Stone Barrington 36 - Scandalous Behavior (7 page)

“I didn’t know there was a piano. Where is it?”

“On a truck, on the way down, be here tomorrow. Where would you like it?”

“In this room, I think,” he said, pointing. “Over there.”

“It shall be done. Do you play?”

“A bit. I played my first gig in twenty years last Saturday night, in Positano.”

“Where in Positano? La Sirenuse, perhaps?”

“No, in a private house owned by a very important mafioso. My co-instrumentalists were a guitarist who is a policeman, a bassist who is an officer of the CIA, and a drummer who is the police commissioner of New York City. I also wore a false nose and mustache and pretended to be blind.”

She laughed. “That sounds like a fascinating story. Tell it to me, please, all of it.”

Stone gave her a fifteen-minute version of the events in Italy.

She couldn’t stop laughing. “Your girlfriend must be very grateful to you.”

“On the contrary, she punched me in the face at the first opportunity and hasn’t spoken to me since.”

“Why, the ungrateful bitch! Does she know about the reward you posted for her return?”

“Probably not, and I’m not going to tell her. Anyway, her stepfather has offered to reimburse me, and I have bashfully accepted.”

“Is your life always like this?”

“Only occasionally. It’s rather sedate, most of the time.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I have a better idea, I’ll show you.”

“And how would you accomplish that?”

“I will put you aboard my airplane on Monday morning, fly you to New York, with an overnight stop in the Azores, and you can stay as long as you like.”

“That’s a tempting thought,” she said. “I’ll think about it.”

“You’ve had your martini. All you need now is a glass of wine, and you can make a decision.”

She held out her glass. “I’ll settle for another martini—that should do it.”

When the martini was half gone she set down her glass. “You know, I have a couple of clients in New York that I could catch up with. What are the sleeping arrangements at your house?”

“Two large, electrically operated beds, hard by each other.”

“Hmmmmm. More thought. I’ll give you my answer in the morning.”

“I will wait with bated breath,” he said.

They finished their dinner, had brandy and coffee, then walked upstairs, paused at the top for a kiss, then went their separate ways.

The following morning, Stone lay naked in bed, sleeping soundly. He turned onto his side and encountered another
naked body. He felt it, for identification purposes. “You’d better not be Charles,” he said, and got a loud laugh.

She rolled over to face him, and their bodies became entwined. “I accept your gracious invitation to come to New York with you,” she said, “pending confirmation of our carnal compatibility.”

“I’ll get right to work on that,” Stone said, kissing her.

10

T
hey made love again. “On a scale of one to ten,” he said when they lay panting and spent, “how would you rate our carnal compatibility?”

“Off the charts,” she said. “I’m looking forward to New York. If I make a call, I can get a few things sent down from my house in London on one of the trucks.”

“Don’t forget your passport.”

“That is always in my possession. One never knows when one might receive an enticing invitation.”

Stone picked up the phone. “What would you like for breakfast?”

“Oh, no you don’t,” she said, leaping out of bed and getting into a dressing gown. “I’m not giving the staff anything to gossip about. I’ll order from the Lilac Room.”

“And where is the Lilac Room?”

“Next door.” She kissed him and ran out the door.

Stone ordered breakfast, and while he waited for it, found the remote control in the bedside drawer and pressed the On button. A large flat-screen TV rose from the chest at the end of his bed, and the sound came from speakers scattered about the room. He surfed a bit then selected the BBC and watched the morning news.

—

A
fter breakfast he took the elevator down to the ground floor and tapped on Major Bugg’s doorjamb. “Good morning, Major,” he said, “may we talk?”

“Of course, Mr. Barrington. Please come in and take a pew.” He gestured to a chair across his desk.

“Are you going to preach to me?” Stone asked as he settled into it.

“Not unless that’s what you’d like.”

“I’d like a rundown on how the place works, if you don’t mind.”

Bugg took a bound document from a desk drawer and handed it to him. “This is our year-end summary for last year,” he said. “We publish one every month, as well. It details all our expenses in detail. There’s no income to speak of, except for the surplus milk we sell to the Cadland Dairy across the river.”

Stone found a list of staff salaries and read down it, starting with Bugg, then he found a monthly summary of expenses. “This
looks very much in order,” he said, “but when I get back to New York I’ll have my accountant go over it. I may have questions then. In the meantime, I find the staff underpaid.”

“Our salaries are in line with what others in the neighborhood pay.”

“Please give them a twenty-five percent raise, yours included, and tell them that it’s based on their not gossiping to others about what they’re earning.”

“That’s very generous of you, Mr. Barrington. I’ll certainly pass that admonition along to them, though I can’t promise they won’t brag a bit.”

“I think people who are well paid perform better and are more loyal than those who are underpaid.”

Bugg nodded. “By the way, the police arrested the brigadier last night and will be charging him with the murder of Sir Richard Curtis.”

“Who is the brigadier?” Stone asked.

“I’m sorry, it’s our hermit, Wilfred Burns.”

“He’s a brigadier general?”

“Royal Marines, retired. We all of us here served under him during the Falklands War.”

“Ah, that’s right, there are four Royal Marines on the property, I had been told.”

“Quite right. The brigadier was a colonel and our regimental commander during the war. Sir Charles was a lieutenant colonel, a company commander, and his executive officer, Sir Richard
commanded another company. I was a freshly minted subaltern, leading a commando platoon. The war was good for all of us. Colonel Burns became brigadier, and Sir Charles succeeded him as colonel and regimental commander, with Sir Richard as his executive officer. I was promoted to captain and made regimental adjutant, or administrative officer.”

“And how did the brigadier become a hermit?”

“A sad story,” Bugg said. “He was a confirmed bachelor and something of a swashbuckler with the ladies. Unfortunately, he swashed his buckle once too often with the wife of a brother officer—this after he had made brigadier. He had hoped, with good reason, to rise to commanding general of the Royal Marines, but it was made clear to him that he would never make major general, and he resigned and took his pension. Sir Charles and Sir Richard packed it in soon after, pretty much in protest of his treatment. I stayed on for another fifteen years, and I retired when Sir Charles offered me this job. I live in a cottage on the estate with my wife. We have one son, who is grown, now, and living in London.”

“How did the brigadier take his treatment by the Royal Marines?”

“He was devastated. Sir Charles had come into this place, and the brigadier approached him and asked to move onto the property as hermit. Sir Charles built a tiny cottage for him in a patch of woods, and he made do with his pension and by keeping the woods, thinning it and selling firewood from his work.
He shaved only twice a year: once in January, for the regimental reunion, and once in August, for the Squadron Ball, at the end of the Cowes Week regatta. He turned out in uniform and was charming and gregarious on both occasions. Otherwise, he lived quietly and rarely spoke to anyone.”

“Have you heard what his motive for killing Sir Richard might have been?”

“I have not.”

“I’d like you to find him a solicitor, a good one from the county, and have him seen in jail before the day is out. He’s going to find the experience depressing, and I want him to know that he’s being taken care of. I’d like to speak to the solicitor today, after he’s seen the brigadier. By phone will be fine.”

“Certainly, I can do that. In fact, I know just the man: Sir Thomas Everly. He’ll prepare the defense and he’ll know the right barrister for the trial.”

“That’s fine.” Stone handed him his card. “This is my New York address and phone number. My secretary’s name is Joan Robertson, and you’ll find her very good to deal with. I’ll have her call and introduce herself. Joan will make regular deposits into the household account, so you can submit your monthly needs to her and she will move the money.”

“Thank you, I’ll look forward to speaking with her.”

A trim woman in her forties came to the door and knocked.

“Mr. Barrington, this is my assistant and bookkeeper, Miss Edgeware.”

Stone rose and shook her hand. “I’m sorry to interrupt,” she said, “but there’s a call for Mr. Barrington.”

“Of course,” the major said.

“It’s Deputy Chief Inspector Holmes on line one.”

Bugg pointed to a phone on a small conference table behind Stone, and he turned and picked it up. “Good morning, Inspector.”

“I wish it were so, Mr. Barrington. I am sorry to tell you that your hermit, Brigadier Wilfred Burns, took his own life in the wee hours of the morning.”

Stone sucked in a breath. “I’m sorry to hear that, too, Inspector. How did he accomplish that? Was he not under guard?”

“He tore a bedsheet into strips, made a rope, and hanged himself from the bars in a high window. He was under guard, as all our prisoners are, but not under suicide watch, as we had no reason, after speaking with and observing him, to think he was at risk.”

“Did he make any statement after his arrest?”

“He declined to speak to us and asked for a solicitor. We would have provided him one today. He also left a note in his cell, confessing to the murder and telling us where to find the weapon, a military knife.”

“Did he explain his motive?”

“He did not.”

“Do you have any reason to believe that his confession was not credible?”

“None. I was convinced early on that he was our man.”

“Thank you, Inspector. I’ll see that his remains are collected for burial.”

“There will have to be an autopsy, of course, and that cannot take place before Monday, perhaps Tuesday. I will ring you when the remains are available.”

“I’m leaving for New York on Monday morning, so please ring Major Bugg at this number. He will be authorized to make the necessary arrangements.”

“I bid you good day, then.”

“Good day.” Both men hung up.

Stone turned toward Bugg. “The brigadier hanged himself in his cell last night.”

“Good God!”

“He left a note, confessing to the killing. Is there a burial ground on the property?”

“St. Mark’s Church across the road, just outside our gates. I’ll make arrangements with the vicar and the undertaker.”

“Thank you. The inspector will phone you early next week, after an autopsy has been performed, to let you know when the body can be collected.”

“He was fierce when leading his men in battle,” Bugg said, “and was highly decorated, but I cannot imagine him killing anyone, particularly Sir Richard, of whom he was fond.”

“I’ll leave it to you to inform the next of kin and see that all expenses are met.”

“I already know there is no next of kin. The staff here were his family.”

“I’m sorry I won’t be here for the services,” Stone said. “I’ll speak to you on Monday morning before I leave. Will you inform Sir Charles of these events?”

“Of course.”

Stone left Bugg’s office and went to find Susan.

11

S
tone called Susan on her cell phone.

“Hello?”

“Where are you?”

“In the cellar, in the boiler room. Come have a look.”

Stone found the stairs down and shouted her name until she answered. He found her in a clean, well-lit room with gleaming machinery humming away.