False Pretences

by Veronica Heley

  ‘Silly! He enjoyed every minute of that.’

  ‘In parts, yes. Not all the time. He is only eighteen, still.’

  ‘He loves the work here.’

  ‘No, he doesn’t. He likes to be useful, but you know as well as I do that he could run the agency with one hand tied behind his back and never feel the strain. I can see the signs already. He needs to use his brains, or very soon he’ll get bored. And then he’d look around for something more interesting to do, and we’d lose him completely.’

  Maggie took a tissue and blew her nose, hard. ‘He likes solving crimes. Couldn’t we turn ourselves into a detective agency?’

  ‘No, we couldn’t. Trying to solve murders is turning my hair grey. I’m too old for it. Our domestic agency helps a great number of people to find the right jobs and generally spreads light and happiness around. Dealing with people like Honoria is another matter entirely.’

  ‘Someone has to solve murders.’

  ‘Someone tougher than me. Let’s face it; Oliver is a high flyer, an eagle. And we are more like hedge sparrows, you and I.’

  A giggle, sort of. ‘There, now. And I always thought I was more of a noisy, colourful parrot.’

  ‘And what am I?’

  ‘A wise owl, who knows all the answers.’

  Bea didn’t think she knew all the answers; in fact, she thought she knew very few of them. But she rubbed Maggie’s shoulders, reassuringly, then let her go. The child would survive, and so would Bea.

  The phone rang. It was Max, in hectoring mode. ‘Mother, I need to see you. What have you been saying to Lettice?’

  ‘Calm down, Max. Lettice and I have been getting to know one another better, that’s all.’

  Heavy breathing. ‘She’s not picking up my calls.’

  Ah, Lettice had noticed a call on her mobile as they left the charity’s offices and had decided not to accept it just then. Had that call been from Max? And if so, was Lettice’s decision not to take the call a good thing or not? ‘She makes her own decisions.’

  ‘You’re at the bottom of this, I know. I’m coming round.’

  ‘It’s not terribly convenient. Oh well, if you must. Ring three short and one long on the bell, and I’ll let you in.’

  ‘What? What are you up to now?’

  ‘We don’t want all and sundry ringing the doorbell tonight, that’s all.’ She killed the call.

  Maggie was feeding Winston some chicken skin left over from supper. ‘I’m sure a proper detective agency would have a spyhole in the front door.’

  ‘I expect it would.’

  The phone rang again. This time it was Piers. ‘Are you all right? I tried you just now, and earlier on. You were engaged both times. I want to show you the photos I took of Nicole, see what you think. I’ll be round in a few minutes, right?’

  ‘Right. Use Beethoven’s Fifth on the doorbell.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Three short, one long.’

  Maggie looked at the clock. ‘It’s early yet. I wonder if I might go along to that party, after all.’

  ‘Or ring Zander?’

  She didn’t change colour but slowly shook her head. The phone rang again. Maggie was nearest and picked it up, listened and said, ‘Give three short and one long ring on the doorbell and we’ll let you in.’ She put the phone down, considered her make-up in the mirror.

  ‘Who was that?’

  ‘Policewoman. Making sure you’re all right. She’ll be around in five minutes.’

  Oh. The dishwasher had finished its stint. Bea opened it up. She looked at the clock, looked out of the window on to the flawless evening sunshine falling across the garden. It was, of course, ridiculous to think there was anything odd about the police calling her up at that time of night to make sure she was all right.

  Only, she couldn’t help remembering that there had been other misleading phone calls recently. Zander had been called up by someonepretending to be Della Lawrence; a call which was supposed to have taken him out to the suburbs and leave him without an alibi when the murderer called on his landlady.

  Next, Della had reported a phone call from a neighbour who had supposedly taken in a parcel for her, and that phone call had kept her at home when she’d intended to join her niece at the pub.

  The doorbell rang. Three short and one long.

  Max? Piers? Or . . . who?

  Friday evening

  Honoria tried to breathe deeply. For the fourth time she went over what she’d done. She’d had to take her own small car and leave Denzil’s Range Rover. Another sacrifice. But at least she’d brought away the evidence with her. She’d loaded the gun again, but seeing how built-up this neighbourhood was, she’d decided against using it. Too noisy. The hammer would do the job just as well.

  She’d brought the bloodstained overalls with her in a plastic bag but didn’t fancy struggling to pull them on over her ordinary clothes. For some reason, her magnificent body was no longer as responsive as it had been.

  Humpty Dumpty had a great fall. Oh, what a fall was there!

  She’d left the Manor ablaze and Denzil’s beautiful car burning like a torch, with that stupid cleaning woman’s body inside it. It hurt to think of all that she’d lost, all that she’d worked for, so many years of plotting and planning. Lost because of that pale Abbot creature. If it hadn’t been for her . . .

  Well, if it was the last thing she did, she was going to put that right. No one, but no one, got the better of Honoria and lived.

  She rang the doorbell, three short and one long.

  EIGHTEEN

  Friday evening

  Maggie sang out, ‘I’ll get it.’

  ‘No, don’t!’ Bea, on the far side of the dishwasher, was too late. The girl was already unlocking the door, undoing the chain, opening it.

  The door flew back, taking Maggie with it. The girl squawked, all the breath driven out of her as she was slammed back against the wall.

  Bea heard the door crash to and knew she’d guessed right. A pity she hadn’t thought to set the alarm when Oliver had left. She looked around for a weapon. Couldn’t see one. A knife? There was only one small paring knife easily accessible. She snatched it up, held it behind her.

  Honoria powered her way through the hall, her breathing loud, her eyes turning from left and right, searching for her prey. The hall was dim as sunlight faded from the day.

  ‘Where is she?’

  Maggie dragged herself upright, holding on to her ribs. ‘Who are you! Why—?’

  Honoria cut her off. ‘Where’s the Abbot woman?’

  Bea showed herself in the doorway from the kitchen as Maggie gave a thin scream.

  Honoria had Maggie’s right arm bent up behind her. The girl was bent over, left arm flailing.

  ‘Let her go,’ said Bea, arms at her side.

  Honoria pushed Maggie ahead of her as Bea backed slowly into the kitchen.

  ‘So you’re not dead,’ said Bea. ‘Whose body have they found in your car?’

  ‘The cleaning woman, of course.’

  ‘It ought to have been Kylie, though. Right?’

  ‘Time enough.’ The woman’s breathing was so loud that it filled the kitchen. She threw Maggie from her, sending the girl crashing into a cupboard. She slid to the floor next to the open dishwasher, whimpering. Honoria drew a claw hammer from the bag slung over her shoulder.

  ‘Plenty of time for Milly, too?’ said Bea.

  Honoria blinked. She continued to advance.

  Maggie had both hands to her head.

  Bea withdrew behind the table in the centre of the kitchen. ‘Maggie; can you hear me? Get out! Quick!’

  Maggie seemed to be only half conscious. She made an effort to rise. Honoria lifted her arm to swipe at the girl, who drew back just in time to avoid being hit again.

  ‘She stays down on the floor until I’ve finished with you.’ Calculation entered her eyes. ‘You, Abbot. Tie her up, and then she’ll be safe.’

  Bea gave a short laug
h, which she hoped didn’t betray the fact that she was frightened to death. ‘How foolish that would be. No way. So long as she’s free, she’s got a chance. And if you want me, you’ll have to come and get me – and hope I’m not holding a gun behind my back. Where’s yours, by the way?’

  Honoria blinked. ‘Never you mind.’ She advanced into the kitchen. Bea retreated till she came up against the back door. Now the table in the middle of the room was all that stood between them, too wide for Honoria to reach across.

  Maggie drew herself up into a ball of misery, holding her head with both hands. She was jammed against the dishwasher. She couldn’t move any further because Honoria was between her and the hall.

  Bea calculated distances. She could run out of the kitchen door – if she could wrestle it open in time – but once down in the garden, surrounded by high walls, there was no way out. However, if she could entice Honoria to follow her round the table and down into the garden, then perhaps there was a chance for Maggie to escape out of the front door. If Bea did that then she would have to take her chances down in the garden, perhaps grab a spade from the shed with which to defend herself? Except that the shed door was padlocked and the key was hanging up in a cupboard above Maggie’s head. And Maggie didn’t seem capable of movement.

  Could Bea perhaps lure Honoria round the table so that she could jump over the lowered door of the dishwasher, grab Maggie and run for safety? Not likely. Jumping over the dishwasher plus a stunned Maggie was not really on the cards. It would take an acrobat to do that. So, think of something else.

  She took a step back towards the table. Honoria took one towards it. The woman was measuring distances, smiling. Perhaps she had been concerned that Bea might dive for the back door? But if Bea wasn’t taking that escape route, then she was cornered.

  Bea took one more step towards Maggie, acted as if she couldn’t make up her mind what to do. Honoria laughed twirling her hammer, anticipating the moment when she would strike her opponent dead.

  Maggie whimpered, curled into a ball. Honoria spared her a glance. The girl’s terror seemed to please Honoria, for she passed her tongue over her lips. ‘I’m going to kill you both, of course. I’ll do the girl first, and then you. I can give the girl a quick death, or a slow one. It’s up to you. If you don’t want her to suffer, I can finish her off with one blow from this hammer. I know just how to do it. But I need you to beg for it first. Do you hear me? Down on your knees and beg. You’d do that for someone you’re fond of, wouldn’t you? So, how fond of this girl are you, eh?’

  Bea held the woman’s eye with hers. ‘I am very fond of her. She’s not my daughter, of course. You’ve never had children, have you?’

  ‘What’s that to you?’ She swung the hammer, round and down, hitting the table. Maggie shrieked. She looked up at Bea through spread fingers. Was she trying to convey a message? If so, Bea failed to understand what it was.

  Dear Lord, help! Lord, in your mercy, hear my prayer. If I have to suffer, then so be it. But Maggie’s still so young. Help her! Help us! Some distraction, please!

  ‘I have a knife here,’ said Bea, showing the sharp vegetable knife which was all she’d been able to pick up in her haste. ‘You usually take your victims by surprise, but as you can see, I’m forewarned and armed.’ She took another step towards Maggie, crouching low on the far side of the dishwasher. Honoria was still far too near to Maggie. Far too near. With one stride she could reach the girl and kill her.

  Honoria put one hand on the work surface, bending forward, eyes gleaming. She began to follow Bea round the table, away from Maggie.

  She raised the hammer to kill.

  Winston plopped through the cat flap into the kitchen and jumped up on to the table, causing Honoria’s concentration to waver for a moment. At the same time, the doorbell rang, three short and one long . . .

  Maggie uncurled herself. She reached into the dishwasher to retrieve a dinner plate, which she sent curving through the air like a Frisbee, to catch Honoria on her upraised arm.

  With a yell, Bea threw her little knife at Honoria’s face. The woman ducked and the knife failed to hit her. But now Maggie had another plate in her hand, and this time aimed for the woman’s arm. And hit her on the shoulder.

  Honoria yelled with fury. Winston fled with a shriek of alarm.

  Maggie screamed.

  Bea dived for the first thing that came to hand on her side of the dishwasher, a saucer, hurling it at the woman’s head.

  A dinner plate. Honoria threw up her arms to protect her head.

  A glass, crashing into Honoria’s forehead, caused her to drop her hammer, drove her back against the cooker.

  Plates, glasses, knives and forks; the two women screamed and threw, crashing plates and glassware, breaking the glass of the cupboard door above Honoria, the front doorbell chiming furiously the while.

  A dinner plate curled through the air and caught Honoria on her chin. She jerked to her full height and then – had she really been knocked out? – her legs gave way and let her down, slowly, so slowly, on to the floor.

  As Bea stared, panting, another plate ready to throw, she saw something odd happen to Honoria’s face. It slid sideways.

  Honoria lay still, at an awkward angle.

  Breathing hard, Bea lowered the plate she was holding on the table. She pushed Maggie towards the door. ‘Let them in, whoever . . . Probably Max . . . or Piers.’

  Maggie scrambled for the door, while Bea cast about, trying to find where Honoria had dropped her hammer. There. Under the table. Bea kicked it to one side, got the dustpan and brush and swept it into that.

  Honoria didn’t move. She looked grotesque, a large, untidy middle-aged to elderly woman lying on the floor, her head propped up at an angle by the stove behind her.

  Maggie returned, panting out the news of what had happened, followed closely by Max, who took in the carnage and was deeply displeased. ‘What on earth’s been going on here? Just look at the mess!’

  Piers was on their heels. ‘Bea, are you all right? What . . .?’

  ‘Meet Honoria, murderess extraordinary,’ said Bea. ‘Don’t touch her! I don’t trust her an inch. Although –’ she peered down at the woman on the floor, whose face definitely looked lopsided – ‘do you think she’s had a stroke?’

  Max said, ‘What on earth is going on? Who is that woman? What is all this mess? Mother? I can’t leave you alone for five minutes but you get into some scrape or other.’

  ‘Shut up,’ said Bea, being tough with him for once. ‘Piers, tell him to go away and pretend he hasn’t seen anything. After all,’ she said, heavily ironic, ‘he has to be careful for his reputation as a Member of Parliament, doesn’t he? He won’t want to be involved in capturing a woman who’s killed at least four times to my knowledge. Maggie, I’m not taking any chances that she might be faking it. Can you find something – anything – that we could use to knock her out with, if she gets up and starts on us again?’

  Maggie plucked a heavy Le Creuset pan off the rack by the stove. She stood with legs apart, both hands ready to wield the pan at the first sign of movement from Honoria.

  Piers had his mobile phone out. ‘Police first, I think. Max, get out of here while the going’s good. I’ll stay to support your mother and clear up afterwards.’

  Max hesitated, but to do him justice, stayed. ‘Let me talk to the police. They’ll take notice of me.’

  Reaction setting in, Bea began to cry and laugh at the same time. ‘My best cut-glass tumblers.’

  Maggie was grim. She had a bruise coming up on her chin and another on her upper arm where Honoria had hit her. ‘I don’t think we’ve a single dinner plate in one piece!’

  Piers shut off his phone. ‘I’ve called the police. They’re on their way. I’m told that stroke victims need to be treated straight away, or they never make a complete recovery.’

  Bea and Maggie looked at him, trying to work out what he hadn’t put into words. Did he mean that he’d deliberatel
y not asked for an ambulance, so that Honoria would be deprived of treatment straight away? That he was condemning her to suffer more than she need?

  Bea moved towards the landline to summon an ambulance. Piers put out his hand to stop her. Bea looked at Maggie. Maggie looked back at her.

  The woman on the floor grunted, her right eyelid flickered. She tried to get off the floor and failed. Her left side appeared to be dead.

  Maggie lifted the Creuset pan but hesitated to strike.

  Somehow, painfully, Honoria managed to get to her knees, crunching shards of glass and pottery, and then, pulling herself up by the table, holding herself there by sheer willpower, she focused her one good eye on Bea . . . who seemed unable to move.

  Honoria lunged forward, signalling her intention to get at Bea . . . and crashed to the ground again as her once enormous strength failed her.

  Maggie dropped the Creuset pan. She was shaking. Crying. ‘I couldn’t hit her, I couldn’t.’

  ‘No,’ said Bea, regarding the fallen creature with pity and horror. ‘Neither can I.’

  Max got out his own mobile, clearing his throat. ‘I think we should summon an ambulance, all the same. They can sedate her, do whatever is necessary.’

  Piers grinned, not nicely. ‘We must be seen to go through the motions, mustn’t we?’

  Someone called out from the hallway. CJ appeared in the doorway, taking in the wrecked kitchen, the woman on the floor. He looked at her distorted face, her right hand clutching at the table leg, her left side useless.

  ‘Who are you?’ said Max to CJ. And into the phone, ‘Ambulance, please.’

  ‘He’s a friend in need,’ said Bea. ‘CJ, can you mop up, please? Honoria came here to kill. Her hammer’s in the dustpan. I haven’t touched it. She hit Maggie a couple of times, but I’m perfectly all right. Or, I will be when I’ve had a little sit down.’

  An autumn morning, noon

  The church was so full that the mourners overflowed the building and some had to listen to the service outside. A famous organist played Mendelssohn; a renowned quartet offered a favourite piece of Schubert. His grandson read out a roll call of his achievements for humanity. His great-grandchildren recited a poem he used to read to them when they were little.