False Pretences

by Veronica Heley

  None of the men had bothered to take the coffee cups out to the kitchen. Naturally. Bea had thought Chris might, but no, he was busy teasing Winston with the crackly ball he’d made of his crisp packet. CJ stopped her as she went to pick up the tray.

  ‘I wonder if you could spare me a few minutes . . .’ It was a command, not a suggestion. She raised her eyebrows but seated herself again.

  CJ said, ‘I’m sure you realize how difficult this is for Tommy. His life’s work falling apart, the Trust damaged by fraud and left at the mercy of an unprincipled woman and Denzil’s appointee, Trimmingham. Tommy’s mind is still clear. He has refused to take the morphine he needs to kill the pain, so that he can make one last try to right the situation.’

  Now what? Playing the sympathy card won’t get you anywhere, CJ.

  He interlocked his fingers, leaning forward to make his point. ‘He has formed the highest opinion of your abilities, and he would like to appoint you chair of the board of directors for the Trust, starting today.’

  ‘What?’ She almost laughed. Then realized he was in earnest. ‘Me? No, no. That’s ridiculous. Impossible!’

  ‘Why should it be so impossible? You have an excellent business brain; you know how to deal with rogues such as Trimmingham and Sir Cecil. You could sort out the problems there in no time, and of course you would receive an excellent remuneration for your trouble.’

  Bea blinked. ‘CJ, I appreciate the compliment, but I have a full-time job here. This business does not run itself. As it is, I have spent far too long away from my desk trying to salvage your beloved Trust, and I expect to find all sorts of problems when I get back to my computer. Butlers will have been sent for interview as nannies and au pairs, estate managers will be parading as chefs, and aged aunts will have been escorted to the wrong terminal at Heathrow. You have no idea . . . Well, why should you have? I’m sorry, but you are looking at the wrong person to help you out of the mess. And incidentally, why don’t you do it yourself?’

  He blenched. ‘No, I’m afraid that would be impossible, conflict of interests, my work for the police . . . No.’

  A tiny worm of an idea inserted itself into the back of Bea’s head. No, she couldn’t do it, but did she know someone who might be suitable? Someone with a good brain and a manipulative mind? Someone at a loose end? No, of course not. Ridiculous idea.

  ‘Yes?’ he said, latching on to her sudden stillness.

  She shook her head. ‘No. Really. I’m flattered, but . . . no.’

  He stood up. ‘Tommy will be disappointed. He’s convinced you’re the only person to stop Honoria in her tracks. Will you please think about his offer? Seriously? You could always appoint a manager to run the agency for you, and you would be influencing the lives of thousands of people for good – not just the occasional schoolgirl who needs escorting across London.’

  Bea shook her head. In one way it was tempting, yes. But Tommy only wanted her because she’d stood up to Honoria. What he really needed was a businessman or woman with a core of steel. Someone as tough as Honoria but on the side of the angels. And at that point Bea smiled to herself, because the person she’d thought of to fill the gap wasn’t necessarily on the side of the angels. Far from it. So much for silly ideas! She shook her head, more at herself than in reply to CJ’s offer.

  CJ was watching her. ‘Very well. But will you do one thing for Tommy? Would you meet the directors of the Trust this afternoon and make them see why Honoria cannot possibly be allowed to get involved? They’ll listen to you. Show them the birth certificate and the report from The Times. Tell them about Sandy Corcoran. Link it all up for them.’

  ‘Why don’t you?’

  ‘I have . . . another appointment. Hm, yes.’ A glance at the clock. ‘In fact, I’m due to meet with Counsel shortly, on another matter entirely. A difficult case with all sorts of interesting ramifications. I really ought to be on my way there now. Take young Oliver with you; let him show them how he discovered what Denzil had hidden. He’ll enjoy that. Three o’clock at their offices, say?’

  Before she could start making excuses, he’d managed to glide out of the room. They heard the front door open and close. He had gone.

  Oliver grinned. ‘Well, why not?’

  Chris looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘What’s for lunch?’

  Bea tried to control her temper. ‘What CJ wants is tantamount to waving a red rag in front of a bull. It would focus Honoria’s attention on us. She’d be here, seeking revenge, within hours, armed with a gun or cricket bat or whatever weapon she’s toting around nowadays. Do you want to be slaughtered in your beds?’

  Oliver stopped smiling. ‘No, but we could take precautions.’

  ‘I could doss down here overnight,’ offered Chris.

  The doorbell rang, and Bea went to see who it was, saying, ‘None of you are taking her seriously. This is not a game to her, though it might be to you.’

  She opened the door to Piers, her ex, who was carrying an artist’s portfolio, and who dived into the house as if the devil were after him . . . which in a way he was. Or rather, she. For chasing him up the steps came Lettice, Nicole’s blonde bombshell of a younger sister, who was either the bane or beauty of Max’s life, though neither he nor anyone else seemed to know which. Lettice’s blonde mop was almost dishevelled as she tottered along on her high heels, eeling into the hall as Bea closed the door behind Piers.

  ‘There you are, you naughty man! You can’t escape me, you know!’

  Piers shuddered. He reminded Bea of a cornered fox. ‘Get rid of her, Bea!’ He shot into the sitting room, leaving his ex-wife to deal with the problem.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Bea, standing solidly in front of Lettice. ‘I have a business meeting here today.’

  Lettice went on tiptoe in her heels to peer over Bea’s shoulder. ‘Is my sister here yet? She said she was coming. Piers wants to do some preliminary sketches of us.’

  ‘No, she isn’t and I’m sorry, but I really am very busy—’

  The doorbell rang again. Before she could prevent her, Lettice opened the door, and there was Nicole, with an armful of dresses and plastic bags.

  ‘There you are!’ said Lettice, triumphant. ‘Now we can get this sorted out.’ She pulled her sister into the hall and shoved her, squeaking, into the sitting room.

  Piers was getting the boys to move the dining room table away from the windows which overlooked the road. Of course, the light would be better there than at the other end of the room.

  ‘Lettice, I told you—’ Nicole was bleating, already wilting under attack.

  ‘Two for the price of one,’ said Lettice, complacently. ‘Piers will do a twin portrait of us, right?’

  ‘Wrong!’ said Piers. He was wearing a starched white shirt over jeans but looked very far from cool. ‘Bea, can’t you—’

  Oliver and Chris could see a storm brewing and edged towards the door. Oliver said, ‘I’ve got another picture to look at.’ And made his escape, closely followed by Chris.

  The doorbell rang again. Nicole collapsed on to the settee, still surrounded by her bags of clothing, and began to cry. Lettice seized one end of the dining table and began to push it further from the window. Piers said, ‘Stop!’ But she took no notice, pinning him up against the fireplace.

  ‘Right!’ Piers said. ‘That’s torn it, good and proper. I don’t often lose my temper, but . . . sit over there, and I’ll do a sketch of you that you won’t want to show to anyone!’

  Bea threw up her hands and went to answer the door. It was a van delivering the food order she’d given the day before, and which needed to be attended to straight away. Frozen food in the freezer, perishables in the fridge, groceries in the cupboards, fresh vegetables and fruit here and there . . . something left out for lunch and tonight’s supper.

  She’d rather hoped that Chris might have come up to assist her, but no; he’d disappeared downstairs with Oliver to look at more pictures of pretty girls. If she called him up to help her,
he’d be sure to drop or break something, to make the point that this sort of thing was way beneath his dignity.

  The phone rang and she answered it. CJ, saying that the board of directors were expecting her at two thirty that afternoon, not three.

  Bea sighed to herself. Did those awful old men really think she could pull rabbits out of a hat for them? Surely not.

  All had quietened down next door. Bea couldn’t think why they weren’t all still shouting or weeping. She opened the door into the sitting room and went in, to see Piers tear a sheet off his sketch pad.

  ‘There,’ he said. ‘And much good may it do you.’

  Standing behind Lettice, Bea saw he’d sketched the girl as a harpy, with huge, greedy eyes and fingernails extended into talons. Her hair writhed around her head like a bundle of snakes. Bea snorted, trying not to laugh. Piers had got Lettice exactly right.

  ‘Piers; I didn’t know you did caricatures.’

  ‘I don’t,’ he said, still in a savage temper. ‘I only draw what I see.’ He looked down on Nicole who was still gently weeping, surrounded by a pile of dresses and bags which she hadn’t bothered to set aside.

  She looked back up at him. ‘I’m so sorry. I know I look a mess.’ She tried to smile, and suddenly his eyes sharpened. He got out a tiny camera and started snapping away. ‘Stay just like that. Keep smiling if you can. Don’t bother to wipe away the tears.’

  Lettice was transfixed by the caricature of herself. She made as if to tear it up but desisted. Perhaps she’d never realized before how she appeared to other people? Bea caught Lettice’s arm. ‘We need to talk. Come down to my office.’

  Friday noon.

  She could trust Trimmingham to keep her in the picture. She’d recognized him for what he was as soon as she’d met him and had known he’d fit perfectly into her plans for the Trust. And he had. He’d helped Denzil to get rid of the Della creature when the fluffy little niece had grown tiresome. He’d tried to stifle Zander and failed, but that was the only black mark against him – so far.

  He’d nominated her for Denzil’s position, and she knew he wouldn’t oppose her in trying for the top job.

  She couldn’t understand why he was losing his nerve. So Tommy wanted the board to meet that afternoon? What could he possibly do to change things? Wasn’t he still in hospital, anyway? Whether he came out or not, his day was over. The king is dead, long live the queen.

  Trimmingham was uneasy about the meeting because the toy boy’s Sugar Mummy was going to be there? What was her name again? Dean? Prior? Abbot.

  Well, if Mrs Abbot wanted to cross swords with her, then Mrs Abbot was going to get the shock of her life. Honoria wasn’t going to let that pale creature stand in her way.

  Should she attend the meeting? She had an appointment with the solicitor that afternoon, which she really ought to keep. But if Trimmingham really was worried, then perhaps she should reschedule and go up to town? She couldn’t make up her mind.

  SIXTEEN

  Friday noon

  ‘Now,’ said Bea, pushing Lettice into the big chair opposite her desk. ‘Let’s talk.’

  Lettice shuddered. She’d made no demur when taken downstairs. Was she still in shock? Once more she made as if to crumple up the caricature, then stopped. She didn’t cry. That wasn’t her scene.

  Bea said, ‘If you’ll take my advice, you’ll get him to sign and date that. Then frame it. Hang it in your office to terrify wrongdoers.’

  ‘What office? I have no office.’

  ‘You haven’t a job, either. Or an income. Or a husband. Or prospects. Right?’

  Lettice’s mouth twisted. ‘You’ve noticed? I need . . . I don’t know what I need.’

  ‘You need a job with prospects. Good prospects. Sorting out a load of stupid, shifty men who’ve made a mess of running a Trust that benefits hundreds of people. The sort of job which leads to an MBE, if you do it properly.’

  ‘Oh, and pie in the sky to you, too.’

  Bea contained her temper with an effort. She swivelled her chair to look out of the window. She’d seen her husband do that a thousand times when he needed to think something through. Or pray. So now she prayed, too. Dear Lord, what I’m about to do may be quite the wrong thing. It might be the last straw to break the Trust, or it might . . . She has got the right attitude, hasn’t she? She’s bright and forceful and very like Honoria in some ways. But not, hopefully . . . Oh, I do hope I’m not doing the wrong thing.

  She listened for a moment or two, but heard only the whirr of the fan, stirring the hot air in the office. Please give me some sort of sign, if what I’m going to do is wrong. It might be the saving of her. Please?

  Nothing happened, except that Winston stalked into the room, sniffed all round Lettice’s legs, and jumped on to her lap.

  Winston didn’t usually favour strangers with his company. Winston had shown a predisposition for young Chris’s company earlier that day, and that had been surprising enough. And now he was on Lettice’s lap?

  Even more interesting, Lettice’s face had softened, and she was scratching behind Winston’s ears.

  She said, ‘I always wanted a cat, but my father said . . .’ Her voice trailed away. ‘Nicole’s allergic, you see.’

  Oh. Bea considered Winston’s behaviour and thought that, on balance, it indicated Lettice was not altogether the out and out villainess she’d been painted. Maybe.

  ‘Lettice, I’ve been asked to sort out a Trust which has been run by a group of well-connected but inefficient men. One of them has been fiddling the books, and another has probably been corrupted into going along with the fraud. The fiddler has died and a most inappropriate person wants to take over. Being a bunch of lily-livered whatsits they haven’t enough sense to fend her off.

  ‘They need to bring in some fresh blood, a qualified accountant for a start. Someone has been suggested for that position but they’re baulking at the cost, which is really stupid of them . . . but then they are stupid, most of them. They also need a new broom; a facilitator, someone who can drag them into the new century, someone to knock their heads together and get the Trust back on a sensible footing.

  ‘I’ve been offered the job but can’t take it on because I’ve my work cut out for me here, so the position is up for grabs. They have a meeting this afternoon that I’ve been invited to attend, principally to see off the challenge from the fiddler’s wife. Would you care to accompany me?’

  Lettice’s eyes were sharp. She considered what had been said and what had not been said. ‘I have a business degree but never used it.’

  ‘You’re also tough enough to deal with a load of dithering directors, at least two of whom might be eligible as husbands. One of them even has a title.’

  Red flared in her cheeks. ‘Do you think I’m that shallow?’

  Bea, too, flushed. Yes, she had thought it. ‘I apologize. I shouldn’t have said that.’

  Lettice went to look out into the garden. ‘What you’re saying is that you’ll nominate me for an interesting job if I give up Max.’

  Silence. Yes, that’s what Bea had meant.

  Lettice said, ‘I don’t suppose you’ll believe me, but I really love Max.’

  ‘He’s not yours.’

  ‘You’ve never liked me, have you?’

  Silence. No, Bea hadn’t. ‘I didn’t realize you really loved him. I thought – well, never mind.’

  ‘You thought I was a silly, spoilt child latching on to someone else’s husband for kicks. Perhaps I am. But he’s . . . There’s something about him. I can’t keep my hands off him. And yes, I acknowledge that he won’t leave Nicole. I thought he might, but he won’t. Not now. So I suppose you’re right, and I ought to rethink my position.’

  Bea cleared her throat. ‘Talking of straying hands, there’s a pair of them at the Trust.’

  Lettice turned back into the room. ‘I know how to deal with straying hands.’

  ‘I’m sure you do. Can you also keep the owner of said straying ha
nds on the straight and narrow? And would you mind sticking to the straight and narrow yourself?’

  Lettice considered this, wearing a slight frown.

  Bea waited. Prayed a little. Lord, am I doing the right thing? Surely she’ll turn it down if I’m wrong? I’d never thought of her as being a white knight, riding to the rescue of the homeless, but maybe she’s never thought of herself that way, either. Maybe this is a turning point for her? But if I’m wrong . . . heavens, what a disaster for all concerned.

  Lettice’s eyes focused on Bea. ‘No one’s ever thought I could be a force for good before. What makes you think I can do it?’

  ‘They need someone tough enough to knock their heads together.’ Bea gestured to the caricature, now resting on her desk. ‘That side of you – it’s right up your street. Max has always said you’ve a sharp mind. Of course, they may not like you. You may not like them. I suggest you accompany me to a meeting this afternoon, and we’ll take it from there.’

  Lettice looked down at what she was wearing. A blouse, knotted at her midriff, and cut-off jeans. ‘I can’t go dressed like this.’

  Bea looked at her watch. ‘No, of course not. I’ll have to change, too. Nearly twelve, and there’s a lot to be done. I have to make copies of everything we’re going to use this afternoon and drop some into the police before we go to the meeting.’

  ‘I could help – if you’ll let me.’

  Bea approved. ‘Thank you. I’ll give you a quick run-down of what’s been happening as we go through the paperwork. Then I’ve got to sort out some lunch and see what’s going on in the office. I suggest we meet at the charity just before two thirty.’

  Friday afternoon

  As Bea and Oliver walked up the steps to the Trust’s offices, Lettice descended from a taxi. Both women were now wearing grey-striped business suits. It didn’t look as if Lettice was wearing anything but a bra under her jacket, but Bea certainly was. Both wore high heels and carried briefcases.

  Oliver, who ought perhaps to have considered shaving, wore a black shirt and matching black jeans. He was carrying his laptop.