by Cathy Ace
Heads nodded around the room. It seemed like my plan was going to be accepted.
‘But there is something else I need to know, before I could consider agreeing with such a plan,’ I added. ‘I need to ask Joe and Luis something; what happens to the income from Meg’s as yet unpublished manuscripts, her future book sales, any movie income – all that? Do either of you know about plans for her estate?’
Joe and Luis exchanged glances.
‘As far as we know,’ said Joe, ‘she didn’t have any plans in place to circumvent everything going to her next of kin . . . her mother. We both believe she had no Will – her business manager mentioned it to her often, but Meg didn’t deal well with “tomorrow”.’
I suspected Joe was right.
I spoke again. ‘So, Jean, for the rest of your short life, you’ll be an incredibly wealthy woman. Who knows, you might even be able to buy yourself a cure for your cancer . . .’ People shifted in their chairs; I wanted them to be uncomfortable, wanted them to understand the impact of what they were doing. ‘But I guess that’s unlikely. However, if everything of Meg’s goes to you, who gets it all when you die? Have you any relatives?’
Jean shook her head. ‘No relatives. My Will leaves everything to Meg.’ She pushed out her chin defiantly. The irony was lost on none of us.
‘Well, here’s what you’re going to do now, Jean; you’re going to set up a charity that will get every cent after your death. It’ll bear Meg’s name and it’ll support . . . what do we think is appropriate folks? Sex, drug and alcohol abuse counselling? Stillbirth grief counselling? Support and education in literature for young people? A creative writing program for teenagers . . . what?’
There was a general murmuring in the room.
‘They’re all good ideas, Cait,’ said Peter, uncomfortably, ‘but I have another suggestion; I know of a large number of very good charities that already exist. Many of them could do with a little help. Couldn’t we band together and set up a foundation. We could help out lots of programs.’
This idea drew a louder rumbling of approval.
‘How about you and Sally work with Jean, Joe and Luis, to make that happen then, Peter? And anyone else who wants to join in.’ I said. I was hating myself a little less as I spoke. ‘This could be something positive to come from Meg’s untimely death that’s greater than even she could have imagined.’
‘Oh, Peter, you’re so clever. Cait’s so clever. Can we spend the rest of our lives giving away money to people who need it? Oh, what wonderful work. The Lord’s work. How kind of Jean to do that with all of Meg’s money.’ Once again Sally had managed to stun me.
‘So we’re all agreed?’ I asked, knowing that everyone was. ‘Joe, Luis – did either of you mention any suspicious circumstances surrounding Meg’s death to anyone you spoke to?’
Both Joe and Luis shook their heads.
I was pretty much on my last legs by now; I wanted my bed. But I still had a few things to say. ‘I didn’t mention anything specific to the emergency services’ dispatcher, and, if I was hesitant about my feelings at the time, I can explain that by saying I was mystified that the body appeared to have been moved after death. So there we have it – Jean will not be accused of killing her husband and her daughter; we will all lie to protect her, and ourselves. Jean will accept her inheritance, graciously, and the four – well, five if we include Martha – of you will work with Jean to ensure the equitable distribution of Meg’s current and future wealth. I’m sure that knowing your commercial efforts and deal-making will have a charitable outcome will redouble your efforts, Joe . . . maybe to the extent that you even have to drop your other clients and just work for the Meg Jones Foundation. None of us will ever speak about the things we have heard and done here this weekend, because we’ve all got too much to lose.’
I looked across the room at the killer. ‘So, Jean, you’re safe. Everyone’s safe. All we have to do now is work on our consciences so that we don’t have sleepless nights about this. And all you have to do, Jean, is come to terms with the fact that you killed your daughter for no reason – no reason at all. You put yourself before Meg; you believed that what people might have thought about you, even after your imminent death, was more important than your daughter’s life. Maybe you’ll manage to forgive yourself for that before the cancer gets you – but I never will.’
I stood – there wasn’t much more to be done. ‘I’m going to my room now. I’m exhausted. Maybe when we get up in the morning we can all see this in a different light. But I, for one, know I want to get away from here, and all of you, as soon as I can. As soon as the police have interviewed us all . . . which they will do . . . I’m off. Minibus or not – I’m out of here. Goodnight.’
I pulled myself up the stairs, crying with tiredness and . . . what was it?
The turmoil in my conscience.
I was struggling coming to terms with the fact that I’m naturally a ‘retribution’ person, rather than a ‘greater good’ one. I knew the decision – the pact – made downstairs was for the greater good, but had justice truly been served?
I knew I wouldn’t sleep much that night; justice is such a huge concept that, when you start to think about it, it’s difficult to stop.
It’s so complex.
Should it be ‘an eye for an eye’?
Or is it about forgiveness, and trying to create the best possible outcomes from tragedy and loss?
***
SPRING
THE CASE OF THE DESPERATE DUCHESS
A WISE Enquiries Agency Mystery
Carol Hill pushed open the door to the WISE Enquiries Agency’s office and knew immediately that it must have been Annie Parker who had closed up the night before. Annie always imagined no one would guess she’d been leaning out of the office window sneaking a sly smoke, but Carol’s nose was hyper-sensitive to the merest hint of nicotine; as her doctor kept reminding her, you couldn’t be too careful when you were trying to get pregnant.
Carol flung open all the windows, allowing the cool March air to waft in and carry the offensive odors away with it, then filled the kettle, ready to meet the demands of a nine a.m. meeting of all four partners in what had become their surely-doomed business venture.
Carol had prepared the financial statements necessary to prove to her three colleagues that they had very little time left before they had to make some Big Decisions about whether they were going to continue with their current undertaking. When they’d set up their private investigations practice three months earlier they’d all felt buoyant, invincible even. Brought together by a perplexing series of deaths, Carol Hill, Christine Wilson-Smythe, Mavis MacDonald and Annie Parker had formed themselves into the WISE Enquiries Agency; they’d decided it was a suitable name because their respective birthplaces were Wales, Ireland, Scotland, and England.
They all knew they’d never have been able to afford their office just off Sloane Square if not for the fact it was being donated free of charge by Christine’s father – so that wasn’t the root of their problem. No, the real issue was that they just weren’t attracting enough business to sustain their needs for some sort of income for themselves. In fact, they’d only had three paying cases, each of which they’d managed to bring to a successful conclusion, but none of which had feathered their rather pathetic little financial nest. This was D-Day, as Carol had named it – Decision Day; what were their plans going to be for their immediate collective, and individual, futures?
Steeling herself for what she knew would be a difficult conversation, Carol also rehearsed how she’d give Annie what for about smoking in the office – when she finally arrived; Annie was usually a little late.
Carol wasn’t surprised when Mavis bustled in fifteen minutes ahead of the meeting; Mavis’s nursing and military background allowed her to plan any journey with precision. Indeed, Mavis was capable of organizing just about anything with an admirable exactitude, and was a wonderful business partner to have if a case even tangentially connec
ted to the world of medicine; it seemed that, throughout her varied career, Mavis had established an enviable network of connections covering what appeared to be the entire British medical system, and beyond.
Annie hurled herself through the door at about three minutes past nine – complaining bitterly about the unreliability of the buses, and bemoaning her already sweaty state. As Annie wiped her face with a moist towelette, Carol told her exactly what she thought of her smoking sneaky cigarettes when she was at work.
Carol was pleased Annie didn’t answer back with her usual cheek, but suspected she was thinking it anyway. She loved Annie almost like a sister, and their friendship of many years was something she held dear, but she knew her friend’s shortcomings better than most, and didn’t feel she should have to put up with them. So she said so. Directly.
Carol was feeling especially wretched, and wasn’t looking forward to being the person who’d have to act tough when it came to finances – but she had to do it, because she and her husband David had agreed that, while they could pretty much get by on just his income alone, they’d been expecting Carol’s new line of work to at least provide some additional money for the savings pot they were trying to fill to be able to buy a bigger flat, ready for whenever they managed to get pregnant.
The three women waited impatiently for Christine’s arrival, with coffee and tea, but no biscuits; Carol felt they couldn’t run to biscuits. Conversation was strained, especially following Carol’s telling-off of Annie, with no one wanting to start The Big Discussion without all four partners being present.
By a quarter past nine Annie Parker had had enough. ‘This is annoying,’ she exclaimed, giving voice to the emotion filling the room. ‘I know it’s ’er dad’s money keeping us ’ere, but why can’t Chrissy ever be on time for anything?’
Carol almost smiled; Annie’s broad cockney accent always seemed to shine most when she was annoyed, or whispering, or in danger.
Mavis MacDonald’s rolling Scottish brogue didn’t need an excuse – it was front and center whenever she opened her mouth. ‘Ach, I know, dear,’ she replied soothingly, ‘but she’s one of those girls for whom the world has always waited – so what can we expect?’
‘True,’ agreed Carol, resignedly.
‘If either of us two other girls were this late for a meeting you’d be banging on about it for ages. Why do you let her get away with it?’ Annie sounded more than a little irritated.
Carol knew she had a point, and decided to try to calm the situation. ‘I love it when you call us “girls”.’
‘Well, you know what I mean,’ sulked Annie.
It was true that none of the women had been ‘girls’ for some time; Mavis had recently retired from her post as Matron at the Battersea Barracks and was in her early sixties, Carol was past thirty – hence the panic about pregnancy, and Annie was absolutely not enjoying the hot flashes she was suffering in her early fifties. If you stretched the term ‘girl’ it could possibly be allowed for Christine who, still in her late twenties, was the youngest of the quartet of enquirers.
The telephone rang. It startled Carol, but she regained her composure and picked up the receiver. ‘Good morning, the WISE Enquiries Agency, how may I help?’
Annie whispered loudly to Mavis, ‘Listen to that posh accent she uses when she answers the phone. Hardly know she was Welsh when she talks like that, would you?’ Carol saw her wink at Mavis, then roll her eyes, adding, ‘I bet that’s Chrissy with some pathetic excuse for being late.’
Carol did her best to focus on what Christine was saying on the phone. She listened intently, then replied, ‘We’re on our way,’ before she hung up.
‘So? That was the Honourable Miss Hoity-Toit, was it?’
Carol knew very well that Annie loved to make fun of Christine’s high birth, but deep down felt respect for the daughter of a viscount, who had only recently packed in a highly successful career as a Lloyd’s broker, played the piano, bridge and field hockey very well, could speak five languages fluently, and was on more charity committees than you could shake the proverbial stick at. And she was attractive. And Mensa clever. None of which dented Annie’s avowed duty to make sure Christine was kept ‘in her place’.
Carol searched for words.
‘Come on, Car, what’s up?’ Annie laughed.
Carol looked directly at Annie through narrowed eyes and, very uncharacteristically, let go with both barrels. ‘I’m not a bloody “car”, Annie, I am a person. I am Carol. Don’t use that name for me, you know I hate it.’
Mavis’s eyebrows silently told Carol she didn’t care for her tone.
Carol chose to ignore Mavis, for once. ‘You’re both coming with me,’ she said, standing and shoving all her communication devices into her large shoulder bag. ‘Christine’s in a mess – her cousin needs our help – urgently. Her Aunt Agatha wants us to come over to her house. I said we were on our way.’
Annie and Mavis exchanged knowing looks.
‘Time of the month, Carol?’ enquired Annie, sarcastically.
That was it; Carol burst into tears, she just couldn’t help herself. ‘Yes it is, and I’m feeling so wretched I’m sure I’m not pregnant. Again. But there’s no need to be so cruel about it.’
Annie held her face, looking truly horrified, then stood and hugged Carol.
‘Sorry, doll,’ she said quietly. ‘I never thought that . . . well, that’s me all over innit? Silly old mare, me. Just ignore me, Car. And wipe them eyes while I nip outside and find us a cab; I’m assuming we can afford a cab between us? Where are we going anyway?’
‘Wraysbury Square,’ replied Carol as she sniffed into a paper hanky. ‘Lord Wraysbury’s house itself, in fact – you know, the big white one they always show on documentaries about the landed gentry. Turns out that Christine’s father’s sister – her aunt – is Lady Agatha Wraysbury. Who knew? When they say money goes to money they mean it, don’t they? In London landowning there’s Grosvenor, then Cadogan, then Wraysbury – they have to be worth billions.’
Mavis observed, ‘Unusual for you to comment on social status in such acidic terms, Carol.’
Carol sighed, ‘You’re right. Sorry. Having been raised on a sheep farm in Carmarthen, then working in the City and meeting all sorts of idiots with fancy backgrounds, titles don’t bother me usually, as you know. If you grow up on a farm you’ve seen enough of life to know that animals and humans are basically all the same, so why worry about what your title is, or isn’t? But today – I’m just a bit off, Mavis. Sorry.’
Having walked to Sloane Square to find a cab, all three ‘girls’ finally stood at the door of the largest mansion on Wraysbury Square. It didn’t have a number, it just said ‘Magna’ above the door.
‘Why’s it called that?’ asked Annie.
Carol wasn’t sure if Annie really cared what the answer was, but could tell at least Mavis was impressed that she happened to know all about it. ‘It’s a reference to the fact that Lord Wraysbury’s estate, near Windsor, includes the little island where the Magna Carta was signed in 1215; apparently it was only ever signed by King John thanks to the noted intervention of Lord Wraysbury’s ancestors, many of whom have continued to shape British, and by extrapolation much of the rest of the world’s, legal systems.’
Carol chose to ignore Annie’s eye-roll, and focused instead on Mavis’s remark of, ‘Highly informative, Carol. Thank you.’
The door was opened by a surprisingly handsome, strapping, young man of no more than twenty-five years, and no less than six feet and four inches; a delightful combination, as far as Carol was concerned. She immediately pegged him as being of great use to any rugby team.
‘We’re here at the request of Christine Wilson-Smythe,’ announced Mavis briskly, the power of speech seeming, momentarily, to have left both Carol and Annie.
‘Come in, won’t you.’ The smiling young man’s strong Irish accent made it sound like an invitation to dance. ‘I’ll let Her Grace know you’ve arrived. W
ould you wait here in the library, please? I shall return presently.’
As he waved them into a vaulted room stuffed to the rafters with what Carol could see were law books, Annie blew out her cheeks in appreciation of their greeter’s visible attributes, behind his back. Carol allowed herself a coy smile.
‘Down, girls,’ admonished Mavis with a twinkle, ever the matron used to overseeing young nurses when it came to Annie and Carol.
The strapping young man, sadly, didn’t return at all – instead it was Christine who rushed breathlessly into the grand room. ‘Thanks ever so for coming,’ she gushed. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you – Aunt Agatha’s in such a state I’ve had to sit her down with a brandy. It’s Jacintha, you see. Her daughter. My cousin. Jacintha’s distraught because a young girl who works for her has gone missing, and she’s sure something terrible has happened to her. Jacintha and Agatha don’t want to involve the police – yet. They and Uncle Richard – Lord Wraysbury – have agreed to let us try to find the missing girl. The girl is a favorite of Jacintha’s and some cash has gone missing too, but Jacintha is convinced this girl wouldn’t have stolen it.’
Christine finally drew a breath, then added, ‘We’ll help, won’t we? Aunt Aggie said money’s no object, and I know WISE is desperate for a case that pays well, and she really is incredibly rich. I’ve agreed four thousand a day plus expenses, and a ten grand bonus when we find the girl. Will that do?’
Three astonished faces stared at Christine.
‘Gordon Bennett! Good job, Chrissy,’ said Annie, who was the first to react.
Carol was stunned. ‘That would take the pressure off,’ she admitted.
Mavis spoke thoughtfully, ‘I think that’s a fair fee,’ she responded coolly, ‘but we won’t do anything illegal, Christine, and if it becomes clear a criminal act is involved, we’ll immediately report it to the police, as we must.’ She was being firm.