Death Penalties

by Paula Gosling

  ‘Well, well want to keep him here for at least ten days – perhaps a couple of weeks. A matter of assessing damage, if there is any. I’m hopeful there won’t be,’ the doctor concluded. ‘But this rather long convalescence afterwards is vital, I’m afraid. No question of his returning to school for quite a while. I expect he’ll require tutoring as well as nursing if he isn’t to fall behind.’ He glanced at Tess and smiled. ‘But I’m sure you’ll manage to work it all out, Mrs Leland. You look a very capable young woman. I’ll look back in on Max later this evening.’ He nodded and smiled to them both, then hurried off down the corridor.

  Richard watched him go, then turned. ‘There’s an answer to all this, Tess.’

  ‘Only one?’ she asked, and tried a shaky laugh that didn’t quite come off.

  ‘Only one that makes sense.’

  She stared at him, wearily. ‘No, Richard.’

  ‘Tess, if you married me, you could give up work, stay at home, make sure Max was properly looked after.’ He flushed, slightly. ‘And you know I wouldn’t pressure you about – anything. But I do care for you, and I’d do all I could to make you happy—’

  ‘We’ve been over all this so many times,’ she protested.

  ‘Yes, I know. I was willing to let it ride for a while—’

  ‘Decent of you, old thing.’

  He grinned, suddenly, engagingly. ‘Circumstances have changed, Tess. Even you can see that.’

  ‘You mean even without my glasses?’ She had to smile at him, the successful businessman who could never pass up a chance to make a sale, puppy enthusiasm contained by a firm jaw and handshake. Here is my product, he said, standing tall in his Gieves & Hawkes suit, Turnbull & Asser shirt, and Church brogues. How can you resist?

  At first he’d left her alone with her grief, but lately he’d begun calling round, taking her out to concerts and plays, even going up to the school to visit Max. She hadn’t known whether his attentions were out of love, kindness, or pity – and she still didn’t. But, as appealing as he could be, she knew marrying him was no answer, not as far as she was concerned.

  Not now, anyway.

  Eleven years of being financially and emotionally dependent, of letting Roger make all the decisions, of playing the game of Letting Daddy Look After Me, had nearly proved her undoing. Because it was what Roger had wanted, because it fitted in with his self-image, she had adopted the rapidly-dating guise of a proper Englishwoman. She’d done the charity round, been a lady of leisure, a white-gloved drone, played the role of the successful Roger Leland’s wife.

  Then, without warning, she’d become Roger Leland’s widow.

  His death made her realize what she had forsworn, and lost – herself. For some days after the accident, she’d felt boneless, foolish, and weak. But, in the twenty minutes between leaving the limousine at the door of the crematorium and re-entering it to be driven home, she had made a resolution. She could – and would – take charge of her life again.

  It had been hard, so much harder than even she had suspected, but gradually, doggedly, she had sorted, compartmentalized, organized her life and got it running again. Not smoothly, not always easily, but under control.

  There had been, unfortunately, no compartment set aside for a seriously ill child. Measles or mumps she could have coped with, but this was more. She had a responsibility to herself, true, but an even bigger one to Max. Wouldn’t it make sense to marry Richard? He was attractive and kind, and could provide them with a good life. Physical passion might arrive later, but its absence could well be a plus. Stability, in the upright and wonderfully English form of Richard Hendricks, beckoned her.

  ‘You’re very kind, Richard—’ she began, but he held up his hand.

  ‘That still sounds too much like a refusal. If so, I don’t want to hear it.’ He smiled his gentlest smile, and she detected definite signs of wavering within. No, she told herself. No.

  ‘Look, Tess, I care for you very much.’ He cleared his throat and glanced up and down the corridor. ‘More than I can say standing here.’ He touched her hand, ran a finger over her wrist and into her palm. ‘I have to go to Paris tonight, and I’ll be away for some time. You concentrate on Max, because he needs you. But whenever you have a moment, think about marrying me. Just . . . consider it. All right?’

  ‘All right,’ she said. ‘But no promises.’ He squeezed her hand and Tess shivered – it was cool in the corridor. She got to her feet abruptly, despite Richard’s anxious protest that she should rest a while longer, and hurried back to Max’s room. Something felt wrong, suddenly.

  Richard followed, and as they stood by the bedside Max half opened his eyes and gave a sudden whimper. He was only semi-conscious, and he stared at the wall behind Richard with a kind of horror, as if he saw something there, something awful.

  ‘No, I won’t. I can’t. Dad? Dad – please don’t go away, Daddy – please – you said you’ll tell me what to do – please, come back . . . oh, please . . . I don’t want to be bad . . .’ Max’s voice, which had risen practically to a shout, faded to a whimper, and then his eyes closed again.

  ‘What was all that?’ Richard wanted to know. His face was pale and he looked shocked. It had taken an effort of will not to turn around and look at the wall, so realistic had been Max’s fear.

  ‘Probably just the fever,’ Tess said, unsteadily. She, too, had been unnerved by the passion in her young son’s voice. ‘It sounded like the nightmares his housemaster described. Apparently, they’re always about the accident. He seems to feel some kind of guilt, I don’t know why.’ She leaned down. ‘Max,’ she whispered. ‘It’s all right. Mummy’s here, darling. Everything’s going to be just fine.’ Max moved restlessly under the layers of white cellular blankets, and turned his head away.

  She patted his hand, smoothed his cheek.

  He knows I’m lying, she thought.

  And so do I.

  FOUR

  ‘But, Adrian, there’s no other way,’ Tess said, a few days later. She stood in the middle of the workroom, hands on hips, glaring at her boss. ‘It’s not just that Max needs care, he’ll need to keep up with his schooling, too. An au pair would be useless when it came to lessons. I’ll simply have to turn Mrs McMurdo’s work over to you and—’

  ‘Not me, love. The bloody woman makes me break out in hives,’ Adrian Brevitt said, and gave an elaborate shiver. He picked up a block of damask samples and began flipping through them, while keeping a corner of his eye on her. ‘Anyway, she specified you, remember? This is your big chance to make your name. And mine. I want Brevitt Interiors to rise right to the top. I’m not ready just yet to dodder off to my little cottage and rose garden.’

  Tess had to smile, despite her problems. The image of elegant, fastidious Adrian Brevitt forking manure into the rosebeds was ludicrous in the extreme. He could never stray more than a mile from Mayfair without coming over faint.

  ‘Adrian, you know how grateful I am. You were more than kind to take me back when Roger died, but—’

  Adrian put the damask down with a thump. ‘It had nothing to do with kindness and you know it,’ he huffed. ‘You needed me, and – after Jason’s treacherous defection – I needed you. It might have been a coincidence, but it was a very happy one as far as you and I are concerned. Now that I have you back, I do not intend to let anything – not even the sickroom requirements of my beloved and precious godson – take you away from me without a fight. Frankly, my dear, I do give a damn. We need the work to survive, and we need you in order to do the blasted work. You have a cachet, Tess – you’re American. That’s instant rapport for a lot of our expatriate and foreign clients.’

  ‘And instant turn-off for others,’ Tess reminded him, wryly.

  ‘Well, there aren’t many landed gentry left who can afford my prices,’ Adrian sniffed. ‘Anyway, of course we can manage your smaller assignments while you’re sta
ying with Max at the hospital, no trouble there, but not Mrs McMurdo. There must be a way around it, Tess. After all, we do have a little time.’

  That was true enough, Tess acknowledged reluctantly. Mrs McMurdo, a wealthy Australian widow, had recently returned to ‘the old country’ to inspect her husband’s ‘heritage’. She had found it to be a rambling and nearly derelict Victorian house which sat in the midst of its overgrown garden like a huge toad, a warty and crumbling eyesore in a newly-gentrified area of London.

  Perversely, Mrs McMurdo had fallen in love with the place. She decided to ‘restore it to its former glory’ as a tribute to her beloved husband’s family, and she swept into the project with vigour.

  Of course, nothing but the best would do. She made enquiries and appeared one day in the studio of Brevitt Interiors. After ten minutes of loud and cheerful conversation, she decided that Tess and only Tess was right for the task of restoring The House.

  Glad of something which would absorb her and her grief, Tess had set to work. Rather like the man scheduled to hang in the morning, the task of restoring the McMurdo house concentrated her mind wonderfully. She had gone far beyond the remit normally given to decorators and, along with their usual consultant architect, was overseeing the physical reconstruction as well. This was due to be completed in another month, at which time she would be free to bring her magic to bear on the interior. Given a free hand and a generous working budget, it was – or could have been – her big chance. But the situation had changed.

  She followed Adrian as he tried to avoid the issue by walking around the studio. ‘Well, Mrs Grimble could hardly handle teaching Max, could she? The nursing would be hard enough what with running up and down the stairs fifty times a day, and her own health is delicate.’ Mrs Grimble had been with Tess since before Max was born. She was eccentric, nosey, and opinionated. Tess put up with all her odd ways because by now she was the only one who knew how to find anything in the house.

  ‘You mean her alcoholic level is variable,’ Adrian sniffed.

  ‘Don’t be so damn snooty. She’s been very good to me. She put up with Roger and—’

  ‘And Roger put up with her, I imagine. Darling, the woman is a jewel – when she’s sober. I quite agree that she’s not exactly ideal to either look after or tutor Max. But neither are you. You don’t understand the British way of education—’

  ‘Very few do.’

  He refused to be side-tracked. ‘You haven’t the patience to teach, and you’re far more valuable elsewhere. Specifically, here’ He glanced at her sideways as he leant over a drawing pad and sketched in, quickly, another window treatment for a luxury houseboat he was redoing.

  ‘I could take Max back to Iowa,’ she said, slowly.

  Adrian shuddered delicately. ‘I shall ignore that,’ he said, tearing off one page and starting another. ‘There are other things coming along, you know, things you don’t know about yet. When the McMurdo job is finished it will definitely get publicity for you. And us.’ He flicked the pen over the paper and stood back slightly to see the effect. ‘Get enough new commissions on the strength of it – and you will – and you’ll be in a position to call your own tune, Tess. I might even be stretched to consider a partnership, one day.’

  Tess stood watching him for a moment. She had known Adrian Brevitt for years, and found him now, as always, to be both exasperating and engaging. He was playing his high cards – something he rarely did – simply in order to keep her. She was flattered, and also tempted to kick him up his beautifully-tailored backside. Partnership, indeed. ‘Richard has asked me to marry him,’ she blurted out, as if in confirmation of his assessment concerning her intrinsic value.

  ‘You’re not accepting, of course.’ It was a statement, not a question. He put his pen down and turned to face her, arms folded.

  ‘I’m thinking about it,’ Tess hedged. ‘I know he’s been lonely since his wife died some years ago and—’

  ‘Ridiculous. I won’t allow it. He’s ten years older than you, and he’d never have time for you or for Max. He’s one of those “go-getters” the media are always on about, thrusting and pushing and shoving and grabbing. Besides, he has absolutely terrible taste. I went to dinner there once with you and Roger, remember? The dining room wallpaper gave me indigestion for weeks afterwards.’

  ‘Perhaps his wife chose it.’

  ‘No, he did. He absolutely bragged about it. If it hadn’t been for you and Roger, I would have quite happily peed on it just to force him to redecorate.’

  Tess had to laugh, Adrian really was outrageous when he put his mind to it. The fact that he had a very firm grasp of the practicalities of plumbing as well as the lure of interior couture contributed to his success, of course, but it was the irrepressible and mischievous side of Adrian Brevitt that people remembered, and talked about. He was never cruel and always discreet when it was required, but he never left an inflated ego unpunctured, or a room unnoticed. Privately and recently, Tess had discovered that though he might try to hide it from public view, he was a solid and dependable friend in need.

  He was also stubborn.

  ‘What about that ethereal creature who lodges with you?’ he asked abruptly. ‘Couldn’t she do bed-baths or geometry?’

  ‘Miranda? She’s drifted off to warmer climes with her latest boyfriend. He’s “something” in movies, but I’m not sure what.’

  She perched on a stool beside the drawing-board and hugged her knees. Some years ago, glorying in an unexpected windfall from a grateful client, Roger had had the attic of their large terraced house converted into a studio. He said it would give him a place to work, provide extra guest accommodation, and increase the resale value of the house. The latter possibility was yet to be tested. Due to Roger’s penchant for bringing home lame ducks and the walking wounded, they’d suffered a strange procession of visitors in the studio. Miranda had only been the last in a long line of non-paying guests. As for working up there – he’d used it only for designing and building conference displays too large for the office and, twice, too large to get down the stairs. Dear, fascinating, exasperating Roger. If only she’d smiled at him when he’d driven off that morning . . .

  She sighed for all the might-have-beens. ‘There’s really only one way out of all this, Adrian, and that’s for me to quit my job, sell the house as quickly as possible, buy a small flat, and live off the difference. I’ll look after Max myself. I’ll learn to be patient. I’ll enjoy it.’

  ‘Balls,’ he said, uncompromisingly.

  She went on, doggedly. ‘Later, when Max is better and goes back to school, perhaps you’ll have me back? I hope someone will.’

  ‘You’re assuming, I see, that I’ll still be in business,’ Adrian said in an irritated tone. ‘Tess, the McMurdo thing is our first showpiece since Jason left. If you go, dear Dolly may well go, too, probably straight to Jason.’ His voice cracked, slightly, and he walked away across the room, the very line of his shoulders shrieking perfidy, perfidy!

  ‘Nonsense,’ Tess said, weakly, but she knew it was true, which just gave her more to feel guilty about. Adrian spoke from across the room, where he now stood gazing moodily out of the window into the stylish depths of Knightsbridge.

  ‘I’m accustomed to getting my own way, you know,’ he said. ‘I shall think of something, Tess, my love – never fear.’

  And he did.

  FIVE

  ‘I think your mother was frightened by a copy of Tales From the Round Table,’ Abbott suggested, wryly.

  ‘Maybe. But I want to look into it,’ Nightingale insisted. ‘I think there’s something there.’

  ‘What?’

  Nightingale tried to lean back in his chair and found it impossible, the chrome and plastic construction being astutely designed to prevent just such attempts at comfort. ‘I think Ivor Peters was frightened to death,’ he said.

  ‘Oh?’ Ab
bott raised an eyebrow. ‘And under exactly what statute do we find this listed as a crime, pray?’

  ‘None. That’s not—’ Tim began.

  ‘None. Correct. You might try to establish a case for Threatening to Kill, if you had a witness. But you don’t have a witness. And you don’t have any evidence. And he wasn’t killed, he just dropped dead,’ Abbott said, leaning forward and stubbing his forefinger rhythmically on his blotter. ‘Cartwright did the autopsy and it was heart failure pure and simple. He uses a lot of medical terminology, of course, but the upshot is the poor old man dropped in his tracks approximately seven hours after consuming his evening meal, which – according to his landlady – was taken with clocklike regularity at six every evening, coincidental with the television news. This puts time of death after midnight, and his visitor had come and gone long before then.’ He leaned back and regarded his junior officer with amusement. ‘Unless, of course, you’re suggesting the existence of some diabolically clever device which produces a delayed BOO and then self-destructs leaving no trace?’

  Nightingale ignored that and seized on the one thing that seemed pertinent. ‘You asked the landlady about his dining habits?’ he asked in some surprise.

  ‘Cartwright did.’

  ‘Ah.’ Tim seemed gratified.

  ‘I gather Dr Cartwright likes things tidy. He probably got his secretary to ring the old girl up.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Abbott leaned back and wriggled slightly – his chair had been designed for a smaller man’s comfort. He regarded his fledgling detective sergeant with benign exasperation. He liked Nightingale, he thought he was bright, and probably marginally mad. It was the university training that did it, of course. Abbott had long since decided, from his own experience, that university education merely fined-down craziness from the general to the specific and made it socially functional. Nightingale had taken his degree in history, so there was definitely a touch of the knights-in-armour there.