False Pretences (34 page)

Somehow, painfully, Honoria managed to get to her knees, crunching shards of glass and pottery, and then, pulling herself up by the table, holding herself there by sheer willpower, she focused her one good eye on Bea . . . who seemed unable to move.

Honoria lunged forward, signalling her intention to get at Bea . . . and crashed to the ground again as her once enormous strength failed her.

Maggie dropped the Creuset pan. She was shaking. Crying. ‘I couldn't hit her, I couldn't.'

‘No,' said Bea, regarding the fallen creature with pity and horror. ‘Neither can I.'

Max got out his own mobile, clearing his throat. ‘I think we should summon an ambulance, all the same. They can sedate her, do whatever is necessary.'

Piers grinned, not nicely. ‘We must be seen to go through the motions, mustn't we?'

Someone called out from the hallway. CJ appeared in the doorway, taking in the wrecked kitchen, the woman on the floor. He looked at her distorted face, her right hand clutching at the table leg, her left side useless.

‘Who are you?' said Max to CJ. And into the phone, ‘Ambulance, please.'

‘He's a friend in need,' said Bea. ‘CJ, can you mop up, please? Honoria came here to kill. Her hammer's in the dustpan. I haven't touched it. She hit Maggie a couple of times, but I'm perfectly all right. Or, I will be when I've had a little sit down.'

The church was so full that the mourners overflowed the building and some had to listen to the service outside. A famous organist played Mendelssohn; a renowned quartet offered a favourite piece of Schubert. His grandson read out a roll call of his achievements for humanity. His great-grandchildren recited a poem he used to read to them when they were little.

Outside, where Bea stood with other latecomers, leaves gently dropped to the ground, yellow on green. Dahlias blazed yellow and red in the vases left in front of gravestones.

The celebration for the dead man's life was well attended by the great and the good. News photographers' cameras flashed as the mourners left the church. Most wore black, but the general mood was reflective and even cheerful rather than sad.

CJ caught up with Bea as the crowd turned into the road leading to Tommy's ancestral home.

‘I tried to save you a seat,' said CJ, ‘but a cabinet minister took it.' He looked back at the church. ‘Quite well done. Tommy would have given it nine out of ten.' He was wearing black today.

Bea, who never wore black, was in her best dark-blue suit. ‘Yes, sorry I was late. What wouldn't he have liked?'

‘The Trout Quintet. Too obvious, too saccharine. His grandson's choice.'

‘I thought you were one of the executors. Didn't you have any say?'

He grimaced. ‘Why quibble at something which pleases the grandson and heir? Life's too short.'

They joined the queue entering the hall of a superb Georgian house nearby. Bea wondered if Honoria thought life was too short, nowadays. She was still being held in a prison hospital wing and was reported to be making little or no progress back to speech and mobility.

Bea spotted Piers in the distance. He didn't see Bea, and she didn't wave to him. He was talking to a pretty woman of a certain age. Botox, thought Bea, and grinned to herself. Piers had painted Tommy, Lord Murchison many years before, and it was this likeness of the old man which had appeared in many of his obituaries.

Piers's picture of Nicole had received mixed reviews in the press and had, as he'd foreseen, led to his becoming more popular than ever. No doubt the woman he was escorting today also wanted him to paint her.

Bea and CJ progressed to the hall, shook hands with the new Lord Murchison, took a glass of something each, and filtered through into the dining room, which was laid out for a buffet lunch. At the table already was Lettice, all in black, wearing a stunning hat and listening with flattering attention to a portly man who looked as if he were somebody important.

‘She's doing well at the Trust,' said CJ, somehow managing to acquire plates of food while others around them hesitated to help themselves. ‘Come this way. It's quieter.'

Bea followed him through a communicating door into a huge library, and thence into an Edwardian conservatory, filled with the spicy scent of chrysanthemums. There were plenty of bamboo chairs around, and he ushered her to one.

Bea was suspicious of all this attention from CJ. He wanted something from her, presumably? It wouldn't be about the Trust, for Tommy's grandson had been unanimously adopted as the new chairman, and Lettice invited to become a director. Between them they were clearing out the old guard and, with Zander back in charge of the office, they were making sure that Denzil's antics were never repeated.

‘I hear you have a grandson,' said CJ. ‘Exciting for you.'

‘Yes,' said Bea, who did indeed find it exciting. She put her hand to her bag to bring out her latest photographs of him, and then desisted. CJ wouldn't be interested in seeing them.

She believed she might know where this conversation was going but decided not to help him along. ‘Max is enjoying his new responsibilities. I believe he thought the news stories about Honoria would damage his reputation, but there . . . It turned out he was the hero of the hour, arriving in the nick of time to save his poor old mother and her young lodger from being attacked by a hammer-wielding assassin. So it didn't do him any harm at all.'

CJ managed not to pull a face at this. ‘I trust the cheque from Tommy covered replacement of your dinner service?'

And much more, as he knew very well. ‘Yes, thank you,' said Bea, who'd not only replaced the broken crockery and glasses, but also put away a tidy sum towards Oliver's university expenses. Her money anxieties had been much eased by this, and by Piers coming up trumps – for once – by giving her a cheque to cover the replacement of the guttering at the back of the house.

‘So.' He cleared his throat. Was he nervous? ‘The agency is going well. You have quite a word for efficiency in the business. Taking on more staff, I understand? I'm a little surprised you were late this morning.'

Here it came. He knew why she was late, of course. ‘Maggie and I took Oliver to Cambridge yesterday and settled him in. I'm afraid we stayed up for hours last night, talking about him and making plans. We're both going to miss him enormously.'

CJ cleared his throat again. ‘Yes, of course his departure must leave a gap in your life. And a room to spare. My son Chris was wondering—'

‘I understand he's not going back to university. What's he going to do with himself?'

‘I said he could drop out for a year if he won some prize or other, his film project, you know? And he did. Rather to my surprise. To his, too, I believe. I don't know how long this enthusiasm for film will last, but perhaps . . . There's always hope that one day he'll settle into a career. I must admit we're neither of us looking forward to living cheek by jowl this next year. So he wondered—'

‘No,' said Bea.

‘You don't know what I'm going to ask.'

‘Yes, I do. He's already tried to move his synthesizer in. Maggie and I have talked it over, and we're both agreed it wouldn't work. That room is Oliver's and not to be touched. Oliver needs a base, somewhere that's always there for him.'

CJ thought that over. Tried the pathetic touch. ‘Neither my wife nor I expected to have children, and Chris came as something of a shock to us. Then, after she died—'

‘No. You'll be asking me to adopt you, next.'

He perked up. ‘I wouldn't mind.'

Was he trying to flirt with her? Almost, she giggled. No, flirtation was not on her agenda. She smiled to soften her refusal. ‘You're old enough to take care of yourself. As for Chris, he's a lovely lad, but he drives me insane. I'd be had up for murder within months, if he moved into our house.'

‘Well, as Oliver's always saying, murder pays.'

‘Oliver's gone,' said Bea, suddenly wanting to cry.

‘The terms are short. He'll be back soon enough. So you'd better save any other murders till he's around again.'

Bea tried to smile. ‘Oh, he's not going to wait for half-term. We gave him a brand new laptop, and he's hooking himself on to email. He says we're to contact him at the first sign of trouble . . . though I sincerely hope it's not another murder. We've had enough of those. The Abbot Agency does not, repeat not, handle murder.'

He smiled, ‘What, never?'

Bea laughed. ‘Well . . . hardly ever.'