“Which way?” Bud and I stood on the edge of Trafalgar Square, just two individuals among the bustle of humanity swirling around us.
I looked toward the corridors of power that Whitehall represented, then turned and said, “Let’s hit Soho – there’s bound to be somewhere we can grab something to eat there. I know it’ll have changed since I worked there – all the grime and grit has probably been replaced by millennials sipping overpriced coffee on the pavements, but there’ll be somewhere that’s still serving hearty food at affordable prices. Failing that, we’ll get something from Maison Bertaux, which must still be there. No, hang on, I know – let’s go to Chinatown. I could kill for Peking duck.”
“Maybe not the sort of language to use, given our recent non-conversation, and our surroundings, Wife,” replied Bud, steering me through a gaggle of schoolchildren all peering up at Nelson’s Column.
We didn’t talk much as we trudged through the throngs; to say the pavements were busy would be an understatement, and there certainly wasn’t an opportunity for the heart to heart I wanted. I’d known when we’d planned our trip that I’d be facing up to my past – but I’d expected to only be challenged by memories of my life in London. What I hadn’t foreseen was that so many other periods of my personal history would be being viewed through a distorted lens by people I didn’t even know existed…but who, apparently, knew me at the granular level. They knew where I’d been, what I’d done, and when. I hate it when I feel I’ve been blindsided by something – and this? This was just too much.
We found a restaurant on Gerrard Street with dozens of ducks hanging in the window, so at least I knew I’d be able to indulge in what my tastebuds were craving – for whatever reason – and the bustling lunch-crowd atmosphere was just what I needed to allow me to talk freely, if quietly, with Bud. We ordered, and the immediately-presented jasmine tea warmed me, though I hadn’t realized I was feeling chilly, while the Cantonese chatter, the aroma of spices promising flavors to come, and the simple décor helped ground me again.
Bud began with, “I know we’re not leaving London earlier than we’d planned, but maybe we should give John a bit of a wide berth, given what MacDonald said.”
“Sure you don’t want to refer to him as just ‘M’?” I managed a smile, as did Bud.
“It’s good we know.” Bud sipped his tea.
I sighed. “I know it’s good we know…but it’s bad that it’s happening at all. Look, I thought it was clear that Worthington had been stood down on the basis of suicide being decided…by the powers that be, if not yet the coroner. So why would someone – anyone – be raising my track record in any case? I mean, what’s the point? Suicide doesn’t require a whispering campaign to be mounted against me, does it?”
Bud poured more tea. “My thoughts exactly,” he said. “It’s…odd.”
“You could say that.”
“I just did.” Bud winked. “Come on, it’ll be fine.”
I poured more tea for myself. “I know you’re saying that to try to cheer me up, but we both know it’s not true. It won’t be fine for Sasha’s family for a start – she’s dead. It might not be fine for John either – Bella’s more than likely going to want to at least postpone their wedding, even if she’d realized she’d made a mistake by saying she wanted to call it off. And as for us? Well, if someone wants to put two and two from my background together and come up with five hundred and forty-seven, I have to ask…is someone acting with malice toward me? Because I cannot imagine it was Worthington pushing that bizarre linking of myself and Sasha back through the years; he struck me as an intelligent man, and that’s not at all an intelligent connection of dots. So who? And why?”
“Who would have anything to gain by undermining your reputation?” Bud caught the eye of our server and asked for another pot of tea.
“If this were a murder inquiry, then I’d say the answer to that question would be, ‘The guilty party,’ because that’s who would want me off the case.”
Bud tried to hide a grin. “Not full of yourself at all, are you?”
I realized what I’d done. “No, not really – but you know what I mean.”
“I do.”
I continued, “But this isn’t one of our situations where we’re trying to work out who killed someone – at least, I’m still forcing myself to believe that Sasha did, indeed, jump. But – to play devil’s advocate for a moment…”
“A role you were made for…” Bud poured fresh tea.
“Thank you, sir. So, what if Sasha didn’t jump? What if someone pushed her?”
Bud shook his head. “Oh, that’s hot!” He nodded at the tea, then added, “But the note.”
I gave the note some thought. “It wasn’t addressed to anyone. It wasn’t in an envelope. And – let’s be honest – it didn’t make it clear that she was planning to end her life.”
Bud put down his tea. “Go on then – remind me exactly what it said. You know you’re dying to.”
I was. “It said: ‘He’d have been eighty today. His shadow will never leave me. It’s too late for me to try to be whatever I could have been, had he not been my father. I thought it would all end with his death. But now it seems that was a foolish hope on my part. It will never end, until I end it. So I shall. No procrastination. No more…anything. Sasha.’ Which isn’t a clear statement of intention to kill oneself, is it?”
Bud sat back as our server almost covered our table with plates, most of which had food on them. She smiled, and left us to it, so I dug in and pulled the meat from the bones of the glossy bird in front of us. Bud started preparing wraps, and we both allowed ourselves to focus on putting together that first, magical rolled pancake that bursts with what seem to be a million flavors from the meat, the sauce, and even the vegetables. I bit in, and my tastebuds were in heaven; the delight of not just eating, but licking my fingers too, wasn’t lost on me for a moment. Even so, my mind was galloping.
“I reckon the only person with enough clout to get the investigation shuttered like that would be Sir Simon Pendlebury. He was out of there last night quickly enough to have had a few key quiet words on the phone and get Worthington stood down. And that old-school-tie network can act fast, when one of their own calls upon them.”
Bud was also licking his fingers, with glee. “But why would he want to do that?”
“Well, maybe he saw something, or suspected someone of playing a role in Sasha’s death.” I was thinking and speaking at the same time, which isn’t unusual for me, when I’m just with Bud. “What if he wanted to protect someone?”
“What if he pushed her off the roof himself?” I could tell Bud had thrown out the idea as being ridiculous.
I sighed. “No, I’ve discounted him as a suspect from the outset.” Bud chuckled as he chewed. I glared at him, and pressed on. “I don’t think he could have got upstairs without either me seeing him come from the meeting room through the salon, or – if she was where she said she was – Renata would have seen him on the terrace beyond the French doors. In fact, if we believe Renata, Sir Simon’s about the only person who couldn’t possibly have got up to the palace room unseen. Sitting in the meeting room, in the dark, he had a view to the back garden. But…what could he possibly have seen out there?”
Bud reached for more sauce. “Glad you’ve managed to talk yourself out of that theory pretty quickly.”
I paused, a forkful of duck mid-air. “Come on, Bud – let’s be honest with ourselves and each other; it’s most likely Sir Simon shut down the investigation and has – for some reason – started Whitehall tongues wagging about my reputation. There must be a reason for that. And if he’s protecting someone, that person would have to be closely connected with the success or failure of the Asimov group. Which includes Bella and Charles, because they are Asimovs…Piers, because he’s married to one – or was – you know what I mean…”
“Don’t forget Felicity was an Asimov, once upon a time.” Bud’s voice was muffled as he chewed. “Renata works for an Asimov, and works on Sir Simon’s business at the Tavistock and Tavistock agency.”
“And John is about to marry an Asimov,” I added, a little sheepishly.
Bud glared at me. “Do you reckon Sir Simon would bother to protect Julie, Glen, or Vinnie? Or is the servant class beneath him?” He winked, though I had to admit he made a good point.
“Piers was the first to suggest suicide, and extremely quick to accept that note as proof, wasn’t he? Bella too. Though, as I’ve said, I think it’s far from conclusive. Piers could have been with Sasha in the palace room. They could have argued. Fought. It could have been an accident that…well, that he sought to pass off as a suicide to protect himself from blame. His reaction to his wife’s death wasn’t what one might call normal, was it?”
Bud tilted his head, and gave me his full attention. “As I have said before – and shall repeat – none of these people seem ‘normal’ to me, in any way, Cait. The worlds of artistic or esthetic endeavor, politics, and public relations seem to demand folks present themselves as larger than life. But I know what you mean in Piers’ case…he seemed almost jolly when we rejoined everyone in the dining room. Though he sank into his brandy a fair bit after that – which I guess is to be expected.”
“Odd behavior all-round, then, and the possibility that Sir Simon knows something he wants to keep secret, to protect someone within, or close to, the family business. We could talk to Worthington about that…”
Bud said, “Not happening, Cait. Heed the warnings. Now – what about these last three pancakes? Why on earth did they give two people an uneven number? So unfair, for one of us.” I knew he knew which one of us that would be.
We each raced to create another filling for our next pancake, and it was such a wonderful feeling to be doing something so normal together…then Bud’s expression changed. He put down his wrap, wiped his hands, and pulled out his phone. “It’s John,” he said. “Mind if I answer?” I shrugged, and he did – while I happily stuffed my face, gloating.
I’m pretty good at reading Bud, and didn’t like what I was seeing. I made up the final rolled pancake, and got that inside me too, because I had a feeling we wouldn’t be dawdling over lunch. Bud put his phone away, and poked at the food on his plate.
“Go on, tell me,” I said. “Just rip off the Band Aid…get it over with.”
Bud scratched his head. “It’s not good, Cait. It’s been a busy morning at Beulah House, and now it’s become a tragic one. It seems Julie Powell – that’s Julie’s name, by the way – disappeared around ten this morning. Very unlike her, apparently, and, given the circumstances, everyone – including her husband – was at a loss as to where she might have gone.”
“And…?”
“Apparently, she turned up at Felicity Sampson’s flat and attacked her with a knife when she opened her front door. A struggle ensued, and Julie…well, she sustained critical injuries. She’s been rushed to hospital, and Felicity’s being interviewed by your friend and mine, Mr. Worthington. He sent a car to Beulah House to drive Glen to be at Julie’s bedside – hence John knowing, and calling me.”
“Julie attacked Felicity Sampson?” I asked. Bud nodded. “Good grief. That’s…unexpected. But…why?”
Bud shrugged. “John has no idea. No one does. But he says it’s pretty chaotic at Beulah House, as I can imagine. Piers is now under the care of a doctor – which John says means he’s drugged to the eyeballs; Bella and Felicity had a fight this morning, and she’s really upset—”
I interrupted, “Maybe Piers is wracked with guilt for killing Sasha? Or…hang on – what do you mean Bella and Felicity had a fight this morning?”
“John says Felicity phoned Bella early this morning, and they had what he called ‘a right old ding dong’, by which I guess he means a shouting match.” I nodded. “So, as I was saying, Piers is out for the count, Bella is distraught, and John tells me Charles had irritated Julie beyond reason at the breakfast table, so everyone thought she’d gone off in a huff…until Glen realized she was nowhere to be found. Then word came in about the attack.”
I stood. “I’m going to find the loo, and you can get the bill. Let’s go to Beulah House.”
“Cait, I really don’t think that’s a good idea.”
I leaned over to kiss Bud’s head. “John needs his chums at a time like this, right? He’s in the midst of a tempest, and we can be his rock. Besides, you know what? Julie didn’t strike me as the sort of woman to go off on some sort of homicidal rampage. She appeared to be level-headed, and devoted to the family. So, if she went after Felicity Sampson, she must have believed she had a good reason to do it. And I want to find out what that was.”
I looked around for signs indicating washrooms.
“But going to Beulah House isn’t going to help; she’s not there, and her husband’s not there. No one there knows why she did what she did.”
I knew Bud was right, but I also had my answer ready. “Maybe not – but I can guess what everyone who’s there is going to be talking about, and I want to be in on those conversations. And I want a chance to talk to Piers, too. If he was involved with his wife’s death, he might let something slip.”
I spotted the universal symbol for male and female facilities, and headed off, with a full, happy tummy, and knowing there was more to find out about what on earth was going on among those present at the previous night’s dinner party.
When I got back to our table, Bud had paid, and he’d called John Silver. “Vinnie’s going to collect us outside the fire station opposite the Palace Theatre. He seemed to think you’d know where that was,” announced Bud, looking a bit panicked. “He’ll be there in ten minutes – said he was in Seven Dials. Have I got all that right? Can we get there in time?”
I chuckled. “Yes, you have, and yes we can. Handy he was in the area, eh? It’s almost as though we have a guardian angel watching over us.”
As we left, I realized it was really to our advantage to have Vinnie to drive us – at least we could talk. And there was a lot to talk about…
A cut and dried suicide? Maybe not.
An unprovoked attack? Unlikely.
Me sticking my nose in where I’d already been told it wasn’t wanted, and where I ran the risk of having it cut off? Most definitely.
Sometimes Lady Justice needs to peep out from her blindfold, just to make sure she’s getting everything dumped onto her scales that should be there.