False Step (18 page)

Bea passed her a mug of tea. ‘My husband, too. Also cancer. Last year, far from home.'

‘It took many, many months.'

‘Mine, too.'

Kasia said, ‘You know how it is? No work, no money. My mother help, his mother help, but they are old and can find little work, too.'

‘That is hard.' At least Bea hadn't had to worry about money, for Hamilton had provided well for her, and business was booming.

‘When he die, I not know what to do. There is no work for me in Poland. Our house there is not finished, no water, no power. My mother, his mother, both need money. Here I have cousin and friends, but I alone cannot pay for the house we rented before. So I come back here, start again. I have a room in the house where my cousin is, and I look for work. It is good to be busy.'

‘I understand. I am sorry.'

‘No good to be sorry. No good to cry. Always look forward. Only, sometimes … not possible.'

Bea bowed her head. Very true.

Kasia stood up straight. ‘So, you sort this for me, right?'

‘I'll do my best. Will you keep in touch?'

Kasia shook her head. ‘Please, not to ring me again. And you tell that woman I not work for her and no cops. Right?'

She picked up her bag and negotiated her way over the furniture to the front door and out.

The phone rang, but this time no one picked it up. Oliver either hadn't heard it, or was too engrossed in something to respond. Bea got to it just before the answerphone clicked in.

‘The Abbot Agency. How may I help you?'

A woman. A voice Bea did not recognize. ‘This is Ms Cunningham, the new owner of Mr Kent's house. I find that several valuable items have been removed without permission. At first I considered that my uncle's cleaner might have taken them. I was afraid I would never see them again, cleaners being a notoriously light-fingered breed. But then I remembered that your agency signed a note saying you would be responsible for the contents until an inventory had been prepared and agreed, so I am holding you responsible. If you cannot find and return the items within twenty-four hours, I shall go to the police. You may contact me on this number when you are ready to replace them.' She reeled off a string of numbers which Bea hurriedly wrote down.

‘Would you repeat …?'

The caller rang off.

Bea had been prepared to apologize to Mrs Frasier for Oliver not having left the bunch of keys, but this wasn't Mrs Frasier, was it? Thinking hard, Bea checked over the numbers she'd written down. Who was this Cunningham woman? Why did she say that she was the new owner of the Kent house?

Bea went to look for the papers given her by Mrs Frasier, and found them on Miss Brook's temporary desk upstairs. Oliver was still tapping away next door; hopefully he'd be able to print off the inventory and send it on … but where to?

Bea rang the landline telephone number Mrs Frasier had given her. An outer London number; inner London used the 0207 series and outer London was 0208.

The phone rang and rang.

At last someone with a gruff voice answered. An adolescent boy?

Bea said, ‘Is it possible to speak to Mrs Frasier? It's the Abbot Agency here.'

‘Who …? No, I'm afraid …' There was a babble of sound in the distance and someone took over the phone. A man, with doom in his voice. ‘You can't speak to my wife. She's dead!'

Bea looked at the phone in her hand. Had she heard correctly? No, it wasn't possible. Damaris Frasier, dead? She'd been so full of life the other day … was it only yesterday? At her stepfather's house?

Bea put the receiver back on the phone and sat down. What a terrible thing. But oh, dear! A nasty thought. Where did this leave the agency? Damaris Frasier had asked them to prepare an inventory, and they had done so. Who was going to pay for that? Would the agency have to write the cost off?

Bea told herself that she ought not to be thinking of the loss to the agency when a client had died so suddenly. Only, too many bad debts and the agency would soon be in trouble.

She remembered Ms Cunningham and her very odd behaviour. What had that woman meant by saying she now owned the Kent house? It wasn't possible, was it? No, no. Of course not.

Bea tried to rationalize the situation. Damaris Frasier had been looking after her stepfather in recent years, he had made a will in her favour. He had died and she had inherited. Bea had just been speaking to Damaris Frasier's husband, and presumably her estate – including the Kent house – would now pass to him. There would be inheritance tax to pay, no doubt, but he must now be the rightful owner of the keys currently residing in Bea's dressing-table drawer.

She drew the phone towards her, with the intention of ringing him back. Then desisted. No, she couldn't intrude on his grief at such a moment, and for such a reason. Every feeling revolted.

On the other hand, there was someone else who would be very interested to hear the latest news. She tried to get through to Sylvester, but he seemed to be permanently on the phone. She couldn't hang around waiting for him for ever, so left a message for him to ring her, urgently.

The next problem was how to deal with Ms Cunningham, who seemed to expect Bea to produce items taken by Goldie and Gail. Presumably Ms Cunningham didn't yet know about Damaris's death?

Bea clutched her head. Wait a minute. How could Ms Cunningham now be the legal owner of the house unless she knew that Damaris was dead?

Bea's mind zigzagged from point to point. Had Damaris legally turned the house over to her friend Ms Cunningham, and if so, why? It must be worth a pretty penny. Damaris had shown no sign of wanting to be rid of the house when she'd engaged the agency; indeed, no.

Damaris had taken a phone call from someone when she'd been at the house. She'd spoken as if to an old friend who knew all about the arrangements for the funeral and the link to Sylvester. There'd also been something about shredding papers. Could that phone call have been from Ms Cunningham?

Too many questions, too few answers. And the only answers that did occur, failed to satisfy. Yet she couldn't leave it alone. Bea looked at the clock. Maggie hadn't yet returned, but it was time to put the supper on.

She had to clean the jets on the oven before they'd light. Dust, everywhere. She felt as if there were dust in her head, too.
Dear Lord, this is me bothering you again. Sorry and all that, but if you could spare a moment, I could do with some words of advice.

No one answered, of course. She laughed at herself for thinking they would. She took Maggie's chicken pie out of the fridge and put it in the oven. Put the potatoes on. One thing was for sure; she was not going to hand those keys over to Ms Cunningham till she'd proof that the woman had a right to them.

Think straight, girl! Mrs Frasier engaged you to prepare an inventory and you signed a paper to that effect. So the agency was due to hand over said inventory to Mrs Frasier – or her heirs – and the family were now liable to cover the agency fee. Mrs Frasier had handed over a bunch of keys and Mrs Frasier – or her heirs – must have them back.

Ms Cunningham – whoever she might be – had not engaged Bea to do anything, had not given her anything in writing and was not responsible for paying the agency fee. The agency had no agreement with Ms Cunningham and therefore could not in all conscience hand over the inventory or the keys to her.

Bea congratulated herself on a piece of clear thinking. She was glad that Oliver hadn't handed the keys over because – now she'd thought it through – she realized she ought never to have told him to do so.

In fact, she would go upstairs now, this minute, while the supper was cooking, and if she could find a computer which was connected, she'd run off a letter to Mr Frasier to apologize for troubling him at this difficult time, to explain that his wife had asked the agency to do this and that they had done the inventory and would be happy to deliver the keys at his convenience.

She was halfway up the stairs when she heard the front door open and slam. A tearful Maggie wobbled over the carpet and ran up the stairs in high heels.

‘What?' said Bea, standing back to let the girl go past on her way up to the top floor where she and Oliver lived.

Oliver came out of the guest room, looking bemused. ‘Mrs Abbot, just the person. I'm getting phone calls about Matthew Kent's car. The callers seems to think we're responsible for selling it, but … what's the matter with Maggie?' They followed Maggie's progress upwards until she slammed her bedroom door on the world.

Bea looked a question at Oliver, who said, ‘The plumber?'

‘But I thought … not the one here?' Bea gestured down the stairs to the basement.

‘Nah. It's another one. Putting in walk-in showers for the flat down the road where Maggie's been working. Polish. Probably got a wife and three kids back home.'

Bea started for the upper stairs, but Oliver put his hand on her arm. ‘Let me. She doesn't have to explain anything to me. I'll just switch off my computer first.'

Maggie turned on her radio, full blast. Bea winced. When Maggie was happy, she liked to live with a lot of background noise. When Maggie was miserable, the noise increased to deafening proportions. The house began to throb.

Was that the front door banging shut? Bea couldn't be sure. The telephone rang. Let it. The answerphone could take a message. She watched Oliver climb the stairs to the top floor and hung over the banister to see if anyone had come in downstairs. They had.

Max was climbing over the carpet, while trying at the same time to fend off an assailant. He was flailing at her with his briefcase while holding a huge bunch of flowers aloft in his other hand. His tie was at half mast, his shirt pulling out of his trousers, his hair all messed up.

He was shouting something which Bea couldn't understand for all the racket from above. Then the sound above reduced to reasonable proportions and Bea could hear Max yelling, ‘Gerrof!'

Dear Lord, have mercy
, thought Bea, walking down the stairs and taking her time about it.
Suppose I turn tail, go into my bedroom and shut the door? But if he really needs my help …?

Max's assailant was a luscious blonde who was laughing and clinging on to his trousers even while he, red-faced, was trying to beat her away. Bea thought, He's not trying hard enough, but I suppose he doesn't want to hurt her.

The blonde was giggling. ‘Is he trying to run away from his little lovey-dovey, then?'

Max swung into the living room, with the girl still hanging on to him. He pulled up sharply, and she cannoned into his back. ‘Oh!'

Bea didn't know whether to laugh or scream. Evidently Max hadn't expected dust-sheet covered furniture. She called out, ‘Hello, is that Max? Supper's almost ready.' She reached the hall and turned in to the kitchen. The vegetables were boiling over. Time to adjust the gas.

‘Is it?' Max appeared in the doorway. ‘Oh.' He handed her the flowers.

She bit back the words ‘Did you give the chocolates to Nicole?'

The luscious blonde sashayed forward, holding out her hand. ‘I'm Lettice, and you're the famous Mrs A? Delighted to meet you at last.'

Bea ignored the outstretched hand to reach for the oven gloves. ‘Ah, yes. Nicole's younger sister. Nice to meet you. I was only talking to my daughter-in-law about you this morning.' The vegetables were almost done, the pie crust browning nicely. ‘I'm not sure there's enough food for everyone. Max, dear, were you intending to stay for supper?'

‘Me, no.' He was righting his tie, tucking his shirt in. ‘Got to go back to the House, three line whip, you know. I just came back to … I didn't realize Lettice was trying to reach me …'

‘I followed him all the way from the House. Wasn't that clever of me?' Lettice perched herself on a stool, all wide blue eyes and peach-bloom skin. Her clothes were almost modest, but not quite, with a trifle too much skin exposed, top and bottom. She was a more rounded, lovelier version of Nicole, and if you put the two of them side by side in a beauty contest, Nicole would undoubtedly come off second best.

But, Max was signalling by his body language that Lettice made him feel uncomfortable. He was trying to edge away from her. He was afraid of her. Oh, dear.

Bea went to the door and yelled upstairs that supper was almost ready. When she turned around, it was to see Lettice stroking Max's sleeve, whispering in his ear … and Max trying to push her away.

Lettice turned a wonderfully white array of teeth to Bea. ‘Silly Max; he thinks you might disapprove of my falling in love with him, but there it is; the deed is done. The parents will be delighted; they always thought I'd marry into politics.'

Max squawked out some sort of protest. ‘Lettice, don't. This is all wrong.'

‘My darling, your mother is not so old that she doesn't recognize true love when she sees it. Of course she'll be happy for you to follow your heart.'

‘Nicole—'

‘Is a loser. Always has been. Don't worry about her. The parents certainly won't.'

Max tugged at his collar, reddening. ‘Must go. Mustn't be late. Talk later, Mother.'

He disappeared, letting the front door bang to behind him, leaving Lettice to pout and dig in her enormous handbag for a mobile phone. Two sets of feet pounded down the stairs.

Oliver appeared in the doorway, looking preoccupied. ‘All right if I take Maggie out for a meal? She's feeling a bit under the weather.'

‘Of course,' said Bea, taking the pie out of the oven. Who was going to eat it now?

Not Lettice. That luscious lady grimaced a smile at Bea, waved a hand and followed the youngsters out of the door, talking to someone she called ‘darling' on her mobile. Bea dished up the vegetables. She supposed they could all go into a soup sometime. The front door slammed, opened and banged again.