She was restless. She could ring up one of her friends, ask them if they’d like to go out for the day to Kew, or Richmond, or … anywhere. She realized she was waiting around for Max to say whether or not he wanted her company for the day, just as if he were still a teenager.
She looked for the address book she kept in her handbag and couldn’t find it. She’d laid it down somewhere, but where? She looked around the piles of office paperwork that had drifted up into her living room; at the boxes of redundant floppy discs and the fireproof case which contained all their memory sticks, and still couldn’t find it.
Oliver had left his laptop out. If he had the agency address list on his computer, then she might be able to find her friends’ details, too.
She booted up but couldn’t find her friends’ telephone numbers anywhere. Idly, she rolled down the lists of agency contacts. Oliver had them in alphabetical order, and then in categories. Housekeepers. Nannies. Silver Service. Theatrical agents.
She was amused to see that Oliver wasn’t infallible. He still had dear old Sylvester listed, but she was pretty sure he’d now retired, and let the Superstars Agency pass to one of his sons.
Superstars. Sylvester. An old-timer who might well have known Magnificent Millie. Yes, of course he would. If he was retired, he might be at a loose end and perhaps willing to gossip about him?
Sylvester’s home number was there. Max probably wouldn’t want her company even when he did surface. She was at a loose end. Well, why not?
She pressed buttons and heard the unmistakable rasping voice of a confirmed sixty-a-day cigarette smoker. The Abbot Agency had been using Sylvester’s agency for years, and she was on easy terms with him.
‘Sylvester, my old friend. Bea Abbot here. How are you finding retirement?’
‘Boring, boring. So what can I do for you today?’
‘I was wondering if you were free for lunch today? I’m pining for a run out into the country and a lunch which I haven’t cooked myself.’
‘Pick me up in half an hour, but we won’t go far. I’ve got the grandkids coming for tea.’
There was still no sign of Max so Bea, feeling rather daring and a trifle guilty, put a note for him on the kitchen table and left the house.
Sylvester was a large man who fitted himself into her car with some difficulty. Listening to the bubble in his breathing, Bea wondered how many more years, or perhaps months, he had to live. But there, Sylvester had always preferred to live life to the full rather than cut down his smoking. His choice.
He directed her to a pleasant pub by the river, where they could sit inside by a simulated coal gas fire and choose dishes from an extensive menu. Sylvester said his life was being made a misery by the new laws about smoking in restaurants, and how was she doing nowadays?
‘The agency is doing well,’ said Bea. ‘Both my young assistants are worth their weight in gold, but I do miss Hamilton.’
He nodded, patted her arm, and said, ‘He was something special.’
‘Occasionally, when I meet up with something unusual, I say to myself, “I must tell him about that.” Then I remember that he’s gone and it’s as bad as it ever was. You know?’
He sighed, felt for a packet of cigarettes, took one out, shook his head at it and returned it to the pack. ‘Can’t say I miss my old lady the same way, except when it comes to steak and kidney pudding. No one else can make it like she used to. So what do you want an old man’s company for today, eh? You wanted to tell Hamilton something, and I’m the next best thing, eh?’
‘Thank you, Sylvester. Yes. I do need to consult an older, wiser head about something that’s happened. You’ve heard of Matthew Kent’s death?’
‘What?’ He gaped. ‘You don’t mean Magnificent Millie? Dead? No, I don’t believe it.’
‘Was he on your books?’
‘It must be twenty years since he started with me, although he’s not done much lately. Dead? Are you sure? He was one of the best things ever to hit the club circuit. Never got into the big time, but always delivered. Remarkable voice, alto or bass as required, enormous repertoire. One thing that made him stand out from the rest, he wouldn’t do smut. Said it upset his stomach. We used to joke about it; I said he was a closet Christian, and he didn’t deny it. A kind man, clever with it. He wrote, too; gags for other comedians, sketches.’
He rumbled out a laugh. ‘We used to go horse racing sometimes, not that he was a betting man, but I am … was. He did a sketch making fun of me talking to my bookmaker, apologizing because I’d won instead of losing as usual. Ah, me. Happy days. He’s dead, you say? When did that happen? How come I haven’t seen it in the papers?’
‘Let me tell you what I know.’ She recounted the events of the previous week. Their food came, but he hardly touched his, though she did justice to hers.
Once more Sylvester pulled out his cigarettes and this time got as far as putting one in his mouth before recalling where he was and shoving it back in his pocket. ‘Suicide? You’re sure?’
‘Pills, a bottle of wine, and a note saying he was sorry.’
He was abstracted. ‘I suppose it does make sense. He hadn’t worked much lately, stomach problems. Also, you know what they say, those who make other people laugh, are often manic depressive … though I wouldn’t have said he was. Manic depressive, I mean. Perhaps a little melancholy at times? Yes.’
‘Damaris thinks it was his arthritis, making him realize he had to go into a home soon.’
‘Who’s Damaris? Arthritis? It’s the devil, is arthritis. I didn’t know he had that.’ He blew out a giant sigh.
Bea said, ‘He wasn’t that old, was he?’
‘He said he couldn’t do the late nights any more, but would try to make up for the loss of income by doing scripts for radio. He’d sold a lot of gags in his time, and we thought he’d do well. I said we’d happily represent him for that – or rather, my son would, since he’s running the agency nowadays. Matthew said I ought to be taking things more easily, too, and of course he was right because the doc told me to cut down or fall down. Well, well, poor old Matt. I didn’t think I’d see him out. When’s the funeral?’
‘Now that’s what I don’t know. I was contacted by his daughter—’
Sylvester frowned. ‘Didn’t know he had any children.’
‘She calls herself Damaris Frasier.’
‘Damaris Frasier? Never heard of … Damaris. Now, let me think.’ He clicked his fingers. ‘Got it. Matt’s second wife had a daughter with a fancy name – might well have been Damaris. Gail, that was her name. The second wife, I mean. He liked his Gs. All three of his wives’ names began with a G. He said it was his lucky letter. Well … not so much good luck as bad, in my opinion. Gerda was the first, yes. Backing singer, not bad. My, that’s going back a few years. Killed in a train crash in the Sixties. Then it was Gail … or was it Gladys next? Not that she used the name Gladys. Goldie, she called herself. A trifle too bright for my taste, but she did well enough as a dancer – Tiller Girls, Bluebell Girls? Tiller girls. Got too old for it and married a magician called The Great Daley, some name like that. Acted as his assistant, all legs and sequins and hair piled up high. That was after she split with Matt, of course. Don’t know what she’s doing now.’
‘So Matt didn’t have any children of his own, but you think his second wife—’
‘Gail. An English teacher. Can’t imagine where they met or why he hitched up with her, it was never going to work. Only lasted a few years. He paid her off with a lump sum to divorce him, bought her a flat or something, and she went back to teaching. I’m not sure she ever stopped, come to think of it. Bossy boots with a cut-glass voice. Drove away all his friends, looking down her nose at them. After they divorced, he used to make fun of her in some of his sketches, not being nasty, you know, but … Lord, he used to bring the house down. I can hear him now. He would dress up as a cleaning woman, and she’d be his employer, giving him a hard time. Makes me laugh, just to think of it.’
He pushed his plate away, having eaten next to nothing, and ordered coffee.
She thought about what she’d learned about Matthew Kent from Kasia, from Piers and now from Sylvester. They’d painted a picture of a man she would have liked if she’d ever met him, a man who made his cleaner take a coffee break on his patio, a man who Piers had respected, a man Sylvester had valued as a friend. She accepted that there was a streak of melancholy in most comics, and she could understand – just – why failing health had driven Matthew Kent to kill himself. It was just the manner of his death which she still found disturbing. That over-the-top dress, make-up and shoes.
The more she learned about the man, the more she worried about His Final Tableau. It really wasn’t like the man she’d been hearing about. But perhaps that was the whole point? That a man whose living had been made by entertaining others, had put on a show for his death?
‘Tell me,’ she said, ‘when he was on stage, did he dress like the pantomime dame, or … how?’
Sylvester blew his nose with some force. ‘Panto? Never. When he was all got up in one of his slinky outfits, he was more of a woman than any woman you’ll ever meet. Stunning! In real life, of course, he wasn’t a handsome man but nice-looking, if you know what I mean. He laughed a lot; at himself most of the time. His hair was receding, which worried him, but he wouldn’t wear a toupee. Hey, but I’m going to miss him.’
Bea added this to her knowledge of him, thinking that yes, the over-the-top deathbed scene had been just that. A final gesture, two fingers up. Or perhaps – and here she smiled to herself – he’d done it knowing how it would shock dear Damaris?
Sylvester blew his nose again, folding his handkerchief over and over. ‘We’d arranged that we’d meet up every couple of months, his place or mine, sink a pint, have a good gossip. I’m going to miss him something chronic.’
‘He wasn’t a smoker, was he?’ Bea remembered the trail of cigarette ash under the visitor’s chair in Matt’s house.
‘Never. Said it would damage his lungs. He was always on at me about it. Poor old Matt. I never thought to outlive him. I’ll come to the funeral, and there’ll be a memorial service, of course. I’ll pass the word around. A lot of his old friends will want to attend.’
‘I’ll tell Damaris when I see her, but I must warn you, she’s hoping her father’s—’
‘Stepfather’s.’
‘—demise will pass unnoticed by the press. She’s embarrassed by the way he earned his living.’
‘Tcha!’ He invested the sound with so much disgust that she had to laugh. Walking back to her car, he took her arm, and she noted with a thrill of sorrow that his gait was unsteady and his breathing far too loud.
With downcast eyes, she adopted her creamiest, most innocent tone of voice. ‘I wonder how many more people ought to be told about Matt’s death. His wives? The press, maybe?’
Sylvester began to laugh, which turned into a cough. Spluttering, he produced his handkerchief again. Leaning on the car, he whooped and coughed, eyes streaming.
Bea was alarmed. ‘Sylvester, are you all right? Silly question. Of course you’re not. Is there anything I can do?’
His breathing slowed to a grumble. ‘You do me good, Bea. When I saw you last – at my retirement party, wasn’t it? – I thought to myself that you were far too quiet. I wondered if you’d ever get back to your old self after, you know, Hamilton, rest his soul. Now, you just keep on poking us into action, do you hear? I’m pretty well done for as you can see, but I liked Matt and I don’t like to hear of his daughter trying to wipe out the memory of a great gentleman. Yes, I’ll contact his ex-wives, both of them. Goldie will be easy to find. The teacher …? I think she kept his name after the divorce. She shouldn’t be hard to locate. And yes, I’ll get the press involved, too.’ He began to laugh, his stomach wobbling. ‘I’m looking forward to this. One last ploy for Sylvester!’
‘Now you’ve got me worried. Perhaps I shouldn’t have said anything.’
‘Yes, you should. Let’s go out with a bang, right? All I need from you is the date of the funeral. Leave the rest to me. Now take me home. I’d better rest up a while before the grandkids come for their tea. My son and daughter-in-law think they’re doing me a favour by bringing them over on Sunday afternoons, but to be frank, although I love them dearly, after ten minutes I’m wishing them gone.’
‘Just don’t die before you’ve rearranged Matt’s funeral.’
‘Trust me for that. And when it comes to my turn, you can read a poem at my memorial service. You’ve got a beautiful voice. Did you never think of radio?’
Bea was laughing as she inserted him into her car, and clipped his seat belt on. ‘Shut up, Sylvester. Let’s get you home in one piece.’
Bea parked the car outside her house but instead of going in, she walked down to the bus stop and made her way to the National Portrait Gallery. Tomorrow morning she had an appointment to meet Damaris Frasier, and she was not easy in her mind about it. Was Matthew Kent the good friend and employer she’d heard about, or was he a cross-dressing man with grubby tendencies, as Damaris had hinted and as Bea’s own view of his body had indicated?
Yes, his portrait was still there, as were a couple of other portraits painted by Piers over the years. Nowadays Piers charged such high prices that only the most important or wealthiest people could afford him. The portrait of a prime minister from the previous decade, for instance, was so justly acclaimed that it defined people’s memory of him.
Matthew Kent’s portrait was, as he’d said, a composite one. A slender man in his late fifties, wearing jeans and a grey silk shirt, sat in front of a mirror framed in theatrical light bulbs. He had turned his head so that he was three-quarters on to the viewer. A nice-looking man, with cornflower-blue eyes, and a high forehead from which fair but greying hair was receding.
Piers had an uncanny knack of presenting his sitters on two different levels; the surface might, for instance, show a man of wealth but if you looked hard enough, you could catch a glimpse of the inner person, greedy, sensual, or cruel.
This man wasn’t greedy, or sensual, or cruel. He looked … Bea sought for the right word … sad? Thoughtful? There was humour in the twist of the lips, the slant of the eyebrow. A knowledge of human nature in the lines about eyes and mouth. He looked … again, she had to seek for a word … trustworthy. A man of inner strength.
That made her frown. Trustworthy? Humorous? Strong?
Then what of the image in the mirror? Ah, but there was not one image, but several to be seen.
The first was that of Matthew Kent transformed into a beautiful woman, not young, but luscious; the twist of the lips and slant of the eyebrow indicated a quizzical turn of mind. The make-up was only slightly over the top, the bronze wig not too obvious. The high-cut dress was also in grey silk, matching the grey of the man’s shirt, but slightly less strong in colour. In fact, the image of the woman was altogether less colourful than Bea had thought it would be. And behind her were more women, each one wearing a different wig, make-up and clothes, and each one less distinct than the one in front. It was as if Piers were saying, ‘The man is real; the women he plays are not.’
As Piers had admitted to her before now, he didn’t always know what he had revealed about a sitter in his paintings, even when he’d finished.
Bea tried to overlay what she was seeing in the picture with her memory of the body on the bed and still couldn’t make sense of it. Why had he made up his face in such grotesque fashion, when he used a subtle make-up for his nightclub appearances? Why had he chosen that pantomime dame dress, which was so unlike his usual taste? Or was it? Perhaps Piers had failed to read the man correctly? Was that extraordinary deathbed appearance a deliberate slap in the face for
everyone who’d known him in life?
Bea didn’t think she had enough pieces of the jigsaw to complete the puzzle. But perhaps that was the point. Perhaps the man had been an enigma in life, and remained so in death.
Perhaps she’d find out more on the morrow. She turned for home, acknowledging that she’d made excuses to stay out all day rather than talk to her son. She also acknowledged that she hoped he’d have gone out for the evening by the time she got back. A spat with his wife over her younger sister … surely that wasn’t grounds for divorce, was it?
Well, her inner voice said, it might be, if the younger sister wanted to take Nicole’s place as the wife of an MP. And if the parents backed the younger against the older sister, there might well be difficulties for Max, whichever way he jumped.
Sunday evening
The two women heaved the last of the black plastic sacks into the elderly car, and got in. The driver said, ‘I’ll be glad when we can get shot of this old wreck. Buy something new. Now remember, the paperwork has all got to be shredded, not just put out for the dustbin men to take.’
‘It’s going to take time. You know I have to let the machine cool down every few minutes. Have you put the advert in for his car?’
‘Done. It can’t be far away. Tomorrow I’ll get the agency started on the clothes, bag them up, dispose of them.’
‘I wonder if they’re worth anything.’
‘Shouldn’t think so. I gave you the details for the funeral, didn’t I? Private. No flowers. Just the usual crematorium minister to take the service, canned music, press the button and away we go. Then on to the reading of the will.’
‘Divided two ways. I have your word on that?’
‘You do, indeed.’
Five
Monday morning
Max had gone from the house by the time Bea returned from the Portrait Gallery, and he only returned after midnight. There was no sign of him at breakfast, and the workmen were due to arrive before nine, so over her second cup of coffee Bea briefed her assistants in peace and quiet.
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