6 Stone Barrington Novels (88 page)

STONE LEFT THE HAMPSHIRE COUNTY Council building and found Monica waiting for him outside with the motor running. His baggage was already in the boot of the car, and he had said his good-byes to Lord and Lady Wight, but not to Sarah, who was still sequestered, pending her testimony to the coroner's jury.

“How did it go?” Monica asked, putting the Aston Martin in gear and driving away.

“As planned, I think; Pickering seems to have everything well in hand.”

“I was surprised at how subdued he was when he questioned me,” she said. “He has a reputation as a tiger in court.”

“I think he went out of his way to give the impression that he was unconcerned about the outcome. He would not have wanted the coroner to think that he was defending Sarah of a charge.”

“Then he's clever.”

“Yes, he is.”

“Did he need to be?”

“It never hurts, if a lawyer can avoid being seen to be clever.”

They drove in silence for half an hour. Finally,
Monica spoke again. “Lance seems to think that Sarah did it deliberately.”

“None of the evidence I'm aware of supports that view.”

“So you think it was an accident?”

“Yes.” And he would continue to prefer to think that. Then he thought about Sarah's late-night visit to him two nights before. A fling on her part, nothing more, he told himself.

 

She dropped him at the Connaught. “Dinner this week sometime?”

“Let me call you; I don't know yet how long I'll be here.”

She handed him a card. “Home, gallery, and cellphone.”

He thanked her and followed the porter into the hotel.

“You have a number of messages, Mr. Barrington,” the concierge said, handing him some small envelopes.

Stone waited until he was back in his suite to open them. Two were from John Bartholomew, or whoever he was, one was from Dino, and one was from Bill Eggers at Woodman & Weld. Stone dialed the New York number for Bartholomew. The number rang, then was interrupted, then rang again.

“Yes?”

“It's Stone Barrington.”

“I've been trying to reach you, but the phone I gave you wasn't working.”

Stone looked over and saw the phone resting on its charger. “I'm sorry; I forgot to take the phone with me when I went away for the weekend.”

“I read about your weekend in the morning papers,” Bartholomew said.

Not the New York papers, Stone thought. Bartholomew was still in London.

“Hello?”

“I'm still here.”

“What have you learned?”

“That Cabot calls himself an independent business consultant.”

Bartholomew made a snorting sound. “Of course.”

“And that Erica Burroughs is not your niece.”

Now it was Bartholomew who was silent.

“And her mother is not dead, though her father is.”

“It's not necessary for you to know everything,” Bartholomew said.

“Perhaps not, but it's necessary, if we're to continue this relationship, that what I do know is true and not a lie.”

“My apologies,” Bartholomew said stiffly. “What do you want to know?”

“Why do you want Lance Cabot in an English jail?”

“I can't tell you that.”

“Is your interest in him personal, or are you working for someone else?”

“Both.”

“Who are you?”

“Do you wish to continue to represent me in this matter?” Now Bartholomew was angry.

“I don't much care one way or the other,” Stone replied evenly, “but I don't like to be kept in the dark about the motives for my investigation.”

“I'm afraid it will have to be that way for a time, but I'd like very much for you to continue.”

Stone made his decision. “All right, I'll continue.” Until I find out what the hell is going on, he thought.

“Good. But please keep the phone I gave you on
your person at all times. I don't like not being able to reach you.”

“All right.”

“Contact me again when you have something to report.”

“All right.”

Bartholomew hung up without further ado.

Stone called Bill Eggers.

“Hi there, you called while I was in Chile?”

“Yes, I did. You're going to Chile for the weekend, nowadays?”

“At the invitation of a client who has a Gulfstream Four.”

“You're a lucky man. Who is the man you sent to see me last week?”

“How do you mean, ‘who'?”

“What's his real name, for a start.”

“I thought it was Bartholomew.”

“It's not; I know that much. How did he come to you?”

“A client referred him.”

“Who's the client?”

“I'm afraid that's confidential.”

“Where is the client located?”

“In Washington; you can infer what you wish from that.”

“I will. Do you have any idea what Bartholomew really wants?”

“I don't even know what he
told
you he wants.”

“He told me a cock-and-bull story, and I'm annoyed.”

“I hope you haven't done anything rash.”

“Like quit?”

“Yes.”

“Not yet, but I'm going to, if he keeps lying to me.”

“Stick it out, Stone. I can't tell you why you should, but I'd appreciate it.”

“Oh, all right, Bill.”

“Thanks. I'll remember.” He hung up.

Stone called Dino.

“How you doin'?” Dino asked cheerfully.

“I had a strange weekend.”

“Tell me.”

Stone told him.

“And she inherits the guy's business?”

“Apparently so. What do you think?”

“You know what I think,” Dino chuckled, “but I have a more suspicious mind than you do.”

“I think I prefer not being suspicious right now.”

“I'll be willing to bet you hear from Sarah before the day's out.”

“She's grieving,” Stone said.

“Yeah, sure. I gotta go; anything else?”

“Nope.”

“She's going to call you.” Dino hung up.

Stone stood up and stretched, and the phone rang. He picked it up. “Hello?”

“It's Sarah,” she said.

SHE SOUNDED PERFECTLY NORMAL—not depressed, not upset, just Sarah.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Perfectly all right, thank you.”

“What was the outcome of the inquest?”

“Accidental death,” she replied. “Had you expected another outcome?”

“No, I was sure that would be the verdict.”

“Sir Bernard seemed to think I might have purposely gybed the yacht; is that what you think?”

“No, and I told him so.”

“Did he say to you that I might have done it on purpose?”

“No, and I don't think he believes that—not from anything he said in our conversation.”

“What about Lance? Does he believe I killed James?”

“Lance doesn't know anything about sailing; he didn't really understand what happened. I explained it to him, and he seemed satisfied.”

She was silent for a moment. “There's something I have to tell you.”

“All right.”

She seemed to be having trouble getting it out.
Finally she spoke. “I didn't intentionally cause James's death, but I'm not really very sorry he's dead. Does that sound awful?”

Stone avoided a direct answer. “Please tell me what you mean.”

“I wouldn't have gone through with it—the marriage, I mean.”

“Then why were you having an engagement party?”

“My parents pressed me, told me I was getting old. I'm thirty-two, for Christ's sake!”

“Maybe they just want grandchildren.”

“Oh, they do, that's true. I liked James, but I was never in love with him. They kept saying what a perfect match we were, and I suppose it did look good on paper, at least. I guess we could have made it work, produced the grandchildren, bought a country house, given good dinner parties. But I just didn't want it.”

“I'm sorry you had to go through that,” Stone said, because he couldn't think of anything else to say.

“Have you seen this morning's papers?”

“No,” Stone said. They had been stuck under his door when he returned to his suite, but he hadn't even looked at them yet.

“We're all over them, and the tabloids are hinting that I killed James for his money! Can you imagine?”

“Well, yes, considering . . .”

“We weren't even married; how could they say I killed him for his money?”

“Well, there is his will.”

“What?”

“His will; he made a will. Surely you're aware of that.”

“Aware of what? I don't know anything about a will.”

“Apparently, James recently made a new will, making you the primary beneficiary.”

There was a stunned silence at the other end of the line. “That's preposterous! Why would he do a thing like that before we're married?”

“I don't suppose we'll ever know,” Stone replied. “But according to Sir Bernard Pickering, that's what he did.”

“Why is it that everyone knows this but me?”

“I thought you did know it; I don't know how Pickering found out, unless he prepared the will.”

“Pickering is a barrister; he wouldn't do wills; a solicitor would have to do that.”

“Who is James's solicitor?”

“I have no idea . . . Wait a minute, yes I do; I was introduced to him at a party a couple of weeks ago.”

“Do Pickering and the solicitor know each other?”

“I don't know; I suppose it's possible.”

“Could they work out of the same law firm?”

“Solicitors and barristers are in different firms.”

“Have you heard from the solicitor?”

“No.”

“I expect you will shortly, if there's any truth to all this.”

“Tell me exactly what Pickering told you.”

“He said you were now the largest independent importer of wines in Britain and that you now owned a lot of wine shops and pubs.”

“Hold on a minute; someone is rapping on my door.” She put the phone down and returned after a moment. “It's a letter from James's solicitor,” she said. “Hand delivered.”

“What does it say?”

“I haven't opened it.”

“Open it.”

“Oh, Stone, this is so crazy.”

“Open the letter and read it to me.” He heard the ripping and rustle of paper.

“ ‘Dear blah, blah, blah, condolences, etcetera. It is my duty to inform you that, shortly before his death, Mr. Cutler made a will, in which you are an important beneficiary. I would be grateful if you would call at this office at your convenience so that we may discuss this matter. Yours very sincerely.' It says ‘important beneficiary.' That doesn't sound like I inherit everything.”

“Maybe it's British understatement.”

“Oh, God, I can't deal with this now; I have to arrange a funeral for James in London; he didn't have any family to speak of—both his parents are dead, and he had no brothers or sisters, so it all falls to me.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Stone, will you go and see this solicitor and find out about this?”

“I think it might be better if you had your own solicitor go.”

“I don't have one, and I hate Daddy's. Just go and talk to him; I'll tell him you're coming.”

“All right. Is there anything else?”

“Let me give you his phone number and address.”

Stone wrote it all down, and Sarah's London number as well.

“I'm coming up to London tomorrow, and I'll call you then.”

“All right. I'll be around here. Oh, let me give you a portable phone number, too.” Stone retrieved the phone from its charging cradle and read off the number, which was taped to the telephone.

“I'll call you tomorrow,” she said, “and I'll call the solicitor now.”

“All right; tell him I'll wait to hear from him.” Stone hung up and went to retrieve the papers. The story was on the inside pages of both the
Times
and the
Independent,
and it was brief in each case. It didn't seem out of the ordinary to Stone. The phone rang. The solicitor, he thought. “Hello?”

“Mr. Barrington, it's Ted Cricket; Bobby Jones and I would like to come and see you, if that's all right.”

“Yes, fine. When's good for you?”

“How about six o'clock this evening at your hotel?”

“That's good for me. I'll see you both at six in the same place we met the first time.”

“Good, sir.” He hung up.

Stone hung up, too, and the phone rang immediately. “Hello?”

“Is that Mr. Barrington?”

“Yes.”

“My name is Julian Wainwright; I am solicitor for the estate of James Cutler.”

“Oh, yes, Sarah Buckminster said you'd call.”

“Miss Buckminster tells me you'll be representing her in the matter of the Cutler estate. I'm a bit confused; you're an American, are you?”

“That's right, but I'm not representing her as an attorney, only as a friend. Sarah is very busy with making funeral arrangements at the moment, and she asked me to see you about the letter you sent her today.”

“All right, then; will sometime this afternoon be good?”

“Yes, fine.”

“Say, four o'clock?”

“That's fine. I have your address.”

“I'll see you at four, then.” He hung up.

Stone hung up, too, and sighed. How did he get roped into this?