professor Taunter, please?”
“No one has access to my home unless I am there. And as I expected to be asked about my whereabouts, I have written down the times, dates and travel details for the ten days before I was informed about this.” Eliza Taunter was about to say incident, but appreciated that would not sound sufficiently serious.
She left the police station, having been warned that she was obliged to inform the police if she was leaving the country, but also assuring the officer that she would not be going anywhere for the next month, other than to find a locksmith and have a full security inspection of her property. Chastened but also offended by what she felt was a lack of respect for her social and scholarly standing, Eliza Taunter strode back towards Montague Road in a foul temper.
Seeing the BBC in the distance, she decided she would accept the invitation to speak on the Barry Doyle Show.
* * *
Margaret Beightin’s taste in art was broad but did not extend to the post-modern abstract. She had a decided preference for realism with a few exceptions, most notable amongst which was Louis le Brocquy. She had a fascination for his portraits of famous heads, in thick multi-coloured oil paint applied against a white background. These pictures were realistic in that the people were recognisable but they held a spectre-like quality, seeming to
exude a life force from behind the heavy tinted render – although they radiated a sinister sense of mortality. This engendered a sense of affinity with the pictures – rather than the artist or his subjects – and Margaret never missed the opportunity to spend time in the presence of this great art.
It was, therefore, with some interest that she overheard Sir John Colliers naming le Brocquy in a telephone conversation.
“Oh, it’s a real find!” Colliers whispered in a reverential tone. “A once in a lifetime opportunity.”
Margaret was in the drawing room with Cressida Colliers, having morning coffee. The room was furnished predictably with an old-fashioned chesterfield suite, leather-bound foot stools, a Persian carpet on parquet flooring and thick claret-coloured velvet curtains drawn back with golden swags. The walls displayed well-painted rural scenes encased in elaborate gold frames. She viewed the scene with reservation, deciding the choice was almost certainly Sir John’s notion of taste, and ostentatiously expensive taste at that. Cressida would have chosen muted colours and watercolours – probably those of the late Tom Carr.
They chatted about their cruise and agreed that another such trip would require deeper research.
“I think that ship had seen better days!” Cressida stated. “And some of the passengers – well, really!”
“I agree about the ship. It wasn’t up to much,” Margaret pouted. “Of course, there is always a chance that the dreaded bug will strike on a ship with plumbing like that,” she laughed. “Perhaps we are getting too fussy, but I’d go for a smaller vessel and want tour guides with a rather better grasp of history.”
Cressida chuckled, “Indeed, one would think that the guide would have known a bit more about Diocletian’s Palace!”