A Final Reckoning

by Susan Moody

  ‘I’ve seen some of them too. Were you sure they were the same ones she said her brother had taken?’

  ‘Too right. She had a list of them.’

  ‘Wouldn’t someone else have noticed them too? The police or someone?’

  ‘Maybe she kept them hidden until the fuss had died down. Look, how did they get back to Weston Lodge, if she didn’t steal them back again?’

  ‘That’s your theory?’

  ‘You bet. Again, it would have been easy to do. Obviously – if it was her, I mean – she’d have gone to her brother’s flat prepared. She was probably able to let herself in. So she’s there, taking the paintings off the walls and stowing them away in her portfolio or suitcase or whatever, when in he comes, starts back, shouts, “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” and she turns round, bashes him with the poker or whatever, finishes packing up the goods and walks out, locks the door behind her, goes back home, no worries.’

  ‘Wouldn’t that take quite a bit of nerve?’

  ‘Of course. But she was a clever woman. She could have planned it all, waited for the oppo, gone to do her research and then on to his unit. She hated him even more than she hated Miles. Let alone Sir frickin’ bloody Gerald.’ He grimaced. ‘Look, I’m not saying she did, I’m just saying she could. And it would explain how the later … uh … deaths might have happened, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘I guess it would.’ If you’d already got two murders under your belt, what were a few more, even if two of them were young boys? How would you feel about children who had been forced on you by incestuous rape? Would you, could you love them? Was this why Clio was so distant to her sons? ‘You knew Gerald Palliser, of course.’

  ‘Knew him, but didn’t know him, if you see what I mean. Didn’t want to know him, frankly. On the other hand, he gave me the commission for the chapel, paid me up front, let me have a free hand. He couldn’t have been all bad.’

  ‘I noticed your free hand,’ I said drily.

  He smiled. ‘I’ve got to say I didn’t realize that marrying his daughter was going to be part of the deal, or I’d have turned it down flat.’ He sipped some more whisky. ‘Probably.’

  ‘Perhaps her brother’s stuff was returned to the family by the police or the solicitors or something and the pictures were handed over to her.’

  ‘Ah well, you see, that’s just it. Nearly everything he owned went to his divorced wife and their two kids. So how come Clio gets the exact pictures she said he’d stolen from her?’ Again he lifted his glass to his mouth. ‘And I should add that when she was roused – and I don’t mean sexually because we never went down that route – she had the world’s worst temper.’

  ‘I’ve heard that before.’

  He put his glass down hard on the table between us and leaned forward. ‘This is all just idle speculation, of course. No basis in fact whatsoever. Nil nisi bonum and all that.’

  ‘Except that, as far as we know, she’s not dead.’

  ‘Mmm, yes. Obviously, I’m not exactly up to speed with things, living down under as I do. It’s a bit strange that the Press Rottweilers haven’t tracked her down.’

  ‘I agree. Now, moving on, the chapel at Weston Lodge.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘According to the Palliser cousin who now owns the place, the carving you did above the lintel is Cronus, and not a Green Man.’

  ‘Christ! It’s all coming back to me now. Yes, she used to come down to that chapel and talk to me. I told her I was going to carve a Green Man, not something religious; she said it would be rather fun – that was her phrase, “rather fun” – to make the face look like her dad, and that I shouldn’t carve a Green Man, it should be Cronus. Didn’t mean much to me, I must say, until she explained. Bozo ate his own kids, didn’t he?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘She said her father was thick as a plank and he’d never recognize himself, so I went ahead.’

  ‘What about the symbols?’

  ‘Symbols?’

  ‘In the stained glass window in the chapel.’

  ‘Remind me.’

  ‘A crucifix. A white lamb. A jugful of coins. And … um … a scythe.’

  Ferris closed his eyes, repeating the words I had just spoken. ‘I can’t honestly remember. But they were probably references to the poor fucked-up woman who was briefly my wife. The lamb led to the slaughter. The crucifix, for her religion. The coins, for her oh-so-rich dad. And the scythe … hmm, don’t know what that was for.’

  ‘If you remember, Cronus sliced off his own father’s private parts with a sickle.’

  Ferris burst out laughing. ‘That’s right! I’d forgotten that. Was that before or after he chowed down on his kids?’ He took a hefty swig of his drink. ‘Jeez, what a set-up that place was. I bet Sir Gerald wasn’t best pleased when he found out what I’d done.’

  ‘According to the cousin I spoke with, he was furious, all for tearing it down and destroying it. Except someone pointed out that you were going to be big in the sculpture world – as indeed you are – and destroying it would not only be the act of a vandal, but also financially stupid.’

  ‘Hang about.’ Ferris sat up straighter. ‘It’s sort of coming back to me. I don’t think that scythe thing had anything to do with Cronus.’

  ‘I wondered if it was supposed to be Old Father Time. He has a scythe, doesn’t he?’

  ‘No, no. It was Death, creeping round in that hoodie of his and swishing his scythe about. Another of Clio’s helpful suggestions.’ He shivered, shook his head. ‘Kind of creepy, isn’t it? Prophetess of Doom.’

  ‘Could be any or all of the above.’

  ‘Too true. Sorry not to be more helpful.’

  ‘On the contrary. I’ve learned a lot.’

  And none of it very pleasant, I thought as I headed back to the office. I had now altered my perception of the Honourable Clio so completely that I actually wanted her to be innocent of the crime of murder. I wanted her to find some happiness, after all the horrors that had overwhelmed her, though even if she was still alive, it was probably far too late for her. Maybe all anyone could do for her now was to clear her name.

  Walking up Bond Street, I thought about it. Perhaps she wouldn’t even want that. Not only all the attendant publicity and press attention, but going to court to have the original verdict overturned, meeting with the police. She might simply prefer to live out her days in obscurity. I think I might have felt the same.

  Chauncey’s was buzzing when I turned in at the big double doors. A bunch of rather grand gold and silver balloons hung above the reception desk, and I could see into the big auction room where the usual chairs had been replaced with white-covered tables on which sat big silver punch bowls surrounded by bottles of wine and covered platters.

  For a moment I couldn’t think what was going on. Then I remembered we were supposed to be celebrating the opening of a branch in San Francisco. I hurried up to my office. Thank goodness I always kept a smart frock hanging on the back of the door and a set of make-up requirements in one of my drawers. I must appear to be making an effort, I thought. And I would have to phone Gavin. I picked up my phone and dialled his office.

  ‘Darling,’ I said, when he picked up, ‘I’m afraid I’m going to be late home.’ I started to explain but he cut across me.

  ‘You can’t be,’ he said flatly.

  ‘What do you mean?’ He sounded so cold that I hardly recognized his voice.

  ‘I mean that I booked us a table at Fiorentino’s.’

  ‘This is the first I’ve heard of it.’

  ‘I told you about it the other day.’

  ‘I’m sure you didn’t because I would have said I couldn’t make it. Not tonight.’ I frowned. ‘In fact, Gavin Vaughn, it was me who told you about this party tonight here, and you said you couldn’t make it and that it was better for me to be unencumbered by hangers-on, since it was a work occasion.’

  He was silent for a moment. ‘I think you must be
mixing me up with someone else,’ he said eventually. He didn’t sound as though he was joking.

  I laughed. ‘Don’t be silly, darling. Who would I be mixing you up with?’

  ‘How about that Scotsman, the one who used to be your sister’s boyfriend?’

  I gasped. ‘Wh … What?’

  ‘I know you have the occasional lunch with him.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ I could feel rage creeping up my body and heating my face. ‘Have you been hacking into my email, or something?’

  ‘I’m not going to dignify that question with an answer,’ he said pompously.

  ‘Gavin, I’m not going to put up with this,’ I said. ‘You have absolutely no right to read my emails.’

  He paused and took a deep breath. ‘I know, darling, I know,’ he said apologetically. ‘Sorry, sorry, sorry. It was just that you were out one evening, and I was idling around because I’d left my PC at work, and, well, one thing led to another.’

  ‘I’d really like to know how it led to my emails. How did you know my password in the first place?’

  ‘You told me, don’t you remember?’ he said easily.

  ‘No.’ He was lying. I had done no such thing.

  ‘That weekend we went down to Cornwall to see your friend Rosemary. I didn’t have my PC with me so I had to use yours to check some urgent emails. You told me then.’

  ‘The hell I did.’ As soon as I’d put the phone down, I was going to change the password. ‘And don’t forget to cancel the table at Fiorentino’s.’ If he’d even booked it, which I doubted. I was learning that when it suited him, Gavin had a tenuous grasp of the truth. Curiously enough, this hadn’t bothered me very much until now; I could be glib too.

  It was nearly midnight when I got back to my flat. There were no lights on, only the muted blue glow of the television. And Gavin, asleep on the sofa. I crept across the sitting room, not wanting to wake him up, but he heard me and sat up.

  ‘You’re late,’ he said, squinting at his watch.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What kept you?’

  ‘It was a party, Gavin.’

  He sat up straight and stretched. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Mind if I put the light on?’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  As I reached for the switch on the lamp beside him, he got to his feet. ‘Darling,’ he said hesitantly. ‘I’ve done something absolutely awful.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Oh God, I just don’t know how it happened. But … that beautiful dish of yours, the one which was your mother’s?’

  I already knew what he was going to say. ‘What about it?’

  ‘It … I dropped it. Darling, I’m so so sorry. I managed to pick up all the pieces, and we could get one of those porcelain experts to put it together again. Good as new.’

  ‘But it won’t be the same, will it?’ The distance between us was chilly.

  He gave a kind of shrug. ‘No, I suppose it won’t.’ He tried to take me in his arms, but I stepped back. He frowned. ‘Chantal. Darling. Please forgive me.’ He made a rueful face. ‘I suppose I could argue that it’s your fault, really.’

  I was hanging up my coat, taking off my boots. ‘How do you make that out?’

  ‘Well, if you hadn’t insisted on going to that party, instead of coming out to Fiorentino’s with me, this wouldn’t have happened.’

  ‘No, I suppose it wouldn’t.’ I debated telling him that earlier I had rung Fiorentino from my office and they had no record of any booking for that evening in either of our names.

  Lying rigid in bed, with Gavin asleep beside me, one of his big hands on my breast, I thought how strange it was that love could change so quickly: one moment round and shining and perfect, the next riddled with suspicion, dislike, even fear. Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds: that was all very well, but must surely depend on the alteration concerned. What had I – usually so circumspect – done in giving my heart so freely to a man I scarcely knew? How recklessly I had behaved. I’d been seduced by his charm, and by our shared history; I should have realized that something more solid should lie at the core of a relationship. I believe I still was. I felt he was my soulmate, whatever his flaws … and which of us is unflawed?

  Sixteen

  I increasingly looked forward to my meetings with Malcolm Macdonald. His quiet sense of authority, his inner calm, reminded me so much of Hamilton. I wished I felt more at ease with him than I did, but lurking in the background of any conversation we exchanged was the presence of my sister, so that it felt almost unnatural for me to be with him, when he should have been with her. I often found myself engaging in stilted discussion of something completely banal, or else reduced to silence, however companionable it might be. What made it worse was the compassion and kindness which spread across his face when this happened, as though he was perfectly aware of the implicit awkwardness of any relationship between us.

  He was down in London again, he told me, as we sat in pale sunshine beneath chestnut trees bare of leaves, looking for a place to live. A two-bedroomed flat, he said, to accommodate visitors. His company was seconding him to their London branch for at least two years. He reached across the little marble-topped table which held our wine glasses and put his hand over mine in a gesture that was friendly and not intrusive.

  ‘I hope I can see more of you then, Chantal.’

  His look was tender, and I wanted to beg him not to fall in love with me, as I suspected he was in the process of doing. I wanted to tell him I could never reciprocate his feelings, partly because now that I had found Gavin my life was already complete, and partly because Sabine’s shadow would always be there between us, reminding both of us that we did not belong to each other and never could.

  ‘Yes.’ I smiled at him. ‘I’d like that.’

  ‘Maybe you could help me with a couple of things,’ he said diffidently, pushing his glasses up his nose. ‘If you’ve got time, of course.’

  ‘I spend a lot of time on my own, Malcolm, so I’d be glad to help.’

  ‘I’m looking for something unfurnished, so I’ll have to make it into a home.’

  ‘What about the possessions you already have? Books, favourite saucepans, pictures, that kind of thing?’

  ‘I’m sending stuff down, of course. They’re giving me a generous relocation allowance. But sometimes it’s good to have a change, don’t you think? To buy new things and so on. Get rid of the stuff you’ve lived with so long that you forget how shabby it is. Start afresh.’

  I knew he wasn’t just talking about soft furnishings. ‘I do indeed. No wife, Malcolm?’

  ‘No wife. No girlfriend, either.’ The grooves in his cheeks lengthened. ‘Oh, there have been relationships, but none of them particularly long-lasting. I don’t seem to be capable of meeting the right person, not since Sabine.’ His face drooped, then brightened. ‘But when I do meet her, I’ll know at once.’

  I admired the way he didn’t hesitate over my sister’s name. ‘So you’re an optimist?’

  ‘If you mean that I’m sure I’ll find her, even at this late stage, then yes, I am.’

  I wanted to tell him not to gaze at me like that. That I wasn’t the one he was looking for. That whatever he might think, I was not the one he needed. ‘When exactly will you be moving down?’ I said.

  ‘Soon. Just before Christmas, I hope.’

  We looked away from each other without speaking. For both of us, Christmas had long been a word to avoid, a season to dread.

  ‘Will you be spending the holiday with your father?’ Malcolm asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  Gavin wanted us to spend Christmas with his mother; I had told him I couldn’t since I’d already promised to go to Italy, adding that my father had been ill recently – which was true – and had particularly requested that I travel down to see him that year – which wasn’t. Although I didn’t like lying to Gavin, he often tried to curtail my independence, which I didn’t care for, so I felt it was i
mportant to our relationship that I maintain a certain measure of autonomy. On top of that, I didn’t think I could handle several days of Paula’s non-stop smothering concern about her son. Lighten up, I wanted to say. It’s a long time ago. He’s a big boy now.

  But who was I to be pointing any of this out (not that I had) when I myself had been so hung up on my own trauma? Paula would have been aware, just as much as Gavin and I were, of the significance of the time of year.

  ‘I’d like to meet your father one day,’ Malcolm said. ‘Sabine often talked about him, and how proud she was of him.’

  ‘I know he would love to meet you too,’ I said. I meant it. Dad might have moved on, but he had by no means forgotten. The contessa was charming, intelligent and enthusiastic, all qualities that Dad appreciated, but I sensed that she could never mean as much to him as my little French mother had. And Malcolm would provide him with a link back to Sabine.

  It felt odd to go furniture shopping with Malcolm, rather than with Gavin. He seemed to like my taste and went along with my suggestions without argument. I even found myself lending him bits and pieces from my own flat, particularly those that I had bought with Hamilton, in an effort to forestall further arguments with Gavin.

  Another Sunday on my own: a brilliant day, unseasonably warm. As so often, Gavin was somewhere far away, and Malcolm was in Edinburgh, so I walked along the leafy Kensington avenues and strolled into Hyde Park, kicking at the piles of fallen leaves as I went. The sky was the kind of intense blue you only get in early winter; the Park was full of families making the most of the good weather. I went along to the Serpentine and found a bench from which I could watch the swans and mallards and squirrels scrabbling for the stale bread that little kids were throwing for them.