False Money

by Veronica Heley

  Claudine stood, unsteadily. She held an empty glass in one hand and one of her high heeled shoes in the other. ‘Anticlimax. Chris, do we need the camera and sound recording any longer?’

  Chris lifted his hands from the camera, and Oliver came forward to disconnect the overhead microphone.

  Claire tried to stand, but Marigold – who must be made of iron – put her hands on Claire’s shoulders and held her down.

  Claudine lost her balance and stumbled, raking down Claire’s cheek with the spiky heel of her shoe.

  Claire screamed. Blood seeped from the cut. Everyone froze.

  Claudine said, ‘Oops! So sorry! What a horrible accident!’

  ‘Yes,’ said Hermia, in a strangled voice. ‘An accident.’

  Jamie collapsed into a chair and put his head in his hands.

  Claire screamed, both hands to her face. ‘Help me!’

  Bea felt numb. No one could have anticipated that Claudine would administer her own concept of justice. Claire might easily have lost an eye, though she hadn’t. She was going to need stitches, though. Perhaps a police surgeon would see to that? Possibly a rather cack-handed police surgeon who might not do a terribly good job of patching Claire up? Claire’s pretty face might well be marred for good, which served her right. Bea was ashamed of herself for thinking that, but not deeply ashamed, though she supposed she ought to be.

  Hermia dithered, and then clicked her tongue against her cheek. ‘Mandy, do you think we could find a plaster for Claire’s cheek? We don’t want blood on the carpet, do we?’

  ‘Claire,’ said Gregor. ‘Compared to the friends we’ve all lost, don’t you think you’ve got off lightly?’

  Claire was beside herself. Foul language ripped from her pretty little mouth. ‘I’ll sue you all, see if I don’t.’

  A new voice broke in. ‘I saw it all. An accident, surely.’ The door to the next room stood open, and there stood CJ. How long had he been there? He said, ‘Good evening. I think I know everyone here . . . except, perhaps, Miss Mandy?’

  Bea sank back into the shadows. She guessed that from now on Hermia would do the explaining, Mandy would provide sustenance, Jamie would follow someone else’s lead, and the others would keep their mouths firmly shut.

  ‘What’s going to happen to me?’ asked Claire, once more the pathetic little child.

  Nobody replied.

  Tuesday morning

  Bea and Oliver got home in time for breakfast. She was wiped out with tiredness, too weary to eat. She drank two cups of tea and stumbled up to bed, leaving Oliver – who was hideously bright and cheerful even after a night without sleep – to deal with floods, hurricanes, tsunamis, epidemics, and the morning’s post.

  Thank You, Lord. Praise be. I’m so tired I can hardly think, but I do thank You. I’m not sure You think we all acted as You would have done. I’m not sure how guilty Jamie really was. But You know, and I trust You to be judge and jury in this case.

  Thank You for keeping Pippin alive and well. As for Claudine; I know I ought to be horrified, but I’m not sorry she did that to Claire. Yes, I know it was awful, but . . . Well, I’ll try to be sorry about it. Tomorrow.

  I’m glad Duncan and his girl got together. And Gregor, what a joker. The joker in the pack. The trump card.

  Claire’s face when Marigold got her in that amazing head lock . . .

  Thank You for Piers, and Maggie. Oliver and Chris. For justice.

  Will Hermia and Chris ever . . . who knows? Perhaps.

  And my little Pippin . . .

  Bea slept and dreamed she was nursing Pippin. She picked him up out of his cot and cradled him against herself. She could feel his little heart beating against her breast.

  Praise the Lord.

  She smiled in her sleep. Tomorrow she’d make it up with Max and Nicole. She’d apologize profusely and swear never to criticize their domestic arrangements again. She’d find them another day nanny; someone older and not as pretty as Claire. Pippin would put on weight and become a happy little bunny . . . and all would be well.

  A week later

  Bea returned from her twice weekly visit to see her grandson to find a bouquet of flowers on her desk. This was no cut-price bunch plucked from a pail in a convenience store. This was something a florist had lovingly put together from exotic flowers, encased in protective sheets of plastic and supplied with water so that it could stand on its own without the necessity of having to put it in a vase. It would have been expensively paid for by credit card.

  Ah. Chris?

  ‘May we come in?’

  Yes, Chris. And behind him was Hermia. Both were smiling. Chris seemed to have filled out since she last saw him. He’d had his hair cut shorter; most becoming. Hermia had let hers grow longer. Were they emphasizing his masculinity and her femininity? Hermia looked nervous, or perhaps . . . shy? Could Hermia ever be shy?

  ‘Ta-ra,’ said Chris. He held out an envelope made from top quality paper. ‘With thanks, from Hermia and Gregor, Duncan and Claudine. Jamie’s contribution is still to come.’

  ‘What?’ Bea laughed, because he was laughing. She opened the envelope and four cheques fell out, each one for a very significant amount. ‘But—’

  ‘I know, I know,’ said Hermia. ‘There was no contract, and you didn’t ask for any money, but without you we’d never have been able to solve the mystery. We’d have gone on wondering and worrying and feeling guilty about it. The police couldn’t or wouldn’t act until you found the evidence to send Claire to jail, and Jamie would probably have married the girl. He says he’s lost his chequebook, but I’ll screw the money for you out of him somehow. We agreed that Chris should deliver the money, since he started this whole thing off.’

  Chris was grinning. ‘We heard you were planning a loft conversion for Oliver and Maggie, and thought it might come in useful.’

  ‘Yes, but this is too much!’

  Chris’s smile disappeared. ‘What price do you put on avenging Tomi? Not to mention the others who have died? How many other people would Claire have gone on to kill, if you hadn’t stopped her?’

  Bea looked out of the window as a scatter of raindrops hit the glass. The sycamore tree was greening over at the bottom of the garden, and the bright polyanthus and wallflowers in the big pots were a delight to the eye. No such delights where Claire had gone. There was some talk of her being unfit to plead. She’d be locked away for years, whatever happened.

  Hermia produced another envelope. ‘Duncan and Mandy asked me to bring you an invitation to their wedding next month. He’s selling his flat, and they’re moving out into the country. He’ll invest his money wisely and hopes to keep it a secret from his gambling brother-in-law to be.’

  ‘And here’s another invitation,’ said Chris, flourishing it, ‘for my long-deferred birthday celebration. CJ is arranging for six of us – that’s you and him, Hermia and me, Oliver and Maggie – to have lunch in Paris via Eurostar next Friday. Do say you’ll come.’

  ‘What a lovely idea. I’d be delighted.’

  ‘There’s more good news,’ said Hermia, incandescent with pride in Chris. ‘My father has had long talks with Chris and seen what he’s done so far. He thinks Chris has great potential—’

  ‘Though I’ve a lot to learn, I know. Anyway, he’s on the board of a number of charities, and he wants me to make some short films for publicity purposes about the work they’re doing. Such films are usually dead boring, and it will up to me to make them interesting. Meanwhile, Gregor has found me a replacement for Tomi. She’s not at all like Tomi in some ways, but the camera loves her. And you won’t believe this, but Hermia’s changing jobs—’

  ‘I want to get more hands-on experience, working with the homeless—’

  ‘And Claudine says, “Hello,” and to tell you that she’s back with Alan, who’s fully recovered his health. She wants you to know she’s kept her mouth shut. She says you’ll understand.’

  Bea nodded. For all Claudine’s protestations that s
he was better off without Alan, she’d been distraught when she’d thought he might die. ‘And Jamie?’

  Hermia sighed. ‘The police are still considering whether or not to charge him as an accessory, but with the money he’s got he can afford a good solicitor, and we’ve all sworn he’s a stupid fool, but no murderer.’

  Chris grinned. ‘He tried to appeal to Hermia to go back to him, but she said, “Oh, grow up, Jamie!” so that’s that. I expect he’ll soon find someone else to mother him, and that’s all right so long as it’s not my girl.’

  ‘Will Claire press charges against Claudine?’

  A shrug. ‘We’re all agreed it was an accident.’

  ‘So all ends well and Tomi is avenged?’

  ‘It’s never over “till the fat lady sings”. There’ll be a trial, and we’ll have to give evidence unless Claire is found unfit to plead. But yes, in a way it’s over.’

  Once they’d gone, Bea sat down to consider the four cheques laid out before her. She had an impulse to tear them up, but desisted. If Jamie had sent her a cheque, she probably would have torn it up, but the others’ hands were clean. Weren’t they?

  True, they hadn’t known precisely what had been going on, but Bea thought they’d probably all had their suspicions – some more so and some less. Could they be expunging their guilt by giving away some of their money?

  What do You think, Lord?

  Judge not, lest ye be judged.

  Well, that could work either way, I suppose.

  She wondered about buying herself some boots like Hermia’s. But no; she’d have to go to Milan to buy anything as good-looking.

  Well, she could, couldn’t she? She hadn’t had a holiday for ever, so why not fly off to Milan, spend some money, and return with a new wardrobe?

  Hm. She’d think about it. She put the cheques in her drawer, and turned to answer the ringing of the telephone. Business as usual. Praise the Lord.