Festering Lilies (17 page)

What with the icy air biting at the back of her neck and Mr Caldervale's sexism arousing her rage, Willow realised that she was not going to shake his determined silence and bully or charm out of him any information he did not want to give up.

‘I'm most grateful, Mr Caldervale, nevertheless,' she said with some truth. ‘Thank you. Oh, no, please don't bother to get up again. I can see myself out.'

But he would not allow that and heaved himself out of the chair once more. Willow felt that uncomfortable pricking of her conscience again. Life had been very much easier, she thought, when she had not involved herself with other people, even if it had been a trifle lonely. With that word in her mind, she turned on the doorstep and offered her hand to the old man.

‘Thank you again, Mr Caldervale. Good bye.' Looking a little surprised, he shifted his stick to his other hand and took hers. His palm was warm and dry and he shook her hand firmly.

‘I wish you luck, Miss King,' he said, his eyes flashing fiercely, ‘with whatever it is you are really doing.'

Willow blushed, but was too experienced to say more or try to persuade him of her bona fides. As she walked away from his aggressively clean cottage she felt as though his sharp old eyes were fixed on her retreating figure and even tightened and relaxed her shoulder blades once or twice. At last she could bear it no longer and turned to look back, but his front door was well and truly shut. Mocking herself for the over-active imagination he had diagnosed in her, she walked down to the sea and watched the grey waves crash down on the beach and suck backwards at the gravel in a violent undertow.

There were a few sad-looking children playing on the edge of the sea and two or three old men trudging along in wellingtons, but that was all. The whole scene was grey and forlorn. Willow thought of what the place must have looked like in its heyday as a holiday resort, with the pier gleaming, the beach full of people and the now-tatty shops and eating houses doing a brisk and comfortable trade. As it was, on that cold November day she thought she had never seen a more depressing place and pitied the miserable victims of Algernon Endelsham even more than she had before. It must have been bad enough to be sent away from warm, well-mothered homes at the pathetic age of eight, but to have to live for three-quarters of the year in a place so gloomy must have been horrible, let alone being tormented and mocked for their tears by a ferocious bully. Even the Newcastle of her own arid childhood had been more enticing.

Shivering suddenly and wrapping the jacket of her suit more firmly round herself, she turned away from the sea, and walked up into the town. There she found herself in slightly less tawdry and depressing surroundings, with one or two antique shops that made her want to stop and browse. She yielded to temptation after a while and toyed for a few minutes with the idea of buying a supposed Regency breakfast table, in lovely glowing kingwood, but in the end decided that the price was outrageous and the provenance doubtful. The proprietor's resigned acceptance of her polite excuses suggested either that she was right or that he had wasted too much time with impoverished tourists using his shop as a free wet-weather amusement. Despite her disenchantment with the breakfast table, she went on into each shop that looked as though it were more than a junkyard and in the end found herself in a print shop, leafing through piles of engravings, aquatints, etchings and lithographs.

There were several that caught her fancy and she bought a series of four hand-coloured etchings of exotic birds, which had obviously been cut from some Victorian natural-history book, for her Abbeville Road flat and a very much more expensive woodcut for Richard. Her conscience had been agitating her for her inaccessibility at the weekend – and at her irrepressible amusement at his prep school nickname – and she thought that the spending of really quite a lot of money might help. She chose him a print of an ancient monastery herb garden, which seemed to her very charming with its distorted perspective and beautifully lettered instructions for the planting and cultivation of various medicinal and culinary herbs. Cress did not feature in the woodcut, which made her smile once again.

Willow paid cash for the Abbeville Road prints and put Richard's woodcut on one of her credit cards and waited until the pictures had been wrapped between sheets of stiff card. Then, still cold and dissatisfied with herself, she went into a teashop and ordered a pot of very strong coffee to drink before she could catch a train back to London.

Sitting on the train, it suddenly dawned on her that Algy's elder brother might well have tried to escape the bullying attentions of his tormentor not by emigration but simply by changing his name. If he did that and kept out of Algy's way, then he might have been able to get on with his life, perhaps even become qualified in some way and found himself a viable job. He could be anywhere.

Turning the new idea over and over in her mind, Willow then tried to remember anything she had ever known about the rules of Deed Poll. If there were a register of people's original names, Willow could search it for ‘Endelsham'and then interview anyone who had once been called Jonathan Endelsham whatever his new name. Unfortunately she could not remember whether there was any such register and was amazed to find yet another topic of which she knew nothing. It was years since she had been faced with such inadequacy in herself and she did not like it at all.

Willow timed her return to Chesham Place to avoid Mrs Rusham, who might have been dangerously surprised to see her fastidious employer dressed in a manifestly ready-made suit that disguised all her good features and made her look ten years older and about fifty times poorer than she was. But evidence of the housekeeper's industry could be found all over the flat, and Willow relaxed into its gentle comfort with a sigh of relief. There was no message from Richard on either the machine or Mrs Rusham's pad and that too was a relief, even if, as Willow rather suspected, it meant that he was sulking. But there were various other messages, including one from Emma Gnatche thanking ‘Cressida'for giving her lunch.

Emma's little speech was so charmingly phrased that Willow thought she would have to pursue her acquaintance with Emma even when her information was no longer needed for the investigation. The sound of her voice also reminded Willow that she had agreed to go out to dinner with Emma's brother. A quick look at her watch told Willow that he would be arriving in less than twenty minutes'time to collect her.

Ignoring the rest of the messages, Willow ran for the bathroom, unbuttoning and unzipping clothes as she went. She turned on both taps at full blast and flung some Channel No. 19 essence into the water. While the bath filled, she retreated to her bedroom to choose some clothes. Not at all certain where Anthony might take her, she was in a slight quandary as to what to wear. Emma's appearance and manner suggested that the family were perfectly well off, but the quality of the wine offered at Sarah's engagement party had led Willow to think otherwise. It would never do to embarrass her host – or indeed herself – by wearing a couture dress to a tiny, informal restaurant, but on the other hand it would do Cressida Woodruffe's publicity no good at all to be seen at a richly fashionable restaurant wearing jeans.

In the end she compromised and wore a plain black wool dress, whose cut would carry it almost anywhere. She pinned an antique emerald brooch just below the neck, hoping that if they did go to some bistro full of scrubbed tables and candle ends stuck in old chianti bottles, the jewel would be taken as fake.

With her tall, slim figure and her red hair, snaking down her back, she knew that she looked reasonably attractive, and was pleased three minutes later to see that Anthony Gnatche thought so too. Three minutes after that, though, she had remembered all the reasons why she had disliked him at Sarah's party. His braying laugh irritated her whenever he produced it; his crass compliments made her want to hit him; and the tedium of his mind and conversation suggested that an evening being grilled by Inspector Worth would be preferable to eating even the best dinner in the company of Anthony Gnatche.

Willow's sympathies for Emma grew as they arrived at the restaurant Anthony had chosen (happily one where the emerald pin could safely be taken as genuine) and he started to flex his importance in front of the waiters. First he decided that their table was in a draught and then as soon as they had been settled at a different table, started impatiently drumming his fingers on the table because the drinks he had ordered did not appear instantly. Willow wanted to tell him how bored such antics made her, but instead smiled as sweetly as her remaining honesty would allow.

‘You wanted to ask some advice about Emma,' she said, hoping to turn his conversation from its tedious mixture of compliment and self-advertisement. Gnatche looked surprised for a moment and Willow could have kicked herself for believing that he had wanted her advice, but eventually he coughed and began to tell her that he was at his wits'end about what to do with his younger stepsister.

‘She got very hung up on old Algy, you see,' he said at one moment. ‘I expect she told you that. She said you were terribly sympathetic.'

‘Did she?' said Willow, not wanting to betray little Emma's confidences and remembering how the child had said she was sometimes afraid of her brother.

‘Oh, yes. And he was such a swine with girls; I just want to be sure… well, you know,' he said, giving her a look which she could not interpret at all.

‘Not really,' said Willow. ‘Have you thought of suggesting that she goes to university? It seemed to me that she was far too intelligent to waste her time on cookery classes and nice-young-girls'jobs. She ought to have some real work to do. And if she really was – what did you call it? – hung up on Mr Endelsham, that might distract her.'

Anthony's reaction to that suggestion left Willow in no doubt at all as to his views on women and their proper function in men's lives and her pity for his sisters grew. She tried to distract him by asking him about his work and he expatiated at great length about his farming methods and excellent man management. Willow listened, reminding herself both that it was all good copy and that the evening would end in due course.

Eventually Gnatche tired of talking about himself and returned to the subject of Emma. To Willow's highly critical ear, he seemed to be trying to pump her about what Emma might have said about her late employer, and she decided to say nothing. As she listened to him, Willow found her resentment and her boredom growing at such speed that she could hardly taste any of the delectable food that the now-morose waiter put in front of her.

It was just as she was biting into a perfect hot Cointreau soufflé as though it were tinned rice pudding that she decided to do something to make the best of the evening instead of letting it drive her into a frenzy of boredom and rage. She put down her spoon and waited for Gnatche to finish his sentence.

‘I'm sure Emma'll be all right,' she said. ‘She seemed far too sensible to let whatever she felt for Endelsham spoil her life. By the way, you knew him well: do you know who his heir is?'

‘Why on earth do you want to know that?' demanded Gnatche. Willow, surprised by his abrupt – almost rude – tone, produced the first excuse that came into her head, and it was not a particularly good one.

‘Oh, it's just that I was talking to my editor this morning, and she asked me whether I had any idea. My publisher is apparently thinking of commissioning a biography of Algy, and they'll need access to his papers.'

‘Bit vulture-like, don't you think?'

‘Perhaps,' said Willow, as though she were really considering the proposition. ‘But, I suppose that is why they're so anxious to get the approval of his heirs. Do you know who they might be? Had he any family?'

‘Just the brother as far as I know. They must have had parents, but Algy hadn't said a word about them in all the time I've known him,' said Gnatche, shaking his head. ‘Presumably his brother gets something, however much Algy loathed him when they were boys. Perhaps Algy left the rest to one or other of his mistresses… perhaps the party. Who knows?'

‘What about Emma?' suggested Willow, not entirely seriously but in order to keep the conversation going. She was surprised to see her host's face change. His voice was cold and clipped as he said:

‘I cannot imagine why you should think Algernon Endelsham should leave my sister anything. She has never been his mistress; and she would not dream of accepting a legacy from him even if she had been.'

‘Please don't misunderstand me,' said Willow quickly. ‘I never meant to suggest anything derogatory to Emma. She seemed wholly delightful and it was clear from her accounts of her work with Endelsham that he valued her highly. That made me wonder.' After a little more soothing, Gnatche allowed himself to accept Willow's excuses and even went so far as to answer her question.

‘I think it's most unlikely that Emma stands to inherit anything,' he said at last. ‘After all, no sane man alters his will to include a temporary typist, however sweet and helpful she may be, particularly as he can have had no suspicion that he would die.'

‘I suppose not,' said Willow, unfairly irritated that Gnatche had not been able to help. She was left with his assumption, which she shared, that in the absence of other relations Algy's brother might be in line for a fairly substantial inheritance. It did just occur to her that Gnatche himself might have had some expectations, which could have explained why he had reacted so angrily to her suggestion about Emma. He might well be in some kind of financial trouble, despite his boasts about his wonderful farming techniques and man management. After all, the Common Agricultural Policy had resulted in serious trouble for many farmers and the value of agricultural land had fallen catastrophically. Perhaps he was fighting hard to keep up appearances while struggling to pay off crippling mortgages. That might well explain the disgusting wine served at Sarah's engagement party. And yet Willow could think of no reason why Endelsham should have bequeathed anything to Anthony Gnatche: it was true that they had been friends of a sort since prep school, but she simply could not imagine a man as sophisticated and intelligent as Algy being so fond of the tedious Gnatche that he wanted to enrich him.