Calvary and Henry for that matter knew that what was about to take place today would be the talk of society for years to come. But they had decided that a little humiliation on their part would be worth it. Today would be their day. A day of redemption for both mother and son.
Calvary watched as Douglas began to ingratiate himself among the guests who had begun to congregate outside Blenheim Palace, the sound of laughter and chat filtering through her thoughts. She saw him make a beeline towards a group of young, attractive women – obviously friends of Tamara’s by their attire, or lack of it. He would never change, Calvary thought pityingly as she observed him from a distance. He’ll be chasing skirt until he takes his last breath.
‘Looking divine, Calvary,’ Verite, the Countess Ledbury, said snidely, sidling up towards her from behind and interrupting her thoughts.
‘Love the Chanel, darling. Very … Bianca Jagger circa Studio 54. I’ve heard it really was the era to be seen, is that true?’ she smirked.
Calvary slowly turned to face her.
‘Well, hellooo, darling,’ she said, air-kissing the vile countess.
‘Can I get you some champagne and kirsch?’ she asked, swiping a couple of glasses from a liveried waiter.
‘Bottoms up,’ Verite smirked as they chinked glasses. ‘Mmmm, Dom Perignon?’ She pulled a face. ‘I prefer a nice vintage Roederer myself. I find the Perignon leaves rather a bitter aftertaste.’
‘Much like an encounter with your good self,’ Calvary retorted. ‘Do excuse me,’ she said, ‘there’s something I have to do.’ She stalked off, leaving the stunned countess open-mouthed in her wake.
Slipping away from the wedding party as it slowly filtered inside the magnificent palace, Calvary spied who she was looking for – a little man ferreting around behind the scenes with the screen projector, loading the various slides of images that Tamara had insisted on having projected onto a huge white backdrop behind them while she and Henry said their vows. Looking around her, she approached him surreptitiously.
‘I’m Calvary Rothschild, the groom’s mother,’ she introduced herself, smiling affably at him from beneath her magnificent cream Philip Treacy floral and feather fascinator. ‘I wonder if I could have a quick word …’
*
‘Calvary,’ Nikolas Mystern, took her hand in his and enveloped her in a warm bear hug. ‘You look marvellous,’ he said, standing back to survey her. ‘Your father would be so proud of you – and his grandson – if only he were here today.’
‘Oh, if only, Nikolas,’ Calvary said, enjoying the fleeting comfort of the older man’s embrace. ‘So glad you could make it,’ she warmly smiled up at him. ‘And the family?’
‘Ah yes, the wife’s here somewhere,’ he guffawed, ‘no doubt gossiping somewhere. Perfect day for a wedding though, don’t you think?’ He gave her no time to answer him. ‘Tell me, how are you, Calvary? How are you really?’
‘I’m good, Nikolas, really good – and you?’
Unconvinced, Nikolas nodded.
‘Look, I realise now is not the time, Calvary,’ he said, his voice suddenly low and conspiratorial, ‘but I wanted to have a little word about that thing we discussed the last time we met; the missing money,’ he whispered. ‘Thing is, thanks to your tip-off, I think I’ve located it.’
Calvary’s spirits rose along with her eyebrows.
‘You do?’
Nikolas nodded.
‘Come and see me after the wedding. I’ll have my PA make time for you whenever. We’ll talk then.’
‘That’s wonderful,’ Calvary beamed, suddenly distracted by a familiar face seated right at the back of the congregation. ‘Please, Nikolas, do excuse me,’ she said as she walked towards it, her heart thumping so loudly in her chest that she was convinced it could be heard above the harpist.
‘Josia,’ Calvary said, the familiarity of his face lighting up her insides. She realised then, in that moment, that she had never loved anyone in the way that she loved him. ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked. ‘I thought I told you not to come.’
Josia smiled up at her, his handsome features filled with earnest. He was wearing a suit and she could not help but notice how devastatingly attractive he looked. The whiteness of his shirt offsetting his natural olive-skinned tan, his lean muscular body lending itself perfectly to the slim, sharp cut of the three buttoned jacket and tailored trousers.
Calvary wondered if it was designer – and then realised that she didn’t care if he’d found it in a bin bag; he looked smart and sophisticated regardless.
‘And miss your big day? Never.’ He smiled at her, lightly taking her hand in his own. ‘You look wonderful, Calvary,’ he said. ‘Beautiful.’
‘So do you,’ she shot back a little faster than she would’ve liked.
‘More handsome than Johnny Depp?’ he squinted back at her.
‘Don’t push it,’ she replied, smiling.
‘I’ll be here,’ he said, adding, ‘if you need me.’
She wanted to tell him that yes!, she did need him. She needed him more than ever right now. But she sensed he knew that already. His presence alone told her as much.
*
As the opening notes to Wagner’s ‘Here Comes the Bride’ began to play, Calvary Rothschild stood between her youngest son and her husband and watched as Tamara Du Bois made her way down the aisle arm in arm with her smug father until she met with a nervous-looking Henry in the middle. The guests gasped as she came into view, just as Tamara had hoped they would, and Calvary turned to her son.
‘It’s OK, Mums,’ Henry had mouthed to her with a wink, sensing her sudden attack of nerves. ‘It’s going to be just fine.’
‘Dearly beloved, we are gathered here in the sight of God …’
As the sermon began, Calvary watched on tenterhooks, her breathing shallow, as the tasteful black and white images of Tamara and Henry began to flash up on the giant projector screen behind him, photographs of the two of them together, taken during the duration of their courtship; Tamara, smiling with a group of girlfriends, holding a cocktail glass up towards the camera; a shot of her and Henry kissing at a party, seemingly oblivious to the world around them, their faces covered in a light oily sheen from dancing, their bodies close; one of them on board a yacht, Tamara pulling a pose in her bikini and sarong, a picture of exuberant youth, young and beautiful without a care in the world …
‘Henry Douglas Rothschild,’ the vicar said in his dulcet, soothing tones, ‘will you have Tamara Alicia Du Bois to be your wedded wife, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony …’
Another shot of them on a beach, semi-clad, Henry’s silky flaxen hair, reminiscent of Calvary’s own father, knotted by sand and saltwater and Tamara in a colourful kaftan, her arms linked around his neck, her legs wrapped around his waist …
‘Will you love her, comfort her, honour her, and keep her in sickness and in health, and forsaking all others, keep yourself only unto her, so long as you both shall live?’
Another shot of Tamara, her face a grotesque grimace of pleasure, naked, her legs open, her private area on display for all to see, and Douglas in the foreground, naked from the waist down on top of her, about to mount her …
Calvary heard the first rumblings of unrest among the congregation. ‘What’s going on?’ she heard someone whisper. ‘Did you just see that! On the screen – there!’
Another grainy image of Tamara, naked and on all fours, with Douglas knelt behind her, his hands cupping her ample breasts, his face a contorted mask of ecstasy, a champagne bottle …
Oblivious to the gasps and shocked screams that had now begun to filter through the air around them, Calvary watched the confused expression on the guests’ faces as the grotesque images flashed above them.
Henry turned to look at Tamara. ‘No,’ he said, his clipped voice projecting clearly throughout the magnificent building as he addressed the congregation. ‘I’m afraid I don’t. You see, my fiancée, m
y intended here, has been, how shall I put it without causing too much offence? Forgive me,’ he turned to the reverend, ‘fucking my own father.’
Tamara glared at Henry and then up at the screen behind her, and gasped before letting out a blood-curdling scream that echoed around the perfect acoustics.
As the congregation glanced at each other in shock and confusion, some admittedly enjoying the sense of drama, Calvary turned to Douglas; his mouth was slightly open, a look of utter shock frozen on his handsome features as people began to look over at him and point disdainfully.
‘What’s the matter, Douglas?’ Calvary smirked. ‘Cat got your tongue?’
The music stopped then and Calvary watched as the hapless reverend made a fruitless attempt at restoring some order.
‘Please, if we could all just calm down …’
‘You bloody bastard, Rothschild!’ Calvary heard a voice approaching. Arthur Du Bois was marching towards them, his face as angry and red as a balloon about to burst. ‘I’ll bloody kill you for this,’ he spat, taking a swing at Douglas and catching him square on the jaw, almost knocking him to the floor. Quickly regaining his balance, Douglas made to return the gesture but a male member of the congregation restrained him.
‘Don’t you think you’ve already done enough?’ he hissed, holding him back.
As Calvary stood back from her husband, disowning him with each step, she saw Tamara coming towards her, her young and pretty face now contorted in blind rage, her couture gown hitched halfway up her thighs as she ran.
‘You,’ Tamara hissed, baring her teeth, her eyes like slits, ‘you twisted, evil bloody bitch! You planned all this, to humiliate me!’ She lunged at Calvary as the crowd gasped in shock.
‘Well, you always said you wanted a day to remember, Tamara,’ Calvary remarked dryly.
‘I’ll … I’ll kill you!’ Tamara screamed, launching herself at Calvary with some force. Guests looked on in horror as the two women began to fight.
‘You’ve no one but yourself to blame, you filthy little slut!’ Calvary screamed as she slapped Tamara hard across the cheek, pulling her veil clean off her head. The women wrestled on the floor for a few moments, twisting and rolling as onlookers stood, hands over their mouths, unable to look away. It certainly beat the usual boring sermon, that was for sure.
Henry ran towards his mother as various guests began to help her up on her feet. His eyes turned a flint grey as they fixed Tamara with a look of such contempt that some of the onlookers actually gasped.
‘How dare you touch my mother!’ Henry roared at her.
‘More like how dare she touch his father!’ a female guest quietly deadpanned to a woman standing next to her. ‘Quite,’ she replied from the side of her mouth, one eyebrow firmly raised.
‘Get out of my sight,’ he spat, shaking his head. ‘I never want to see you again. My own father …’
Tamara began to sob uncontrollably.
‘Oh please, Hen. Please. I’m so sorry. You have to forgive me. I was drunk; he told me he’d stop the wedding from going ahead if I didn’t … he made me do it … he forced himself on me …’
Henry looked down at her with a bilious mix of pity and disgust and shook his head. His mother had been right about her all along.
Nursing a swollen eye, Douglas, having heard Tamara’s little speech, felt obliged to chip in.
‘Forced myself on you? Don’t be ridiculous! You couldn’t get enough of me, you little slut. Look, Henry,’ Douglas turned to his son, with an air of arrogance that was breathtaking, even by his usual standards, ‘I’m sure we can sort all this mess out.’
Even now, thought Calvary, as she recovered on a nearby pew, comforted by guests, Douglas seemed unperturbed by the enormity of the situation. He didn’t even have the grace to look suitably ashamed in front of all these people. ‘Let’s step away from the crowd for a minute and have a man-to-man chat, what do you say?’ Douglas said. He made to put an arm around his eldest son’s shoulder but Henry shoved it away. ‘I have nothing to say to you,’ he said, his voice calm and even. ‘Except that you are no longer my father.’
‘Now, Henry, don’t be silly …’ Douglas implored; he was growing a little cross now. ‘She’s just a little tart, that’s all,’ he called out to him as Henry turned away, ‘it was a few moments of weakness … she was offering herself to me on a plate. I mean, what’s a man supposed to do? There’ll be other women, son. Better women,’ Douglas implored. ‘Women who won’t lie back for their prospective father-in-law …’
The last sound Douglas heard before he blacked out was that of his own jaw breaking. And the last thing he saw as his son felled him with one punch was Calvary’s smug face smiling triumphantly down at him.
Clearing her throat, Calvary addressed the stunned congregation with her unconscious husband at her feet.
‘Do feel free to continue with the celebrations,’ she smiled obligingly, as if all this was perfectly normal. ‘There’s champagne and amuse bouche followed by a wonderful four course wedding breakfast, for which I hope you’ll all stay and enjoy.’ Guests blinked back at her, stunned into silence. ‘Please,’ Calvary smiled sagely as she stepped over her husband, head high as she took Josia’s outstretched hand, waiting to escort her from the palace, ‘knock yourselves out.’
CHAPTER 66
It had been another trying day, Sebastian thought as he brushed his teeth vigorously in the mirror of his private bathroom, examining the deep lines around his eyes that he was sure had not been there this time last week.
The press were proving to be even more intrusive and persistent than he had envisaged, camping outside his front door, demanding to speak to Imogen and hassling him relentlessly for quotes. He knew he would have to speak to them eventually, before the unscrupulous bastards began making things up in the absence of anything tangible, but the truth was, he wasn’t entirely sure what to say that would help drag his sullied reputation out of all this mess. He would have to hire the best troubleshooter he could find, see if he couldn’t buy his way out of the doldrums with a PR offensive of epic proportions. He would have to hope the lawsuit he planned to file against the Met for wrongful arrest of his wife would help him to recoup the mounting cost of it all.
Still, it would be money well spent if it meant buying his way back into public and professional favour. Then he would talk to the press, give them the full exclusive of how he had been ‘set up’ by someone intent on destroying his good name and reputation.
Sneering, Sebastian pulled back the goose eiderdown from his bed and slid his body beneath its coolness. The sheets still contained the lightest scent of Imogen’s perfume and he breathed deeply, enjoying the residue of her. At least she was out of the way of all this media attention. Even with the pendulum swinging against him, there was still a part of Sebastian that couldn’t help but enjoy being the one in the spotlight, even if it was not entirely how he had planned it.
Rolling over onto the pillow, he felt something brush against his skin and, sitting up, noticed a small white envelope next to him. He instantly recognised his wife’s familiar handwriting. Aw, she must have left him a note, on his pillow. How terribly sweet, he thought as he tore it open, the smile on his face instantly dissolving as he read.
‘Jesus Christ!’ he whispered. ‘I will kill her,’ he said as the note slipped from his grasp. ‘I will kill her.’
*
Detective Chief Superintendent George Mullins sighed wearily and looked over at the sorry-looking man in front of him with heavy eyes. Sebastian Forbes was proving to be an even bigger pain in the rear than he could have envisaged.
‘Mr Forbes,’ Mullins said, standing, unable to mask the light sarcasm in his tone, ‘twice in as many days, I am honoured.’ He proffered his hand but Sebastian ignored it, preferring instead to slam a piece of paper down onto his desk with such momentum that it caused the pile of paperwork upon it to flutter.
‘Don’t patronise me, Mullins,’ Sebastian barked at him.
‘The Commissioner will have your job for this!’ he boomed, shaking with rage.
George Mullins rolled his eyes. He had heard it all before. The obnoxious Forbes had been threatening to have him and the entire Metropolitan Police force sacked these past few weeks and quite frankly, he wished he’d shit or get off the pot, as they said.
‘Mr Forbes,’ Mullins forced an affable smile. ‘I can assure you we are doing all we can on this investigation, but as you yourself know, we have come to a bit of a moot point, especially now that your wife …’
‘Read it,’ Sebastian said, jabbing at the note on his desk, casting a disdainful eye over the small piece of lilac paper as if it were his death warrant.
Mullins sighed heavily again and, picking up the piece of paper, read aloud the three-word handwritten scrawl it contained: ‘Unlucky for some.’ He paused and shrugged, ‘Unlucky for some …?’ he repeated, shaking his head, bemused. ‘I’m sorry. Is this supposed to mean something?’
Sebastian began to laugh then, a nasty, malevolent chuckle that made Mullins feel uneasy. He leaned in close towards the superintendent, placing his hands on his coffee cup-stained plastic desk and Mullins was surprised to detect the scent of whisky on Forbes’s breath. He’d never had him down as a drinker.
‘The number thirteen,’ Sebastian explained slowly, ‘unlucky for some … unlucky for me more like, the conniving fucking bitch,’ he spat. ‘I want her found, Mullins, do you understand? Found!’ he roared, ‘and if you and your bunch of keystone coppers aren’t up to the job then Lord help me, I’ll find her myself, and when I do, I will KILL her, do you hear me, Mullins? I will kill the treacherous, vengeful bitch with my own bare hands.’ Sebastian was so incensed that even his hair looked angry, standing up on end as it was, his face a blood red, purple veins throbbing in his neck like dark rivers of poison.
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