False Charity

by Veronica Heley

  A young man had been hanging around the doorway of the shop for a while, talking, laughing, chatting to someone standing inside.

  Bea looked up and down the street. Was it safe to leave the car? Most of the other cars in the street had parking permits on them. The fines for illegal parking were horrendous.

  Then Bea spotted a greenish skirt, brushing the young man’s legs. She gawped. Was that idiot Maggie actually chatting up a young man, leaving Bea to sit in the car and fry in the sun?

  Finally the young man – a personable-looking lad in expensive, casual clothes – lifted his hand to Maggie and went into the shop, while she bounced back to the car, grinning.

  ‘Mission accomplished. I went in all innocent, asking if they knew where these people lived, and the woman behind the counter said the charity were in the process of moving to another address and they were forwarding stuff, so it would be all right to leave my envelope with them. The postman dumped some mail on the counter for them as well. Luckily I can read upside down.’

  ‘And the young man?’ Bea was feeling waspish as she edged the car out on to the road.

  ‘He was just hanging around, at a loose end. He was nice.’ Maggie turned her blushes away from Bea. ‘He wanted to know if I lived locally. He’s just visiting, did I know the best pubs and eateries, had I any free time to show him around, that sort of thing.’

  ‘A good chat-up line.’

  Maggie sighed. ‘He said he’d ring me, but I don’t suppose he will.’ Now she was fiddling with her watch strap, mouth turned down. Was the cocksure Maggie not so sure of her appeal to the opposite sex?

  ‘Where’s this hotel?’ Bea took a right turn, checking street names. ‘Along here, somewhere? Parking in the square opposite. Good. Cheer up, child; on with the game and all that.’

  ‘He said he liked longer skirts on tall girls. Do you think it looks all right? I mean, it’s not exactly trendy, is it?’

  Bea sought for something to say which would help the girl. ‘Graceful girls can pull it off. Gawky girls can’t.’ Who’d have thought it? The tiresome girl was begging for reassurance, wanting to know if Bea really thought she was graceful. ‘You look good in that rig-out,’ said Bea, feeling older than Time but only half as lively as the man with the scythe. ‘Ready to take notes? Prompt me if I forget to ask anything important, won’t you?’

  Bea led the way into the hotel, deciding it would be a good idea to have a cup of coffee, suss out the strengths and weaknesses of the place, before asking to speak to the manager. She turned into the coffee room – panelled, leather-clad chairs, lots of framed cartoons on the walls – a trifle old-fashioned but solid. If that was their clientele, then they’d caught the right note with the décor.

  ‘Let’s sit here for a bit,’ said Bea. ‘Have some coffee before we talk business.’

  Maggie sat, but didn’t know what to do with her legs. Bea set her feet side by side, and swung her knees slightly to the left. She leaned back in her chair. Maggie tried to copy Bea. Not a bad attempt.

  The coffee was reasonable and the milk was hot. There were three different kinds of sugar. Shortbread biscuits came with the coffee, plus thick paper napkins. So far, so good. Bea consulted the waitress, asking if the manager were free to discuss a possible booking. Maggie tried crossing one leg over the other. Bea tried not to raise her eyebrows. Maggie uncrossed her legs. She pouted, fiddled with her hair. Oh dear.

  A smooth-looking middle-aged woman came to join them. Black business suit, good haircut, discreet make-up, unusual jade earrings. Oh dear, Maggie was nibbling skin at the side of a fingernail.

  Bea launched into her spiel about hosting a party for her ex-husband. Maggie got out her pad and made notes. Costings, food, size of rooms. The manageress was called away to the phone. Maggie refilled their coffee cups and spilled some in the saucer. ‘Leave it,’ said Bea, holding back irritation.

  They waited for the manageress to return. They could see her behind the reception desk, talking to someone on the phone. At length she returned to them, with a professional smile. ‘Staff problems. So sorry. Now, may I show you the room I think would be best for your purpose? This way.’

  Maggie was staring at someone who’d just come into the foyer. She dropped her eyes and smiled, looking coy, then mumbled something about needing to visit the ladies’.

  Bea might need reading glasses but her long sight was good. The young man who’d just entered was the same person who’d been chatting Maggie up in the shop. The girl was obviously smitten. Easy meat, thought Bea. He can see she’s easy meat. All that aggressive behaviour, and she rolls over and dies for a man who pays her a compliment. Who’d have thought it?

  I suppose I can manage without her for a few minutes. She followed the manageress down a corridor to the function room.

  Thursday, noon

  Noel kissed the back of his mother’s neck. ‘Darling Mummy, don’t scold, I know I’m late. I spotted this girl delivering to the shop – her aunt wants some tickets for Saturday – and she was delivering the cheque by hand to make sure they got the tickets in time. Quite a coincidence. Then I took the menus into the hotel, and had a word with the receptionist, who says the manageress is in a snit, holiday times, shortage of staff, man gone missing. They’re thinking of reporting his disappearance to the police, but they hadn’t done it by the time I left.’

  Lena shrugged, stuffing tickets into envelopes. ‘Good luck to them.’

  Noel caressed her neck, deciding not to tell her he’d arranged to see the girl Maggie that evening. No confidence in herself, that one. Should be a pushover; a little flattery, a bunch of flowers, a glass of wine too many. He’d turn her inside out tonight, find out if she had money. Well-heeled girls were always eager to give him a present.

  Nine

  Thursday, afternoon

  Bea feared she’d made a mistake. She oughtn’t to have taken Maggie with her to the hotel or anywhere that a randy young man could get at her. The girl was in a happy dream; she answered questions at random, tripped over a chair, forgot to warm the plates at lunchtime. She was humming something which sounded remarkably like a carol. Noel, No-el? Oh dear. Was Noel the name of the young man who’d been chatting her up?

  Bea hadn’t lived to sixty without recognizing the type who’d got Maggie circling the kitchen, smiling to herself. He was handsome enough; granted. Well-dressed and polished, probably university, though not Oxbridge. Streetwise rather than studious. Job? Bea guessed he probably worked in advertising or the media, but he wouldn’t work too hard at whatever it was.

  Bad news for Maggie, who might act hard-boiled but who seemed to have a soft centre, despite her marriage … if she really had been married, which at that moment Bea doubted. Bea told herself that she had no right to interfere. Maggie wasn’t her daughter, luckily. Maggie was a temporary employee, who would be leaving the agency next week.

  Oliver was trying to make sense of the pages of information Bea had gathered, but raised his head long enough to stare at Maggie. ‘Aren’t you eating?’

  Maggie didn’t hear him. She’d put the machine on for some coffee, though Bea didn’t like drinking proper coffee at lunchtime if she was planning to have a nap afterwards. Which she was. She’d been drinking too much coffee this past couple of weeks, anyway. It might partly be what was stopping her having a good night’s sleep.

  Oliver switched his eyes to Bea. ‘What’s up with her?’

  ‘Love’s young dream,’ said Bea, thinking that she was being a sour old puss, and maybe the young man would turn out to be someone who saw through the aggressive exterior to recognize Maggie’s true worth. ‘Six foot two, works out, looks like a model complete with obligatory five o’clock shadow.’

  Maggie was smiling. ‘He’s gorgeous, isn’t he? Mrs Abbot, do you think I could have the afternoon off to have my hair done?’ A troubled look. ‘Oh, but I forgot. Are you going to pay me any wages, or does my living here till next week mean that I don’t get any?’

&n
bsp; Bea wondered if it wouldn’t be better in the long run to deny the child her wages, if it meant she wouldn’t appear at her best before her new man. Though precisely what Maggie’s ‘best’ might be, was an awkward thought. What hairdresser would she patronize, and would that hairdresser turn Maggie out like Kate Moss or Strewwelpeter?

  Bea hesitated too long. The child’s arms had gone akimbo.

  Bea said, ‘Of course you get paid. You’ve looked after me very well, I couldn’t have had anyone better. You’d prefer cash, wouldn’t you? How much has Max been giving you?’

  Maggie and Oliver consulted one another without words. Oliver said, ‘He didn’t pay me at all, but that was all right. He gave Maggie a pittance in cash every Friday, plus a hundred for household expenses. Mrs Abbot used to order the food and drink on the Internet from Waitrose, and they delivered. That’s how the food and drink for the party came. Everything else Maggie gets from Marks and Spencer’s on the High Street. Mr Abbot kept a float in the safe in his study, but I don’t think there’s much there now.’

  ‘Do you know the combination?’ Of course Oliver knew the combination. ‘Then let’s look, shall we?’

  Before they set off on their round the world trip, Hamilton had left his dress watch and studs in the safe together with Bea’s mother’s jewellery – which she rarely wore – plus the usual birth and marriage certificates, family papers, and a couple of thousand pounds in twenties. There was a wad of notes still there. Whose money was it, Max’s or Bea’s? How much had Hamilton left in the safe? Bea hadn’t a clue; he’d always dealt with such things himself.

  She wrote out a receipt for the money, gave Maggie five hundred, saying they’d sort out who owed what later, and told her to go off and enjoy herself. She set a new combination for the lock once Oliver was out of the room, and hoped he wasn’t planning to become a safe-breaker. She did trust him. On the whole.

  Coral arrived as Maggie left. Bea had been hoping for a little nap on her bed but clearly it was not to be. So Bea took Coral up into the sitting room, asking Oliver if he’d mind trying to make sense of all the information she’d got from the hotel that morning.

  ‘So, Coral. How do we stand? We’ve applied for tickets for Saturday, and I’ve got some details out of the hotel about outside catering. They prefer to do it themselves, but sometimes they have people come in for it. Ditto for the wine.’

  Her sitting room was not as tidy as she liked it. The photograph frame was not at the right angle. She picked it up. A bland brown surface was the only thing to be seen inside the silver frame. No picture of Hamilton.

  Coral was speaking, something about the wine.

  Bea looked towards the window where Hamilton had been accustomed to sit, playing patience. He’d always used a rather good Regency card table for the purpose, and it was missing. That table had been handed down from his parents, who’d been given it as a wedding gift by their parents. When the top was folded over, it looked like any other side table, but underneath was a drawer in which you could keep packs of cards, dominoes, or a chess board. When the top was opened out, its baize-covered surface would accommodate four players, each with their own built-in ‘dish’ intended for gaming chips. Not that Hamilton was a gamester. Far from it.

  The table had disappeared, just as Hamilton’s photograph had done. Bea put the silver frame face down on the mantelpiece. She told herself that Max had taken the photograph and had the table moved for some reason. Except that the photograph had been in its place all the time she’d been talking to him last night and when she went to bed. So Max couldn’t have taken it.

  ‘What was that you said, Coral?’

  Her old friend was concerned for her. ‘Didn’t you sleep well?’

  ‘Can’t fool you, can I? But it’s best to keep on. How’s June?’

  ‘The contractions have stopped but they want to keep her in one more night. I’ll go in to see her later on. I’ve been thinking. Maybe I could get a second mortgage on my place to pay for June’s.’

  ‘How could you ever repay it?’ Bea forced herself to concentrate. ‘We’ll track them down somehow, never fear. Now, I’ve been thinking, too. I understand from the hotel that the people who are doing the food on Saturday night – Oliver’s got the details – are new to this sort of operation. I wonder if you’d like to ring them, go to see them, warn them. If they’ve been paid up front then of course it’s all right, but if not—’

  ‘They’ll be looking for a second mortgage, too.’ Coral was grim. ‘Do you know who it is who’s supplying the wine?’

  Bea tried to remember. ‘The hotel is doing the wine. They charge so much corkage per bottle that it’s not worth anyone bringing it in from outside. That first time, at the Garden Room – that’s attached to a public house, isn’t it? – presumably they did the drinks themselves.’

  ‘I think so. I’m trying to remember who did the drinks the second time round. They’d have been stung too, I suppose. But unlike me they weren’t stupid enough to do it again.’

  ‘Or if they were such a small firm, it drove them out of business.’

  ‘Ouch,’ said Coral. ‘I wish I could remember the name but there are lots of small firms in the wine business, plus shops here and there. I thought he gave me his card but I can’t find it. An odd little man, but he knew what he was doing. He runs wine-tasting evenings. I should hate to think he’s been driven out of business.’

  Bea pressed buttons on the phone, which had an extension to the agency rooms downstairs. ‘Oliver, have you managed to make any sense of my notes? We’ll come down and discuss them, shall we?’

  Muffled shouts came through the phone. ‘Sorry, sorry,’ said Oliver. ‘Just seeing someone out.’

  Bea and Coral exchanged amused glances, and went down the stairs. Oliver appeared in the doorway from reception, flushed. ‘Sorry about that. It was the cleaner, the one who tried to get into the House of Commons. She says we owe her some money, but honestly I can’t find any record of us giving her a job. She must be trying it on, knowing that we’re closing down and hoping, I suppose, that we’re a bit chaotic with our system, which of course we are.’

  Coral was sharp. ‘Give her Max’s current address.’

  Bea held back a grin, but Oliver didn’t. ‘Will do. Now what was it you wanted to know?’

  ‘We need a list of all the people who might have been stung. I was wondering about a photographer, surely there must have been one, and the cabaret people as well as those who provided food and drink. Could we start ringing round, trying to find other people who might have been involved? Get a clear picture of who is owed how much?’

  Coral followed Bea into reception, hitting her forehead with the heel of her hand. ‘He wrote a column on wine for the local newspaper. I’m sure that’s what he said.’

  ‘The freebie newspaper?’ Oliver dived into the wastepaper basket.

  ‘Maybe. Would they have a column about wine in the freebie? Wouldn’t it be in the Friday Gazette? That’s got much more in it.’

  ‘The papers all get recycled,’ said Bea. ‘We keep the box for them in the hall.’

  Oliver ran up the stairs – How fast the young do that, thought Bea – and returned with last week’s paper. He gave half to Bea and half to Coral, reaching for the phone which rang at that moment.

  Bea put on her glasses and shuffled through her half, noting that some messy person had been reading the paper, dog-earing pages, folding some back untidily. Hamilton had always been a neat person, but he’d been messy with papers. Just as he never put a towel back on the rail properly, but kept it bunched up. How could you get a towel dry if you bunched it up like that?

  ‘Not in here,’ said Bea, flapping the paper to open it out and refolding it.

  Oliver was jotting down notes on his pad, saying, ‘Yes, yes. I quite understand, and I promise I’ll tell her you rang. No, I’m afraid she’s not available today. No, I’m not quite sure when she will be. Have a good day.’

  ‘Got it!’ C
oral laid the paper open on Maggie’s desk. ‘Leo’s wine column, Wines for the Week. Leo’s Wines and Spirits, with an address and telephone number. He’s just off Notting Hill Gate. I’ll give him a ring, shall I?’ Without waiting for permission, she reached for the phone.

  Bea raised an eyebrow at Oliver, who gave her the gist of his phone calls. ‘There’s quite a list. Do you know a Mrs Weston, or Westin? No? Someone called Smithson? Something about an outing for her grandchildren which she wants us to arrange. I said we don’t do that any more, but she insists she’s got to speak to you about it. She’s rung before.’

  ‘Smithson?’ Bea shook her head. ‘Can’t recall anyone of that name. Nor Weston.’

  ‘Some people Max knew, I suppose.’ He drew a line through his notes.

  Coral was talking on the phone. ‘Is that Leo of Wines for the Week? We met some time ago. Coral, of Coral Catering … Yes, yes. That’s it. Do you think I might drop in to see you sometime? What time do you close? … Right, I’ll be there.’

  Coral dropped the phone back on to the hook, and punched the air. ‘Bingo. I’ll pop round to see him now, shall I?’ She was halfway out of the door before Bea could say yea or nay. And disappeared, letting the outside door bang to behind her.

  Oliver was consulting his notes again. ‘Mr Max rang. He’s arranged for you to have a tour of the House of Commons tomorrow at eleven, will take you for lunch afterwards. Then Mrs Max rang to say she’s picking you up at ten thirty tomorrow morning to take you out for the day.’

  ‘Also tomorrow morning?’

  Oliver made a clucking sound. ‘They haven’t synchronized their watches, have they?’

  Bea shrugged. ‘Either way, I can’t spare the time. Is that it?’

  ‘Some of your old friends leaving their numbers; the list’s on your desk. A few people still wanting to know if we can take on jobs for them, someone selling stationery, nothing of importance.’

  Oliver disappeared behind his computer screen and Bea wandered through into Hamilton’s office. Her office now, she supposed. For a short while only, of course. Winding an agency down was bound to take a little time. The sky had clouded over. Was that rain hitting the window? No, probably not. Should she do something useful like watering the containers of busy Lizzies in the garden? Or just stand and stare as she was doing?