“We’re attempting to locate someone,” said Gabriel, “a gentleman who lived at number six Crestmore Crescent approximately five years ago.” He raised an arm to point at the mock-Tudor house two doors down, then went on. “His sister died recently and we’ve had some difficulty contacting him, in order to notify him of her death. Were you by any chance acquainted with—”
“Are you talking about Kenneth?” asked the woman.
Gabriel blinked.
“Yes,” I said hastily.
“Of course I knew Kenneth,” she said. “His wife was one of my dearest friends. I’m so sorry to hear about his sister. Won’t you come in?”
I had to nudge Gabriel to get him over the doorstep, but eventually our jackets were hung in the hall closet and we were seated in white wicker chairs in a white-carpeted, glass-walled conservatory attached to the back of the house. The woman introduced herself as Mrs. Beryl Pollard, offered us a choice of beverages, and repaired to the kitchen to prepare tea.
“White carpet,” Gabriel said softly after she’d gone, “and not a spot on it.”
“No kids,” I whispered back. “Or else she keeps them tied up in the basement.”
Mrs. Pollard returned a short time later, pushing a wheeled trolley laden with a silver tea service, bone china cups and saucers, and a plate filled with the plain cookies known in England as “digestive biscuits.” She transferred the trolley’s contents to the glass-topped wicker coffee table at our knees, took a seat across from us, served the tea, and sat back, entirely at ease. I was deeply impressed. If I’d tried to perform so many complex tasks while wearing a flowing caftan, I would have caught a sleeve on the teapot, tripped on the hem, and sent the delicate china crashing onto the white carpet.
“I confess that I didn’t know Kenneth had a sister,” Mrs. Pollard informed us. “He never mentioned her to me, nor did dear Dorothy. Were they estranged? It’s such a pity when these things happen. Family bonds should be inviolable, don’t you think? Of course, individual family members can sometimes be extremely difficult. I haven’t spoken to my sister for ten years, all because of a silly disagreement over a flower arrangement. ‘Livia,’ I said, ‘your roses are too tall,’ and before I knew what was what, she was calling me names I refuse to repeat in polite company. I forgave her, of course, but things have never been the same between us since. Such a pity.”
The monologue flowed on in such a steady, unstoppable stream that I thought Mrs. Pollard must be either an exceedingly lonely woman or one who’d been hitting the bottle since dawn. Both scenarios would have explained why she’d been so willing to invite Gabriel and me into her home without asking for identification.
“Um, about Kenneth . . . ,” I began, and she was off again.
“Darling Kenneth,” she said. “He’s not especially good-looking, mind you, rather plain and paunchy, if truth be told, but he knows how to dress and that’s more than half the battle, don’t you think? Who can resist a man in a Savile Row suit? Dorothy called it investment dressing and we’d both laugh because, of course, that’s what he did, invest other people’s money in wise and clever ways. His sister died, did you say? How tragic. And how odd that Dorothy never mentioned her to me. Did she live overseas, by any chance? So difficult to maintain family ties over great distances. Of course, Dorothy leads such a frantic life that she can’t be expected to remember everything.” Mrs. Pollard paused to sip her tea.
“Kenneth’s sister lived in Oxford,” I said.
“Not overseas? How odd,” said Mrs. Pollard. “But as I say, Dorothy’s far too busy to remember everything. Her life was a mad whirl while she was living here: bridge parties, garden parties, galas, and balls, all in support of the most reputable charities. And the hours she spent entertaining Kenneth’s clients! She hadn’t a minute to call her own. I admired her greatly, we all did, here in the crescent. Dorothy supported worthy causes and made sure her son met the right people, and that’s what’s important, don’t you think? She was devoted to her son.”
“Walter James?” I said quickly.
“Dear Walter, such a nice boy,” said Mrs. Pollard. “I didn’t see much of him, of course, after he went off to prep school, but he came home occasionally, for a few Christmases, and when he was home, he was charming. So polite, so bright, and so much better looking than his father. He’s more like Dorothy’s father, if truth be told, which is lovely, don’t you think? Walter has his grandfather’s looks as well as his name, and he’ll have his grandfather’s business one day, too, which is so lovely for him. Shall I fetch more biscuits?”
It was a peculiar question to ask, since Gabriel and I had eaten exactly one biscuit apiece and Mrs. Pollard hadn’t eaten any, but I pretended not to notice.
“No, thank you,” I told her. “You said before that Kenneth invested people’s money—”
“He worked his way up from the ground floor, as the saying goes,” said Mrs. Pollard. “I admire a man who’s willing to work long hours. The house is the woman’s sphere, I always say, and the man’s is the office and each should stay where God intended them to be. Kenneth was a good breadwinner and what more can any woman ask? I think we could all do with fresh biscuits, don’t you? Please, make yourselves at home.”
Gabriel and I nodded pleasantly as Mrs. Pollard swooped down on the biscuit plate and swept it off to the kitchen, her draped sleeves billowing like a pair of multicolored wings.
“Whew,” said Gabriel, and fell back in his seat. “I don’t know about you, but I’m exhausted.”
“I’ll bet you a thousand pounds that there’s a half-empty bottle of vodka in the kitchen,” I said.
“I’ll bet you ten thousand pounds that it’s more than half empty,” Gabriel retorted. “If that woman’s sober, I’m an insurance salesman.”
“Are we taking advantage of her?” I asked worriedly. “Maybe we should come back another time.”
“We didn’t get her drunk, Lori,” Gabriel pointed out. “And we’re not taking anything from her but information, which she seems more than happy to give. She’d probably be offended if we left so soon after arriving. I think she’s enjoying the company.”
I winced. “It’s pathetic.”
“Granted,” said Gabriel. “But it’s also the best stroke of luck we’ve had and I intend to make the most of it.”
Our stroke of luck fluttered back into the conservatory carrying a plate piled high with petits fours, which she placed on the coffee table. She was remarkably steady on her feet, considering her inebriated state, but she plopped into her chair rather abruptly, and stared vacantly at the soggy garden beyond the conservatory before turning her attention once more to us.
“Please,” she said, and swept a hand over the small mountain of petits fours. “Indulge yourselves. I so seldom have guests to entertain.”
Gabriel took one of the little cakes, bit into it, and nodded approvingly.
“You were about to tell us where Kenneth worked,” he said as soon as he’d swallowed. He clearly had no compunction about leading the witness.
“Don’t you know?” said Mrs. Pollard. “I thought everyone knew where Kenneth worked. He was a shining star at the firm, though he wisely hid his light under a bushel. It doesn’t do to outshine the boss.”
“Which firm was that?” Gabriel asked.
“Walter’s firm, of course.” Mrs. Pollard tittered merrily. “Where else would Kenneth work? Worked his way up from the ground floor, as the saying goes, and married the boss’s daughter. Started out on the bottom rung in London, but once he snared Dorothy, he ran straight up the ladder, to take charge of the Midlands office. Dear Kenneth, such a clever man.”
Gabriel sat forward in his wicker chair. “We know that Kenneth worked for his father-in-law, Mrs. Pollard, but we don’t know the name of the firm. Do you remember what it was called?”
Mrs. Pollard pressed a finger to her lips and shushed him. “Mustn’t discuss Kenneth’s work. Privacy issues, you know. Very important to protect o
ne’s clients. Hardly came home most nights. Too busy protecting the clients. A hardworking man, dear Kenneth, and so proud of Dorothy.”
Our hostess’s recent visit to the kitchen was beginning to take its toll. Her words were becoming slurred, her sentences more fragmented. I decided to ask the question we’d come there to ask, before we lost her altogether.
“Mrs. Pollard,” I said, “do you know where Kenneth is now?”
“Now?” Miss Pollard gazed at me blankly. “Where is he now, did you say? He’s gone. They both are, Kenneth and Dorothy.” Her eyes glazed briefly, then she snapped out of her daze, sat up straight, and made an attempt to pull herself together. “I was happy for them, of course. It was a splendid opportunity and Kenneth could hardly refuse, but it seemed so sudden. After sixteen years on the crescent, they left”—she snapped her bejeweled fingers—“just like that. Sixteen years of bridge parties, garden parties, coffee mornings . . . gone. Just like that. We kept in touch at first, the way you do, but it didn’t last, it never does. Dorothy took her mad whirl with her when they went to Newcastle. It’s been so dull on the crescent since she left.”
To my horror, Mrs. Pollard began to cry. Black rivulets of eyeliner dribbled down her flawlessly powdered cheeks, and her stately shoulders shook with silent sobs.
“Mrs. Pollard,” I said, “is there anyone you’d like me to call?”
“Sorry?” She looked at me blearily, sniffed, and managed a watery smile. “No, dear, I never bother Mr. Pollard when he’s at the office. It simply wouldn’t do. And the children have better things to do than to listen to their mother. My son’s in real estate. Did I tell you that my son’s in real estate?” She put a hand to her temple. “I’m quite all right, I assure you, though I am a little tired. Kenneth’s sister is dead, you say? Didn’t know he had a sister. So sad. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind showing yourselves out?”
“Are you sure you’re okay?” I asked.
“Perfectly,” she said. “A little nap and I’ll be as right as rain.” Even as she spoke, her hand fell to her lap, her shoulders slumped, and her head dropped forward. A moment later, she began to snore.
Gabriel and I collected our jackets from the hall closet and let ourselves out the front door. We climbed into the Rover without saying a word and sat for a moment, staring through the rain-streaked windshield.
“I thought the men at St. Benedict’s were pitiful,” I said. “But they’re nothing compared to Mrs. Pollard. At least they have each other. She doesn’t seem to have anyone. Sitting alone in her spotless house all day, with a husband who can’t be bothered and children too busy to care . . .”
“And a dear friend who left her”—Gabriel snapped his fingers—“just like that. Alcoholics will use any excuse to drink, Lori.”
I glanced at him. “That’s pretty harsh, isn’t it?”
“It’s the harsh truth,” said Gabriel. “Mrs. Pollard could have taken up where Dorothy Beacham left off. She could have filled her spotless home with friends, but the pull of the bottle was evidently too strong for her. Drunks drink because they’re drunks. You should know all of this by now, Lori. You’ve spent enough time at St. Benedict’s.”
“I do know it,” I said. “But it still breaks my heart.”
Gabriel squeezed my shoulder, put the key in the ignition, and started the engine.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“First, we’re going to get a bite to eat,” said Gabriel. “Then we’re going back to my place, to sort out everything we’ve just learned.”
“Gabriel,” I said, “can we go to Miss Beacham’s apartment instead? No offense, but your green vinyl chair gives me the creeps.”
“I’m going to have to do something about that chair,” said Gabriel thoughtfully.
“Burn it,” I suggested. “It’s too ugly to donate to charity.”
Gabriel gave me a shocked sidelong glance, then burst out laughing.
“You were born to be a diplomat,” he declared.
He was still laughing as he steered the Rover around Crestmore Crescent and turned back in the direction of Oxford.
Seventeen
After stopping at a riverside pub for a ploughman’s lunch, we went back to 42 St. Cuthbert Lane, stopped briefly at Gabriel’s apartment to pick up Stanley, and took the elevator to Miss Beacham’s flat. The rooms seemed a bit musty, so after hanging my jacket in the bathroom to dry and dropping my shoulder bag on the cylinder desk, I opened the balcony door to let the brisk wind have its way with the stale air.
“I don’t know why you insisted on fetching Stanley,” said Gabriel, as the black cat raced up the hallway to the kitchen. “There’s no food for him.”
“There’s more to a cat’s life than food,” I said.
“Not much more,” said Gabriel.
“It’s not good for him to spend so much time alone,” I said, closing the balcony door. “Cats get lonely, you know. They need people. Besides, he has good memories of this place.”
“Most of which involve food,” Gabriel muttered.
I opened the mahogany corner cupboard and took out two pads of paper and two pencils. “There was a lot of useful information buried in Mrs. Pollard’s babble. You write down what you heard, I’ll do the same, and we’ll compare notes.” I handed a pencil and a pad to Gabriel and we seated ourselves at the games table.
Stanley made our note-taking more time-consuming than it should have been by jumping up on the table and demanding attention in various subtle ways, including walking back and forth over our writing pads, flopping down on them, rubbing his head against our chins and cheeks, and batting playfully at our pencils. I was on the verge of throwing him out onto the balcony when he melted my heart by climbing into my lap and falling asleep.
“If you weren’t so cute, you’d be dead,” I whispered, stroking his back.
“Aha!” Gabriel exclaimed. “You do understand cats.”
We continued writing for another few minutes, then put our pencils down.
“I’ve finished,” said Gabriel.
“Me, too. Let’s see what we’ve got.” I reached for his pad and placed it next to mine. “In London,” I began, “Kenneth Beacham worked for an unnamed investment firm owned by Mr. Walter James Fletcher. While there, he met, wooed, and won Mr. Fletcher’s daughter, Dorothy, who had a child a year later, a son named after her father, Walter James. Shortly thereafter, Kenneth was given a big promotion—surprise, surprise—and put in charge of the Midlands office.”
Gabriel took up the thread from there. “Kenneth and Dorothy moved from London to a house on Crestmore Crescent in Willow Hills, an upper-middle-class enclave ten miles north of Oxford. Kenneth made a good enough income to afford Savile Row suits, and Dorothy became a leading light in charitable as well as social circles.”
“While at the same time neglecting their son,” I interjected.
Gabriel looked up from our combined notes. “I don’t quite follow your line of reasoning.”
“It seems obvious to me,” I said. “They sent Walter James off to prep school—and kids start prep school when they’re eight in this ridiculous country—and left him there until it was time to pack him off to public school. From the time he was eight years old onward, he was virtually abandoned by his own parents. For evidence, I call upon Mrs. Pollard.” I referred to my notes. “She said that Walter came home occasionally, for a few Christmases. If that’s not neglect, I don’t know what is.”
“It’s perfectly normal behavior for people of their class,” Gabriel countered. “Mrs. Pollard also told us that Dorothy was devoted to her son, that she introduced him to the right people. It doesn’t sound to me as though she neglected him.”
“She probably waited until he was old enough to be presentable, then dragged him around her parties like a trophy,” I grumbled.
“Your evidence?” said Gabriel.
“Gut instinct,” I replied. “It’s not normal for a little kid to miss all but a few Christmases at ho
me, even for people of their class. But I’ll let it pass, for now.”
“After sixteen years in the Midlands office of his father-in-law’s firm,” Gabriel resumed, “Kenneth received yet another promotion, one that required his family to move north to Newcastle, where, as far as we know, he lives now. Finis.”
He put down the sheaf of notepaper and drummed his fingers on the table. The noise roused Stanley, who hopped down from my lap and went up the hallway to continue his nap, no doubt, on Miss Beacham’s fainting couch. I got up to stretch my legs, pulled back the drapes on the nearest picture window, and looked out on the gray and dreary world.
“How did Kenneth and Dorothy do everything they did and stay out of the newspapers?” I asked. “Women who run charity balls want publicity, and they always mention their husbands, without whom . . .” I flapped my hand vaguely. “And so forth.”
“I’d like to know why Kenneth wasn’t brought back to London,” said Gabriel. “The firm’s headquarters must have been in London. Why, after going to all the trouble of marrying his boss’s daughter and toiling away for sixteen years in the Midlands branch, was he sent to the outer darkness of Newcastle? It sounds more like punishment than promotion.”
“Most important of all, to us: Why did they exclude Miss Beacham?” I said. “Mrs. Pollard may have been looped, but she managed to convince me that neither Kenneth nor Dorothy ever acknowledged the fact that he had a sister.” I let the drapes fall and swung around to face Gabriel. “Why did they pretend she didn’t exist? It’s not as if she was a crazy bag lady or a flamboyant Auntie Mame. She was a perfectly respectable woman, with a good heart and plenty of her own money. Why did they treat her so badly?”
“There’s only one way to find out.” Gabriel folded his hands atop the sheaf of penciled notes. “We’ll have to ask them. Lori, we have to go to Newcastle.”
“And do what?” I said, exasperated. “Stand on a street corner and holler for Kenneth to show himself? We still don’t know the name of his firm, and if his past habits are anything to go by, we won’t find him listed in the Newcastle telephone directory. I think we may have given up on Crestmore Crescent too soon. We should go back there and talk to a few more—” I stopped short, interrupted by the ringing of my cell phone.
Aunt Dimity and the Next of Kin Page 16