White Lies (14 page)

A reproduction, miniature Excalibur did the job of slitting open the envelopes. A bill for shop rates which was up twenty percent on last year, a copy of
Playwitch
and an invoice for the last pamphlet she’d sent to the printers.

The
Playwitch
she filed in the top drawer. She’d look at that over a cup of tea in the morning. It was not, as the title might suggest, a pornographic magazine but a catalog of witch’s equipment, from cauldrons to “invisible” thermal body stockings, perfect for those nights on the moor when it was “just too cold to be skyclad.”

Meinwen turned her attention to the package, wondering how it had got there, since it was far bigger than the letterbox. There were two possible explanations. One was it had grown in size after being posted through and the second, which she had to admit was more likely, was it had been added by someone with a key. Felicia at the gallery across the road had access to Meinwen’s shop, as did Charlie at the diner. One of them must have dropped it off. She lifted the package onto the desk and turned it round. It had come from one of her suppliers in China. A lot of her goods came from there. They seemed glad of the business and most of the figurines looked genuine enough to the uninformed. Once in a while there was an authentic piece included, and these she would either sell online or else keep for herself. Selling them in the shop would devalue the other goods she had for sale. No one would believe a statue of Guan-Yin priced at fifty pounds was genuine when there was an identical one priced at two and a half thousand.

She followed the line of packing tape, turning the box over to find a sticker proclaiming This Side Up and ripping it open. Inside was a quartz figurine of Monkey, holding a broken staff. She examined the break. It was clean and recent. She could probably mend it with superglue and still sell it on for a decent profit.

“Monkey, eh?” Meinwen rotated the statue, looking at the fine workmanship. “The trickster god. Did you shrink yourself to go through the letterbox then expand afterward?” She shook her head, laughing at herself for talking to a statue and left him sitting on the counter.

She filed the rest of the post before checking the time. The Illuminati clock on the wall said six fifteen. Time enough for a cup of something warming before dropping in at Isaacs and Du Point, John Fenstone’s solicitors.

Chapter 11

Meinwen locked up the shop and walked through the market. The stalls were empty at this time of night, the clouds overhead reflecting the streetlights and the plastic tarpaulins covering the semipermanent stalls snapping in the breeze. The sporadically placed bins were overflowing with litter and seemed to be shored up with piles of battered fruit boxes. An old woman was sorting through them, filling her shopping bag with sprouting onions, half-brown bananas and bruised apples.

A left turn after Marks and Spencer’s took her into Albert Street, a road providing a natural barrier to the jumble of narrow lanes in the Shambles. Formed where the warehouses at the back of Cheap Street used to be, Albert Street remained a wide thoroughfare between the market and Plank Street, consisting mainly of jewelers, estate agents, building societies and a dental surgery with residential flats overhead.

Phyllie’s American Style Diner occupied a prime position on the wide pavement. It was a purpose-built building in the style of a fifties American diner, with the booths, bar stools and garish paintwork that went along with the style. A brass bell above the door jangled as she entered, causing the man behind the bar to look up from his paper. She slipped onto one of the stools.

“Evening, Ms. Jones. What can I get you?” He gave her a warm smile. His genuine interest in his customers accounted for his continued success in an industry constantly threatened by multinationals, but he was already past retirement age and without someone to take over the business the diner was doomed.

Meinwen unbuttoned her coat and leaned forward, her elbows resting on the counter. “I’ll have a decaf mocha latte please, Charlie.”

“Decaf?” Charlie shook his head. “What’s the point in buying coffee if you’re asking for a decaf? Dozens of beans to try and yet you ask for the processed jars. Let me tell you. If God didn’t intend us to harness the benefits of caffeine He wouldn’t have given us coffee beans.”

“I didn’t know you were religious. You never said.”

“Coffee drinking is a religion unto itself.” Charlie grinned as he poured hot milk froth into her drink. His voice rose and fell in the manner of a lay preacher declaiming the perils of the afterlife. “This here’s my church and my temple and this counter is my altar. Now then. Take this, my child, and drink from it.” He put a coaster down and centered her coffee on it.

Meinwen laughed, wrapping her hands around the mug. She pulled out her phone and placed it on the counter in front of her. “Thanks.”

“Uh-oh.”

“Uh-oh?”

“People don’t set their phones like that unless they’re expecting a call. Who are you expecting a call from? A new boyfriend?”

“Not exactly.” Meinwen’s lip curled. “I only met him yesterday but he’s got something, you know? Something primal.”

“I can just about remember that far back. Let me guess. He’s not sitting somewhere alone waiting for your call.”

“I doubt it.” Meinwen sighed. “Physically, he’s great. We’re great together, too, but’s he’s emotionally stunted. Wouldn’t know how to cuddle if you gave him an illustrated book.”

“The strong, silent type, is he?”

“I suppose. He’s considerate, though. The sort to open a door for someone then stand back.”

“Maybe he’s just careful.” Charlie poured himself a cup of the evil black brew that he kept hot all day. “The sort of man who’s been burned once and doesn’t want to get emotionally attached.”

“He’s just come out of prison. Perhaps he’s forgotten how to court a woman.”

“I don’t believe that for a moment and neither should you. Men coming out of prison–or any exclusively male establishment for that matter–are either rampant and looking for love or gay. You’re a catch for any man, my dear, and if this one isn’t phoning you every chance he gets it’s entirely his loss.”

“Thanks, Charlie.” Meinwen smiled over her mug. “Not that I care very much. I’m quite happy living alone with the odd cat for company. I can do what I like, eat what and when I like and keep my own hours.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Take my advice. Find an older man who’ll take care of you properly.”

“You offering?”

He laughed. “Not likely. The missus would have a fit.”

Meinwen drained her cup. “It’s almost seven, anyway. I have to go.” She stood, gathering up her coat and thrusting her arms into the wide sleeves.

“’Course you do.” Charlie grinned, picking up her cup and coaster. He gave the counter a wipe with a damp cloth, as if he was removing all trace of her visit. “Good luck with him, whichever way you decide.”

“Thanks.” She buttoned her coat and fished her purse from her voluminous carpetbag. How much do I owe you?”

“Just the usual.” Charlie’s eyes twinkled. “The advice is free.”

“You should write a column.” Meinwen dropped the money on the counter. “Any daily paper could run a full page of your advice. I could write in to ask how to keep my boyfriend interested.”

“Never let him see you naked.” He winked as he passed her the change. “That’s the secret of my marriage to Phyllis. Fifty-two years we’ve been together.”

“Really? That’s amazing. And you’ve never seen her naked? Not even in bed?”

“Nope. She always wears a hat.” Charlie burst out laughing.

Meinwen shook her head. “I walked right into that, didn’t I?” She took the change and tucked her purse away. “See you tomorrow, I expect. Oh, was it you who took the parcel into the shop this morning?”

“Not me. I’ve not been near it. I didn’t know you were closed today. You didn’t say.”

“It must have been Felicia, then, when she came for lunch.” She pulled the door open. “It doesn’t matter. Thanks, Charlie.” The return wave etched in her memory, she hurried back to Dark Passage. The bookshop and gallery were long closed, their front windows lit sparingly with a copy of the rare sixteenth century Laverstone Bible, of which there were only seven copies in the world and a painting in acrylics of Hannibal crossing the Alps by steam powered Zeppelin. She glanced at the window of Smiles Estate Agents but that, too, was closed, the houses for sale tantalizing and far out of the reach of her resources. She’d be lucky to buy cat food if she didn’t live rent-free at the Herbage.

There only light in Isaacs and Du Point solicitors came from the half-paned door since the window, with its reverse gilt lettering, had been blacked out from the other side. She pushed it open and went inside. A short corridor opened into a vestibule with three doors and a desk, behind which sat a young lady wearing far too much make-up.

“Can I help you?”

“Yes, please.” Meinwen took command of the straight-backed chair in front of the desk, swamping it with her body and voluminous coat. “I’d like to have a word with Ms. du Point, if you’d be so kind. Tell her it’s Meinwen Jones.”

“Do you have an account with us?” The girl tapped the keys of a workstation computer, with the stilted motion of someone who didn’t bend their fingers. It was almost as if she’d been trained as a typist but then broken and splinted all her digits. She had to move her entire hand to reach the nearest keys. “You did say ‘Jones’ didn’t you? J-O-N-E-S?”

“That’s correct. Except I’m not a client. I was a beneficiary in a will, once, and I think you hold the lease for my shop but through the owner, not through me.” Meinwen put her carpetbag on the desk. “No, I’m a personal friend of Ms. du Point. I do think she’ll see me, if you ask her.”

“I’ll see if she’s in.” The girl rose in a single movement reminiscent of a stick insect Meinwen had seen in a pet shop once. She took the access card from the computer terminal. “If you’ll just wait for a moment.”

“By which you mean you’ll ask her if I’m really a personal friend.” Meinwen waved her onward. “Go on then. I’m not going anywhere.”

The girl crossed the room and opened one of the doors. Meinwen caught a glimpse of stairs and shivered in the sudden draught of cold air. She leaned forward to look at the computer screen but it only displayed the firm’s logo. She was just about to reach across for a peek at the three files in the girl’s out tray when the door opened again.

“Ms. du Point will see you momentarily.” The girl walked slowly to the door behind her desk and opened it. “If you’d like to wait in here?”

“Certainly.” Meinwen gathered her things and stumped through. It was the room behind the window, though the glass was blocked off with a pair of folding doors. A sofa and an easy chair dominated the small room, the walls enlivened with a few watercolors of generic English landscapes. She plonked herself on the sofa and unbuttoned her coat.

The door opened again to admit Gillian du Point, all brusqueness and sharp suit, her dark hair caught up in a clip at the back. “Meinwen! How good to see you. I can only spare you a few minutes. I’ve got a client that’s just been arrested for soliciting.”

“And was she?” Meinwen half stood to accept an air kiss.

“Oh, I expect so. Arrests are an occupational hazard in her job. What can I do for you?”

“I understand you’re dealing with the estate of John Fenstone.”

“The chap who hanged himself? Yes, I believe so. I’ve not looked through the file yet. I believe he has a brother?”

“That’s right. I’m here on his behalf. We believe John was murdered.”

The solicitor raised one eyebrow. “I see. Do the police believe this also?”

“Not yet, but I think I can persuade them to re-open the case.”

“That will slow the disbursement.”

“Why?”

“If the suspect is a beneficiary the estate is bound over pending inquiry.” Gillian shrugged. “It’s common practice to prevent a felon benefiting from his crime.”

“That’s fair enough, but it won’t have been Jimmy murdering his own brother, will it? He was in prison when it was committed.”

“That would seem to be an excellent alibi.”

“So what I need to know is what disbursements are mentioned in the will. We know there are at least two properties, one at Chervil Court and the other at Ashgate Road but there’s mention of a property in Mill Street. A dungeon, I think, of the sort men pay a great deal of money to visit. Also any bank accounts, saving schemes, mortgages, insurance policies and old socks full of money he might have told you about. In order to find the murderer we need to find who would benefit from his death.”