Virginia rose from her place and walked slowly toward the door. “I’m so sorry to have to say, Priscilla, I won’t be visiting you again.”
“Then at least something good has come out of this,” said Robert.
“No one has ever spoken to me like that before,” Virginia said, turning back to face her adversary.
“Then I suggest you reread Elizabeth Barrington’s will, because she certainly had the measure of you. Now get out, before I throw you out.”
The butler only just managed to open the front door in time to allow Lady Virginia to continue on her way.
* * *
Clive abandoned his car outside the station and ran across the bridge to platform 3. He could hear a guard’s whistle, and by the time he reached the bottom step, the train was already pulling out. He sprinted after it as if he was in a hundred yard final, and was beginning to make up ground, but the train gathered speed just as Clive ran out of platform. He bent down, placed his hands on his knees and tried to catch his breath. As the last carriage disappeared, he turned and began to walk back along the platform. By the time he reached his car, he’d made a decision.
He climbed in, switched on the ignition and drove to the end of the road. If he turned right, it would take him back to Mablethorpe Hall. He turned left, accelerated and followed the signs to the A1. He knew that the milk train stopped at almost every station between Louth and London, so with a bit of luck, he would be back at the flat before she arrived.
* * *
Slipping the front door lock didn’t present a problem for the intruder, and although it was a fashionable block of flats, it wasn’t grand enough to employ a night porter. He climbed the stairs cautiously, making the occasional creak, but nothing that would wake anyone at 2:30 in the morning.
When he reached the second-floor landing, he quickly located flat number 4. He checked up and down the corridor; nothing. This time it took a little longer to slip the two locks. Once he was inside, he quietly closed the door behind him and switched on the light, as he had no fear of being disturbed. After all, he knew where she was spending the weekend.
He walked around the small flat, taking his time to identify all the paintings he was looking for: seven in the front room, three in the bedroom, one in the kitchen and a bonus, a large oil propped up against the wall by the door with a sticker on it marked Smog Two, To be delivered to the RA by Thursday. Once he’d moved them all into the living room, he lined them up in a row. They weren’t bad. He hesitated for a moment before taking a flick knife out of his pocket and carrying out his father’s instructions.
* * *
The train pulled into St. Pancras just after 2:40 a.m., by which time Jessica had decided exactly what she was going to do. She would take a taxi back to Clive’s flat, pack her belongings and phone Seb to ask if she could stay with him for a couple of days while she looked for somewhere to live.
“Are you all right, luv?” asked the driver as she sank into the back of the cab.
“I’m fine. Number twelve Glebe Place, Chelsea,” was all she could manage. There were no more tears left to shed.
When the taxi drew up outside the block of flats, Jessica handed the cabbie a ten-bob note, which was all she had, and said, “Would you be kind enough to wait? I’ll be as quick as I can.”
“Sure thing, luv.”
* * *
He’d almost completed the job, which he was enjoying, when he thought he heard a car pulling up in the street outside.
He placed the knife on a side table, went across to the window and pulled the curtain back a few inches. He watched as she climbed out of the back of the taxi and had a word with the cabbie. He moved swiftly back across the room, switched off the light and opened the door; another quick check up and down the corridor, again nothing.
He jogged down the stairs and, as he opened the front door, he saw Jessica coming up the path toward him. She was taking a key out of her handbag when he brushed past her. She glanced around, but didn’t recognize him, which surprised her, because she thought she knew everyone who lived in the building.
She let herself in and began to climb the stairs. She felt quite exhausted by the time she reached the second floor and opened the door to flat number 4. The first thing she must do was phone Seb and let him know what had happened. She switched on the light and headed toward the phone on the far side of the room. That was when she first saw her paintings.
* * *
Clive turned into Glebe Place twenty minutes later, still hoping he might have got back before her. He looked up, and saw that the bedroom light was on. She must be there, he thought, with overwhelming relief.
He parked his car behind a cab that still had its engine running. Was it waiting for her? He hoped not. He opened the front door and ran up the stairs to find the entrance to the flat wide open and all the lights on. He walked in, and the moment he saw them he fell to his knees and was violently sick. He stared at the wreckage strewn around him. All of Jessica’s drawings, watercolors and oils looked as if they’d been stabbed again and again, with the exception of Smog Two, which a large, jagged hole had been cut from the center of the canvas. What could have driven her to do something so irrational?
“Jess!” he screamed, but there was no reply. He pushed himself up and walked slowly into the bedroom, but there was no sign of her. That was when he heard the sound of a running tap, and swung around to see a trickle of water seeping under the bathroom door. He rushed across, pulled the door open and stared in disbelief at his beloved Jess. Her head was floating above the water, but her wrist, with two deep incisions no longer shedding blood, hung limply over the side of the bath. And then he saw the flick knife on the floor beside her.
He lifted her lifeless body gently out of the water, and collapsed on to the floor, holding her in his arms. He wept uncontrollably. One thought kept running through his mind. If only he hadn’t gone back upstairs to get dressed, but had driven straight to the station, Jessica would still be alive.
The last thing he remembered doing was taking the engagement ring out of his pocket and placing it back on her finger.
25
THE BISHOP OF Bristol looked down from the pulpit at the packed congregation of St. Mary Redcliffe, and was reminded of the impact Jessica Clifton had made on so many different people in her short life. After all, a drawing of him as the Dean of Truro hung proudly in the corridor of the Bishop’s Palace. He glanced at his notes.
“When a loved one dies in their seventies or eighties,” he began, “we gather to mourn them. We recall their long lives with affection, respect and gratitude, exchanging anecdotes and happy memories. We shed a tear, of course we do, but at the same time we accept that it’s the natural order of things. When a beautiful young woman, who has displayed such a rare talent that her elders accept without question that they are not her betters, dies, we are bound to shed many more tears because we can only wonder what might have been.”
Emma had shed so many tears since she’d heard the news that she was mentally and physically exhausted. She could only wonder if there was anything she could have done to prevent her beloved daughter suffering such a cruel and unnecessary death. Of course there was. She should have told her the truth. Emma felt she was just as much to blame as anyone.
Harry, who sat beside her in the front pew, had aged a decade in a week, and wasn’t in any doubt who was to blame. Jessica’s death would continually remind him that he should have told her years ago why they had adopted her. If he had, surely she would be alive today.
Giles sat between his sisters, holding their hands for the first time in years. Or were they holding his? Grace, who disapproved of any public show of emotion, wept throughout the entire service.
Sebastian, who sat on the other side of his father, was not listening to the bishop’s oration. He no longer believed in an all-caring, all-understanding compassionate deity, who could give with one hand, then took away with the other. He’d lost his best friend, whom he’d adored, and no
one could ever take her place.
Harold Guinzburg sat quietly at the back of the church. When he’d called Harry he was unaware that his life had been shattered in a single moment. He’d just wanted to share with him the triumphant news that his latest novel had gone to number 1 on The New York Times bestsellers list.
Harold must have been surprised by his author’s lack of response, but then, how could he have known that Harry no longer cared for such baubles, and would have been content not to have sold a single copy if in exchange Jessica could be there standing by his side, and not being laid to rest in an untimely grave.
After the burial ceremony was over and everyone else had departed to continue their lives, Harry fell on his knees and remained by the graveside. His sin would not be expiated quite that easily. He had already accepted that not a day, possibly not an hour, would go by when Jessica wouldn’t barge into his thoughts, laughing, chattering, teasing. Like the bishop, he too could only wonder what might have been. Would she have married Clive? What would his grandchildren have been like? Would he have lived long enough to see her become a Royal Academician? How he wished that it was her kneeling by his grave, mourning him.
“Forgive me,” he said aloud.
What made it worse, he knew she would have.
CEDRIC HARDCASTLE
1964
26
“ALL MY LIFE I’ve been considered by my fellow men to be a cautious, boring, dull sort of fellow. I have often heard myself described as a safe pair of hands. ‘You won’t go far wrong with Hardcastle.’ It was ever thus. At school, I always fielded at long stop, and I was never asked to open the batting. In the school play, I was always the spear carrier and never the king, and when it came to exams, I passed everything, but never came in the top three. While others might have been hurt, even insulted, by such epithets, I was flattered. If you set yourself up as a fit and proper person to take care of other people’s money, then, in my opinion, these are the very qualities that should be expected of you.
“As I approach old age, I have if anything become more cautious, more boring and, indeed, that is the reputation I would want to take to the grave when I eventually face my maker. So it may come as something of a shock to those seated around this table that I now intend to ignore every tenet on which I have based my whole life, and it may be even more surprising that I am inviting you to do the same.”
The six other people seated around the table may not have interrupted, but they were listening intently to every word Cedric Hardcastle had to say.
“With that in mind, I’m going to ask every one of you to assist me in destroying an evil, corrupt and unscrupulous man, so that when we are finished with him, he will be left so broken that he will never be able to harm anyone else again.
“From a distance, I have been able to observe Don Pedro Martinez as he systematically went about destroying two decent families with whom I’ve become associated. And I must tell you that I am no longer willing to stand by and, like Pontius Pilate, wash my hands and leave it to others to do the dirty work.
“On the other side of the cautious, boring, dull coin, is etched a figure with a reputation garnered in the City of London over a lifetime. I now intend to take advantage of that reputation by calling in favors and debts that I have stored up, like a squirrel, for decades. With that in mind, I have recently spent some considerable time devising a plan to destroy Martinez and his family, but I cannot hope for a successful outcome working on my own.”
Still no one seated around that table gave a moment’s thought to interrupting the chairman of Farthings.
“During the past few years, I have observed the lengths to which this man is willing to go to destroy the Clifton and Barrington families, who are represented here today. I witnessed at first hand his attempt to influence a potential client of this bank, Mr. Morita of Sony International, by having Farthings removed from the bidding list for a major contract, for no other reason than Sebastian Clifton was my personal assistant. We won that contract, but only because Mr. Morita had the courage to stand up to Martinez, while I did nothing. Some months ago, I read an article in The Times concerning the mysterious Pierre Bouchard and the heart attack that never happened but that nevertheless caused Sir Giles Barrington to withdraw his candidacy for the leadership of the Labor Party, and I still did nothing. More recently, I attended the funeral of an innocent, highly talented young woman who drew the picture of me that you can all see on the wall beside my desk. During her funeral service, I decided I could no longer be a dull and boring man, and if it meant breaking the habits of a lifetime, so be it.
“For the past few weeks, without Don Pedro Martinez being aware of what I was up to, I have spoken in confidence to his bankers, stockbrokers and financial advisers. All of them assumed that they were dealing with that dull fellow from Farthings, who would never consider exceeding his authority, let alone overstep the mark. I discovered that over the years, Martinez, who is a chancer, has taken several risks, while at the same time showing scant regard for the law. If my plan is to succeed, the trick will be to spot the moment when he takes one risk too many. Even then, if we are to beat him at his own game we may need to take the occasional risk ourselves.
“You will have noticed that I have invited one other person to join us today, whose life has not been tainted by this man. My son Arnold is a barrister,” said Cedric, nodding to the younger imprint of himself seated on his right, “and, like myself, he is considered a safe pair of hands, which is why I have asked him to act as my conscience and guide. Because if, for the first time in my life, I am going to bend the law to breaking point, I will need someone to represent me who is able to remain detached, dispassionate and uninvolved. Put simply, my son will act as our moral compass.
“I will now ask him to reveal what I have in mind, so you will be in no doubt of the risk you would be taking should you decide to join me in this venture. Arnold.”
“Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Arnold Hardcastle, and much to my father’s chagrin, I chose to be a lawyer rather than a banker. When he says that I am, like him, a safe pair of hands, I consider that a compliment, because if this operation is to succeed, one of us will have to be. After studying the government’s latest finance bill, I believe I’ve found a way to make my father’s plan work, which, although not breaking the letter of the law, would certainly be ignoring its spirit. Even with that proviso, I have come up against a problem that might possibly prove insurmountable. Namely, we need to identify an individual whom no one around this table has ever met, but who feels just as passionately about bringing Don Pedro Martinez to justice as do all of you.”
Although still no one spoke, the lawyer was greeted with looks of incredulity.
“If such a man or woman cannot be identified,” continued Arnold Hardcastle, “I have advised my father to drop the whole idea and send you on your separate ways, aware that you may have to spend the rest of your days continually looking over your shoulder, never certain when or where Martinez will strike next.” The lawyer closed his folder. “If you have any questions, I will try to answer them.”
“I don’t have a question,” said Harry, “but I can’t see how it’s possible to find such an individual given the circumstances. Everyone I know who has come across Martinez detests the man as much as I do, and I suspect that goes for everyone around this table.”
“I agree,” said Grace. “In fact, I’d be quite happy for us to draw straws to decide which one of us should kill him. I wouldn’t mind spending a few years in jail if it meant we could finally rid ourselves of that dreadful creature.”
“I couldn’t help you there,” said Arnold. “I specialize in company law, not criminal, so you would need to find another advocate. Should you decide to go down that route, however, there are one or two names I could recommend.”
Emma laughed for the first time since Jessica’s death, but Arnold Hardcastle didn’t.
“I’ll bet there are at least a dozen men in Argentin
a who would meet those requirements,” said Sebastian. “But how would we go about finding them when we don’t even know who they are?”
“And when you did find them,” said Arnold, “you would have defeated the purpose of my father’s plan, because if the action ended up in a court of law, you couldn’t claim you didn’t know of their existence.”
There followed another long silence, which was finally broken by Giles, who hadn’t spoken until then. “I think I’ve come across such a man.” He had grabbed the attention of everyone around the table in a single sentence.
“If that’s the case, Sir Giles, I will need to ask you a number of questions about this particular gentleman,” said Arnold, “and the only answer that would be acceptable in law is no. Should your answer to even one of my questions be yes, then the gentleman you have in mind is not eligible to carry out my father’s plan. Is that clear?”
Giles nodded as the barrister reopened his file and Emma crossed her fingers.
“Have you ever met this man?”
“No.”
“Have you ever conducted any business transactions with him, either on your own behalf or through a third party?”
“No.”
“Have you ever spoken to him on the telephone?”
“No.”
“Or written to him?”
“No.”
“Would you recognize him if he passed you in the street?”
“No.”
“And finally, Sir Giles, has he ever contacted you in your capacity as a Member of Parliament?”
“No.”
“Thank you, Sir Giles, you have passed the first part of the test with flying colors, but I must now move on to another series of questions that are just as important, but this time, the only acceptable answer is yes.”
“I understand,” said Giles.
“Does this man have good reason to loathe Don Pedro Martinez as much as you do?”
Be Careful What You Wish For (The Clifton Chronicles) Page 19