Black & Blue (Lord & Lady Hetheridge Book 4) (28 page)

"We're so lucky we had that faulty wiring," Tabitha said. The REB had settled in the living room, and she was going from seat to seat, serving mojitos garnished with blueberries. "Plus I have friends on the planning committee. It's so much easier when the demolition occurs due to fire. I keep telling them I'm just enduring all this open space. That soon I'll dig up some reclaimed timber and brick, locate an approved builder, and get this place back to its original floorplan. And I will, in a decade or two," she added, winking at Tony. "Remember that, if you decide to gut your place and start over. Sure you won't have a mojito?"

"Perhaps later."

"I think what Lord Hetheridge is too polite to say is, men won't touch a drink with floating fruit," Declan East announced from his seat near the colossal television. Of middle height, narrow-shouldered and fiftyish, he looked even gloomier in person, his comb-over down to a few thick strands plastered to the otherwise hairless zone.

"James Bond drinks martinis, and martinis have olives," Fiona Leeds said. "Olives are a fruit."

"Who told you that? Your ghostwriter?" Declan shook his head. "For what it's worth, James Bond drinks vespers. No olive, just a bit of lemon peel. Though I suppose before long he'll order a Toffee Appletini. Tabby, I hope you realize you're contributing to the pervasive feminization of Britain."

"Declan. Don't show off just because Tony finally graced us with his presence." Tabitha said, winking at Tony. "We're so pleased you could come. The REB is a small group, but determined. We were on the brink of forcing Granville out of the neighborhood when he died. And now that he's gone, we'll have the White Elephant knocked down and replaced with something acceptable in a matter of months."

Tony nodded, working to maintain an expression of benign interest. The group was small, only twelve people; apparently, interest in gathering to excoriate Granville Hardwick behind his back had fallen off after the murder. The traditional adage "Nothing but good of the dead" still held sway, at least in Mayfair. But the neighbors who'd turned up were longtime residents, and all knew Tony by reputation. They seemed genuinely happy to see him, as if a Peer's interest might speed their efforts to rid the neighborhood of East Asia House once and for all.

"Besides," Tabitha continued. "Jimmy made these drinks, and no one would call him girly. A poll last week said he was the most feared man on TV." She handed a mojito to Patsy East, who to Tony resembled a female version of her husband—same height, same narrow shoulders, and equally gloomy, from her limp dark hair to the downturned corners of her mouth.

"Oh, well, of course, TV," Declan sneered. "Nothing more instrumental in the fall of western civilization than the public's obsession with TV."

"Jimmy came back?" Patsy East asked Tabitha. She had a soft, breathy way of speaking, as if she'd trained herself to communicate as unobtrusively as possible. "That's wonderful."

Tabitha nodded. "We're together again. Stronger than ever. The best marriages have their ups and downs, Patsy love, and come out better for it."

So two of Sharada's wandering wives have reconciled with their husbands
,
either before Hardwick died or just after
. Tony studied Tabitha, every inch the gracious hostess, and Patsy, who looked quietly miserable.
Is that guilt? Or just the wages of being married to Declan East?

"So, Lord Hetheridge. Or Tony, if you insist," Declan said. "Though I see nothing wrong with addressing a man by the title God gave him. What do you make of the hatchet job Tabby did on this house?"

"Quite nice. Practical for entertaining. And for her husband to pursue his cooking, I suppose."

"Erm. I can't agree. Beige walls and fitted carpets make me want to vomit. All rather soulless, if you ask me. Of course, it's indoors, and the Society to Reverse Euston Brutality was formed to fight public outrages, not private ones. Still." Declan seemed determined to engage Tony, to find some point of agreement between them. "I've heard your home hasn't changed in any meaningful sense, inside or out, for more than fifty years. That's what I call traditionalism."

"That's what I call sloth," Tony said lightly. "And now that I've seen what a bit of fire can do, perhaps I'll encourage my house guest to play with matches. I only wish I'd seen it sooner. And I would have, if I hadn't waited so long to accept your group's kind invitation."

That brought smiles all around. This was the sort of social obligation he loathed, that he voluntarily endured for only two reasons—charity, or murder. But it was nice to know he could still win people over with easy manners and a touch of self-deprecation. Most people, at least. Not Declan.

"You disappoint me." The man stared at Tony as if suddenly recognizing the tell-tale signs of a counterfeit. "Why did you come here, really? I was told you retired from Scotland Yard. Is that true? Are you actually investigating Hardwick's murder?"

"Dee… please." Patsy sounded nervous.

"I did retire," Tony said pleasantly. "I just got married. I'm planning to adopt my wife's nephew, and I'm embarking on a new chapter of my life. As for the Hardwick murder, my understanding is the police arrested a man at the scene. He confessed. Case closed."

Declan looked at the floor, pursed his lips, and said nothing.

Before long, Jimmy Quarrels himself appeared, in jeans and a chef's white shirt, to thank everyone for coming and announce the lunch menu, which was sea bass and seared vegetables. He seemed in a splendid mood, happy to linger and chat, but after five minutes, Tabitha tired of her husband answering questions about recipes and cooking show contestants.

"Jimmy! Are you mental?" she demanded, interrupting him in mid-sentence. "You haven't even begun the prep. If you don't hurry and start cooking soon, our guests will die of starvation while you're still dicing the onions."

"Er, um, of course, of course," he muttered, running a hand through his hair.

"Get to it. Chop-chop! And not too much rosemary. Last time you ruined it with too much rosemary."

Giving his guests a sheepish wave, the celebrity chef retreated to his kitchen.

"I used to be his
sous
chef," she told the group, sinking gracefully into an armchair and taking a sip of her drink. "He needed a firm hand in those days. Still does. Now let's get down to business. Tony, a bit of background. Someone suggested making the REB more than just a protest group. That's negative and might strike the Council as hostile. So we're about to
rebrand
ourselves"—Tabitha smiled, very proud of that word—"as the Society to Restore Euston's Beauty. We'll position ourselves as a network of historic and nearly historic homes that beautify London. Therefore, when we complain of the White Elephant in our midst, we'll be taken more seriously. Besides." She took another sip of her mojito. "Becoming recognized as a group with preservation goals could benefit us in lots of ways. Grants from the government. Tax breaks. I mean, we've earned it, right? Let's keep it. Now look at this."

A laptop was positioned in the center of the coffee table. Opening it, Tabitha began clicking keys, continuing, "I hired someone from Jimmy's show to make us a website. Right now it's just an example, privately hosted. A little manifesto about who we are, what we stand for, pictures, slideshows. Photos of Fiona and her book, Declan and his columns, and me and Jimmy cooking together. People love a bit of TV magic! And naturally, all our homes are shown to their best advantage. Anyone viewing the site can't help but see how this isn't just about keeping our property values up. It's about beautifying the city."

Seated as he was beside Tabitha, who seemed to be playing directly to him, Tony watched politely as she clicked from house to house, letting everyone in the group see how their home was represented. When Declan's came on the screen, he sat up.

"No. No. 'Best advantage,' you say? Who did you hire to take these pictures, one of Jimmy's reject contestants? Look at that!" He pointed at the screen. "Why shoot the house so that our trouble with the bloody construction crew is visible?"

Tony studied the picture. Most of the front garden was flawless. But the gate to the walled back garden was surrounded by wheelbarrows, stacked bricks, and a pile of lumber.

"Fine, I'll swap it out. We have dozens of images to choose from," Tabitha said, her patience with Declan clearly growing thin. "But now that you mention it, it's just as well you and the workers had your dispute before that new electric gate went in. We all need to think carefully about modifications to our property that will be visible from the street. Patsy told me your old gate was circa 1870. The best thing you could do for our movement is get those workers to clear out the debris and restore the gate to its place, at least till the REB gets what it wants."

"Bugger the REB."

"Dee," Patsy said again. Her husband rounded on her.

"Oh, I get it. You took that picture, didn't you? Lovely. Untold hundreds flushed away on photography lessons, and you can't even frame a snapshot without making a fool of yourself."

"I did them yesterday," Patsy said. "I was late submitting them, so a few didn't turn out perfect. But the interior shots are lovely."

"I doubt it," Declan said savagely. "All right, Tabby, what are you waiting for? Show us Patsy's snaps of the toilet bowl and the mudroom floor. That's sure to impress the Peer in our midst."

"Declan, be reasonable. They're perfectly fine," Tabitha said. "See? Front parlor. Front living room. Looks like a page from a magazine."

Tony took it in as Declan stared at the picture of his living room, clearly searching for an excuse to further berate his wife. Most of the Easts' décor was antique, but the room's wallpaper and light fixtures were modern. Framed photographic art hung on the walls.

"Zoom in," Declan said.

Tabitha did. Now greater detail was visible—one of Declan's journalism awards gathering dust on the piano, a stray glove on the sofa, smeared fingerprints standing out on the coffee table. Any space sheltering human beings would have such imperfections. And if the compositions on the walls were examples of Patsy's work, her strengths ran to simple subjects, hugely magnified. Tony saw an orchid petal, ripples on a pond, the stem of a leaf, and something more abstract: four puffs of red, each a dark spot surrounded by a halo of droplets.

"Why do we even have a maid? Couldn't you have asked her to tidy up before you blundered in, camera in hand, to capture it all for eternity?" Declan asked Patsy. His shrillness in anger, his small hands and narrow shoulders, reminded Tony of Kate's conundrum: the woman in a scarf and lavender coat who had entered Hardwick's house just before the murder, yet never came out.

Did Declan disguise himself as his wife to get into East Asia House? And disguise himself as Georgette Sevrin to get home again?

* * *

It was past six o'clock when Tony extricated himself from the REB. He'd tasted the sea bass, complimented the dessert, taken the obligatory sip of post-prandial sherry, and finally been set free after three-and-a-half excruciating hours. With any luck, what he'd observed would help Kate resolve the Hardwick case, and render the sacrifice of his time worthwhile. Thoughts focused on Declan and Patsy East, he crossed to his side of Euston Place. He'd just started toward Wellegrave House when a dog growled behind him.

"Kaiser! Nein!" a familiar voice said. "Don't mind him, Chief. He's just excited to see you."

Tony turned. Sir Duncan Godington stood before him. Tall, blond, and handsome enough to turn heads even in London, Sir Duncan looked as stylish as ever in a black overcoat and cashmere scarf. He held the lead of a black dog that strained against his grip, as if disliking Tony on sight.

"Hello, Sir Duncan. What are you doing here?"

Sir Duncan made a wounded noise. "Not very polite, are you? Then again, I suppose you feel a bit beat up these days. I was shocked,
shocked
, to hear the news." His blue eyes snapped with amusement. "The invincible, always-on-the-job Chief Superintendent Hetheridge, giving up his career to be a house husband? Stepfather to an in-law's brat?"

Tony said nothing.

"I can't believe you'd ever voluntarily choose such a thing. Tell me the truth. Did they sack you for marrying Kate? Has the Metropolitan Police Service become so open and transparent, it actually x-rayed the oldest boy in the old boy network?"

"So it seems."

"Ah, but you're keeping a stiff upper lip about it. Good for you," Sir Duncan said, issuing another command in German when Kaiser's attention shifted to a poodle across the street. "Keeping up appearances is so important. And you know," he went on, feeling in his pocket and withdrawing a dog treat, "it used to be, a man retired at fifty-five. Died at fifty-eight. That's why they gave him the gold pocket watch. So he could keep track of every miserable moment, unwanted, put out to pasture, until the Grim Reaper arrived. How old are you now? Sixty-five? Seventy?"

Tony smiled.

"Never mind. And who knows, perhaps it won't all be soft food and Zimmer frames. Perhaps you'll get a bit of excitement before the end," Sir Duncan went on, feeding Kaiser the treat. "You'd be surprised how many times I've run into Paul Bhar lately. Encounters like that are so much more fun in the real world, as opposed to the interrogation room. I feel a bit bullied in there. But out here, under the sky, in the fresh air, there are so many more… possibilities. People lead real lives out here. Let down their hair. Let down their guard. At all sorts of places, like Waitrose… Boots… the Tube…."

"Careful," Tony said.

"Oh, but I'm always careful." Sir Duncan didn't break eye contact. "And don't go losing sleep over Paul. It's true, I've been playing with him, tracking him with Kaiser. But it's all too easy. He falls apart at the smallest push."

"You'd do better with me." Tony felt exactly as he did on the piste, epee in hand, facing a well-matched but overconfident opponent. Holding his form, he allowed time to slow, waiting for the moment the blade would be
there
, and one flick of his fingers could sweep it away.