“How many horses have been sold?” she asked a girl she passed on her way back to the house.
“I think about twenty, Mrs. de Jersey,” she replied sadly.
“Does that include the ones from the east wing?”
“No, Mrs. de Jersey, they went a while back. The latest ones went to the Tattersalls sales and over to Ireland,” the girl continued. “But we’ve big hopes for Royal Flush,” she added.
Christina gave her a wan smile and walked on. It dawned on her that perhaps her husband was not going to be able to get out of his present financial trouble. It was obvious that it was a lot worse than he had suggested. By the time she had returned to the house and removed her coat and boots, her depression had turned to anger.
Christina went back into her husband’s study. Even there she felt like an outsider. The neatness and the locked drawers infuriated her. She went into the kitchen, found a screwdriver, then returned to the study. She wrenched open one drawer after another, took out the contents, and placed them on the desk. She was panting, half in fear, half in anger, as she set about sorting through them. To begin with she found nothing of importance: fees for trainers and purchases of horses, notes on horses he was considering buying, at least before the current financial crisis. However, there were also unpaid bills and outstanding accounts and a 155,000-pound VAT bill, with a warning that unless it was paid within a week legal action would be taken.
At the bottom of one of the drawers she found a paper with Edward’s handwritten notes. She sat down in the desk chair and scrutinized the figures. He had been neat and meticulous. He had listed and dated everything that Lyons had invested as well as everything on which Moreno had frittered the money away: meals, houses, expensive office supplies. Seeing in black and white the losses, in not thousands but millions, she felt almost faint with shock. Her husband was virtually bankrupt.
Christina went into the kitchen and opened the fridge. Her throat was dry with nerves. She poured a tumbler of orange juice and went back to the study. She began to return the documents to the drawers, at first hoping she could replace them as she had found them, then not bothering. He would know by the marks of the screwdriver on the drawer handles and locks that she had broken in. She stuffed loose papers into the top right-hand drawer and slammed it shut, but it was too full so she snatched out a handful of papers and slammed it shut again. The glass of juice toppled over. “Shit.” She ran from the room and returned with a wet cloth.
Back in the study she faced the front of the desk to scrub at the carpet on her knees. She half-rose and was leaning against the rim of the desk with the palm of her hand when it moved. She stood up. “Now what have I done?” she muttered. She tried to push the desk back into position, then saw a small hinge. She pressed it, and to her astonishment, the right-hand side of the front of the desk opened. She bent down to discover three more drawers. The lower ones were locked, and even when she attempted to open them with the screwdriver they wouldn’t budge. She could see they had what looked like a steel rim.
“It’s a safe,” she said aloud. Then she tried the smaller top drawer, which opened. It contained envelopes full of documents about the estate mortgage. A brown manila envelope was tucked beneath them. Her heart missed a beat. Inside it, she discovered two passports. Both contained pictures of Edward but with different names. One was in the name Edward Cummings, and there was a recent New York customs stamp inside. The other passport was Irish, in the name of Michael Shaughnessy. None of this made sense. Christina was certain her husband had been in the United Kingdom on the date marked in the Cummings passport. In another envelope, there were passports for herself and their daughters, all with different names. She sat back, unsure of anything anymore. She had believed de Jersey was in London after Christmas because he had told her so, but according to the passport he had been in New York. What else had he lied to her about?
De Jersey was in the warehouse inspecting Wilcox’s work on removing the wall that separated it from the D’Ancona cellar. Wilcox had put the bricks back into position with a sugar and flour solution mixed with gray water paint for the right color to cover the missing cement. They would fall apart if a hand pushed hard against them. The work was good, and de Jersey was pleased. Then a call came through on his cell phone. It was Sylvia Hewitt.
“Mr. de Jersey, I had hoped you would call me.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Hewitt, I’ve been very busy.”
“So have I,” she said softly. “I need to meet you urgently. I have just returned from New York. I believe you were there?”
“You must be mistaken.”
“I don’t think I am, and I’m not playing games with you anymore. This is a very serious matter, perhaps even for the police… or we could come to some financial arrangement. Either way, we should discuss my findings. I think you know what I’m referring to.”
“No, I don’t,” he said coldly.
“Shall we say six this evening at my flat? You know the address, don’t you, Mr. Simmons?”
She hung up. He stared at the phone in his hand, hardly able to believe what he had just heard. His heart was beating rapidly, and he felt dizzy. This was the worst thing that had happened so far, and he was going to have to sort it out fast. He slowly walked away from the coal cellar and into the grimy toilets. He splashed his face with cold water until he felt calm, then patted it dry with a grubby white towel. He stared at his reflection in the cracked mirror. He crossed to his overcoat, felt in the pocket, and took out Westbrook’s bottle of morphine. He held it in the palm of his hand, as if weighing it. He would have to find out how many other people Sylvia Hewitt had told, then make a decision about the woman herself. He sighed. He would do it alone so that only he risked paying the ultimate price.
22
Sylvia uncorked a fresh bottle of wine and set it out with two glasses and a bowl of peanuts and crisps. She’d already had a few glasses to celebrate what she felt would be a sweet victory. She had vacuumed, dusted, and plumped up the cushions. She felt excited and powerful, and a little light-headed from the wine as she looked over the “stage” she had set. She went to her desk and called Matheson. He listened as she told him she had received his final invoice and would be sending him a check. She also told him she had tracked down Philip Simmons in London.
“He’s in the U.K., then?” Matheson asked.
“Yes, and I’m expecting him to come and see me now.”
“Well, congratulations. Job well done. Does he know where Moreno is?”
“I presume so. All will be divulged soon enough. I’m sure I’ll get my investment repaid, perhaps even more for all the trouble it’s caused me.” Sylvia was pleased with herself. “I might send you a little extra, Mr. Matheson.”