The Complete Kate Benedict Cozy British Mysteries

by Carrie Bedford

  “I was scared,” she admitted. “He wanted the notes and, after what you’d told me, I wasn’t about to give them to him. Honestly, he could have just done a search and eventually found them by himself, but I think he enjoyed tying me down to that autopsy table and threatening me with the scalpel. If I had told him straightaway, he probably would have killed me before you two got there.”

  She leaned over and tore the wrapper off a bar of Dairy Milk. A faint smell of chocolate filled the room, making me realize I was hungry.

  “He’s a bloody madman,” she continued. “But I had to deal with far worse back in the Twentieth Dynasty. Some of those characters would make our friend Macintyre look like Santa Claus.”

  “That reminds me,” I said. “I broke that scarab beetle paperweight that was on your desk. I’m sorry if it was, you know, an authentic artifact.”

  For a second, Grace looked stricken. “I loved that beetle, but it’s all right. I’ll get another one when I go back.”

  “To Ancient Egypt?”

  She laughed. “No, to the British Museum gift shop.”

  42

  “Blue or lavender?” I held out two silk blouses for Josh to look at. We’d resolved our quarrel. Taking Anita’s advice to let it go, I’d told him I didn’t mind if he emailed Helena. I could tell he felt I’d overreacted in the first place, but he’d apologized and promised he had no intention of staying in touch. It was time for her to move on too. It was way past time, I thought, but I kept that opinion to myself.

  “Blue,” he said. “It matches your eyes perfectly.”

  I slipped on the shirt and buttoned it up, aware of Josh watching me from the bed. He was planning to work from home for the morning and was getting off to a slow start. I brushed my hair, tied it up in a chignon, then let it down again.

  “Tie it up. It looks more polished.” Josh offered an opinion. “You look great, so stop worrying.”

  After a final check in the mirror, I bent over to kiss him goodbye.

  “You sure you have to go?” he asked patting the bed beside him. “You could be a few minutes late.”

  “Funny,” I said. “Now get up and do some work. I’ll see you at the office this afternoon. I’ve already told Alan I’ll be coming in late.”

  Outside on the street, a black Mercedes waited for me. The driver hurried round to open the back door, making me feel like a celebrity as I slid on to the soft leather seat. Twenty minutes later, the car glided past a security checkpoint before pulling to a halt right outside the iconic black door with the number 10 on it. The driver gestured to me to wait. He got out and talked with a policeman for a few seconds before opening the car door to help me out. I was glad that I’d opted for linen trousers, so I didn’t have to worry about any wardrobe malfunctions with a short skirt. The sun shone, warm on my shoulders. I smoothed my silk shirt with the palms of my hands, wishing I didn’t feel so nervous.

  At the front door, I was greeted by a tall, blonde woman in a navy blue suit. “Welcome, Miss Benedict,” she said. “I’m Martha. Follow me please.”

  The chequered black and white floor of the entry hall was partially covered with red runners to protect the tile; they cushioned the sound of our high-heeled shoes so that all I could hear was the loud beat of my heart. Pitt and Disraeli, David Lloyd George and Winston Churchill had walked through this hall. I moved slowly, feeling their ghostly presence, absorbing the history of the building. I wanted to linger, to look at every detail, but Martha was obviously on a schedule.

  “You’ll be meeting the Prime Minister in the White Drawing Room,” she said, route-marching us along a hallway lined with portraits. She stopped suddenly to open a door to a spacious room with high ceilings, elaborate moldings and a fireplace set in a white marble surround. Creamy white walls served as the backdrop for several gilt-framed landscapes, which looked like Turners and Constables, originals of course.

  “Please take a seat,” Martha said. “The Prime Minister won’t be long.”

  She turned on her elegant heels and left me alone. Perched on the edge of a silk-clad sofa, I admired the pattern of the Persian rug under my feet.

  “Hello Kate!”

  I stood up when I saw Chris crossing the room towards me, arms outstretched. He enveloped me in a tight embrace. “I’m so happy you could come. Dad can’t wait to meet you.”

  “I’m glad that things turned out well between the two of you,” I said, when we were both seated. “That was one wild way to introduce yourself to your father.”

  I still trembled when I thought back to the day at the Wentworth hotel. Chris was lucky he hadn’t been shot. Of course, I should have known he’d be safe. He’d had no aura. But in the panic of the moment I hadn’t been able to think that clearly.

  Chris laughed. “I have you to thank for everything. If you hadn’t pursued Macintyre to the suite, I wouldn’t have been there in time to stop Dad drinking that coffee.” The smile faded. “And maybe he’d be dead now.”

  “So you’ve forgiven your father for his past transgressions? For leaving your mother and not responding to your letter?”

  He leaned forward towards me. “He never got it. His assistant at the time opened all his letters and threw mine away because she thought it was a scam or a hoax or something. And Dad has told me he had no idea that my mother had kept their baby, or that she was back in England. I think I believe him. Mum…” He paused. His eyes darkened. “She had a tough life, but she was stubborn. She never reached out to him, never told him he had a son.”

  He stood up and walked around the room, pausing to look out of the window. All I could see from where I sat was blue sky. It was a welcome view after the long, long winter.

  Chris turned and came back to his chair. “I know my father was wrong to leave Mum when he found out she was pregnant. He admits that. But he’s changed. He’s his own man now, away from the influence of his parents. And things were different back then. Nowadays it wouldn’t be such a big deal.”

  I decided not to share my real opinion. I was just happy that Scott had openly welcomed Chris into his life. The papers had been full of the story, which had broken the day after the poisoning attempt. There were pictures of the two of them together under headlines that trumpeted news of an emotional reunion between father and son. It wasn’t really a reunion, of course, as they’d never met each other before, but accuracy wasn’t the goal of the stories.

  My favorite article, the most thoughtful, had been written by Colin Butler, commenting not just on the sensational aspects of the affair, but on the pain and complications of unwanted pregnancies and broken families. Privately to me, Butler had remarked that the endearing images of Chris and Scott together had probably won Scott quite a few votes.

  I’d wondered what Eliza Chapman thought of it all. Her malicious attempt to go public with the story about the pregnant girlfriend had completely backfired.

  “What about your stepmother?” I asked. “How’s she dealing with it?”

  “I’m sure she has reservations. But she’s a politician’s wife, and she’s putting a good face on it. Once she got over the shock of learning that Dad had got my mother pregnant at university, she seemed to accept me. The two of us have a good laugh together when my father’s taking himself too seriously.”

  Chris reached out to turn my wrist so he could see the scar that ran across it. It was still red and sometimes sore, but was healing well, as were my other wounds.

  “Are you doing okay?”

  “Absolutely fine.”

  “That’s good to hear.” It was Simon Scott, striding across the room towards us. He was wearing a beautifully-tailored gray suit with a red tie. There was no sign of an aura.

  “Sit down, sit down,” he admonished as I jumped to my feet. He patted Chris on the shoulder as he walked past him, and then shook hands with me. A butler in a white shirt and black trousers followed Scott, bearing a tray of china cups and saucers, a silver teapot and a plate of Bourbon biscuits.


  ”It’s all right, Bill, I’ll do the honors,” Scott said. The butler nodded and withdrew.

  “I don’t really know how to express my thanks,” Scott said to me while he poured tea. “If it weren’t for you, Chris wouldn’t have been there to stop me drinking that coffee.”

  “Well, Chris was the brave one,” I said. “Crazy, but brave.”

  When the two men laughed, it was easy to see the similarity between them. Chris had darker hair, but their skin tone and eyes were identical. Their mouths tilted up the same way when they smiled.

  The Prime Minister passed a cup to me. “I only drink tea now,” he said. “Coffee brings back bad memories.”

  “I can understand that,” I said. “I’m so sorry about Mr. Lewis.”

  Scott’s expression was somber. “He was a good friend and a first-class financial expert. Still, I’m happy with Robertson. He’s popular and moderate. He’ll do well.”

  Ever the politician, I thought. James Robertson was the new Chancellor of the Exchequer, taking the position that Lewis would have held had he lived.

  We chatted for a few minutes about the events at the hotel. In my mind, that day was still a blur of gunshots and scalpels. “No more bomb scares since then, I hope?” I teased Chris. When he’d come to visit me in hospital, he’d confessed that he’d accidentally left his backpack in the men’s room. Hoping to have the chance to introduce himself to his father, he’d changed into clean clothes, shaved, and then hurried back to find me. In his rush, he’d left the bag on the floor, where someone had found it and reported it to security.

  Scott shook his head, but he was smiling. “Let’s hope that’s the last time you cause a full-scale evacuation, Chris. That wouldn’t go down too well around here.”

  I finally relaxed enough to pick up my cup. “I heard from Detective Clarke this week that they found Dr. Schwartz in France. He’s in custody back in England now. Anita’s notes are with a special investigator, together with the electronic patient files, and LBP has already agreed to withdraw LitImmune, pending further trials.”

  “LitImmune is potentially an industry-changer,” Scott said, echoing what Eric had told me. “But no drug is going to make it to market without scrupulous oversight. Not during my tenure, anyway.”

  “Good,” I said. “Drugs are supposed to save lives, not kill people.”

  I sipped my Earl Grey, which was delicious.

  “Prime Minister, may I ask how you knew about problems with the LitImmune side effects? You were due to meet with the Managing Director of Litton in the afternoon following your speech at the Wentworth. I haven’t been able to work out the connection.”

  He nodded. “Dr. Reid and I had remained in touch, off and on, ever since my residency. He was a true mentor to me, and I admired him immensely.”

  He poured himself some more tea, looking thoughtful. “Dan, Dr. Reid that is, contacted me several weeks before this all blew up. He was sure that someone in his department was concealing information about the side effects of LitImmune by altering the records. He knew of my friendship with the head of the drug regulatory agency, so he asked if we could conduct a discreet investigation to check whether his concerns were valid. He didn’t want to go public himself because he’d come to believe that his good friend Dr. Schwartz was the one faking the results. If you ask me, that’s taking loyalty too far. But I agreed, of course. I arranged to talk first with Harry Ward, Litton’s Managing Director, someone I also know from my university days. But that meeting never took place because of everything that happened at the hotel. I don’t believe that Harry had any idea of what was going on, though.”

  The old boys’ network still alive and thriving, I thought. Heads of state and heads of corporations, all in it together. I remembered what Macintyre had said about power and wealth. It seemed to me that he’d aspired to be part of that inner circle of the elite and influential. Or maybe he just wanted the money. And he’d nearly got it. Gerald Hunter had wired him a million pounds on receipt of the photos of Anita’s notes. The police had since seized the funds of course.

  Chris picked up the plate of biscuits and took one before offering it to me. I said no. Drinking tea was one thing, but spilling chocolatey crumbs on the PM’s silk couch was going too far.

  “I hope that answers your question, Kate,” Scott said. “I have one for you too. Who’s your source?”

  “My source?”

  “Yes, whoever told you about the threat to me. It must be someone well-informed. How do you know him or her?”

  “I don’t have a source, Prime Minister,” I said.

  Scott frowned and Chris shifted in his armchair. “It’s okay,” Chris said. “You can tell us. It won’t go any further than this room.”

  I pressed my lips together, unsure what to say.

  “You told me you knew someone,” Chris went on. “Remember when I asked you how you knew about a threat to my father? You said you had an inside track.”

  “Ah, that inside track.” Darn, he had a good memory. “It’s not a source, it’s more of an instinct. A feeling.”

  Scott stirred a sugar cube into his tea. “A feeling,” he repeated.

  “Er, yes.”

  “I’m sorry you don’t feel you can be more candid,” he said. “But that doesn’t detract from the debt we owe you.” His tone had gone from friendly to formal.

  “C’mon, Kate. Really?” Chris crossed his arms, looking miffed.

  I contemplated my options. Say nothing and be judged for keeping a secret about a source I didn’t have, or tell the truth, and live with the consequences of coming out about my bizarre gift. Neither felt particularly comfortable. I risked losing Chris’s friendship either way. My hand had begun to shake again, so I put my cup down on the table.

  “All right,” I said, bracing myself for the inevitable shock and skepticism. “I can see things. Auras that predict death. They appear as circles of moving air over the head of the person who is going to die. You had one, Prime Minister, and so did Mr. Lewis.”

  Scott set his cup down on the tray. “Do I still have it?”

  “No. When Chris saved you from drinking that coffee, the danger passed.”

  “That’s brilliant,” Chris said, slapping his hand on the arm of his chair. “My grandmother can see that kind of thing too, although she sees a dark shape like a bird perched on one shoulder. You two should get together. She’s never met anyone else who can see like she does.”

  The Prime Minister looked at Chris in astonishment. “Your grandmother Ariadne? So you think that what Kate just told us is normal?”

  “Of course,” Chris said. “It’s unusual, I agree. But I believe Kate.”

  In the ensuing silence, the ornate gilt clock on the mantelpiece ticked loudly.

  “And so do I,” Scott said eventually, gazing at me. “I can’t think of any other reason why you’d make such a determined effort to warn me.” He smiled. “Yes, I remember meeting you in Hyde Park, and your little stunt with the faked injury. And it explains why you’d risk your life, which you did, by coming up to the hotel suite and facing off against my security team. You’ve been very courageous. You both have.”

  Chris beamed. I felt my cheeks grow warm.

  There was a tap on the door, followed by the appearance of the punctilious Martha. “I’m sorry to interrupt, Prime Minister, but it’s time for your meeting with the Italian President.”

  Scott stood, held out his hand to shake mine. “You two stay as long as you like. Come again soon, Kate. It’s nice to have young people around here. And I want to hear more about your aura experiences.” With that, he was gone, the door closing quietly behind him.

  “Wow,” I said to Chris. “Your dad really is the PM. Or should that be the PM really is your dad?”

  He grinned. “And you can see auras. I can’t wait to tell Grandma. You have to come to Greece with me sometime so you can meet her. Maybe Anita could come too.”

  Just then, my mobile buzzed and I grabbed it,
feeling embarrassed that I’d forgotten to turn it off. There was a text from Alan Bradley. “When can we expect the honor of your presence?” Even tea with the Prime Minister didn’t impress Alan. Work always came first with him.

  “I should go,” I said, standing up.

  Chris stood. “Me too. I have a meeting with my chemistry professor.”

  We dawdled our way to the front door, pausing often so that Chris could point out pieces of art he thought I’d like. We peeked into offices and meeting rooms, small cogs in the grand machine of English government.

  “Anita would love to see all this,” I said.

  Chris’s face lit up. “Do you think so? I’ll invite her over.”

  When we reached the front door, he took my hand in his. “I don’t really know how to say thank you. You’re responsible for bringing me and my father together. It wouldn’t have happened without you.”

  “You’d have found a way,” I said. “Remember what your grandma told you about achieving the impossible?”

  “Maybe.” He opened the door and nodded to the policeman outside.

  “Let’s all go out for dinner soon,” he said, turning back to me. “You, me and Anita. Bring Josh as well.”

  “A double date?” I asked, raising my eyebrows. His cheeks reddened, but he didn’t deny it. I wondered what Anita’s father would say about her going out with the Prime Minister’s son. Maybe that would put an end to the endless string of unsuitable suitors.

  “I’ll call you with some dates and restaurant suggestions,” Chris said.

  “I know a good teashop we could go to,” I teased.

  “No more teashops for me. We’re going out for real food and good wine,” he said. “My treat. See you soon, aura girl.”

  THE END

  Dedication

  Thank you to my wonderful family for supporting my writing endeavors. This book is for James, Charlotte and Madeleine, with love.

  Acknowledgments