False Step

by Veronica Heley

  ‘Maggie, I don’t know how long Max will be staying, but I don’t suppose he’ll need much feeding. Can you cope?’

  Both Maggie and Oliver were obviously dying to hear why Max had moved into the guest room. Their eyes were wide with questions but Bea was not about to enlighten them.

  ‘Now,’ she said, ‘on the Kent front, things have been happening. Let me tell you what I did yesterday …’ She told them everything that had happened, after which both looked thoughtful. ‘And no, Oliver, it’s not a murder case and it’s none of our business.’

  ‘Fraud? A dicey will?’

  ‘What an imagination you have, Oliver. I haven’t the slightest reason to think either of those things.’ She struggled with herself and lost. ‘All right, I admit to being curious about the manner of his death. So, would you go on the Internet – he’s got a website – see what you can find out about Matthew Kent? Presumably he owned his house; you can check that, too. I could also bear to have some information about his marriages; one wife died early on, and the other two marriages ended in divorce.’

  ‘Have we any names for the divorcees?’

  ‘They were all Gs. Gail Kent, who was – or maybe still is – a teacher. Goldie, née Gladys, subsequently married a magician whose name is something like The Great Daley. Don’t ring Sylvester; I’ve got him on the trail already.’

  ‘If it really isn’t murder, then who’s our client?’

  Bea pulled a face. ‘Damaris Frasier wants me to meet her at ten to discuss clearing out the house prior to selling it. I’ll make sure she understands our terms.’

  ‘You could send me to meet her,’ suggested Maggie, licking the honey spoon before popping it into the dishwasher. ‘I’m not bad at that sort of thing.’

  ‘She says she’s the sole heir and I’ve no reason to believe she’s lying. The fact that I took against her is … no, I really must not prejudge the woman. She may be perfectly straightforward for all I know. And before Oliver reminds me, I know we can’t right all the wrongs in the world.’

  Oliver was interested. ‘But you do think there’s been a wrong done? To whom?’

  Bea shrugged. ‘Wish I knew that, too.’ Well, she did have a niggling fear that she’d overstepped the mark yesterday, prodding Sylvester into action. Did she feel guilty about that? Er, yes. She did. She was perfectly aware that she wanted to discover something dicey about the daughter to justify her action.

  She looked down at the cream silk shirt and designer trousers that she was wearing. Maggie often borrowed Bea’s clothes. Perhaps it was time to return the compliment? ‘Maggie, I need to borrow the white shirt you bought off a market stall, the one with the badly fitting collar.’

  Maggie gaped. ‘What on earth for? You hated it.’

  ‘I’m not going in disguise but I’d like to appear not exactly badly dressed, but as if I didn’t know where to buy good clothes.’

  Oliver guffawed. ‘Isn’t that disguise? Misrepresenting yourself?’

  Bea grinned. ‘Possibly. I want Damaris Frasier to underestimate me.’

  Maggie was looking serious. ‘Mrs Abbot, you understand people and what makes them tick, better than anyone. If you think there’s something wrong—’

  ‘I’ve absolutely no reason to think so.’

  ‘But you feel it?’

  Bea nodded. ‘So let’s hedge our bets, shall we? Oliver, you know what to do. Maggie, apart from keeping the workmen up to scratch, I want you to try to contact Florrie and Kasia, get them in to talk to me again. I tried phoning both last night, and neither got back to me. Florrie said she was thinking of taking the camper out on the road. She wouldn’t tell me where she was going, but she’s probably briefed her second-in-command, Yvonne. If you can’t get Florrie, see what you can get out of Yvonne. I think Kasia’s scared of getting involved, but if we offered her another job? We can always find something for her to do, can’t we? And we do need to regularize the jobs that Florrie gave her.’

  Maggie swilled round the sink, and hung the dishcloth up to dry. ‘This Damaris sounds really narrow-minded, trying to pretend her father—’

  ‘Stepfather.’

  ‘Whatever, didn’t dress up for work. Why is she so ashamed of him? Would she feel the same if he’d been a Shakespearean actor?’

  Bea said, ‘To be fair, he does seem to have made fun of his ex-wife after the divorce. That might well make the daughter feel sour.’

  Oliver said, ‘Odd that she should inherit everything, if she felt like that about him.’

  As usual, Oliver had put his finger on a sore point.

  The first of the workmen rang the bell as Bea checked over the contents of her handbag, ready to depart. Oliver was already glued to his computer screen. He had the tenacity of a bull terrier and she’d no doubt that if there were any information to be found on Matthew Kent through a computer, he’d find it.

  Max still hadn’t surfaced.

  Matthew’s house looked just the same as she turned in to his road. She wondered which of the cars parked there might be his. There was only one car nearby which didn’t have a residents’ parking permit on it. Would that belong to Damaris? It was an elderly family car with nothing much to recommend it. Red in colour, not particularly clean, with a dent in one back wing.

  Bea rang the bell, checking her watch. One minute late.

  ‘You’re late,’ observed the woman who opened the door. ‘I’m a busy woman, you know. I really can’t afford to hang around waiting for people. Oh, don’t dilly-dally on the doorstep. There’s a cold wind, and I’m not putting the central heating on, wasting money. You know your way, I take it? And if that’s dog poo on your shoe, will you kindly ensure it doesn’t stain the carpet.’

  Bea scraped the heel of her shoe backwards and forwards on the mat. She hoped she looked the part of a downtrodden employee, but feared her skirt was too good a fit. The blouse was right; the collar sat awkwardly, and she had to tug at it now and then to stop it gaping down the front. She’d brushed her fringe downwards instead of sweeping it across her forehead as she usually did. No eye make-up. Lipstick the wrong colour. She looked and felt frumpish.

  Damaris Frasier was a hectoring blonde in her early thirties, perhaps not all that intelligent? She had hard, light-blue eyes, and wore a permanent frown. She had a tall, bony figure on which clothes sat well; Bea guessed that Damaris shopped at a Second Time Round or charity shop. Her shoes were from a chain store. Her voice had the sort of harsh clarity which would cut through a crowded room. Her manner was impatient, aggressive. Bea couldn’t imagine Damaris making friends easily, or being an easy person to work with.

  Damaris continued, ‘I collected your cleaner’s keys from the police, and I’m asking you to sign here for them, before I hand them over. That way we know precisely who has the right to be here.’ She produced a clipboard and waited while Bea put on her reading glasses, read and signed the handwritten note. ‘Good. Now you’re responsible for the contents of this house, understand? I can’t be taking time off work and running backwards and forwards all the time to check on what you’re doing. I’ve written out a list of instructions in duplicate …’

  A couple of sheets of A4 were taken off the clipboard, and handed to Bea. ‘One copy for you to sign, one for me to keep. I shall be advertising the sale of the car myself. Enquiries for it will go through to your agency. I can’t be pestered with all that at home. I’ve removed all the paperwork that I shall need to apply for probate, and I will be responsible for cancelling his credit cards, direct debits and so on. In the meantime I require your agency to prepare a detailed inventory of the contents of this house, and in due course to arrange for valuers to appraise the furniture and furnishings. Is that clear?’

  Bea realized that all she was expected to do, was to nod. So she did.

  ‘You will ring me every evening between six and seven – the telephone number is on my instructions – to report on your progress, and you will post your inventory to me as soon as you have complet
ed it. How long do you think you will take?’

  Bea contrived to be a little clumsy, extracting a folder of agency information from her bag. She handed it over in silence.

  Damaris cast a hard blue eye down it. ‘You charge far too much. I will pay you two-thirds, which I imagine is more than you’re worth.’

  So the camouflage was working? Bea opened her mouth to object, knowing that this was what Damaris would expect and was cut off, exactly as she’d thought she would be.

  ‘Not another word. You can start work now, this morning. I’ve cleared out the fridge and I’ll turn off the electricity at the meter before I go, as I don’t expect you to loll around having coffee breaks on my time. Now, is there anything else?’

  ‘Would you like me to send a notice to the papers about the funeral?’

  ‘That’s all taken care of.’

  ‘If anyone enquires, when and where shall I tell them the funeral is to be?’

  ‘Not yet fixed. Anything else?’ She answered her own question. ‘You can forget about getting someone in to value the house itself, because I’ll be attending to that. We need a valuation but I’m told I can’t put it on the market till after probate is granted.’

  ‘Do you want us to dispose of his clothing?’

  ‘I’ve taken some away already. Bag the rest up and dump it in the nearest charity shop.’

  ‘Er … his professional work clothes? They may be worth something?’

  Damaris pinched in her lips. ‘The same. Get rid of them.’

  ‘But …’ Bea made her eyes wide and innocent. ‘Wouldn’t the Theatre Museum … perhaps? Or someone in the trade? A couple of thousand, maybe?’

  Damaris looked undecided. ‘As much as that?’

  Bea tried on a nervous little cough. ‘Should I ask around, perhaps? The agency has some contacts in the trade.’

  ‘I’ll let you know.’

  ‘And’ – another little cough – ‘I think there’s a picture in the National Portrait Gallery. Wouldn’t that be worth something? Should I enquire?’

  Damaris’s eyes gleamed. Money, money, money. The bait was taken. ‘I’ll see to that. You’ve got enough to be getting on with. Now I don’t expect you to know much about antique furniture, but after you’ve— What was that?’ Someone was leaning on the doorbell. ‘Who …? I’m not expecting …’

  Bea thought, Is this Sylvester’s work? Is that an ex-wife at the door? If so, let battle commence. She made herself sound tentative. ‘Shall I see who it is?’

  Damaris said, ‘Tcha!’ and strode to the front door herself, letting in a gust of keen wind and spit of rain, plus not one but two blondes. Both were in their early fifties but one had been more successful than the other at hanging on to her youthful figure.

  ‘Mother?’ That was Damaris. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’

  A better dressed version of Damaris swept in, removing a cashmere wrap and shaking raindrops off it. Her shoes alone must have cost as much as the whole of Damaris’s wardrobe. ‘Nice to see you, too, daughter. You remember my successor? Gladys, say hello to my daughter.’

  Damaris’s mother had the same light, piercing tone of voice and pale-blue eyes as her daughter, but was finer cut and looked more intelligent. She had good skin and wasn’t wearing much make-up. There were grey shadows under her eyes; had she been crying recently? She seemed on edge, her eyes restlessly quartering the room.

  The other blonde was a different matter. ‘Well, well, so this is little Damaris, all grown up. Call me Goldie, dear. Everyone else does.’ This blonde had turned to peroxide for assistance and there was a slight but definite sag to cheeks, chin and boobs. Her eyes were china blue, and her black suit had been chosen to suit a formal occasion. The skirt was a trifle short for someone of her age, but her legs were still good. Her laugh would be throaty and she looked as if she might be fun for a night out at the pub. She ran a finger along the top of a bookshelf, looking for dust. ‘Well, well. Nothing much has changed over the years; except us. The dear old place looks just the same.’

  Bea stepped back into the doorway to the kitchen, thinking this was going to be worth watching.

  Gail shivered. ‘Brrr, it’s cold in here. Has the heating broken down?’

  Damaris’s lips moved. She seemed to be searching for words to express her displeasure at this intrusion, and discarding them as soon as they leaped into her head.

  ‘Cat got your tongue?’ Goldie bent down to switch on the simulated gas coal fire. ‘No sense in catching cold, is there? Got any coffee on the go? Who’s that in the kitchen? A cleaner? Will you put the kettle on, dearie?’

  Bea filled the empty kettle, and set out some mugs on a tray. The fridge had been emptied but the contents were in a couple of large shopping bags on the table. Bea dived into the bags to locate coffee, sugar and milk. And listened.

  ‘How sweet!’ That was the alto voice of Goldie. ‘Look, he kept the little china shepherdess I got him for his birthday one year. I gave a fiver for it in a stall on the Portobello Road but told him I’d paid a fortune for it in an antiques shop and he believed me, silly old fool. And here’s the little silver jug I used to put violets in, in the spring.’

  ‘Putting flowers into silver does the silver no good.’ Damaris, acid in her voice.

  ‘It’s all right if you put a glass jar inside it,’ said Goldie, batting the criticism back, honey-sweet.

  The kettle boiled, and Bea put her head round the door. ‘How do you like it, ladies?’

  ‘Black,’ was the response all round.

  Damaris was clutching her arms, either because of the chill in the room or, more probably, from temper. She spat the words out, ‘You both divorced him long ago, so why are you here?’

  ‘Do take that frown off your face, Damaris.’ Her mother speaking. ‘It’s most unbecoming. His agent rang me this morning, wondering if I’d heard. He said you were arranging the funeral. I’m amazed you didn’t tell me.’

  Goldie’s turn. ‘Sylvester rang me, too. To put it bluntly, dear, I need to know if he’s left me anything. This house must be worth a couple of million, I suppose. So, who’s his solicitor?’

  Bea passed round mugs of coffee, keeping her eyes down. She’d noticed long ago that if you don’t make eye contact with people, they discount your presence.

  Damaris rolled her neck to relieve tension. ‘I was the only person who gave a toss about him in his last months. I kept in touch, made him feel valued and part of the family. He made his will a couple of months ago, and left everything to me.’

  Bea retired to the kitchen, leaving the door partly open. Why not make herself a cuppa while she was at it?

  Frost crackled in Gail’s voice. ‘Just don’t let that husband of yours get his hands on it.’

  ‘You never liked him, did you? And you never understood how Matthew felt about me. Because he couldn’t stand the sight of you, it didn’t mean he hated me. He loved me, and once you two were out of the way, he could show that he did.’

  ‘Come off it,’ said Goldie. ‘You’ll be having us believe he liked little girls better than he liked women, and I know for a fact that’s not true. He was everything a man should be, not like that apology for a man you chose to marry.’

  ‘How dare you! Get out, both of you! You’ve no right to come here and insult me, with him barely cold in his bed. And tell me this, if you thought so much of him, why weren’t you around to comfort him when the pain got too much for him to bear? Why didn’t you give him something to live for? Oh no, you let him commit suicide, and then you come round like scavengers, to see what you can pick from his bones. I despise you both!’

  Silence.

  Bea edged one eye round the door. Gail was standing in front of the fireplace, eyes closed, clutching her shoulders. Was she in pain?

  Goldie’s colour had risen, and she was biting dark-red lipstick off her mouth.

  Gail opened her eyes to consult a tiny watch. ‘Let me have the details of the funeral and I’ll leave
you in peace.’

  ‘I’m arranging everything as he wanted it to be. Private. No church service. At the crematorium. No flowers.’

  Goldie set her empty mug on the table beside her. ‘No flowers? He always liked a good show of flowers. Red in particular. Who’s the funeral director? I’ll arrange for a floral tribute to be put on the coffin. And I’ll take that china shepherdess and the silver jug with me now, to remember him by.’

  Damaris made as if to stop the woman but restrained herself. Goldie took out a packet of tissues, wrapped each keepsake carefully and stowed them in her handbag.

  ‘Very well,’ said Damaris. ‘You’ve had your pound of flesh, and that’s it … understand? I’m having an inventory done of everything in the house and if one single cup is missing after this, I shall know who to come after.’

  Gail smoothed her already smooth hair, checking her image in the mirror over the fireplace. ‘I’ll be round later to choose a keepsake or two. All right with you, Damaris?’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Through gritted teeth.

  Goldie applied another layer of lipstick to her mouth. ‘You are overreacting, Damaris dear. Should have been on the boards. I’ll have to think about what else is due to me, but all I need for now is the name of the funeral director.’

  Damaris put the back of her hand to her forehead. ‘I think I must be going down with something. The strain … I can’t think. The doctor arranged it. I’ll have to phone him, get the name from him, and then get back to you.’

  ‘Ring me with the details.’ Gail arranged the folds of her wrap around herself.

  The two women let themselves out of the house, both being very polite about it. ‘After you,’ and, ‘No, after you.’

  Bea busied herself in the kitchen, washing up her own mug, and then went through to the living room to collect the mugs used by the others.

  ‘What are you grinning at?’ asked Damaris. If she’d been a cat, she’d have been lashing her tail. ‘Turn off that fire. No need to waste gas.’ She picked up her mug and threw it with all her might at the fireplace, where it shattered.