‘Call the police,’ said Cate after she heard the front door bang shut.
‘And you think that’s a good idea?’ said Serena.
‘We’ve got nothing to hide, so why even think about allowing ourselves to be blackmailed? As Camilla said, it’s a criminal offence.’
Serena looked anxious, distracted. ‘Look, this is the last thing I need. This year my name has been dragged through the mud. Papers, scandal, muck-slinging …’ Her mouth twisted at the thought. ‘I … my career … I can’t take much more of it, to be honest.’
Cate couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She moved over to Serena who was stroking her stomach and grimacing. ‘I appreciate you’ve been through a lot, Sin, but you’re prepared to pay a million to an opportunistic fantasist who has no evidence against us whatsoever?’
‘I realise that,’ said Serena, her voice beginning to wobble. ‘But I can’t bear my life being pulled through the wringer again – by the police, the press … You don’t know what it’s like. I don’t know if I could cope with much more.’
She started to sob quietly. Venetia went over to put her arm around her shoulder, but Cate pressed on. ‘Sin, do you know something?’
‘No!’ Serena shouted, the sobs becoming louder. ‘What are you bloody suggesting? That I killed Daddy, like he said? I didn’t, I didn’t.’
She was gulping her breaths, tracks of mascara streaking down her cheeks.
Cate moved closer. ‘No one’s saying that, Sin,’ she said quietly.
‘I just want everything to be OK again,’ sobbed Serena. ‘But he’s right, it does all look suspicious. Suspicious as regards me.’
‘You and me both,’ said Venetia. ‘Last night I nearly smashed a glass over Daddy’s head. Jack had to stop me. Half the staff would have seen it.’
Serena looked at each of her sisters and shrugged. ‘Let’s be honest, we all look a little bit guilty.’
‘But we’re not,’ said Venetia firmly, stroking Serena’s hair. ‘No one killed Daddy. It was just a horrible accident.’
Cate had been staring out of the long French windows, watching the snow settle like lace on the frames. ‘What if it wasn’t?’ she said softly, her fingers running down the soft, red velvet of the curtain. ‘What if someone did kill him?’
‘Hang on, can we just calm down for one moment?’ said Camilla abruptly. ‘If Loftus is right about one thing, we’re all just a bit emotional. The police don’t seem to think this is anything suspicious.’
‘We’ll have to wait for the inquest,’ said Venetia.
Mrs Collins put her head around the corner of the door. ‘Is everything all right? How about I make a pot of tea? There’s some Christmas cake left as well …’
Venetia smiled. Mrs Collins’ solution to everything: tea and cake.
‘Thanks Mrs C., that would be lovely.’
‘When will the inquest be?’ asked Cate, hoping Venetia had all the answers to the grisly procedural side of her father’s death.
‘Straight after the New Year, I should imagine. We should start thinking about the funeral, too. I’ve no idea how many people would like to come. I suppose Daddy would want something on the grander side of things.’
‘We’d better phone Aunt Sarah,’ said Camilla, flipping aimlessly through a heavy album of photographs. ‘I wonder if she knows he’s dead yet. She’ll want to come.’
Aunt Sarah, their mother’s sister, was their only living close relative, although she had played no part in the girls’ lives for over twenty years. There had been the odd birthday and Christmas card stuffed with a couple of ten-pound notes. The girls had thought it was because she lived in Singapore, then Riyadh, then Paris – it was hard to keep in contact when you were always on the move – but the older they had become, the more flimsy that excuse had seemed to be. They were sure it was something to do with Oswald; there was certainly no love lost between Sarah and her brother-in-law.
‘Who’s going to call her?’
Everyone looked at Cate. ‘What? Now? What should I say?’
‘An invite to the funeral should cover it,’ smiled Venetia.
Her number was in an old diary. Cate went to the telephone on the walnut side table in the hall. The phone rang in a low, hollow rasp.
‘Bonjour,’ said a quiet, elegant voice.
‘Bonjour, c’est Cate Balcon.’
The accent changed from perfect French to Queen’s English. ‘Oh Cate. What a surprise.’ She paused. ‘I’m sorry about Oswald’s death. I heard about it on the World Service.’
‘So you know,’ said Cate quietly. ‘It’s all a bit hard to take in at the minute.’
‘Do you know what happened?’ asked Sarah. ‘I checked the news on cable and it’s a big story. There seems to be a suggestion that it’s somehow suspicious.’
Cate was surprised. She’d hardly turned on the television or radio, and had no idea how the media were treating it. ‘We don’t know much ourselves. There has to be an inquest, then the body can be released and we can have the funeral. We will of course be in touch to let you know when.’
‘It would be lovely to see you,’ her aunt said softly, although Cate got the feeling that she would not want to come to Oswald’s funeral.
There was a long pause.
‘I was going to call you actually,’ said Sarah quietly. ‘About the death. About the reporters saying it’s suspicious …’
‘Go on,’ replied Cate, curious.
‘No, not on the telephone. Face to face is probably best.’
‘But you’re in Paris, aren’t you?’ replied Cate, a little mystified.
‘Could you come?’
‘When?’
‘When can you get here?’
It was ridiculous: why would she up sticks and go all the way to Paris at a time like this? But Cate found herself nodding. ‘Not today. Tomorrow there should be trains …’
‘Good. Let me know when you’re arriving.’
Cate stared silently out of the window as Sarah said her goodbyes, suddenly sure that, whatever her aunt wanted to talk to her about, she wasn’t going to like it.