False Step (28 page)

Bea made her way in to the chapel, half recognizing some well-known faces. The coffin was already in place; a simple affair, not to say cheap. There were no flowers on it. There were no flowers anywhere. Bea remembered Matthew's patio, brilliant with red geraniums, and Goldie's remark that he'd loved flowers. Bea had never met Matthew in life, but she sorrowed gently for him because there were none to mark his final journey.

The chapel was pretty full; a good crowd of well-dressed people, mostly men, but with one or two women as well. Piers was sitting near the front. Bea half lifted a hand to him, until she saw he was paying close attention to a youngish, well-dressed woman on his left, and had no eyes for anyone else. Tomcats didn't change their ways, did they! Bea found a seat near the back and looked around her.

She saw Sylvester puffing and panting on his way to the front, leaning on the arm of the son who now ran the agency. The Frasiers, husband and son, were in the opposite front row, next to a depressed looking man in heavy-rimmed glasses.

A woman in black was sitting next to Derek. Presumably this was the sister, Trixie, who'd worked for the solicitor who'd done Matthew's and Damaris's wills? The one who was going to move in with Derek and Tom? Judging by the way she kept bobbing her head down to the right, Trixie had brought her children with her. Not suitable, thought Bea. And then, Ah well, what is suitable for children these days?

Gail had seated herself near the back on the other side to Bea. She was wearing a good black suit, but no hat. Gail had her eyes down, making herself small and unobtrusive. She didn't make eye contact with Bea.

There was a stir in the doorway, and a woman with bright hair under a fashionable hat made an entrance, followed by the stockily-built man who'd accompanied her on her foray to try to remove furniture from Matthew's house earlier.

Goldie, Matthew's third, was all in black; skirt too short, heels too high, perfume too strong. With some difficulty she carried in an enormous sheaf of red roses, which she placed tenderly on the coffin. She stood back – a wonderfully theatrical moment – and produced a handkerchief, which she pressed carefully to the outer corner of one eye. Sylvester half rose in his seat and with an ironical bow, gestured that she and her companion should sit beside him.

Some recorded music was being played. Bach? A reasonable choice. The usual service books were available, but no order of service.

A subdued murmuring filled the chapel. Bea glanced at her watch. Wasn't it time to start?

A solitary woman appeared in the doorway and stood there, hesitating. She was in her thirties, white-faced, podgy-faced, with a sharp nose. She was wearing a black coat that reached down to her ankles, and black boots. Neither of them new. Her hair had been dyed black, parted and hung loose on either side of her face, but her eyebrows were barely existent. Was this the new heiress?

The latecomer appeared surprised to see so many people in the chapel. She turned on her heel as if to retreat but thought the better of it. She stalked down the aisle to accost the minister, who had just appeared from the vestry and was in the act of turning off the taped music.

Derek Frasier got up from his seat and joined them in a short conversation. No doubt he was as much taken aback at the numbers who'd turned up, as the newcomer. Derek returned to his seat, and the woman in black stood aside to let the minister address the congregation.

‘One moment, before we start. Mr Frasier and Ms Cunningham have pointed out that this is a private service for Mr Matthew Kent. Very few people were expected. Perhaps some of you are here for the twelve thirty service for someone else? If so, would you kindly wait outside?'

‘We're here for Matthew.' Sylvester's voice, still rich in spite of his years of smoking.

There was a general chorus of agreement. Craning her neck, Bea managed to see Goldie start to her feet, handkerchief fluttering. ‘Here's to my poor dear Matthew!'

If her words were inappropriately expressed, at least they conveyed the sentiments of everyone in the chapel. Or almost everyone. Lily Cunningham looked as if she were going to cry as well, though in her case the tears would be those of rage. Bea wished she could see the faces of the Frasier family. They must be as bewildered as Lily at seeing the chapel fill up with so many mourners.

‘Continue!' This was Sylvester, again.

‘Well …' The minister glanced at his watch, realized he was going to run late if he were not careful, and proceeded to tell the congregation to turn to the service book. Lily Cunningham now needed to find a seat, but the front rows were full. It seemed the Frasiers were in no mood to make room for her, and neither was Sylvester. In fact, most rows were full. As Lily retreated back down the chapel, looking for a place, it seemed at first that no one was willing to let her in. Finally one woman shuffled along to give her a seat.

The service proceeded as had been planned; a poor, rushed sort of send-off. Bea wondered where God was in all this. It must grieve him to see what was going on. She thought of her dear Hamilton's funeral service, on a fine afternoon on the other side of the world. Tears gathered in her eyes and she wiped them away. She realized, with a jolt of pain, that she was wearing the same outfit today that she had worn for his rite of passage.

Gradually the age-old words of the service captured her attention. She bent her head to pray. The chapel was filled with a hushed silence, save for the voice of the minister, who seemed at last to enter into the right frame of mind. He even appeared to be slightly apologetic as he read out a curt, two-line eulogy of the deceased and pressed the button for the coffin to slide out of sight. No one moved as their eyes followed the disappearance of the coffin. Even after it had gone, a very real sense of loss kept the congregation still. The minister pronounced a blessing and disappeared into the vestry.

Before anyone else could move, Sylvester heaved himself on to his feet, wobbled, but made it upright. Turning to the mourners, he said, ‘This is not the last we'll hear of our friend. The life of our very good friend Matthew, merry monarch of comedy, will be celebrated in a memorial service at his own church in due course. Meanwhile, if anyone would like to meet back at my place, I've got in a couple of cases of champagne, and some eats. You are all very welcome.'

The spell was broken. People began to move out of the chapel, talking in a subdued fashion to one another. Some used handkerchiefs, some sniffed. A lot of air-kissing, hugging and hand-shaking went on. Bea hung back, watching people's reactions.

She was shocked to see how ill Sylvester looked, and how loud his breathing was as he made his way slowly outside, surrounded by a crowd of friends and acquaintances. She caught snatches of conversation.

‘Where's the daughter? What's her name?'

‘Damaris. Dead too, Sylvester says. It must be catching.'

‘Who's the death's head? I don't recognize her.'

‘Bert's daughter, I think. Although he always denied she was his. A shame he couldn't make it.'

Knots of people formed in the aisle, only to be moved on by deferential officials, worrying about getting the next cremation going on time.

Goldie moved down the aisle, graciously accepting condolences, her companion one step to the rear.

Sylvester offered her his arm. ‘Doing the old boy proud with those roses. Come and sink a glass or two in his memory?'

She fluttered eyelashes. ‘I have to be at the reading of the will.'

Sylvester bent his head and whispered in her ear. She looked shocked. ‘What? Damaris is dead, too? But … surely …' She ran after Derek, who had reached the door and was shaking hands with the congregation as they left.

‘Derek,' she said, holding her hat on with one hand, ‘where's Damaris? Sylvester said something about … no, that can't be true. Damaris will see me right. I mean … Matthew must have left me something.'

Lily intervened, sharp nose quivering, in a squeaky voice. ‘He didn't leave you anything. I should know. I was one of the executors of his will. You might as well go and have a drink with Sylvester.'

Wild-eyed, Goldie turned on the bespectacled man at Derek's side. ‘Are you the solicitor? Is this true?'

He stammered. ‘Th–this is n–neither the t–time nor place t–to—'

Goldie stamped her foot. ‘Well, did he or did he not leave me something?'

‘Nothing,' said Lily. She nudged the solicitor. ‘Tell her! Go on.'

He shrugged. ‘It is as Ms Cunningham says.'

Goldie, accepting the bad news, gave a little shriek. Her companion muttered, ‘Told you not to waste money on flowers!'

Sylvester, hiding amusement, took her by the elbow. ‘Come along, my dear. Champagne soothes all sorrows.' He moved slowly off on his son's arm, Goldie in tow and her companion sticking to her heels.

The solicitor, looking uncomfortable, fled the scene, followed by the Frasier family in a bunch. Lily Cunningham trod on their heels, calling out after them that she needed a lift.

Piers came out with an arm through that of the woman he'd been sitting next to. He didn't look around for Bea, which she thought was just like him; no doubt his companion had some project lined up for him, in or out of bed. Bea was shocked at how much his attitude annoyed her. Piers had known she was going to be there, and it was extremely rude of him – although absolutely typical – not even to have looked around for her.

As the last few people left, Bea overheard another interesting titbit. A heavily-built man observed to his stick-thin companion, ‘Where was Bert? I wouldn't have thought he'd want to miss this.'

His friend shrugged. ‘Not like him to miss a freebie, either. Gone into a home, someone said.'

The chapel was almost empty. Bea saw that Gail was mopping herself up in her seat. Overdoing the grief a trifle? After all, she hadn't had any contact with Matthew for years. Or had she? Was there something Gail wasn't telling?

Bea leaned over Gail. ‘Are you all right? I thought you'd be sitting with the Frasiers.'

‘Do I look a wreck?' Gail put her hankie away. ‘These affairs always get to me.' She looked around her. ‘Derek didn't understand why I should want to come. I'm surprised Trixie brought her children, but they behaved themselves during the service, didn't they?'

As they reached the door together, Derek bustled up. ‘Gail, you've got your car here, haven't you? Mine refuses to start and I'm not calling out the garage to get it towed home, not today. I'll have a go at getting it started again tomorrow. Maybe I'll junk it. It's about time I had a better car. But we've got to get back home straight away because the solicitor's gone on ahead and he won't hang around, will he? Oh yes, and Lily wants a lift, too.'

Gail said, ‘It's lucky Mrs Abbot is here, too, isn't it? Between us, we'll cope.'

A light drizzle had settled in, which didn't make the Frasier house look any more attractive than before. The solicitor had already arrived and was sitting in his car outside when Bea arrived with Trixie and her two children. Gail, with the Frasiers and Lily, parked behind them.

Bea had welcomed the chance to chat to Trixie, who was as undersized as Derek was plump. Her two children were silent, hooked into iPods and electronic games. One was male, one female. One had dirty blonde hair, the other had an Afro. Two different fathers? Trixie wore a lot of cheap rings, but none on the fourth finger of her left hand.

Throughout the journey Trixie talked about how hard-done-by she'd been through a series of jobs and how every man she ever knew had let her down, and what a relief it would be to move in with Derek now he was finally rid of his posh wife so that they could have some fun together.

‘About the only good thing that cow ever did,' said Trixie, hopping out of the car in front of the house, ‘was to make sure her sugar daddy left her some money.' All her movements were quick and sharp. ‘Come on, you two! We haven't got all day!'

Bea made sure the car was properly locked up, thinking it wasn't her place to disabuse Trixie about possible riches in store … or not, as the case might be.

Once inside, Trixie acted as hostess. She ordered her children to make themselves scarce upstairs. She told the solicitor to sit in the big armchair, while relegating Bea and Gail to upright chairs at the side of the room. She switched on the electric fire, remarking that it would take some time to warm up and what the electricity bill was going to be like, she didn't dare think. They all kept their coats on.

Lily hovered, waiting to be seated, but Trixie ignored her. It was Gail who asked Lily if she would like to freshen up? Lily shook her head, and moved the packaging from the new TV to take a seat in the window. The flowers in the vase on the window sill were completely dead.

Derek produced a bottle and poured sherries all round. Even for Tom, who was told to take his upstairs and not make a fuss about it.

Lily crossed plump legs and sipped, looking bored. In repose her mouth had a downward droop.

Gail refused sherry, as did Bea. Derek gave Bea a glass despite her protest, so she held it in her hand waiting for an opportunity to put it down somewhere safe. Derek gulped down his glass, and poured himself another. ‘I don't drink this stuff myself usually, but Damaris always said you gave sherry to solicitors.' He grinned, hoisting up trouser legs as he seated himself beside Trixie. ‘So … on with the show, right? Let's have it. The old man left everything to Damaris, right?'

The solicitor fingered documents in his briefcase, drawing out a sheaf of papers and leafing through them.

‘Oh, get on with it, man,' said Derek. ‘No legal jargon. A plain “yes” is all we want. Does Damaris inherit the lot?'

The solicitor nodded. ‘Yes, b–but …'

‘That's all we need to know.' Derek drained his second glass. ‘No ifs or buts. Lock, stock and barrel. House and contents. Car. Stocks and shares. Everything, right?'