Bea froze.
Damaris clenched her fists. ‘I could murder that agent of his. I can do without those two shoving their noses in. If I could find out who told him …’ She switched her eyes to Bea. ‘You didn’t tell him, did you? Because if you did, I’d sue the living daylights out of your piddling little agency, understood?’
‘Tell who?’ Bea tried to act nervous, and there wasn’t much need for acting. Damaris was truly terrifying. She wasn’t that big a woman, but she seemed to expand with rage.
Damaris relaxed a trifle. ‘No, of course you didn’t. How could you know?’ She picked up her handbag, looked round the room. ‘Well, what are you waiting for? You’d better get on with it before the light fails, hadn’t you? And clear up that mess before you do anything else. I don’t want coffee stains marking the carpet.’
Her mobile phone rang and she answered it, with a terse ‘Yes?’
Bea returned to the kitchen to find a dustpan and brush, only to have the kitchen door slammed in her face. Despite this barrier, Bea could still hear Damaris’s clear voice. Good diction had its points. Bea pressed her ear to the wood, to hear better.
‘Yes, I’m still here. How are you getting on with the shredding? … Yes, well, we knew it would take time. The agency sent a fool of a woman to do the inventory, but I suppose it’s better than nothing. The only problem is that the news has leaked out … how do I know? That agent of his. But how he knew … what? No, I certainly didn’t … Well, yes, it does matter. My mother turned up, would you believe? And Gladys. You remember her? His third. Vultures. Wanted to know when the funeral was to be but … no, of course I didn’t! … Look, I’m running late. Ring you this evening.’
So Damaris had a confidante? An old friend, by the sound of it.
Bea moved away from the door as Damaris threw it open. ‘Get a move on, why don’t you? And you needn’t think I’m paying you for this morning, either. Understood? I must go.’ She glanced at her watch – not an expensive one – and collected the bags of food she’d taken out of the fridge on her way out. There was to be no chance of the hired help making herself a cuppa in her absence.
Bea went to the window to watch Damaris leave. She sincerely hoped the woman would never find out who had informed wives two and three about Matthew’s death. Damaris meant it when she’d said she’d sue. Although what grounds she might use …? Well, even if she were on shaky ground, some solicitors would sue just to get the work and the agency needed to be convicted of leaking confidential information like it needed a hole in the head.
When Damaris’s car was out of sight, Bea got out her own phone.
‘Oliver, how are you doing?’
‘Not bad. Got a load of stuff from the Internet. Matthew Kent was a well-known entertainer, clubs and pubs, mainly. I’ve got some pictures of him in drag, a list of television and radio credits, and some odd items about his third wife. Nothing about his second.’
‘How are the workmen doing?’
‘Noisy.’
‘In that case I think I’ll stay up here for the time being. Mrs Frasier wants an inventory done. Would you look through our files and find someone to do it for us? But before that, would you check when and where Matthew’s funeral is taking place? Damaris says it’s a cremation and private, but pretends she’s forgotten the details. I think we should find out, don’t you? Sylvester wants to know for a start. There are only a few crematoria around. It’s probably at Mortlake, you could start there. Or you could start at the other end with local funeral parlours. Or … come to think of it, Damaris gave me a list of instructions as to what she wants done at the house and … yes, yes. We’ve got a telephone number for her. The telephone prefix is 8997. Do we know where that might be? Outer London, yes?’
‘West London, somewhere? I’ll check. You think she might have used a funeral director local to her rather than a Kensington one? Why would she do that?’
‘Why has she done all sorts of things?’ said Bea. ‘And Oliver, try to keep our name out of it, will you? Damaris is already threatening to sue whoever leaked the news of Matthew’s death to his ex-wives. And she means it.’
Oliver thought that was amusing. ‘How can she do that?’
Bea hissed at him. ‘It’s not funny!’ and shut off the phone as the front doorbell rang. Now who …?
Bea peeped out of the window. Not Damaris’s car. She went to open the door.
Six
Monday midday
Gail Frasier sailed into the hall, unwinding herself from her cashmere and silk wrap. She spoke in a rush, in a high voice, sweeter-toned than her daughter’s.
‘It seems to have stopped raining, thank goodness. I’m afraid my daughter didn’t introduce us properly. I’m Gail Frasier. I was married to Matthew Kent for five years. Damaris is my daughter.’
Gail was turning on the charm. Bea had to admit the effect was good.
Gail didn’t actually push past Bea into the sitting room, but somehow managed to get there, dropping her wrap and a handbag on the nearest chair and looking around her. ‘I always had flowers around when I lived here. They liven up the room, don’t they? It seems so much darker and colder than I remember … I see you’ve switched off the fire. Oh, a small accident here?’
Bea went on her hands and knees to sweep up the pieces. Now what had Gail come for?
‘So,’ said Gail, turning on her heel to take everything in, ‘what’s your name? You work for a local agency, do you? That’s nice. And what instructions has my daughter given you?’ She was talking mechanically, not paying attention to what she said.
Bea swept up the pieces, and got to her feet. ‘I’m Bea. I work for the Abbot Agency. Your daughter has asked me to bag up the deceased’s clothing and professional costumes, and to make an inventory of what’s in the house.’
‘Of course.’ Gail had never once met Bea’s eye. Just as well, perhaps.
Close to, Bea saw that Gail’s originally blonde hair was now grey, but expertly cut. She must be in her early fifties and though she’d made little attempt to hide the destructive effects of time, her complexion and bone structure were both good and she could probably pass for forty with the light behind her. Except for those dark stains under her eyes. And her hands were shaking. Was she ill?
Bea took the shards of the coffee cup out to the kitchen and put them in the bin, which was almost full. She would empty it later, perhaps. She ran hot water, found carpet shampoo, and returned with it to the sitting room to get rid of the coffee stain.
Now, what was Gail after?
Gail was after the photographs on the mantelpiece. There were a half-dozen or so, all in silver frames. She picked them up one by one, took them to the light. Sighed. Sank into a chair by the window, eased off her shoes. ‘You couldn’t rustle up a cup of good coffee, could you, Bea?’
‘I’m afraid not. Mrs Frasier took the coffee with her when she left.’
‘Typical. Oh, do carry on with whatever you’re doing. Take no notice of me.’
As if Bea could do that. Bea got down on her hands and knees to deal with the coffee stain, keeping her head down. So far her ‘disguise’ seemed to be working. But this coffee stain was not coming out easily. And there was red on her cleaning rag. Something other than coffee had been spilled here recently.
Gail sighed, rubbed one of the silver frames with her hand, and then with her handkerchief. She put them both down, looking about her. She said, to herself rather than to Bea, ‘As Gladys said, hardly anything’s changed. You’d think that … after all this time. Oh dear …’ She put her hand to her mouth. Her colour was bad. ‘I need to use the loo. Don’t bother to show me. I know where it is.’
Bea watched from the bottom of the stairs to make sure that Gail was indeed going to use the bathroom. Yes, she was. Bea could hear retching sounds, and then running water. The loo was flushed.
When Gail came out, instead of descending the stairs she went across the landing. Bea crept up two, then three steps and craned her n
eck to see what Gail was doing.
Gail was standing in the doorway to the master bedroom looking, not touching. Bea knew the body had been taken away, and wondered if the red dress were still there. She shuddered. There was something about that red dress which gave her goose-pimples.
Gail turned her back on the bedroom and Bea prepared to scramble back into the sitting room but no, from the creaks on the floorboards she could tell Gail was moving around upstairs, probably checking on each room in turn … yes, going up to the top floor … looking around.
It was understandable; after all, she had lived here once. Hadn’t she? Or would that be jumping to conclusions? After all, Gail hadn’t actually said she had lived here, only that not much had changed over the years.
Gail didn’t spend much time above but came down the stairs, moving heavily, probably feeling her age. Bea scuttled back into the sitting room, scooped up her cleaning materials and made it to the kitchen before Gail reappeared.
‘Bea …?’ Gail came to the kitchen door, holding one of the silver framed photographs in her hand. ‘I’m going to run off with this photo if you don’t mind. Tell my daughter, by all means. I’m sure she won’t object, since it’s not one of his studio portraits which presumably have some value. See?’
It was an informal snap of a youngish Matthew, aged forty, perhaps? He looked just like the man in Piers’ picture, except that in the photo he had more hair. He had his arm around a fair-haired girl of perhaps twelve years of age. Was that Damaris? Both were relaxed, smiling.
Gail said, ‘I’ll take it out of the frame, if you like. Surely she can’t object to that.’ Her mouth twitched, and her eyelids contracted. ‘It’s a good one of him. We all four went out for the afternoon to Windsor. Matt had heard of a good bookshop there. He collected Edwardian travel stories, you know. He bought me a pendant. I’ve still got it somewhere. I think it must have been half-term because Damaris was with us, and he bought her a silver bracelet. Perhaps she has some happy memories, too. Perhaps she really did care about him.’
She recollected who she was talking to. ‘Sorry. Rambling.’ She took the photo out of its frame and put it in her handbag. ‘You can tell my daughter what I’ve done.’
‘Would it be a good idea to sign for it? I mean, Mrs Frasier has made me responsible for everything, and she might … might …’
Gail grimaced. ‘Yes, she very well might.’ Scrabbling in her handbag, she produced a small notebook, wrote on a page, tore it out and gave it to Bea. ‘That’s my address and phone number. If my daughter happens to remember where the funeral is going to be and when, will you let me know? I wish … if only …’
Bea made her voice soft. ‘You have some regrets?’
Gail brought her mind back from whatever black hole she’d been looking into. ‘Oh, perhaps. We both stepped out of our comfort zone to marry. I didn’t fit into his world, and he didn’t fit into mine. He was often out in the evenings, just when I wanted to relax after work. I was a teacher, you see. Primary school. Then along came Gladys. You wouldn’t think it to look at her now, but she was a raving beauty in those days.’
‘You were a teacher?’ Bea maintained her soft, enquiring tone. She didn’t think Gail realized how much she was saying. Gail was almost in a trance, reliving the past. But it was one question too many.
Gail snapped back to the present. ‘I made head teacher eventually but took early retirement a year ago. Got knifed by a teenager when I tried to break up a fight. Stupid of me. I should have let them get on with it. Ah, well. I was glad to go. Everything’s changed. I liked teaching but I didn’t like having to cope with new laws every minute.’
She turned on her heel, imprinting everything in the room on her memory, then left, letting the front door bang to behind her. The wind was getting up.
Bea replaced the rest of the photograph frames on the mantelpiece, wondering who’d come calling for a keepsake next.
Now, what was it that Damaris had said about shredding paper? Something of Matthew’s? Bea wondered if she were getting paranoid, thinking that everything Damaris did was suspect.
Gail had said something interesting. Four of them had gone out to Windsor for the afternoon. Four? Matthew, Gail and Damaris made three. So who was the fourth? It was the fourth, presumably, who’d taken the picture, or Gail would have claimed it as hers.
A pity that Bea hadn’t had a chance to look at the photographs properly herself.
She caught sight of herself in the mirror and twitched at the collar of that awful blouse in an effort to make it lie straight. She hugged herself for warmth. Why hadn’t she thought to bring something warmer with her to wear? She turned the fire back on, and the side lights. What luck that Damaris had forgotten to turn off the electricity at the meter as she’d threatened to do. She would be cross when she remembered. Tough! thought Bea.
She got out her make-up bag, and attended to her face and hair. There! She looked more like herself. Now she felt up to tackling anything. Well, almost anything.
She got down on her hands and knees to inspect that stain on the carpet, and while she was there, she sniffed at the stain on the arm of the Chesterfield. That one was wine. Yes. But the one on the carpet … was that wine, too? She manoeuvred one of the side lamps from where it sat on a bookcase behind the big chair, and held it at an angle to examine the tiles, the grate and the carpet more closely. There was a brass fender around the fireplace … goodness, you didn’t see those often nowadays. The top rail was shiningly bright, but underneath … sloppy cleaning … there was a long dark stain.
She moistened her forefinger, pressed it to the stain, and sniffed. Not wine. Blood? But how could that be?
The light now shed on the carpet revealed two lots of dark stains. One was coffee. Yes. That had come about when Damaris had thrown her mug at the fireplace.
One looked like – and tasted like – wine.
Bea sat back on her heels to consider this. She could see Matthew sitting in his Chesterfield, a glass of wine at his elbow, balanced on the arm of the chair. A sudden movement and over goes the wine, staining the cover, splashing over on to the fireplace and the carpet. Dear me. And tut.
She let the scene run on in her head. Matthew is not the sloppy type who might leave the stain for his cleaner to deal with. So he gets up to find something to clean up the wine and … what happens next? He falls and hurts himself, cuts himself …? Yeees. Sort of.
She ran that past her brain once more. Matthew cleans up the mess. Did the glass shatter on the tiles? Yes, it probably would have done.
Bea squinted along the tiles, moving the table lamp to catch sight of any fragments of broken glass that might remain. Saw them lodged in the base of the fender and in the slot of the ash can. So yes, he broke a glass, and cleaned it up. He went out to the kitchen to fetch the hoover, and he got a cloth and wiped down the top of the fender. But he didn’t do a very good job of wiping the rail down, and he didn’t put the hoover back properly.
As for the blood, he must have cut himself on the broken glass when he was cleaning it up.
Good. Everything explained. She put the table lamp back and stood up, dusting down her skirt.
Her brain went on thinking, and she couldn’t stop it. After he’d cleaned up the mess, he went downstairs to make up his face and select a wig. He took the dress, the wig and slippers back up to his bedroom, lay down on the bed, took the pills, drank a bottle of wine, scrawled a suicide note, and died.
A tingle ran down her back. A little voice at the back of her head said, ‘And if you believe that, you’ll believe anything!’ She rubbed her hands down her skirt, violently, trying to rid herself of her suspicions.
What of the cigarettes in the ashtray, and the ash on the carpet? Why didn’t he clean that up while he had the hoover in his hand?
Because … because his guest was still there? No, no. Of course not. His guest must have been here some other time, perhaps the previous night. At any time since Kasia’s last visit.
Quite simply, Matthew must have missed the ash and ashtray when he was cleaning up. He was a tidy man. He left everything neat and tidy before he committed suicide.
And he didn’t even see the ashtray? He might have missed the ash, but surely not the ashtray?
It would depend if he were standing beside the chair or not. If he were, he wouldn’t have caught sight of it, because it was tucked right under the chair, wasn’t it? Bea bent over the chair to check. Couldn’t see it. Peeped under the chair. It wasn’t there. And at that moment a musical note twanged through the air.
She shot upright, breathing rapid. Was she beginning to hear things as well as see them?
The note rang out through the room again. The piano? No, the lid was down, and there was no one sitting on the stool in front of it. Superstition rules, OK? She shifted her feet and again the note resounded.
She stifled a laugh. Really, she was becoming unhinged.
She rocked to and fro, and the floorboard beneath her feet shifted. A loose floorboard. When you trod on it in a certain way, the far end of the floorboard moved under the piano and a sensitive string on the piano responded. She giggled. First the mirror and now the piano. Anyone would think …
No, she did not, certainly not believe in ghosts.
Dear Lord, I’m not going crazy, am I? I do not believe in ghostly manifestations. If we’re not talking uneasy spirits, coming back to haunt the living – and we’re definitely not, are we? – and if I’m reading clues subliminally – if that’s the right word – then something is very wrong. Do you want me to do something about it, because if so, I’d be obliged if you’d point me in the right direction?
No voice answered her, but the air in the room seemed to settle down around her with a sigh of … relief?
‘This is ridiculous!’ said Bea, and went out to the kitchen to investigate the contents of the rubbish bin, and the hoover. The hoover bag did contain tiny shards of glass, but the rubbish bin under the sink contained nothing but the usual household and kitchen refuse. She investigated further. There was a black bin bag tied up and ready to be disposed of, sitting on the patio in a sort of lean-to. On top of it was a small cardboard box marked ‘Glass’. She opened it with care to see the remains of a broken wine glass.
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