A Banquet of Consequences

by Elizabeth George

  When Charlie had driven India home from her meeting with Nat at the building site, Caroline had been all aflutter with delight to see them together. Her poorly concealed triumph at what she’d managed to bring off seemed to quell her previous terrors of being the intended victim of a poisoner. Prior to the moment of seeing her success at bringing Charlie and India together, Caroline had purported herself to be a wreck once the Scotland Yard detective had come for her fingerprints and the truth about Caroline’s toothpaste and Clare’s use of it had come out. She’d been up most of that night, wandering the house, watching the television, oblivious to the fact that she was keeping India from sleeping as well. She’d talked, she’d wept, she’d dived into the fridge for wine, she’d drunk, she’d eaten. At the end of it all, she’d drugged herself into sleep, and India had found herself left awake and anxiety ridden.

  She had to get out of her marriage. She knew that now. She was in love with Nat, she wanted Nat, she wanted the normal sort of life that loving and being with Nat promised. She was not going to get it if she allowed Caroline Goldacre to remain anywhere near her. She should have seen that from the first time she’d met Caroline, but she hadn’t, so charmed had she been by the woman’s declarations of delight over having a daughter at long last. India knew now that all of that had merely been the machinations of a mother who wished to control her son’s marriage, and India had gone along with it all because, ever the diplomat’s daughter, she’d been taught not to make waves in delicate political situations.

  Enough, she thought now. She’d really had quite enough. And she’d arranged for Nat to come over that evening just to make certain she held true to her decisions regarding Charlie and his mother.

  Upon Charlie’s first phone call, India had tried to get Caroline up for the day. But she’d apparently taken some sort of sleeping pill—she definitely would have gone in for laudanum in a very big way in the day, India thought—and India had not been able to rouse her. But now she had to, for Charlie would probably suggest that he fetch his mother in the evening if India wasn’t able to get her up and ready to go. So she went to the bedroom a second time, determined to drag her mother-in-law from sleep.

  Caroline was curled foetally. India glanced at her and went to the window, where she opened the curtains first and the window second. The room smelled like a brothel. Caroline’s perfume permeated everything. India knew she’d have to launder the counterpane and blankets as well as the sheets upon Caroline’s departure, and she might have to take down the curtains and see to them as well.

  She went to the bed. She said, “Mum,” and then, “Caroline,” to very little avail. Caroline’s eyelids fluttered, but it was with the movement of her eyeballs in sleep. India grasped the covers and whipped them back, saying, “Charlie’s on his way. Time to get up.”

  For a moment, Caroline didn’t stir and India wondered if she’d taken an overdose of something. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d attempted to harm herself, at least according to what Charlie had told her. He’d declared these attempts a pathetic cry for help—very kind of him, India thought, since her first try at suicide had been when she was pregnant with Charlie himself—and with that kind of history, he went on, she needed to be watched more carefully.

  India bent over her. Caroline was definitely breathing, so India grasped her shoulder, shook it, and said her name again. At this, Caroline stirred, but she didn’t waken, so India considered the water glass that stood on the bedside table. She would have dashed its contents into Caroline’s face, but she didn’t want to wet the pillow. Thus she found herself slapping Caroline lightly on the cheeks and enjoying the sensation perhaps a bit more than she ought to have done.

  She said sharply, “Caroline. Mum. Wake up,” and at this her mother-in-law opened her eyes at last. “Charlie’s on his way,” India told her.

  “Charlie?” Caroline murmured. “Has something happened?”

  What had happened, India thought, was that her own head had become remarkably clear in the last twenty-four hours. She said, “Nothing’s happened. Charlie’s just coming to fetch you.”

  “But where am I supposed to go? It’s safe for me here.” Caroline reached for India’s arm but missed. “I know I’ve been trouble, dear. I wasn’t my best with you and Nat. But when I think of Charlie and what he’s been through—”

  “Up,” India grasped Caroline’s elbow and gave a heave.

  Caroline resisted, stiffening, saying, “This is what mothers do. You’ll understand when you have your own children. India, you’re hurting my arm.”

  “Are you getting up?”

  “Of course I’m getting up. What on earth are you thinking?” Caroline sat up, swayed a little, but determinedly put her feet onto the floor as if intent to assure India that she meant what she said. “Listen to me please. When I saw you with Charlie last night . . . When he brought you home from wherever you’d been—”

  “You know very well where I’d been since you told him yourself. And you only knew that by invading my privacy, which, frankly, I don’t appreciate.”

  “—and we sat round the kitchen table having that lovely curry, what else could I think other than this is what was meant to be?”

  India had gone to sort out Caroline’s clothing, which she tossed onto the bed. She left her to see to the shower in the bathroom. Apparently, Caroline heard this latter for when India returned, she said, “I prefer a bath.”

  “Today it’s going to be a shower. You can take one alone or I can get in with you to make sure you’re quick. Which is it to be?”

  Caroline’s dark eyes narrowed. She pushed a bit of her curling hair back from her face in that gesture she had: sort of an Elizabeth Taylor doing Tennessee Williams. She said, “You’ve become quite hard. Does Nat like you that way?” She chuckled before India could answer and went on with, “No, I expect it’s just the opposite. You were always a dark horse when it came to sex. I could see that straightaway. When you and I met, I tried to tell Charlie, but what boy wants to hear from his mum on the subject of sex?”

  “You’ve not said about the shower,” India told her. “What’s it to be? Alone or with me?”

  Caroline indicated her preference by making her way to the bathroom, where she closed and locked the door. India expected to hear an alteration indicating she’d switched the water to fill the tub, but that didn’t occur. It seemed that her mother-in-law was conceding the battle. India didn’t expect her to concede the war, however.

  She went below to fix Caroline a breakfast tray. It would be simple and quick, consumable within five minutes of semiconcentrated eating. By the time she had it assembled—tea, butter, jam, a croissant, a sectioned orange—Caroline was actually out of the shower, back in the bedroom, and putting on her makeup. She glanced at the tray India carried, said, “How Continental of you, my dear,” and went back to her face. She’d always worn too much makeup, India thought.

  The doorbell rang, announcing Charlie’s arrival. India went to let him in. He was all apologies about the lateness of the hour, but he didn’t ask if his mother was packed up and ready to go. India steeled herself at once, and she wasn’t surprised when Charlie next spoke, saying, “Look here, India. I’m not sure taking her back to Shaftesbury is the best idea. How’s she coping?”

  “Why?”

  Charlie knew she wasn’t asking about the coping. He said, “Obviously. Alastair. This business with Sharon. Then there’s Lily Foster as well.”

  “Are you truly thinking that one of them tried to poison her?”

  “They’re the people with motives. And isn’t that the point: Who has a motive to kill whom? I can’t see anyone has a motive to kill Clare. And now with this toothpaste being Mum’s . . . She rang me, you know. She told me.”

  India shook her head. “Really, Charlie, I can’t believe you’re even considering what she tells you at this point. But if you’re going to do that
, then you have to look at something no one’s been willing to look at so far.”

  “Which is what?”

  “Your mum.”

  “Suicide? No one’s going to kill themselves that way.”

  “I’m not talking about actual suicide.” India glanced at the stairway. She could hear Caroline still moving round up above, so she drew her husband into the kitchen. There, she leaned against the work top. He did the same against the fridge, his arms crossed. He said, “What then? You can’t possibly think Mum wanted to kill Clare. They may have had their difficulties—”

  “I’ve been thinking about this most of the night,” India said quickly. She wanted to get it all said before Caroline joined them. “She kept me up, by the way, so it wasn’t exactly difficult to find the time to think.”

  He scowled, said, “Sorry, darling. Really.”

  “Never mind that. Just listen, please. A suicide attempt—just enough to make her very ill but not to kill her—would have been in character for your mum. She’s done it before. And with Will dead and Alastair carrying on with Sharon—”

  “And with our marriage breaking up . . .” Charlie said meditatively.

  India didn’t want to head there, so she hastened on to say, “Another suicide attempt would galvanise people.”

  “Then why in God’s name give the toothpaste to Clare?”

  “If it was after they argued—”

  “They had an argument?”

  “Evidently, yes. So when that happened, perhaps your mum handed the toothpaste over, thinking it would make Clare good and ill and put a real spanner into her book promotion and she bloody well deserved it. But when she saw what happened . . .” India warmed to her explanation. “Charlie, let’s assume she found Clare dead far earlier than she indicated to the police. Let’s assume she found her that night instead of the next morning. If that’s the case, she could have manufactured everything else. She said she phoned down to reception, but what if she did that after she’d discovered Clare’s body, quite late, to establish that she had no toothpaste. Don’t you see that—”

  “You wouldn’t make a very good detective, India,” Caroline said as she entered the kitchen. She was carrying the breakfast tray, which she set on the table before turning to eye India head to toe. “Or perhaps,” she continued, “it’s just that you’ve not been watching enough police dramas on the television because you’d know that your personal feelings for your suspect can’t be allowed to get in the way. Should I take it that only my eventual murder is going to convince you of my innocence?”

  “Mum . . .” Charlie spoke in a way that told India he intended to placate her.

  She found she didn’t want Caroline placated. She said to her mother-in-law, “Frankly? I’ve begun to think that just about anything’s possible with you.”

  “Have you indeed? And I’ve been wondering these past two days why the police haven’t looked more closely at you.”

  “Mum, let’s be off,” Charlie said. “This kind of conversation—”

  “Oh, I’m altogether ready to be off,” Caroline told him. “Have you told your stepfather I’m coming? I’d like to make sure he has plenty of time to rid the house of the evidence.”

  “You aren’t thinking that Alastair—”

  “I’m not speaking of evidence of his intention to murder me. I’m speaking of evidence of his filthy piece of tail being in my house while I’ve been gone. I have no hope that he’s given her up. Both of them have too much to gain. So did you phone him, Charlie? Does he know I’m coming? Ah. Never mind. I can see it on your face.”

  “She wasn’t there, Mum,” Charlie told her. “She hasn’t been there at all.”

  Caroline patted his cheek with a marked lack of affection. “You’ve always been extremely credulous,” she said. “That’s not a very good quality in a psychotherapist.”

  SHAFTESBURY

  DORSET

  Barbara followed Winston back into the dining room, where there was space for them both to sit with the laptop computer opened in front of them. She could see that he’d been deep into following the trail of Clare’s deleted emails. He’d been intrigued, he told Barbara, that Clare had printed up Caroline’s messages only. At first he’d reckoned she had never responded to her, but that didn’t make sense “’cause seems to me Caroline would’ve stopped writing to her eventually, eh?”

  Barbara complimented him on his psychological analysis of the situation. “Plenty more of that in her library if you want to have a go,” she told him.

  He tapped a few keys on the laptop, then, and told Barbara to have a look. What she saw proved Winston’s point. Clare had indeed replied and she’d done so consistently, although what she’d had to say had been brief, just a few sentences at most in response to emails that went on for pages. Sometimes she wrote only a single line. Barbara read through her replies as Winston brought them up:

  Good for you to get things off your chest. It’s healthy to blow off steam now and then.

  Don’t apologise. No hard feelings. You must have a go at me when I’m out of order.

  Alastair sounds like a perfect monster. How do you manage to put up with him?

  I’m utterly amazed you remained married to Francis as long as you did.

  But what happened after that?

  Barbara looked up at Winston who said, “An’ there’s more, Barb. Practic’ly every time, she says something more or less supporting her, an’ she never points out that one time Caroline said this and the next time she said that and the third time she said something diff’rent. It’s like . . .” He rubbed the back of his neck and looked, if anything, regretful.

  Barbara finished his thought. “It’s like she was encouraging her to keep writing. Only thing is . . . why?”

  “Well, there’s this to consider,” Winston told her. “It was what was on the memory stick, Barb.”

  He moved the laptop to sit in front of him, and he accessed a folder that Barbara saw was named Internet/Adultery. It contained a list of documents. Nkata opened the first of them and turned the computer to face Barbara fully. Across the top of the screen in bold she saw “The Power of Anonymous Adultery.” Beneath this, Barbara read a few lines. She recognised at once that she was looking at the same introduction she’d seen in the folder in Rory Statham’s desk.

  She went from this introduction to the table of contents, from there to the chapters themselves. She saw that indeed there was and had always been a book that Clare Abbott was writing, and it looked as if she had been well into it at the time of her death. She’d completed twelve chapters. She’d begun the thirteenth. From what Barbara could tell, they were strongly but simply written, perfectly accessible to the ordinary reader. But the fact of them on a memory stick only and the fact of that memory stick’s being hidden away in the boot of Clare’s car insisted upon a question being asked: Why the secrecy?

  “Has to be she di’n’t want Caroline to know,” Winston said without hearing the question. “She print up chapters or she leave the chapters on the desktop, or the PC, Caroline sees them. And Clare di’n’t want that.”

  “But if that’s the case, what the bloody hell was going on between them?”

  “We’ve been thinking financial blackmail,” Nkata said, “an’ even job blackmail, but what if we’re lookin at summat else here, Barb? Here’s Clare goin round havin it off with married blokes while all the times she’s spoutin all her feminist beliefs. What if Caroline jus’ couldn’t cope with th’ whole hypocrisy thing? That’d be how she saw it, innit?”

  Barbara thought about this. “So Clare’s being celebrated right, left, and centre for the Darcy book,” she said slowly. “Feminist of the century, a sisterhood with women, and all the trimmings. She has in the works another book to add to her reputation. More celebration set to come in the future. More champers by the bootful. More hoo-ha all round. She’s
already done the proposal for it. Her publisher wants it. She’s probably signed some kind of contract. She’s sitting pretty.”

  “Meantime, she’s also catting around Dorset and Somerset,” Nkata added, “bonking married blokes every which way to Sunday.”

  “She’s betraying her sisters and all the rest. And now she’s going to write a book about this Internet adultery thing . . .”

  “But no bloody way is she about to mention she’d removed her knickers as part of her research.”

  Barbara nodded. “I can see how it would work, Win. Caroline can’t abide the whole two-faced part of it all. She tells her that if she publishes that book, the word goes out about her and her ‘fact-finding’ missions at the Wookey Hole Motel. Clare’s burnt toast if that happens. Great publicity on one hand. A ruined reputation as a feminist on the other.”

  “So Caroline’s got all the power now. Over her writing. Over her reputation. Over everything, Barb. Who wouldn’t like that, in her position, eh?”

  Barbara sighed and shook her head. “But bloody hell, Win. That puts Clare in the spotlight as the killer, not Caroline. Caroline’s got her job into eternity. She’s got Clare Abbott under her thumb. Why kill her, then?”

  “Could be we got the answer in those interviews of her husband and her mum, Barb. Clare’s looking for something to unlock Caroline’s grip on her. You ask me, she found it. We work out what it is—”

  “And we’ve got our motive. That has to be it. Clare needed something more explosive on Caroline than Caroline had on her.”