A Sticky End (19 page)

He's lied to you before, said that niggling voice of suspicion. He's lied to his wife.

But we all lie, all the time. That's the position the world forces us into. Just because there are certain areas of life in which a man is obliged to conceal and dissemble, that doesn't mean that the rot permeates every part of his soul.
We have to lie in order to survive—but we know the difference between right and wrong, between Good and Evil.

Don't we?

Even a quantity of cigarettes, which I usually regard as a universal panacea, were unable to quell these miserable doubts, and I was sinking into a slough of despond when the maid came up to the study with a fresh pot of coffee.

“Did you have a nice day off?” I asked, trying to sound casual.

“Oh yes, sir, thank you, sir. I went to the pictures, I did, with my sister and her young man.”

“Fine, fine. What time did you get back here last night?”

“Not last night, sir. This morning. Mrs. Morgan's ever so generous. And what with her and the little ones staying away, and Mr. Morgan off on business—”

“Of course. Mr. Morgan spends a good deal of his time traveling, I suppose?”

“Yes, sir. Doing very well at the bank, he is.” The maid sounded proud.

“Working for a big City law firm, I understand.”

“Yes, sir. Mr. Bartlett visits a good deal.”

“Did you see him over the weekend?”

“Yes, he arrived in time for lunch on Saturday.”

“Did you—say, what's your name?”

“Ivy, sir.”

“Ivy. Did you hear anything unusual on Saturday?”

“No, sir, I can't say I did.”

I gave her two half crowns. “Thanks for looking after me, Ivy. If you remember anything—a conversation, for instance. An argument.”

“Thank you, sir. But no. After cook had gone and I was finishing off I heard the gentlemen talking over something, but I couldn't say what.”

“You're sure, Ivy? You're absolutely sure?”

“Yes, sir. Have I done something wrong?”

“Not at all. Just…just a bet I had with Mr. Morgan.”

“Will that be all, sir?”

“Yes, thanks, Ivy.”

And that cleared away another possibility—that the domestics had overheard Morgan and Bartlett in passionate discourse, and had—what? Blackmailed them? It was a desperate idea, of course, but I was sad to see it go. One last defense between Morgan and my horrible suspicions…

It was time to find out more about the dead man's home life, and then gauge the reaction of his widow to the news of her husband's demise. Perhaps she would reveal something about the relationship with Morgan that would—what? Consolidate the picture of guilt that was forming in my mind? Was that what I wanted?

I got Bartlett's address from the maid, and set forth.

The Bartlett residence, not far from Teddington station, was a substantial building that discreetly proclaimed the wealth of its occupants. And yet, this was a house of death and grief. You wouldn't know it from the gleaming brass door fittings, from the clipped box hedges around the parterres, from the high windows through which was visible the soft glow of expensive furniture—but behind this mask of peace and comfort there was the twisted face of horror and despair.

I rang, and was admitted. Almost immediately, Belinda Morgan ran into the hall and straight into my arms.

“Mitch. Oh, thank God it's you. I didn't know if you would come.”

“Of course.” I held her tight. “It's all right, Belinda. Everything's going to be all right,” I lied. “How is…she?”

“It's awful,” she whispered, as we walked arm in arm toward a high set of double doors. “Poor Vivie. She's absolutely destroyed. I don't know what to say or do. She's upstairs now. The doctor came and gave her something, and
I think she's sleeping. Her brother's here. He's been absolutely wonderful. Come and meet him.”

She opened the doors to reveal a good-looking, well-built man of perhaps 40 sitting in an armchair by an open window, one of Belinda's children on each knee. He was teaching Margaret a trick with a matchstick; little Edward, my infant namesake, gurgled with delight, staring up with wide blue eyes, reaching out with his tiny hands to grab at a fine set of whiskers.

“No, no, little chap, don't pull my moustache!” He laughed, and gently batted away the grasping fingers. “Ah! This must be—hang on a moment.” He carefully deposited the children on the floor; Edward immediately started wailing.

“Edward Mitchell,” said Belinda. “Hugh Trent. Vivien's brother.”

A large, square hand took mine and pumped it. He was a handsome man, for sure—authoritative, powerful, intelligent. Warm brown eyes met mine, dark brows contracted. “Terrible business, this,” he said. “Good to know Morgan's got friends.”

“Of course,” I said. “How is your sister holding up?”

“She's not, poor girl. Doctor's put her to sleep for a bit. She's gone to pieces.” Belinda was busy calming the baby, and Trent lowered his voice. “Can't say I blame her. Something damned fishy about the whole thing, if you ask me.” Belinda stood up. “Thanks for everything, Mrs. Morgan,” said Trent. “You've been an absolute brick to poor Vivie. Don't know what she'd have done without you. And of course, these two little rascals.” He put out hands like claws and roared like a lion; Margaret screamed and giggled, while Edward wriggled and reached out to those irresistible whiskers again. The older Edward shared his desire to grab that moustache and sideboards, but for somewhat different reasons. My internal itch, described above, flared up again.

“I'll just get the children into their coats and shoes,” said Belinda. “Everything else is ready. Don't forget, Mr. Trent, if there's anything else I can do… Anything at all.”

“Thank you, dear lady. And likewise I.”

Belinda left the room with tears in her eyes. It was characteristic of the woman to offer help to others even when she had terrible troubles of her own. Perhaps she didn't know how deep the trouble her husband was in; I'd have to break it to her gently on the way home.

“Glad to get you alone, Mitchell,” said Trent, wiping his hands on a pristine linen handkerchief. “Messy things, children. They always seem to leave one sticky.” He folded the handkerchief carefully and replaced it in his pocket. “You're a man of the world, according to Mrs. Morgan, there. Fine woman, by the way.”

“The best.”

“What's this husband of hers like?”

“Morgan? My best friend in the world.”

One eyebrow lifted a little. “Indeed. Seems to have a gift for friendship, our Mr. Morgan.”

“He was always popular, even at Cambridge,” I said, not liking the tone of Trent's voice.

“I gather he's being questioned.”

“Of course. He was the last person to see Frank Bartlett alive.”

“Naturally, naturally. And they've kept him in.”

“Well, I suppose there's a lot to be…”

“Discussed? Yes. There would be, in a case like this.”

We held each other's gaze. Where was this leading?

“Mr. Mitchell, may I speak frankly?”

“Of course.”

He stood in front of the window with his back to me, his large hands clasped behind him, like a teacher about to deliver a punishment. “My sister knew something of her husband's life,” he said. “It was a marriage more of
companionship than love, if you understand my meaning.”

“I see.”

“When she learned yesterday of this terrible thing, she was… How can I put this? She was not surprised.”

“Ah.”

“She has suspected for some time that things were not… as they should be.”

“In what way?”

“Come on, Mitchell,” he said, turning to face me, “you know the score.” His eyes held the question that his lips could not frame:
Are you one of them as well?

“Yes, I do.”

“Thought so. Now listen to me, Mitchell. What a man does in his private life is nobody's business but his own. I don't judge.”

Big of you, I thought.

“And I could see that Vivie and Frank were happy in their own way. Always thought it was a shame they never had children. Keep a marriage alive, children. I've got a son of my own—twelve years old now, and he's the apple of my eye.”

Did all this family talk presage some kind of confession? I hoped so.

“But each to his own, or her own, and Vivie knew the score when she accepted Frank Bartlett as her husband. He provided well for her, as you can see.”

“Absolutely.”

“And there was never any breath of scandal. Bartlett was accepted in even the highest social circles, with Vivie at his side. But—well, she knew, and I knew, that he had other interests.”

“Yes,” I said. “So I understand.”

“From Morgan?” The question snapped out of him. “What did he tell you?”

I saw the trap opening, and sidestepped it. “Not a thing. I spoke to Mr. Bartlett's colleague.”

“That scoundrel, Tippett? Nasty little toady.”

“On the contrary, Tippett seemed to be devoted to his boss.”

“Devoted? Oh, yes, he gave that impression. I never liked the man, personally. I don't care for the type. No offense, I hope.”

“None taken.” Any hope I may have had of scratching that itch was fast fading.

“What did he say?”

“He mentioned that there may have been some financial pressures on Mr. Bartlett.”

“Spit it out, man. Frank was being blackmailed.”

“Who by?”

Don't say Morgan.

“Some dreadful person that he…knew.”

“Do you have a name?”

“No, damn it, I don't, because if I did I would have the bounder drummed out of the guards and clapped in irons.”

“The guards?” This had the ring of truth about it—guardsmen were a popular pastime for men of Bartlett's means, and were also notorious for biting the hand that fondled them. “You mean the blackmailer was a soldier?”

“A disgrace to the king's uniform.”

“You don't happen to know his regiment?”

“Of course not. Frank didn't advertise the details of his indiscretions.”

“Indiscretions hardly seems the right word, Mr. Trent. It seems to me that Mr. Bartlett was discretion itself. If, as you say, he was welcomed in the highest social circles in the land…”

Trent brushed away my remark. “Met him at the Parthenon, that's all I know. That bloody place should be shut down. It's a haven for immorality. Disgusting.”

You mean they turned you down.

“Did Bartlett tell you this, Mr. Trent?”

“Yes. We had an awkward talk about it a couple of years ago. He came to me in desperate straits. Said this guardsman was dunning him for money. Didn't go into details—didn't need to, and he knew I wouldn't want to hear that kind of muck—I've got a wife and son of my own, I don't want to roll in the filth.”

“Of course,” I said, thinking of the dozens of husbands and fathers who had been happy, nay eager, to “roll in the filth” with me. There seemed little point in arguing with Trent, whose facial hair confirmed him as a man of set opinions—set in the last century. All I wanted from him now was information.

“Of course I offered to help, because I didn't want to see my sister dragged down, and with her the family name. I helped him out with a bit of financial jiggery pokery. Bartlett's a wealthy man—was a wealthy man, I should say. But it wasn't always easy for him to lay his hands on ready cash when he needed it. All his assets are tied up, salted away, sitting in the five percents paying for all this.” He gestured around the room, and I could see the envy in his eyes.

“You lent him money?”

“God, no. I don't have much to spare, and what I do have I spend on my boy.” That son of his again; how many times could Trent remind me that he was a family man? Was this a case of a “lady” protesting too much? I'd had to listen to these paternal litanies often enough before, sometimes just moments before the mouth was lowered onto my erect prick.

Not in this case, however.

“What, then?”

“I brokered a deal with a pal of mine in the city. Rustled up the necessary.”

“A money lender?”

“That sort of thing, although he wouldn't thank you for calling him that. He prefers to be known as a venture capitalist.”

“A rose by any other name,” I said. “So Bartlett told you a little about his predicament, I suppose.”

“I didn't ask, if that's what you're implying. There was no quid pro quo. I'd rather have had nothing to do with it. But as I say, I wouldn't see Vivie dragged down without a fight.”

“And as far as you know, the blackmailer was paid off?”

“At first, yes. But now it seems that Frank found other ways to pay him.”

“You mean—?”

“Think about it, man. He had his fingers in the till. Must have done. What possible reason could there be for him to do such a dreadful thing? He knew the game was up.”

“But why would he do it at Morgan's house?”

“Last spark of decency in an otherwise corrupt soul,” said Trent, with a note of appalling piety in his voice. “Didn't want to soil his own nest.”

“So he soiled Morgan's instead.”

“Birds of a feather,” said Trent.

At that point, Belinda opened the door. The children were in their coats, all ready to go home. Just in time; I was ready to knock Trent's teeth out.