David Loftus had been a man down on his luck until the day his agent had arranged a meeting with Oswald Balcon. Ever since he’d been name-checked in Granta magazine in his early twenties as a promising young talent, David Loftus had expected great things from his career, but when the predicted success had not materialized, it had served to make him angry and bitter – with an almost pathological dislike of anyone with anything resembling success, wealth or privilege. By rights, Oswald Balcon should have been the kind of person David Loftus hated but, the more time he had spent with the irascible Lord Balcon, the more he had used the relationship to his advantage. It soon became clear that Oswald was lonely living on the estate by himself and, as the months had passed, he had come to rely on Loftus for day-to-day friendship and conversation, as well as for his writing duties. Loftus had jumped at Oswald’s offer to move into one of the estate cottages a month earlier, and now the man was dead … well, Loftus was beginning to see the true benefits of their professional bond – power and knowledge.
And now, here he was, sitting in front of Oswald’s four beautiful daughters in their beautiful home, Huntsford. It gave him a hard-on just looking at them. And now he had their full attention and he was going to make it last.
‘You ladies do know that a lot of people wanted your father dead?’ Loftus told the sisters as he took a long glug of his whisky.
‘He could be a bit difficult, if that’s what you mean, Mr Loftus,’ responded Cate tartly. ‘But it’s hardly the same thing.’
‘Difficult.’ He snorted loudly. ‘Is that what you call it?’
‘This is quite enough,’ said Venetia, her voice starting to bristle. ‘I think it’s time you left.’
Loftus ignored her.
‘Your father was despised by half the people who knew him,’ said Loftus, knowing that he had the girls gripped with his narrative. ‘And I’ll go further. Despite what the police are saying, I don’t think your father threw himself or fell from the rooftop.’
He paused, noticing how nervous Camilla looked, twisting the topaz ring round and round on her finger.
‘I believe he was pushed. Deliberately.’ He paused to look each sister directly in the eyes. ‘I think your father was murdered.’
The fire was spitting and crackling in the background as the sisters looked at him, not daring to speak.
‘And I think that one of Daddy’s little girls killed him.’
Serena rounded on him like a wildcat. ‘How dare you come into our house and make suggestions like that?’
He sat back in his chair to watch her, the trace of a smile on his lips. He looked like a man with all the cards in his hand.
Camilla had had enough. ‘My sister asked you a question, Mr Loftus,’ she pressed him. ‘What brings you to make such rash claims? What do you know that we don’t?’
Loftus wasn’t about to be deflected so easily. He looked confident, relaxed. ‘You’ll be aware that I know your father.
I’ve been helping him with his memoirs. Oswald was not a man blessed with the reserve of the upper classes. He spoke rather freely about his past. This family’s past. Funny what was thrown up. Very funny.’
‘Don’t try to threaten us, Mr Loftus,’ said Camilla, her voice cool. ‘A few of my father’s ribald anecdotes hardly make a motive for murder.’
‘You sound confident.’
‘I am.’
‘Hmm. Well, I wonder what the police will make of it?’ There was a smugness in his voice that riled everyone.
‘So you are threatening us.’ Serena’s voice was angry.
David Loftus smiled again, happy to get a reaction. ‘It’s not a threat, Miss Balcon. I just know things I’m sure you’d rather I didn’t.’
‘He’s bluffing,’ said Venetia blankly.
He laughed harshly. ‘Really, Venetia. Your relationship with your father really hasn’t been ideal for the last twelve months, has it? Not that it ever really has been.’
Her face went pale. Loftus stood and started pacing in front of the desk. ‘Oswald told me all about your business. I’m not big into furniture myself, but apparently it’s a nice little earner. He’s a director, isn’t he?’
‘I doubt you’d understand interior design,’ replied Venetia calmly.
‘Yes, a director,’ continued Loftus, ignoring her, ‘a director using his voting rights to stop your expansion into the American market; a director about to buy your ex-husband’s shareholding in the company. Yes, he told me you were very pissed off about that.’
‘You’re suggesting that’s my motive?’ said Venetia, a hint of amusement in her voice.
‘You disagree?’ he smiled arrogantly. ‘Life would be so much easier for you with him out of the way, wouldn’t it?’
‘Forgive me,’ asked Serena sarcastically, fixing him with her coolest gaze. ‘Did we not ask you to leave?’
‘Getting nervous?’
‘Not of you, no.’
‘You always were the feisty one, weren’t you, Serena? Feisty enough to push him off the top of his castle in a rage, perhaps. After all, you were the only one Oswald had any time at all for. The castle is not attached to the title and you are the one he would leave Huntsford to in his will as things stood. I don’t suppose you were that happy to find out that Oswald and Maria were going to try for a baby. Now, how does it work …?’ He pretended to concentrate, steepling his fingers in front of his mouth. ‘… If Oswald were to produce a male heir before he died, then you would get nothing. Possibly worth pushing someone off the top of a castle for … yes, no?’
By now, Cate was acutely aware that his whole pantomime was going somewhere. David Loftus wasn’t just a nasty piece of work; she had a feeling he was an opportunistic one as well.
‘What do you want, Mr Loftus?’ she said simply.
‘Ah, Cate Balcon, the clever one. Good girl. I don’t suppose you want me to continue, do you? To remind you how Oswald almost sabotaged your magazine business? How he blamed you for your mother’s death? That sort of thing can affect the mind of a seven-year-old quite considerably.’
He turned to Camilla. ‘Or Camilla. So proud to have got your parliamentary selection, aren’t you? I’d vote for you,’ he sneered. ‘Or would I? Oswald said you have a secret. That’s why he controls you isn’t it, Camilla? I’m sure the police would be very interested. Maybe I can point them in the right direction.’
‘What do you want?’ repeated Cate, matching his stare, her voice controlled.
Loftus sat back on the edge of the desk and looked at her. ‘I think it’s what we both want, Miss Balcon. You don’t want the police to know what I know. I want it to be worth my while.’
‘Bastard,’ breathed Serena.
‘Possibly. Pragmatic, certainly,’ he countered.
‘It’s not what he wants; it’s how much he wants. Isn’t that true, Mr Loftus?’ said Camilla.
He looked her up and down approvingly. ‘I heard you were a clever young lady as well.’
Venetia got up off her chair and marched to the door. ‘Get out now, or I’m calling the police,’ she said.
‘My point exactly,’ said Loftus, laughing.
He looked at each sister, his face impassive. ‘One million pounds and this whole matter can go away.’
‘One million,’ scoffed Serena.
‘Oswald was – shall we say – my financial lifeline. Now he is dead, the memoirs unfinished, I have to recoup that income from somewhere.’
‘Well, you’re not getting it from here,’ said Camilla. ‘And do I have to point out that blackmail is a criminal offence?’
‘Only enforceable if you report it, though, Miss Balcon. Which you’re not going to do,’ said Loftus, his voice dripping with superiority.
‘Get out,’ repeated Venetia.
‘I know you’re all a little emotional at the moment,’ he smiled, standing and brushing himself down. ‘It’s only natural, so I’ll give you some time to think about it.’
‘When?’ asked Serena, her face pale.
‘They won’t do an inquest over the holidays, so how about I come back on New Year’s Day? Bring in the New Year together. I’ll be in touch.’
He stood at the door, a smug smile all over his face.
‘And ladies? Happy Christmas.’