MR. NAKAMURA WOKE a few minutes after six, when he thought he heard the bedroom door close. He spent a few moments thinking over what had taken place the previous evening, trying to convince himself it hadn’t all been a dream.
He pushed back the sheets and lowered his feet onto the carpet, to find a pair of slippers and a dressing gown had been left by the side of the bed. He placed his feet in the slippers, put on the dressing gown, and walked to the end of the bed, where he’d left his dinner jacket, evening dress shirt, and the rest of his clothes on a chair. He had intended to pack before leaving, but they were no longer there. He tried to recall if he had already put them in his suitcase. He opened the lid to discover that his dress shirt had been washed, ironed, and packed, and his dinner jacket was pressed and hanging up in his suit carrier.
He walked into the bathroom to find the large bath three-quarters full. He placed a hand in the water: the temperature was warm, but not hot. Then he recalled the bedroom door closing. No doubt with just enough force to wake him, without disturbing any other guest. He took off his dressing gown and stepped into the bath.
__________
Anna came out of the bathroom and started to get dressed. She was putting on Tina’s watch when she first saw the envelope on the bedside table. Had Andrews delivered it while she was in the shower? She felt sure it hadn’t been there when she woke. Anna was scrawled on it in Arabella’s unmistakable, bold hand.
She sat on the end of the bed and tore open the envelope.
WENTWORTH HALL
September 26th, 2001
Dearest Anna,
How do I begin to thank you? Ten days ago you told me that you wished to prove you had nothing to do with Victoria’s tragic death. Since then, you have done so much more, and even ended up saving the family’s bacon.
Anna burst out laughing at the quaint English expression, causing two slips of paper to fall out of the envelope and onto the floor. Anna bent down to pick them up. The first was a Coutts’ check made out to Anna Petrescu for one million pounds. The second . . .
Once Nakamura was dressed, he picked up his cell phone from the bedside table and dialed a number in Tokyo. He instructed his finance director to deposit the sum of forty-five million dollars by electronic transfer with his bank in London. He wouldn’t need to brief his lawyers, as he had already given them clear instructions to transfer the full amount to Coutts & Co. in the Strand, where the Wentworth family had maintained an account for over two centuries.
Before leaving the room to go down to breakfast, Mr. Nakamura paused in front of the portrait of Wellington. He gave the Iron Duke a slight bow, feeling sure that he would have enjoyed last night’s skirmishes.
As he walked down the marble staircase, he spotted Andrews in the hall. He was supervising the moving of the red box, which contained the Van Gogh with its original frame restored. The underbutler was placing the crate next to the front door so that it could be loaded into Mr. Nakamura’s car the moment his chauffeur appeared.
Arabella bustled out of the breakfast room as her guest reached the bottom step.
“Good morning, Takashi,” she said. “I do hope that, despite everything, you managed some sleep.”
“Yes, thank you, Arabella,” he replied, as Anna limped down behind him.
“I don’t know how to thank you,” said Anna.
“Sotheby’s would have charged me a lot more,” said Arabella, without explanation.
“And I know that Tina—,” began Anna, when there was a firm rap on the front door. Nakamura paused, as Andrews walked sedately across the hall.
“Probably my driver,” Nakamura suggested, as the butler pulled open the oak door.
“Good morning, sir,” Andrews said.
Arabella swung around and smiled at her unexpected guest.
“Good morning, Jack,” she said. “I hadn’t realized you were joining us for breakfast. Have you just popped across from the States, or have you spent the night at our local police station?”
“No, Arabella, I did not, but I’m told that you should have done,” replied Jack with a grin.
“Hello, my hero,” said Anna, giving Jack a kiss. “You arrived just in time to save us all.”
“Not quite fair,” chipped in Arabella, “as it was Jack who tipped off the local constabulary in the first place.”
Anna smiled and, turning to Nakamura, said, “This is my friend, Jack Fitzgerald Delaney.”
“No doubt christened John,” suggested Mr. Nakamura, as he shook hands with Jack.
“Correct, sir.”
“Names chosen by an Irish mother, or perhaps you were born on the twenty-second of November, nineteen sixty-three?”
“Guilty on both counts,” admitted Jack.
“Very droll,” said Arabella, as she led her guests through to the breakfast room, and Anna explained to Jack why she had a bandage around her leg.
Arabella invited Nakamura to take the place on her right. Gesturing to Jack, she said, “Come and sit on my left, young man. There are still one or two questions that I need answered.” Jack eyed the deviled kidneys as he picked up his knife and fork. “And you can forget any thought of food,” Arabella added, “until you’ve explained why I’m not on the front page of the Daily Mail following my heroic efforts last night.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” said Jack, as Andrews poured him a cup of black coffee.
“Not you, as well,” said Arabella. “It’s no wonder so many people believe in conspiracy theories and police cover-ups. Now do try a little harder, Jack.”
“When I questioned my colleagues at MI5 this morning,” said Jack, placing his knife and fork back on the table, “they were able to assure me that no terrorists had entered this country during the past twenty-four hours.”
“In other words I got clean away,” said Anna.
“Not exactly,” said Jack, “but I can tell you that a woman of approximately five foot, weighing around a hundred pounds, with a gunshot wound, spent the night in solitary at Belmarsh prison.”
“From which no doubt she will escape,” suggested Arabella.
“I can assure you, Arabella, that no one has ever escaped from Belmarsh.”
“But they’ll still end up having to send her back to Bucharest.”
“Unlikely,” said Jack, “as there’s no record of her ever entering the country in the first place, and no one will be looking for a woman in that particular prison.”
“Well, if that’s the case, I’ll allow you to help yourself to a small portion of mushrooms.”
Jack picked up his knife and fork.
“Which I can highly recommend,” said Mr. Nakamura, as he rose from his place, “but I fear I must now leave you, Arabella, if I am not to be late for my meeting.”
Jack put down his knife and fork for a second time, as everyone left the table to join Mr. Nakamura in the hall.
Andrews was standing by the front door, organizing the packing of the red box into the trunk of a Toyota limousine, when Arabella and her guests walked into the hall.
“I think,” said Mr. Nakamura, turning to face Arabella, “that to describe my short visit to Wentworth Hall as memorable would be a classic example of English understatement.” He smiled, before taking one last look at Gainsborough’s portrait of Catherine, Lady Wentworth. “Correct me if I am wrong, Arabella,” he continued, “but isn’t that the same necklace you were wearing at dinner last night?”
“It is indeed,” replied Arabella with a smile. “Her ladyship was an actress, which would be the equivalent today of being a lap dancer, so heaven knows from which of her many admirers she acquired such a magnificent bauble. But I’m not complaining, because I certainly have her to thank for the necklace.”
“And the earrings,” said Anna.
“Earring, sadly,” said Arabella, touching her right ear.
“Earring,” repeated Jack as he looked up at the painting. “I’m so dumb,” he added. “It’s been staring me in the face all the time.”
“And what exactly has been staring you in the face all the time?” asked Anna.
“Leapman wrote on the back of a photograph of Fenston shaking hands with George W. Bush: This is all the evidence you need.’ ”
“All the evidence you need for what?” asked Arabella.
“To prove that it was Fenston who murdered your sister,” replied Jack.
“I fail to see a connection between Catherine Lady Wentworth and the president of the United States,” said Arabella.
“Exactly the same mistake I made,” said Jack. “The connection is not between Lady Wentworth and Bush, but between Lady Wentworth and Fenston. And the clue has always been staring us in the face.”
Everyone looked up at the Gainsborough portrait.
After a long silence, Anna was the first to speak.
“They’re both wearing the same earring,” she said quietly. “I also missed it completely. I even saw Fenston wearing the earring on the day he fired me, but I just didn’t make the connection.”
“Leapman immediately realized its significance,” said Jack, almost rubbing his hands together. “He’d worked out that it was the vital piece of evidence we needed to secure a conviction.”
Andrews coughed.
“You’re quite right, Andrews,” said Arabella. “We mustn’t keep Mr. Nakamura any longer. The poor man has suffered quite enough family revelations for one day.”
“True,” said Mr. Nakamura. “However, I would like to congratulate Mr. Delaney on a remarkable piece of detection.”
“Slow, but he gets there in the end,” said Anna, taking his hand.
Mr. Nakamura smiled as Arabella accompanied him down to his car, while Jack and Anna waited on the top step.
“Well done, Stalker. I agree with Mr. Nakamura, that wasn’t a bad piece of detective work.”
Jack smiled and turned to face Anna. “But how about your efforts as a rookie agent? Did you ever discover why Tina—”
“I thought you’d never ask,” said Anna, “though I must confess I also missed several clues that should have been obvious, even to an amateur.”
“Like what?” asked Jack.
“A girl who just happens to support the 49ers as well as the Lakers, has a considerable knowledge and love of American art, whose hobby was sailing a boat called Christina that had been named after the owner’s two children.”
“She’s Chris Adams’s daughter?” said Jack.
“And Chris Adams Jr.’s sister,” said Anna.
“Well that explains everything.”
“Almost everything,” said Anna, “because not only did Tina Adams lose her home and the boat after her brother had his throat cut by Krantz, but she also had to drop out of law school.”
“So Fenston finally crossed the wrong person.”
“And it gets better,” said Anna. “Tina changed her name from Adams to Forster, moved to New York, took a secretarial course, applied for a temping job at the bank, and waited for Fenston’s secretary to resign—a fairly regular occurrence—before she stepped into the breach.”
“And held on to her position until she was fired last week,” Jack reminded her, as Nakamura bowed low to Arabella before climbing into the back of his limousine.
“And even better news, Stalker,” continued Anna, as she returned Mr. Nakamura’s wave. “Tina downloaded every document that might implicate Fenston onto her personal computer. She kept everything, from contracts to letters, even personal memos that Fenston thought had been destroyed when the North Tower collapsed. So I have a feeling that it won’t be that long before you can finally close the file on Mr. Bryce Fenston.”
“Thanks to you and Tina,” said Jack. He paused. “But she still lost everything.”
“Not everything,” said Anna, “because you’ll be happy to know that Arabella has given her a million dollars for the part she played in saving the Wentworth estate.”
“A million dollars?” said Jack.
“Not to mention the million pounds she’s presented to me, ‘for the labourer is worthy of his hire’ was how Arabella expressed it in her letter.”
“St. Luke,” said Jack. “ ‘And in the same house remain, eating and drinking such things as they give: for the labourer is worthy of his hire.’ ”
“Impressive,” said Anna.
“And I didn’t even get breakfast.”
“Well, perhaps I’ll take pity on you, Stalker, and let you join me for lunch in first class on the flight home.”
Jack turned to Anna and smiled. “I’d much rather you came to dinner with me on Saturday evening.”
“Your mother’s Irish stew night?” said Anna. “Now that’s better than first class. I’d certainly be up for that.”
“But before you agree, Anna, that there’s something I have to tell you,” said Jack, as Mr. Nakamura’s car disappeared down the drive and out of the gates.
“And what’s that?” asked Anna, turning back to face him.
“My mother is under the illusion that you’ve already been married three times, you have five children, not necessarily by the three husbands, four of them are on hard drugs, and the other one is currently serving a jail sentence.” He paused. “She also thinks that you work in a far older profession than art consultancy.”
Anna burst out laughing. “But what will you tell her when she discovers that none of it’s true?”
“You’re not Irish,” said Jack.