Almost a Crime (90 page)

spite of everything — she believed she loved; and Felix had

told her he didn’t want her. She could hardly go back to Nico and explain that, say she would now like to return to

him. The only purpose served by Felix’s rejection had been

to show her how wrong she had been about him. He didn’t

want her: he was no longer in love with her, if indeed he

ever had been; he was managing perfectly well without her

— and he was more ruthless even than she had thought. But

that didn’t really help her, in fact it made her feel more

wretched still. She had made a hideous mistake, and the

game was over. There was absolutely nothing left for her to

play with.

All the way to Rookston, Louise thought of nothing but

the jewellery box. It was all she could do not to rush up

there the minute they arrived. But Dickon was waiting for

her, scarlet with excitement, Janet had coffee and homemade

biscuits waiting in the morning room, and even when

she went up to the loo Dickon came with her, sat outside

singing loudly.

It was only when Charles said, ‘Well, I must go and

make a couple of phone calls, if you’ll excuse me,’ that she

managed to make her own excuse, say could she just take a

look at her mother’s things, get a measure of what needed

to be done.

Dickon went with her, of course, hanging on to her

hand limpet-like; she tried not to feel irritated, not to shake

him off. It didn’t matter; she could look for it with him

there, he wouldn’t know.

Her mother’s room was painfully tidy, everything set in

its place still. Things like her alarm clock, her silver

dressing-table set, the endless photographs of them all as

children. Her letter rack and stationery on the small desk,

her precious collection of Staffordshire dogs on the

fireplace. All there, all looking at her. The only thing

missing was the jewellery box.

Panic hit Louise; she started pulling drawers open, then

tried the wardrobe, the drawers in that. No box. Under the

bed, in the shoe cupboard. No box. She felt absurdly upset, tears filling her eyes; she realised Dickon was looking at her, blinked them back, tried to smile.

‘What are you looking for, Mummy?’

‘Oh - something of Granny’s. Something that I thought

would be here.’

‘But what?’

She realised he might know. ‘The wooden box that she

kept all her jewellery and things in. Remember? I showed

you once, a funny bracelet I made her when I was little,

about your age. Oh, and my first tooth when the fairy

brought it back. Do you know?’

He nodded solemnly.

‘You do! Oh good, Dickon. Where is it?’

‘I don’t know where it is. I just remember it.’

‘Oh. Oh, I see. Now—’

Janet came in. ‘Everything all right, Louise?’

‘Oh — yes, thank you, Janet. Fine. Um — you haven’t

moved anything out of here, have you?’

‘Certainly not,’ said Janet. ‘Mr Madison said he wanted it

left exactly as it was. What were you looking for?’

‘Oh — nothing much,’ said Louise quickly. ‘It’s just that I

promised him - my father - that I’d do some sorting out

today and I wanted to make sure it was all here.’

‘She wants—’ said Dickon.

Louise interrupted him quickly. She didn’t want Janet to

think the jewellery box mattered particularly. Not that she

could possibly put two and two together: but you never

knew. Safer not to risk even the slightest thing. ‘Anyway,

doesn’t matter. Come on, Dickon, let’s go in the garden for

a bit. It’s such a lovely day.’

Sitting outside in the garden, panic hit her again, the

blind panic that threatened to engulf her from time to time,

the racing heart, the shaking, the hot sweaty sickness. Was

she ever going to be better, ever going to—

‘Mummy, are you all right?’

‘Yes, darling. I’m fine.’ She smiled at him, gave him a

kiss. Having to pretend was helpful, she found; she had

learned that at the Cloisters. But she had to find it, the jewellery box; she really had to.

Octavia dialled Fiona Michael’s number. She noticed her

hand was rather shaky and felt irritated with herself. It was

so clearly the right thing to do. She had completely got

over the frightening madness that had threatened her on

Sunday evening. It had simply been exhaustion that had

done it to her. Made her think, however briefly, that she

had wanted Tom. Not hated him. A marriage could not be

built - or rather rebuilt - on mistrust, fear, lies, betrayal. It

just couldn’t. She had to end it, start again. There was no

choice. She would talk to him that night: tell him what she

had decided, that she wanted him out of the house, that she

was instigating divorce proceedings…

Fiona Michael’s voice was low, soothing, not the strident

bark Octavia had somehow imagined. She was very nice,

very helpful; said the first thing was to meet, that she would

like to get the background details. Her office was in the

Strand: when could Octavia go in? Octavia said she was too

busy to take time off work; were the evenings any good?

They settled on the Friday, at seven.

She’d never liked Bernard Moss, her father’s lawyer.

Maybe she should ring her father, tell him what she’d done.

Then he could stop threatening to involve Bernard Moss. If

he hadn’t already …

Her father was pleased. Delighted even. The last time he’d

sounded like that was when she’d got her degree. Warm,

almost congratulatory.

‘Darling, well done. I’m so pleased, so proud of you. I

know it’s the right thing to do. Even if it is hard.’

‘Well - I hope so.’

‘Octavia, of course it is.’

‘Yes. Yes, of course. So - no need to bother Bernard

about it.’

‘No. I presume this woman is competent.’

‘Oh, very. She did Melanie’s divorce. That’s how I got on to her. Anyway, I’ve done it now — so there’s no need to nag me any more.’

‘I promise I won’t. By the way, Greenidge is nagging me

about the documents you brought back, and I haven’t even

looked at the stuff yet.’

‘Oh, that reminds me of something. I forgot to mention

it on Sunday, forgot to thank you. Daddy, you are

naughty.’

‘In what way?’ he said.

‘Putting all that money into the BVI trust fund. Very

naughty. But very sweet. Thank you.’

‘Darling. I haven’t put any money into it. Not recently.

It must be an accumulation of interest.’

‘No, I don’t think so. Well - I suppose just possibly.

But…’

‘But what?’

‘But it’s a lot. I thought - oh, it doesn’t matter.

Doesn’t matter at all.’

Felix put the phone down; he felt extremely happy

suddenly. All his rage and misery over Marianne seemed

unimportant; he would have Octavia back. Soon she would

be free, safe, his again. Her and her children. She’d

probably be much happier completely on her own in the

future: only she wouldn’t be alone, she’d have him.

And the children of course: he hoped this lawyer woman

would see that Tom Fleming got as little access to them as

possible. He didn’t deserve any at all. He must make that

point to Octavia, next time they spoke. She must be very

firm about it.

He was puzzled, though, about the reference to funds in

the BVI account. He couldn’t think what that was about.

Anyway, he’d have a look at the statements that evening.

There was obviously a perfectly good explanation …

God could have provided it of course; and could have

provided a warning of other, equally dangerous situations

that were developing. But Felix was still too busy playing

Him to listen …

It was there: safely at the bottom of the box, where Anna had left it, tucked under the silk lining. Where Charles was

most unlikely to see it. Lucky it had been there; he’d had

the box, had locked it in his safe, might well have seen it.

‘I thought some of the things were slightly valuable,’ he’d

said when finally she asked him about it, feeling so sick she

couldn’t swallow, ‘so I put it away. I’ll get it for you, after

lunch. Or now, if you like.’

‘No, no,’ she said (miraculously hungry suddenly), ‘there’s

absolutely no rush. We’ll do the clothes first. As long as I

can check it through for you before I go, that’ll be fine.’

She picked it out of the box, slipped it into her bag, into

the little zip section where it would be safe. Nobody saw

her, not even Dickon. He was out in the garden, playing

French cricket with Janet, laughing. Charles had gone to

fetch some tea for them, to help them in their task. Nobody

knew she had it, nobody knew it existed even. She was safe

now. She could do it. She had somewhere to go …

‘Octavia! Octavia, it’s Lauren. Lauren Bartlett. Can you

hear me?’

The low, throaty voice was very clear.

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘yes, I can hear you fine, Lauren. Thank

you.’

She felt guilty immediately; had Lauren been talking to

Tom? Was she ringing to accuse her of being neurotic,

paranoid? Was she going to laugh at her, say—

‘Your children are fantastic. Just fantastic. They’ve both

been so good, and Gideon’s been marvellous. About his foot.

So brave. It’s fine now, no need to worry, completely healed,

we’ve had the doctor here have a look at it, just in case.’

God, thought Octavia, she isn’t a bitch at all. She’d

misjudged her so horribly …

‘Octavia, are you there?’

‘Yes. Yes, I’m here. Sorry. I’m so glad the children have

been good.’

‘They have. And Gideon is so good looking, and such a little charmer. Tom all over again. Camilla is madly smitten with him.’

Yes. Well, she was allowed to say that. If she wanted to.

‘Anyway, they’ll be back on Friday night.’

‘Yes, so — so Tom said. Lauren, thank you so much for

taking them. I’m really grateful.’

‘Oh, honestly, it’s been a help. You know how dreadful

children are on holiday, always at one to play with them.

I’ve had plenty of time to work on my tan. How was

Barbados? Lucky you, I adore it there. We always stay at the

Sandy Lane, do you know it? Yes, of course, you would.

Poor old Tom, no holiday for him. Still, someone has to do

some work. Now then, talking of work, I want to have a

quick word about the seventh. I believe it’s all going

forward well. But the food — I don’t like those menus

Melanie fixed over at all. Very coronation chicken. I

thought something much more imaginative. And lighter.

And I don’t want sparkling wine, Octavia. I want champagne.

I said that at the beginning, so if your quote doesn’t

allow for it, then I’m afraid that’s your mistake. You’ll have

to find the money from somewhere else. Poppy says she’s

very excited about it, she and Camilla are planning their

dresses. And Tom, I can’t wait to see him in a Prince of

Wales suit. I’ve got a marvellous outfit, from Bermans, and

the most divine hat. What? Well, of course Tom must

come. Apart from anything else, Oliver Nichols is coming.

Tom’s new client, you know? The one I was able to help

with? He’s got the most marvellous Mr Toad outfit. He’s

driving down in his own car. It’s a most lovely thing, 1935

BMW. Anyway, come back to me on the food, would you,

Octavia? And the champagne. I’ll be in the office Monday

for our meeting.’

Octavia heard herself saying that she was sure Tom

would come to Brands Hatch and that she’d get some more

menus faxed out to Lauren next day …

She’d meant to tell Tom that night that she’d spoken to

Fiona Michael, that she wanted to press ahead with the

divorce; but first she had to ask him to come to the day at Brands Hatch. ‘And in ‘thirties dress,’ she added.

He looked at her as if she’d asked him to come dressed as

a chicken.

‘Octavia, I have no intention of coming at all. Let alone

dressed up in some damn fool costume.’

‘Tom, please! It’s so important to me, this day, and

anyway, you like fancy dress things usually, and—’

‘And what? I really cannot imagine why you want me

there. It’s your day, your show. When did we last make a

joint appearance anywhere?’

‘A couple of weeks ago actually,’ she said, thankful that

she had done it for him. It had after all been a much bigger

concession. ‘When we had dinner with Bob Macintosh. I

did that for you.’

‘And for Fleming Cotterill.’

‘Yes. And this is for me and for Capital C. And I know

Lauren is expecting you to be there. Wants you to be

there.’

‘I’m very surprised you should be so concerned with

what Mrs Bartlett wants,’ he said lightly.

She looked at him; his eyes were gleaming.

She felt very foolish suddenly. ‘I’m not. Exactly. But she

- well, she is—’

‘The client,’ he said. ‘Ah. Suddenly, we have to please

the client. Together. A trip down memory lane, eh?’

‘Tom—’

‘Yes, Octavia?’

‘Just this once. It would be — helpful. And anyway,’ she

added, ‘apparently Oliver Nichols is going to be there.’