by Anne Baker
Auntie Joan had seen her and came back to the gate to meet them. Lucy rushed into her arms and greeted her. ‘New shoes, Auntie.’
‘Hello, love.’ Joan swung her up to kiss her. ‘Very smart shoes.’
Lucy’s hands stroked the package Joan was carrying. ‘For me? Present?’
‘No, my pet,’ Joan laughed. ‘It’s a book for Mummy. It’s that one I told you about, Chloe. Rosamund Rogerson’s Stroll in the Moonlight. It’s good, you’ll like it.’
‘Thank you,’ Chloe said. ‘I need something to read in bed, something to relax me and get me off to sleep. Mum would have liked this. I keep thinking of her, and memories keep crowding back and going round in my head. I’m missing her.’
‘I am too.’
‘Hello,’ Walter said. ‘I’m sure you see enough of me at the office, Chloe, and here I am again.’
‘Come on in.’ Chloe pushed the pram into the porch. ‘You’re just in time for tea.’
‘That would be lovely.’ Joan followed her into the kitchen. ‘Walter can’t settle to anything. He’s like a bear with a bad head over this missing accountant. We had to get out of the house for a bit.’
Walter lifted Zac out of his pram; he cooed with delight to be swung so high. Chloe and Joan made a tray of tea and set out some of the cakes Peggy had made.
‘Go upstairs,’ Chloe said to Lucy, ‘wash your hands and see if Aunt Goldie is awake. Tell her we’re having tea in the summerhouse.’
Aunt Goldie came bustling across the grass with Lucy in tow almost as soon as Chloe had poured tea for her guests.
‘Joan, I’ve collected up those periodicals you brought round for Helen. You said you hadn’t finished with them, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, there was an article in one of them about the author of this book I’ve just brought you. Did you find it?’
‘No,’ Chloe said, passing round the cakes.
‘I’m not sure which one.’ Joan began sorting through them.
Chloe picked one up and began leafing through it. She came across an article entitled ‘No Happy Ending for Rosamund Rogerson’, and said, ‘This is it.’
She began reading the article aloud. ‘Tragedy has struck twice in the life of Rosamund Rogerson, veteran writer of best-selling family sagas, all of which have happy endings. Last week, her husband, John James Clitheroe . . .’
Chloe felt a shaft of impatience and broke off. ‘There’s no getting away from that name,’ she said crossly.
‘It’s only a name, and probably lots of people have it.’ Walter was his usual benign self. ‘Mustn’t let a name put us off. Joan’s keen on her books.’
Chloe went on. ‘John James Clitheroe, aged fifty-nine, a lecturer in political sciences at the London School of Economics, was reported missing whilst taking part in the Sydney to Hobart yacht race. He was a keen and experienced yachtsman, but when some of the rigging on his boat collapsed during a storm, he was swept overboard in mountainous seas. The crew was unable to save him and he is presumed drowned.
‘Last year, the couple’s only son, Francis Lovell Clitheroe, aged thirty-six, a chartered accountant . . .’ Chloe lurched to a halt. Her stomach was churning. ‘Oh my goodness! This sounds so like . . .’
‘Like what?’ Goldie asked.
‘Like Walter’s accountant.’ Joan’s mouth had dropped open.
‘The man who’s fraudulently taken his money,’ Chloe choked. ‘Have you read this before? Joan, you must have noticed this.’
‘No, I didn’t. I just thought how sad for the writer. I don’t think I knew the new accountant’s name, not until Walter started going on and on about this fraud.’
‘Go on, Chloe.’ There was a note of urgency in Walter’s voice.
Chloe swallowed hard and found her place. ‘Francis Lovell Clitheroe, aged thirty-six, a chartered accountant, was killed whilst on holiday in Majorca. He was on an organised jeep safari into the hills in the north of the island when his vehicle went off the road and rolled down the mountain, killing both him and his wife Elspeth.’
‘It’s him, isn’t it?’ Walter asked.
Slowly Chloe read the article through again. ‘It’s not just his name; other things check out too: he was a chartered accountant and he was thirty-six. But if Francis Clitheroe was killed last year, who was the man we knew by that name?’
‘I can’t believe this.’ Walter was sizzling with excitement. ‘It’ll open up new avenues for Inspector Halyard. Set him off in a new direction.’
Chloe could feel her heart pounding. ‘This man we knew as Francis Clitheroe . . . he must have been an imposter. That’s why he seems to have disappeared off the face of the earth.’
‘I must ring Inspector Halyard straight away.’ Walter was already on his feet.
‘It’s Saturday,’ Aunt Goldie said. ‘Does he work over the weekend?’
‘The sooner he knows about this the better. You don’t mind if I use your phone?’ Walter suddenly looked lost and was patting his pockets. ‘Oh, I need his number, and the card he gave me is in the pocket of my suit.’
‘He gave me a card too.’ Chloe scrambled to her feet and ran into the house ahead of Walter to get it.
She stood beside him listening while he made the call. It dampened some of their excitement. Walter was able to speak to a police officer but was told that Inspector Halyard was unavailable. He promised to get a message through to him and ask him to make contact.
‘It’s urgent,’ Walter said, giving Chloe’s phone number. ‘Tell him we have an important new lead.’
Auntie Joan brought the tea trays into the sitting room so that they’d hear the phone ring.
Chloe was trying to think. ‘What we need to know is the identity of the man who worked for you. He wasn’t the respectable man we thought he was.’
‘A very different person,’ Walter agreed.
‘A thief and a fraudster.’ Joan was angry.
‘Halyard should speak to Clitheroe’s mother,’ Uncle Walter went on. ‘Get confirmation of what it says in that article.’
‘There must be some connection between Francis Clitheroe and our man.’ Chloe munched on a piece of sponge cake. ‘We need to find out what exactly it is.’
‘Heavens!’ Joan was aghast. ‘This magazine is three months out of date.’
‘You’ve had it all this time?’ Walter was equally horrified. ‘We could have found this out soon after he came to us.’
‘The point now,’ Chloe said firmly, ‘is what use we can make of this important fact. We need to know who the impostor is.’
‘Could I get that writer’s phone number and ring her myself?’ Walter was frowning.
‘You’d be on delicate ground,’ Joan said. ‘Better let the fraud squad do that.’
Inspector Halyard rang back within half an hour. Chloe was beside Walter again and thought Halyard was pleased to receive the news.
‘Yes,’ Walter said. ‘I agree, this could be the breakthrough.’
Chloe thought she heard Halyard say that he’d speak to Rosamund Rogerson as soon as he could, and knew they were discussing how she might be contacted.
‘Through the editor of the magazine,’ she told Walter. ‘Or the publisher of her books.’ She held up the book Joan had brought so he could read out their address.
‘Yes, yes,’ Walter said into the handset. ‘I do realise it’s Sunday tomorrow and everything will be closed.’
He sighed as he put the phone down. ‘I can’t see much happening before Monday, whatever any of us does.’
‘It gives that fellow more time to cover his tracks,’ Joan grumbled. ‘I do hope Halyard catches him.’
Nevertheless, they were all much more hopeful. They thought they’d made a breakthrough; their excitement didn’t go away. They spent hours discussing what they could do next, going over and over the same ground. The children were bathed and put to bed and Walter read them a story. He and Joan stayed on to eat the scratch supper Chloe and Goldie put together. They felt the
y were pulling together and that they’d made progress.
Chloe went to bed but she couldn’t get to sleep; her head was swimming at this new turn of events. Yes, it was success of a sort, but they would have to find the impostor before Uncle Walter would have any chance of getting his money back.
After about an hour of tossing and turning, she slid out of bed. She was too restless to think of sleep. She paused for a moment at the children’s door, but they were both fast asleep. She crept downstairs and made herself a cup of tea, then she wandered from room to room thinking of the accountant’s face the day she’d picked up the silver propelling pencil. She’d seen his horror, felt his tension. He’d known he’d betrayed himself. She tried to remember what exactly he’d said. She’d seen initials on that pencil, but what were they?
Chloe groaned. Oh lord, that was the clue to the impostor’s identity. She absolutely had to remember those initials.
She shivered, it was cold down here. She put her mug in the sink and went back upstairs. She could hear Aunt Goldie snoring like a motorbike. Chloe settled into her bed, and it seemed only moments before Lucy was climbing in beside her, wide awake in the morning light and wanting to play.
Sunday was a quieter day, but Chloe could think of nothing but the fraud. Rex came round to drive them all over to Auntie Joan’s for lunch, and she brought him up to date with the news.
Walter was tired. He and Joan had talked late into the night and hadn’t slept well after that. He hadn’t been able to stop his mind going over all he knew about the man he’d hired to work on his accounts.
When Chloe and her family turned up to have lunch, the children were noisy and full of fun. Chloe seemed bursting with energy, though she too said she couldn’t get the accountant out of her mind.
They were at the dining table and Walter was carving the roast lamb when she said to him, ‘I’m intrigued that you thought you saw him at that big silver sale.’
Walter wasn’t feeling his best. Lack of sleep had had more effect on him than it had on Chloe. ‘I believed I did, but Adam said I was mistaken and it was someone he knew.’
‘But he kept playing with that silver propelling pencil. I’m sure he was fond of it.’
‘That means nothing, Chloe. Pens and pencils are personal things. It doesn’t follow that he’s fond of household silver; that’s a different kettle of fish altogether.’
‘But it might.’
Uncle Walter sighed. ‘Are you clutching at straws?’
She gave him a wry smile. ‘I think Inspector Halyard is too. That man you saw at the silver sale, did Adam say what his name was?’
‘He might have done, but I don’t remember.’
‘When you bought that first lot of silver from Adam, did he tell you anything about the man he’d bought it from?’
‘Chloe, I really don’t remember much of anything. I was more interested in the silver itself than the man who was selling it.’
‘Did you ever talk to your accountant about antique silver?’
‘No, absolutely not. He never gave me any reason to think he might be interested.’
‘But he did ask for time off to visit his dentist on the day of the sale?’
Walter was shaking his head in impatience. ‘That could have been a coincidence.’
‘It could.’ Chloe was frowning. ‘But I’ve got this gut feeling there’s more to it than that. There were initials engraved on that pencil and they were not Clitheroe’s. He told me it had belonged to a friend, but he was suddenly all tense and screwed up.’
‘Really? What were these initials?’
Chloe sighed. ‘To be honest, I can’t remember. I wish I could. There might have been an L, but I’m not sure.’
Walter laughed. ‘If you can’t remember things, how on earth d’you expect me to?’
‘Don’t laugh, I’m serious. That day at the silver auction. You mentioned that this man shot away when he saw you. Was it because he recognised you? I’d be interested to know if there is a connection to your accountant. Adam said he knew the man; I’d like you to ring him and ask for his name and address.’
‘I’m tired, Chloe, and this business has been going round in my head for days. Why don’t we leave it to Halyard?’
Chloe urged gently, ‘If you ring Adam after we’ve eaten, you might catch him before he goes out for the afternoon.’
‘I can’t see that it will get us any further, but I suppose . . .’
She was teasing. ‘You suppose you have to humour me?’
‘Something like that.’
As soon as they’d finished their apple pie and ice cream, Chloe said, ‘I’ll get Adam on the phone for you. Come on.
‘It’s ringing,’ she said, pushing the receiver into his hand.
Adam’s voice answered immediately. As soon as Walter made himself known, he sounded interested. ‘Are you in the market for more silver?’
‘Not at the moment,’ Walter said, and told him why he was calling. ‘I’d like to know the name of the man who sold the silver to you that you subsequently sold on to me.’
There was a pause, then Adam said, ‘I remember doing it, of course, but after all this time I can’t remember his name and address. Is it important?’
‘It is to me, though it has nothing to do with the silver, or, of course, with you. Could you not check through your records and find that name for me?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t keep records of that sort of thing. No, sorry, it won’t be possible.’
Walter had been half expecting that response. ‘Drawn a blank,’ he told Chloe.
But Chloe’s lavender-blue eyes had been watching him closely. She’d gathered what had transpired and said, ‘He’s pushed you off, Uncle Walter. He writes down names, addresses and phone numbers, and every other scrap of information he has about the people he does business with. They are his contacts and his customers and he knows he can use the same people again and again. He’s very organised about it, keeps an alphabetical directory. I know because I helped him in the business.’
She felt like kicking herself. She hadn’t wanted to speak to Adam, but knew now that she should have. She was angry with Adam, too. He was protecting his contacts, and of course she should have expected that from him, but Uncle Walter didn’t deserve this.
‘Leave him to me,’ she told him. ‘I’ll make him tell me.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHLOE WENT HOME TO think about the problem again. She wished she hadn’t told her uncle that she’d get that man’s name for him. She wanted nothing more to do with Adam, but she’d told Walter with such force that she would that to back out now would make her look a timid mouse. She’d have to do it.
After she’d put the children to bed that night, she made herself go down to the hall and dial Adam’s number. To hear his voice, deep and resonant, made her tense every muscle.
‘Your Uncle Walter has already asked me that,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid I’ve forgotten.’
Chloe felt a rush of anger. She wasn’t going to let him get away with that. Either Walter’s accountant was a crony Adam wanted to protect, or he was being spiteful.
‘Let me remind you then, Adam,’ she said. ‘If you open your address book, the name I want will have been entered in alphabetical order. Should it have slipped your mind, you’ll find it cross-referenced under silver. Finding it shouldn’t give you too much difficulty. I’m afraid I have to have it.’
He gave a mirthless laugh. ‘And supposing I don’t want to give it to you?’
Chloe forced a note of authority into her voice. She’d stepped back and let him have his way too often; she wasn’t going to let him bat her down again.
‘Then let me try and persuade you. I’m working for Uncle Walter now, and I think this man has been defrauding him.’
‘What? You’re working?’
‘In the absence of financial support from you, I felt I had to.’
‘Oh dear! Sorry! What sort of a job have you got?’
‘I don’t know whether I’m his secretary or his accountant or something between the two. Anyway, we’ve got the fraud squad working on it too.’
‘Oh!’
‘Either you give me that man’s name, address and telephone number, or I’ll put Inspector Halyard in touch with you and you can tell him what he wants to know. It may occur to you that you’ll get more of his attention than you want if he calls on you personally.’
Chloe stopped speaking and there was silence. ‘Are you still there?’
‘Yes,’ he said shortly. ‘I’ll see if I can find what you want.’
‘Thank you.’
‘How are the children?’
‘They’re fine, growing up now.’
‘I’ve missed them.’
‘I’d never have known,’ she said coldly. ‘You’ll ring me back with that name? We are in a hurry for it.’
‘Chloe! You’ve just caught me, I’m on my way out for the evening.’
‘All right. I’ll be in the office tomorrow.’
It was almost twelve the next day when Constable Benton came into the office and told Chloe that he’d like another word with her and her uncle. She knew that Walter was as anxious for news as she was. He had his office door open before they reached it and hurried to settle Benton on a chair.
‘We’ve got an address for Rosamund Rogerson from her publisher,’ the constable told them. ‘She lives in Wimbledon. We asked the local police to call round and interview her. Her real name is Mrs Rosamund Mary Clitheroe. She is Francis Clitheroe’s mother and confirmed that he and his wife were killed in Majorca while they were on holiday, and that the details of the accident given in the magazine are correct.
‘We’ve checked the official records; it seems the accident occurred on the third of September last year. His body and that of his wife were flown home and they were buried in St Michael and All Angels churchyard in Wimbledon on the seventeenth.’