False Step (11 page)

‘With practice.' Bea helped Oliver to stow away the finery. ‘So why didn't his red shoes fit? And where's the red dress he had on top of him when he died?'

‘Perhaps his computer will provide some answers?'

‘You do worry so. Everything's just fine!' The harsher voice of the two.

A whining reply. ‘From your point of view, maybe. But what about me? I've got to be out of this house in a week's time.'

‘I told you, we'll split everything from Matthew's house down the middle.'

‘It'll take months before anything comes in. You have to wait for probate, and then put the house on the market and … who knows how long that's going to take? In the meantime, I've got to live. Suppose you're in a car accident or something? Where would I be then? Your husband would get the house and I'd be in real trouble.'

‘I don't see what we can do about it.'

‘Suppose you got sick, would your husband pay me my half?'

‘You can hardly expect me to tell him what we've done.'

‘What I think is that you should make out a will so that I get the house if you pop your clogs. If nothing goes wrong, we divvy up as suggested. Your husband won't need to know anything about it, and you can make a new will when everything's settled. That way I'm covered for all eventualities.'

‘I don't like it. Suppose … no, that won't do. I agree nobody else must know. Very well, then. I'll make an appointment for us to see the solicitor.'

‘I've got a will form here. I'll make it out for you, shall I? Everything of which you die possessed to your family in the usual way, except for Matthew's house which comes to me. We can take it to the solicitor this afternoon after you finish work, to get it checked over and signed. All right?'

‘I suppose so. It shouldn't be for long.'

Oliver homed in on the computer. Bea followed, more slowly. Wasn't accessing a dead man's computer a trifle tacky?

Oliver turned it on. Frowned. Swivelled round in his chair. ‘Someone who didn't know much about computers has been playing about with it. All his files have been deleted. Now why should that be?'

‘You're the whizz-kid with computers. Didn't you say there's always stuff left on the hard drive?'

Oliver grinned. ‘You want me to do a little exploring?'

Bea hesitated. ‘I know your friend's father taught you all sorts of tricks to do with computers, but—'

‘He's on the side of the angels, professionally, if that's what you mean. Look, you know and I know that something very odd is going on here. You don't really think Matthew Kent committed suicide, do you?'

‘I really don't know what … no, I suppose I don't.'

‘His nearest and dearest has provided us with a perfect opportunity to find out what's really been going on here. So I'm just going to press a couple of keys and see what happens. All right?'

Bea was uneasy about Oliver's use or misuse of his talents, but he was right in thinking there was something wrong with the situation. She braced herself. She started turning out drawers, looking for files, bills, general correspondence.

There weren't any. She was sure there had been some when she looked before, when she'd come across his business cards. She still had one in her handbag.

So why had they been removed? There weren't any professional photos of Matthew, either. She could see where files had been stacked in a cupboard by the side of the computer, but now … nothing but space. She started on the drawers below, looking for memory sticks, floppy discs, anything on which Matthew might have stored the daily details of his life.

What about his engagement book, for instance? He must have had a diary. And an address book. Yes, of course. Florrie had mentioned that she'd underlined Damaris's address in his book, and left it for Bea to find. Up the stairs went Bea to look for it. She was not terribly surprised to see that it was no longer where it had been. Damaris – or someone – had been thorough.

But, perhaps, not thorough enough. Bea had already found a leaflet from St Mary Abbots church tucked into the bookcase at the side of the big armchair. A convenient place to stash something which Matthew might need to refer to later.

She began tipping up the books, two by two, to see what other treasures might come to light. Nothing on the top shelf. Nothing on the second shelf. The third disclosed a reminder to pay a subscription to some actors' charity, plus another leaflet, dated a fortnight before, from the church. The bottom shelf yielded a leaflet about a forthcoming watercolour exhibition, a National Trust flyer, a couple of shopping lists in a rounded hand, every item crossed through.

She sat back on her heels. The lead to the church had turned up twice. Did that mean something or nothing?

Oliver came up the stairs, looking smug. ‘Everything was still in the computer, in the recycle bin. It all seems pretty harmless. Appointments, business correspondence, friends and family, a file for charities, material for his monologues, notes for sketches and a play he's writing. What you'd expect, really.'

‘Then why delete them in the first place?'

Oliver shrugged. ‘Dunno. I copied everything on to a memory stick for you, in case you want to look at it later. Which reminds me, did you walk off with a letter from a client the other day? Someone's been ringing, saying they've asked for an appointment, but I can't find anything in the files.'

She pulled a face, remembering that she'd noted down Matthew's address on a letter when Florrie rang to report that she'd found a body. ‘Sorry, yes. It must still be in my bag. I'll give it you when we get back.' She got to her feet and shook out her skirt.

Matthew's phone rang. She and Oliver stood still while the caller left a message. Someone checking that Matthew had returned a costume that had been hired for a performance of
The Gondoliers
. Please to ring soonest.

The phone clicked off.

Bea said, ‘We can't ring back. Really, it's up to Damaris to let people know what's happened.' Only, she doesn't seem keen to do so.

‘I wonder what part he's playing,' said Oliver. He went to the piano and checked the sheet music resting in a pile on the top of it. ‘Here it is, the full score of
The Gondoliers
. Was Matthew a bass?'

Bea clicked her fingers. ‘Got it! He was playing the Duchess, and that's why he had that outrageous dress. It really is a stage costume, rented for the production. He must have brought it home for some reason – probably needed to put some extra padding around the bra area. That's why it doesn't fit the image we've been getting from the clothes in the studio.'

‘Is the Duchess usually played by a man?'

‘No, but if you had someone like Matthew around, wouldn't you want to make use of him? How sad that he won't be making the performance.' She brushed one hand off against the other. Well, that settled it. Everything had been neatly accounted for, more or less. Her uneasiness was not justified and they'd better get on with the job they'd been paid to do.

‘The inventory, Oliver. Let's start at the top of the house. It won't take long.'

Working together, they were soon down to the first floor. Bea opened a cupboard on the landing. ‘Nothing but linen in here. I suppose we ought to count the number of sheets and towels.'

‘Nothing like being thorough.'

‘Will you do this, and then help me in the bathroom?' Bea was of the opinion that you could tell a lot about a man from the contents of his bathroom cabinet. He'd left a rim round the bath, but it wasn't too bad. A nice big medicine cabinet, stocked with everything a man might need if he relied on his voice for a living. A full box of painkillers. An almost empty box of high blood pressure tablets. Good soap. A pack of antibiotics, almost empty. No toothbrush or toothpaste. Damaris must have removed those when she took away some of his clothes.

Her mobile phone rang. She'd left it downstairs. Who …? Oh, bother. ‘Oliver, I'd better answer it.' Down she went to take the call.

It was her son, Max. ‘Mother, we seem to keep missing one another, and it's rather urgent that we talk.'

‘We're on different time scales. You're at the House of Commons when I finish work for the day.' He was right, of course. She had been avoiding him, sort of. She had a feeling she wasn't going to like what he wanted to say. ‘Actually, I'm working now.' She turned back to the stairs, taking the phone with her.

‘So am I. The business of the House doesn't stop just because my marriage has broken down.'

‘No, of course not.' She began to pull out bottles from the medicine cabinet, to see what lay behind them. ‘Have you been able to talk to Nicole yet?'

‘No, I …' He half-covered the phone to speak to someone nearby, ‘You can leave that for the moment …' Then back to speak to Bea. ‘The fact is that I can't work in my office at the House for the moment. You do understand why, don't you?'

‘I assume you have someone with you and can't talk freely?'

‘Yes, that's it. I knew you wouldn't mind. It is the best solution, after all. Though I must say that the workmen are making a hell of a racket. It's extremely inconvenient, having them in at this juncture. Can't you get them to work more quietly?'

‘What?' Bea sat down on the bathroom stool in a hurry. ‘Max, tell me it's not true! You aren't working from my house, are you?'

‘Of course I am.' A soft puff of a laugh. ‘My dear old secretary isn't used to quite such straightened quarters, but as she says, “We must soldier on, mustn't we?”'

‘But Max—'

‘There's just one little thing I'd like you to do for me, but we can talk about that when you get back. We'll go out somewhere for supper, shall we?'

‘No – I mean, Maggie's cooking supper—'

‘Till tonight, then. Half six, say?' He cut off the phone.

Bea stared at her own phone, before calling up Maggie on it. ‘Maggie dear, I've just had a phone call from my son.'

‘Oh, Mrs Abbot, is it all right? I didn't know what to say when he started lugging in all those files and setting up his computer and telling me to look after his secretary. I mean, you might have warned me.'

Bea bit back the words ‘I didn't know'. ‘Sorry, dear. I hope it isn't too inconvenient.'

‘Well, it is rather, because the dragon has co-opted the dining table and the landline and glares at Mr Max's little lady, who's totally sweet but not up to her weight, if you know what I mean.'

For ‘dragon', read Miss Brook, their old bookkeeper. Bea pictured the scene and grimaced. ‘Listen, Maggie. This is an emergency, just for a couple of days. Can you keep the peace?'

‘Peace? You must be joking. You can probably hear the workmen from here! Mr Max went down and asked if they could work more quietly. That worked a treat, as you can imagine. They turned up their radio as soon as his back was turned!'

‘I'll try to sort something out with my son when I get back. He said something about taking me out for supper.'

‘Oh, bother. Oh, never mind. It'll do for tomorrow, instead. When will you be back?'

‘When we're finished here,' said Bea, glad to be out of the arena for the time being.

Oliver put his head around the door. ‘That's done. What shall we do next? The bathroom, was it?'

Bea looked around her, distractedly. ‘Oliver, I'm missing something, but I can't think what. Yes, let's do the bathroom and then take a break.'

Back to everyday life. Making inventories, checking facts, slotting people into the right jobs at the right price. There was no murder. There never had been a murder. If Damaris hadn't been such an unpleasant person, Bea would never have started to wonder about this and that.

Oliver was looking puzzled. ‘Why didn't Damaris bring in a professional valuer, because some of the furniture and one or two watercolours look as if they might fetch a bob or two? … No deodorants, no shaver. Do you think Damaris has taken them for her husband?'

‘Dunno,' said Bea, thirsty and depressed. ‘Is she so short of money that she'd want second-hand toiletries? I agree some of the furniture ought to go to a good auction house. Perhaps she didn't want to spend the money on an expert? Or perhaps she thinks her mother will try to remove something before the valuer can get here?'

They took a break. Oliver went out to buy tea bags and milk, while Bea phoned home to see if there were any problems which their old bookkeeper couldn't solve. There weren't, of course. Miss Brook might be well over sixty – best not ask how many years over – but she had more than her rightful share of marbles, and liked the odd day's work even under present-day conditions.

‘Though mind you, Mrs A, things are not quite comfortable here at the moment, if you get my meaning. Mr Max has been giving your phone number out to all and sundry, though I protested in the strongest terms against his doing so.'

‘I'm very sorry, Miss Brook. I'm having supper with him this evening and will try to sort something out.' Bea put the phone down, and pressed her hands to her temples. She could feel a headache coming on.

They went upstairs after tea to start on the master bedroom. Oliver was fascinated by the king-size bed. ‘I've seen beds like this before, in museums. French, isn't it? All that carving on the headboard – must have cost a fortune. You found the body here?'

Bea shuddered. ‘Let's get on with it, shall we?'

Matthew had had a huge wardrobe-cum-cupboard full of good men's clothes in his bedroom, with a rack of handmade shoes at the side. He had used a lot of hair preparations supposed to prevent baldness, and had taken good care of his skin. ‘You can see where some of his clothes used to be. Damaris said she'd taken some away already, but there's still loads here which we're supposed to bag up and dispose of. I think we'll leave that little job till we've done the inventory and seen the colour of her money.'