by Anne Mather
BEWARE THE BEAST
ANNE MATHER
CHAPTER ONE
The summons to the solicitor's office came exactly thirty days after her father's accident.
Charlotte was just getting over the initial shock which her father's death had evoked, just beginning to feel her way back to some semblance of normality, if anything could be normal again after such an experience. How had it happened? she had asked herself again and again. How could her father, an experienced yachtsman, have lost all control like that? No one would ever know, she supposed, shuddering as she recalled her father's bloated body washed up at Sheerness.
People had been kind, of course. Her father's friends, his business acquaintances, all had offered her their sympathy and condolences. After all, she was alone in the world now. Her mother had died eight years ago, and although she and her father had never been really close, she being away at school most of the time, she would miss him terribly.
Gradually, though, she had had to assert some interest in her own position. They had not been rich, but then again, they had by no means been poor, and it had come as a great surprise to her to learn that her father had taken out a huge personal insurance policy only weeks before his death. Naturally, this had aroused some suspicion at the inquest, but her father's solicitors had assured the Coroner that he was not in monetary difficulties. Their house, in a little square near Regent's Park, was worth a small fortune by today's standards, and the small company her father had owned seemed to be doing reasonably well. Mortimer Securities was not a large concern, but its profits were steady. There was no obvious reason why Charles Mortimer should have taken his own life, and so far as Charlotte was aware, that line of inquiry had been terminated.
Nevertheless, to discover that almost overnight she had become virtually an heiress troubled Charlotte, particularly as she had never felt any need for a lot of money. She couldn't imagine why her father should have felt obliged to take out such an insurance, and she didn't quite know what she was going to do with it.
At the time of the accident, she had been working on a part-time basis in a boutique in Knightsbridge. The boutique was owned by the mother of a school friend and as Charlotte had only just left school and was still undecided what to do with her education, she had welcomed the chance to earn some pocket money. She enjoyed the opportunity too of studying clothes at dose range, and was considering taking up designing herself. There were always art courses available at college.
But all that seemed distant now, unreal, and she blamed herself bitterly for not giving her father more attention. Perhaps he had been tired, overworked; on reflection she could remember a certain look of strain at times. If only she had not been so wrapped up with thoughts of her proposed career she might have persuaded him not to make that final trip.
And then the summons came, a rather chilly little letter which Charlotte read several times before thrusting it away in her handbag. She imagined her father's solicitors were dismayed at her apparent lack of interest in her inheritance. Perhaps they could see their fat fees dwindling now that Charles Mortimer was no longer around to require their services. Whatever, Charlotte was not too concerned. With the finance company being assessed, and doubts already in her mind that she would go on living in their house in Glebe Square, what did she want with a hundred thousand pounds?
It was with some misgivings that she was shown into Mr. Faistaff's office. These surroundings reminded her too vividly of her early visits there immediately after her father's death, and her mouth felt dry and there was a disturbing burning sensation behind her eyes at the remembrance.
Mr. Falstaff was no Shakespearean hero figure. Small, and slight, with wispy grey hair, he looked most like a clerk out of some Dickensian novel, though his eyes were sharp as they took in Charlotte's attractive appearance. Tall and slender, as she was, the events of the past four weeks had fined down her appearance, and in a simple jeans suit with her dark red hair loose about her shoulders, she looked years younger than the eighteen he knew her to be.
They shook hands, and Mr. Falstaff indicated she should be seated in the leather-seated chair opposite his own. Then, remaining standing, he said: "I'm so glad you could come, Miss Mortimer. The matter was - er - rather urgent."
The telephone rang at that moment, and with a click of his tongue, Mr. Falstaff excused himself to answer it. It gave Charlotte a few moments to compose herself, and she looked determinedly round the office, noticing the tome-lined walls describing law practice from the year dot. Why was it, she wondered, that solicitors' offices always had this air of decrepitude and solemnity? Was it because the reasons that most people came here had to do with death and its complications?
Then she thrust such thoughts aside. How morbid could you get? Her father was dead - she had to accept it. It came to everybody in time. What was it somebody had once said? - the only certain thing in life was death? She shivered.
Mr. Falstaff put down the receiver and turned to her again. "I'm sorry about that, Miss Mortimer," he apologized in his dry crackly voice, as dry and crackly as the tomes on the shelves behind him, "I hope we shan't be disturbed again."
"That's all right." Charlotte shook her head. "You wanted to see me?"
She was hurrying things, but she wanted this over. The old solicitor studied her silently for a few moments, and then he nodded, and subsided into his chair as though his thoughts had driven the strength from him.
"Tell me, Miss Mortimer," he said, fidgeting with his pea "Have you ever heard of Alex Faulkner?"
Charlotte stared at him. "Alex Faulkner ? The name doesn't mean anything to me. Should it?"
"That remains to be seen." The lines on Mr. Falstaff's face deepened. "Your father didn't mention his name to you?"
"No. I've told you, I've never heard of him before." Charlotte spoke impatiently.
"No, no, of course not. But surely - you must have heard of Faulkner International?"
"Faulkner International?" Charlotte shook her head. "I don't think so. Look, what is all this? Why do you want to know whether I know this man?"
"All in good time, Miss Mortimer. You will soon appreciate that I am in a rather - er - difficult position, and I am trying to handle this in the best way I know how."
"Handle what?" Charlotte felt a twinge of unease.
"I'm coming to that, Miss Mortimer." Mr. Falstaff shifted uncomfortably. "You were saying — you don't recollect hearing of Faulkner International. I'm surprised. The name is not unknown. Oil - shipping - casinos - "
"Please, Mr. Falstaff, get to the point."
"Very well. Alex Faulkner was an associate of your father's."
"So were lots of people."
"I appreciate that. But this - relationship was rather different."
"In what way?"
"You must understand, Miss Mortimer, Alex Faulkner does not normally involve himself in the actual running of his companies. He employs directors for that purpose. Indeed, few people know him very well. He is not interested in a jet set kind of existence. In fact, I believe he lives very quietly."
Charlotte sighed. "So? What has this to do with me?"
Mr. Falstaff's lips tightened. "Give me time, Miss Mortimer. You young people are so impatient. It is essential that you should understand the picture." He sighed. "Your grandfather knew his father quite well."
"Did he?" Charlotte was beginning to sound bored.
"Yes. I should tell you at this juncture, Faulkner is not exactly a contemporary of your father's. He is, I suppose, almost forty. Your father was some years older, wasn't he?"
"You know he was."
"Yes. Well, they - your father and Faulkner - met again some years ago. Indeed, they shared an interest in sailing. Your father knew France
quite well, didn't he?"
Charlotte nodded. "We used to have a small villa - just a cottage really. Daddy sold it a couple of years ago."
Mr. Falstaff nodded. "And he didn't mention Faulkner to you?"
"Why should he? I was still at school. I didn't know all his
business acquaintances."
Mr. Falstaff sighed heavily. "This wasn't altogether a business acquaintanceship." He hesitated. "Miss Mortimer, you were aware of your father's interest in gambling, weren't you?"
Charlotte stiffened. "I don't know what you mean."
"I think you do, Miss Mortimer."
"He played the horses a few times. I knew that."
"That's not what I meant. You didn't know of his interest in cards, for example?"
Charlotte twisted her hands together. "I knew he enjoyed cards, yes. He used to play bridge - "
"Not bridge, Miss Mortimer. Poker !"
Charlotte gasped. "No."
Mr. Falstaff shook his head. "This is so much harder than I had anticipated. Miss Mortimer, your father Was a compulsive gambler. He had been so for years."
"No!"
"I'm afraid he was."
Charlotte swallowed hard. "Wh-what has this to do with Alex Faulkner?"
"I'm coming to that."
"You said - Faulkner owns casinos. Did he - persuade my father to play in them? To lose money?"
"I mean no such thing." Mr. Falstaff was flustered. "On the contrary, Faulkner seldom enters his casinos. But your father did get into debt for - well, rather a lot of money."
"I don't believe it. Why, the company - our house - "
"Everything appears to be intact, doesn't it? But Alex Faulkner owns your father's possessions just as surely as if he had signed the deeds."
"But why didn't I know? Why wasn't I told?" Charlotte was shattered.
"For the simple reason that I did not know myself until yesterday."
"But how can you be sure - "
"I'm satisfied that what Faulkner's solicitors say is true."
Charlotte got up from her seat, unable to sit still after such a revelation. "I -Ican't believe it!”
"Nor could I. At first."
Charlotte's brain darted here and there, trying to absorb what this would mean to her. Then she swung round. "The insurance I Daddy's insurance!" She expelled her breath unsteadily. "Thank God for that !
"I'm - afraid not."
"What do you mean?"
"Oh, Miss Mortimer, can't you see? This throws an entirely different light on your father's death. Once the police learn that your father was mortgaged up to the hilt, I doubt very much whether they'll be content with the Coroner's findings."
"You mean - you mean - you think Daddy - Oh, no !He - he wouldn't."
"In the circumstances, Ithink he might."
"What - circumstances?" Charlotte stared at him.
"Sit down, Miss Mortimer. I haven't finished yet."
Charlotte looked as though she might refuse, but eventually she resumed her seat, staring at the solicitor with wary eyes.
"I have in my possession a letter from Faulkner," said Mr. Falstaff slowly. "In it, he sets out a certain contract he made with your father in return for lending him a vast sum of money."
"What kind of a contract? Let me see the letter."
"All in good time, Miss Mortimer. Briefly, it waives your father's debts in return for - something else."
"Oh, do stop hedging. What 'something else'?"
"You, Miss Mortimer. You!"
"Mel" Charlotte sank back in her chair aghast. "What do you mean - meV
Mr. Falstaff looked most unhappy. "Miss Mortimer, during our little talk I've tried to explain that Mr. Faulkner is a rather - remote figure. He cares little for anyone, and in consequence there are few women in his life. Nevertheless, he does realise that some day he will have to retire, and when that time comes he will require an heir, someone to carry on the organization after he is dead - "
"You - you mean - " Charlotte gasped disbelievingly, trying to make light of something that was too ludicrous to be true. "Good lord, what does he think I am? A brood mare?"
"Please, Miss Mortimer. This is no laughing matter."
"You're damn right. It's not. It's stupid, ridiculous! I can't believe that anyone in this day and age could have seriously considered something so - so barbaric! Me? Marry a man I don't even know? A man old enough to be my father!" She hesitated. "I'm presuming marriage is what, he has in mind."
"Oh, yes. The solicitors were most definite about that."
Charlotte shook her head. "I suppose I should be flattered. He might have decided just to use me !
"Miss Mortimer !"
"Well, it's madness!"
"Mr. Faulkner is a very determined man."
"Well, it's not on, and that's that."
"I'm afraid that's not that, as you put it.?”
"Why not?"
"I don't think you've really considered what this could mean, Miss Mortimer. Alex Faulkner owns you just as surely as he owned your father. Your house, your clothes, your car ... Even the company."
"There's still the insurance."
"I doubt they'll pay out."
"But why should they suspect? You said yourself, you didn't know until Faulkner - "
"Miss Mortimer, I have my position to consider. They will have to be told. But even if I remained silent, Alex Faulkner would not."
"You mean - he would inform the police?"
"If you fail to agree to his plans, he might go to any lengths."
"The - the swinel" Charlotte felt almost physically sick. "Why is he doing this?"
"Because he wants you - as his wife."
"But why? Why me?"
"Perhaps your father - " He broke off. "I don't know. He's not looking for a woman he can love, Miss Mortimer. Just a mother for his son."
"My God, it's feudal !" Charlotte squared her shoulders. "Well, let him do his worst. Let him take the company - and the house - and the car! I can earn a living. I have a job already. I don't need his money, even if Daddy did."
She was refusing to consider the other implications behind all this. They were too painful to contemplate here, in this dry dusty office, in company with this dry dusty man. .
Mr. Falstaff leant towards her. "Charlotte," he said, using her given name for the first time. "Charlotte, don't think too badly of your father. If you want my opinion, I think he did take his own life — "
"Because he couldn't face what he had done!"
"No. No, to try and salvage what he had done. Charlotte, remember the insurance. He only took it out a few weeks before he died. Obviously, he thought if Faulkner got his money..."
Charlotte held her breath. "Do you think - "
"No. It's no use." Mr. Falstaff was very definite about that. "After receiving the - er - communication, I contacted Faulkner's solicitors by telephone. They stated emphatically that Mr. Faulkner is no longer interested in a settlement of the debt"
"But - but is that legal?"
"Well, it's not illegal. Not in the circumstances. It does involve a certain amount of moral blackmail, but that's not illegal either. Clearly, your father underestimated the man."
"What do you mean? What kind of moral blackmail?"
"Consider, Charlotte, what the press could make of your father's suicide. Are you prepared to have his name dragged through the mud?"
Charlotte shook her head. "If what you say is true, my father died because of me. Do you think he'd care about his name being smeared because of it? If it stopped Alex Faulkner getting what he wanted?"
Mr. Falstaff sighed wearily. "You forget - the contract."
"I signed no contract."
"No. But your father did."
Charlotte frowned. "Surely Faulkner would never publicise that! Good lord, it would involve him just as much as Daddy."
"Not necessarily. Charlotte, you don't realise, a man in Alex Faulkner's position can do almost anything without suffering the co
nsequences. I've no doubt he owns more than one prominent editor of a national newspaper. Can you imagine how this could be portrayed? The Price of Virginity! Business man settles Gambling Debts with his Doughter! The Infamous Games People Play I"
Charlotte caught her breath. "You're wasted here, do you know that?" she burst out on a sob. "You should be writing the headlines yourself !"
"I regret those were not my quotations," replied Mr. Falstaff quietly. "They were quoted to me."
Charlotte got up again and walked restlessly round the room. "He can't do this to me! He can't?'
Mr. Falstaff shrugged his thin shoulders. "I wouldn't bank on it, Miss Mortimer. Not unless you're prepared to shoulder the interest which might accrue."
Charlotte walked to the window and looked down on the busy London street. Her mind was in a turmoil. She could not take in all she had heard, and what she had taken in, she could not believe. She had heard of people owning other people, of course, who hadn't? But that her father should be among that assembly didn't bear thinking about. Who was this man who thought he held the power of life or death over people? What manner of man could he be to drive another man to sacrifice his own daughter for a game of cards? It was like some Victorian melodrama, only she was no Victorian. And he was a cold, heartless shell of a man, incapable of acquiring a wife for himself.
Swinging round, she said: "So where is he? This Alex Faulkner? I want to see him."
"He does not live in England," said Mr. Falstaff flatly. "And that will have to be arranged."
Charlotte's lips trembled. "Oh, yes, arrange it. I want to tell him to his face exactly what I think of him!"
Mr. Falstaff rose to his feet. "Oh, Charlotte, please! Don't act rashly. You're little more than a schoolgirl. Faulkner could eat you alive!"
"Oh, really? Not when I get through telling him what an inhuman beast of a man he is! What a pathetic imitation of a man he must be to get his kicks through manipulating others!"
Mr. Falstaff could see the unshed tears glistening behind her eyes, and he shook his head compassionately. "My dear child, stop tormenting yourself like this."
"What am I supposed to do? Accept it?"
"I think you may have to. There are worse fates."