“I expect you’re wondering why I’m still in the country,” she said after ordering a drink.
“I assumed you were going to tell me.”
“I am. But first I must apologize for the… atmosphere… last time we met. Partly my fault, I expect. Paul’s… news… was a terrible shock.”
“Yes. Of course. How’s Keith been since?”
“Better. He’s come to terms with it, I think.”
“And have you?”
“Not exactly.” But she didn’t light up when her drink arrived. That alone signalled some kind of adjustment. “Keith’s eager to go back to Biarritz. He thinks we can weather the storm better there.”
“What’s stopping you?”
“Unfinished business.” Seeing me frown, she said: “Tell me why you oppose the Bushranger bid, Robin.”
“You’ve been thinking about that? At a time like-”
“Just tell me. There’s a good boy.”
The phrase reminded me, as perhaps it was meant to, of times past. Our secret times together of which we’d tacitly agreed never to speak. It had only ever been an affair of the flesh. With Bella, I suppose, nothing more was possible. Yet a little frail mental bond remained. She’d never tried to exploit it. She’d never needed to. Till now. I didn’t mind rehearsing my objections to surrendering a hundred and fifty-seven years of English tradition to the Ned Kelly of Australian bat making. I was actually pleased to be asked to. But I never for a single moment thought Bella was really interested in hearing them. Around the time her salmon in sorrel sauce arrived and my diatribe against smash-and-grab commercial raiding wound to a close, she began to reveal her true concerns.
“So you still intend to vote against the bid?”
“Certainly.”
“Along with Uncle Larry?”
“He won’t change his mind. Neither will I.”
“But you’ll lose.”
“It seems so.”
“Unless somebody else changes their mind.”
“True. But I’m not holding my breath.”
“Perhaps you should. You can have my vote if you want it.”
I stared at her in amazement, a fork-pronged potato stalled halfway to my mouth. “You’re not serious.”
“I am. I can go to Adrian this afternoon and withdraw my proxy. Uncle Larry and I hold twenty thousand shares each. That’s forty per cent of the total. With your twelve and half per cent stake…”
“It would be fifty-two and a half per cent. A slim but decisive majority. I can do the maths, Bella.” I put down my fork and sipped some wine. “But not the guesswork. Why would you vote with us?”
“Because the outcome doesn’t matter to me anything like as much as it matters to you. I can turn down Bushranger’s offer without a second thought. Whether Timariot & Small make a profit or a loss doesn’t make a lot of difference to me. I’d prefer a profit, of course. Who wouldn’t? I’d prefer twenty per cent of two and a half million pounds. Naturally. But I don’t need it. Not as much as I need something else.”
“And that is?”
“Your help.”
“With what?”
She leant across the table and lowered her voice. “Proving Paul Bryant didn’t murder Louise Paxton and Oscar Bantock.”
“What?” I found myself whispering as well.
“I want you to help me break his story. Find the flaw that’s got to be there. Prove he couldn’t have done it.”
“But he did do it. You know that as well as I do. Last week, you virtually said as much.”
“Last week was last week. As Keith pointed out, there are inaccuracies in his account. Suspicious ambiguities.”
“No there aren’t.”
“There are grounds for doubt,” she persisted. “Enough to warrant close scrutiny.”
“Well, they’ll get close scrutiny. From the police.”
“Naylor’s solicitor has only just submitted Paul’s affidavit to the Crown Prosecution Service. It could be weeks before the police investigation gets under way. And very messy when it does. In the meantime, there’s a chance to forestall it. To make it unnecessary. To spare ourselves a great deal of agony.”
“How do you know what Naylor’s solicitor’s been up to?”
“I asked him, of course. He didn’t seem to mind telling me. Well, why should he? He’s feeling very pleased with himself. For the moment.”
I sat back in my chair and shook my head. “Bella, this is ridiculous. You know Paul’s telling the truth. How can you-”
“I know no such thing. I’ve come round to Keith’s point of view. That it’s possible Paul’s loading all this guilt onto himself to compensate for the guilt he feels about Rowena. That he wants to be punished. And has made up this story to ensure he will be.”
“You don’t believe that. You can’t.”
“Maybe not. But I don’t disbelieve it either. I simply want to test the possibility.”
“Before your husband-and you-get a lot of unwelcome publicity?”
“Well? What if that is my motive? I’m sure I’ve never claimed to be a humble seeker after truth. If posing as one pleases you, be my guest.”
“Bella, you advised me a couple of months ago to take the money and run. Now you’re proposing to turn your back on half a million pounds.”
“Yes. But some things are more important than money. You want to save Timariot and Small from the barbarians. I want to save Keith from having his first wife portrayed as a nymphomaniac.”
“And how do you propose to do that?”
“By checking Paul’s story. If he’s lying, he can’t have been in Kington the day of the murders. Or Biarritz a few days beforehand. He must have been somewhere else. So, there’ll be an alibi, won’t there? An alibi he’s doing his best to conceal. Possibly more than one. Start with his family. They might know something. It can’t be anything obvious, or they’d have mentioned it. Paul has told them, by the way. Keith had a phone call from Mr. Bryant. The man was barely coherent, but he should have calmed down by now. He might be able to put you on the right track. Then there’s this friend Paul went round Europe with, Peter-”
“You expect me to cross-question these people?”
“Yes, Robin. I most certainly do. And anyone else who might lead us to the truth.”
“In exchange for voting down the Bushranger bid?”
“Exactly. A generous offer, don’t you think?”
But much of what I thought I couldn’t afford to express. My glorious defeat was in danger of becoming a Pyrrhic victory. Yet I couldn’t help wanting it. Harvey McGraw’s millions thrown back in his face. Adrian’s self-serving plans spectacularly sabotaged. And Timariot & Small’s independent status dramatically saved. It was an alluring prospect. And yet- “Why not do it yourself? You don’t need me to turn over the stones.”
“I do, actually.” She fiddled with the stem of her wine glass and licked her lips nervously. Her gaze slipped to the plate in front of her. “You see, Keith’s forbidden me to approach anyone. He’s afraid that if it got to be known I’d been digging around… Well, he’s concerned people might think he was trying to prevent a miscarriage of justice coming to light simply to protect his good name.”
“And they’d be right. His good name-and yours. Aren’t they what all this is about?” As I said it, the incredulity hit me. Marrying a knight couldn’t have made Bella that conscious of her reputation. There were too many skeletons in her cupboard for her to think half a million pounds worth staking on the slim chance of keeping just this one under lock and key. There had to be more to it. “Or is there something else you haven’t let slip yet? Something more important than being able to hold your head high in the thalassotherapy clinic?”
“I just want to do what can be done. Before it’s too late.”
“But the police have as good a reason as you to want to discredit Paul’s story. And they have the resources and the expertise to do it. If it’s possible. What do you seriously think I can achieve?”