Charity (66 page)

‘Part of the time,’ she said vaguely. Men always wanted to question her and she usually only told the truth when she couldn’t think of a lie. She liked to appear mysterious, it kept men on their toes. ‘Now, what have you got for me?’

‘Strat is the name he’s known by, but his real one’s Toby Stratton,’ George said, handing her a large drink. ‘He’s the nephew of Colonel Pennycuick who quite coincidentally was murdered a while ago.’

Dorothy nodded.

George looked askance at her.

‘You knew that already?’

‘I know the family part,’ she said carefully. ‘What I want to know is how other people see him, the people who call him Strat. Who he hangs out with, what he’s told them about himself.’

‘The one thing that comes out is that young Toby, or Strat, isn’t as smart as he likes to make out,’ George grinned. ‘It’s no secret that he’s been spending far more than he earns in the army, and until quite recently he owed money all over the place. The interesting thing is that he fobbed people off with tales that he would soon be getting his inheritance.’

Dorothy smiled.

‘He was saying that
before
his uncle died?’

‘He was saying it from the moment he hit London.’ George raised an eyebrow. ‘That’s what I mean about him not being so smart. He uses part truth, part fiction. Even the name he uses is an abbreviation of his real one.’

‘But you said he had debts “until recently”. When did he pay them off?’

‘Before the colonel died.’ George smirked. ‘So I asked myself where he got the money.’

Dorothy was warming to George by the minute.

‘And what did you come up with?’

‘Drugs. One of the girls told me he was into speed. Once people start using that they often go on to selling it, if only to support the habit. My guess is that he dabbled in dealing for a bit, made a few bob, then moved on to becoming a courier for heroin or cocaine.’

Dorothy felt a fizz of excitement rising inside her. So this was what Charity was keeping quiet about!

‘What’s your gut reaction to the murder of the old colonel?’ she asked.

George sighed.

‘You’d be a fool not to suspect him,’ he said. ‘If he’s picking up drugs in Rotterdam or Hamburg as I suspect, then it would be a doddle to find a hit man too. I certainly don’t believe his sister did it, not unless she’s in it with him.’

‘She isn’t,’ Dorothy blurted out before she could stop herself.

George’s face broke into a wide smile, his brown eyes twinkling.

‘So that’s it! You’re working for her?’

‘Not working for her. Just trying to unravel a few things,’ Dorothy snapped. ‘She’s my best friend, but she’d have a fit if she knew I was poking around into her dear little brother’s affairs.’

George looked speculatively at Dorothy.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt really drawn to a woman. It wasn’t just her beauty, but something inside her. He’d dug around about Charity Stratton too and discovered that she’d bought Carmel Connor’s old escort agency. Now it was all slotting into place.

‘Look, Dorothy, I’ve stuck my neck out quite a bit asking around about all this. If Strat, Toby, whatever you like to call him is doing what I suspect, there’s other people involved who are a darn sight more dangerous than he is. I don’t want to be found in a back alley with a knife between my ribs, even for you. Now suppose you tell me the whole story over lunch? Then maybe we can work out where we go from here.’

Dorothy looked at him appraisingly. In the old days she would have surveyed his expensive suit, calculated how rich he was and how much of his money he would lavish on her. Then if the stakes were high enough, she’d go out with him, whether she liked him or not.

She knew George was wealthy already, but she was surprised to find she really liked him.

He wasn’t even handsome or tall, his hair was thin and she didn’t care much for moustaches. But he had eyes that laughed even when his mouth didn’t. He didn’t take himself too seriously, which was unusual for a man involved with nightclubs. George was a good sort.

‘As long as you let me buy the lunch,’ she said.

His mouth broke into an endearing, boyish smile.

‘I didn’t expect that – the lunch, I mean.’

‘I don’t make a habit of paying for men,’ Dorothy said with a wry smile.

A bit of Charity seemed to have rubbed off in the last couple of days, Dorothy thought. She might even change the habits of a lifetime if she stayed a little longer.

Chapter Thirty-Two

‘I thought I told you never to contact me here,’ Toby whispered hoarsely down the phone, kicking the drawing-room door shut in case Pat or Margaret were listening. ‘I told you I’d be in touch.’

‘I can’t wait for that,’ the voice replied. ‘Catch the eleven o’clock train this morning. I’ll meet you at Paddington.’

‘I’m rejoining my regiment today.’ Toby felt a little faint. He wanted to ask what it was about but didn’t dare – not over the phone.

‘I know that. But you have to get to Paddington. Be on that train!’

The line went dead, leaving Toby staring at the receiver. It was just after eight and he’d planned to spend the morning showing Tom, Margaret’s husband, around the place; they were to move in while Toby was away. Now he wouldn’t have time.

‘Shit,’ he exclaimed, putting the phone down. ‘No wonder they call him Weasel.’

‘Breakfast’s ready,’ Margaret called out from the hall.

‘Coming.’

‘I thought you were hungry?’ Margaret looked down at Toby’s plate of bacon and eggs disapprovingly.

‘I was, earlier,’ Toby gave her the plaintive look that invariably brought out the mother in all women. ‘I think it’s due to remembering what army food’s like.’

He liked Margaret, really liked her. She wasn’t false like most women. Plump and wholesome with soft grey hair and laughing eyes, she was never cross about anything. She loved to cook and feed people, but best of all she offered him the kind of uncritical affection that made him feel snug.

‘I’ve made a nice fruit cake for you to take back with you,’ she said. ‘I’m going to miss you, sir. It will be very quiet with just me and Tom here.’

Toby knew Margaret wanted to ask why he’d fallen out with Prudence. But even though he now had his meals in the kitchen and discussed many things with her, she was always aware of her place.

‘You’ve been a brick, Margaret.’ Toby grinned up at her as she took his plate away. ‘Now are you sure you two will be all right? I’ll have to leave earlier than I intended.’

Margaret had refused extra money to live in because she said there’d be less work, but Toby knew she’d press Tom into service, helping the gardener, chopping up logs and doing dozens of other jobs.

‘Don’t you worry about a thing,’ she said as she cleared the table. ‘We can take care of everything.’

Toby left her washing up.

‘I wish you could take care of Weasel,’ he murmured as he went upstairs to change.

Margaret stood at the sink washing the breakfast dishes, thinking about Toby. Gossip was still rife in the village about the colonel’s death and there were many who asked how she could bear to stay in a house where a murder had taken place.

But Margaret prided herself on being a realist. The dead couldn’t come back and someone had to look after the house and the family’s interests.

She liked all the children, but Toby was her pet. Her heart went out to him more than the others because in her opinion, he was the one who had suffered most through being orphaned. Toby had missed out on family life: shoved into public school, holidays here with old folk, and always his uncle manipulating him to become what he wanted.

Yet Toby had risen above it in the last year or so. He had become a real gentleman, kind, considerate and so very charming. First the trauma of his uncle’s death and now the burden of the estate thrust on to him. He looked so troubled and anxious, the poor lamb.

She could see him now, blond hair shining in the sun as he strode across the kitchen garden to speak to Tom. He had changed into grey slacks and a blazer, ready to leave, and he looked so handsome it was no wonder girls fell over themselves to speak to him. He didn’t really like the army, even though he always pretended to his uncle he did. What a burden for a young lad to carry!

It would have been a pleasant journey up to London if it hadn’t been for meeting Weasel. A girl who introduced herself as Hazel sat opposite him in a short skirt and every time she crossed and uncrossed her legs he had a flash of pink knickers. He might have chatted her up if he hadn’t been so preoccupied, but he could only make the weakest attempt at flirtation.

As he got to the barrier Weasel sidled up beside him out of nowhere.

His nickname couldn’t be more appropriate. He was skinny, small with bright little dark eyes that were constantly on the move, and vicious. Personal hygiene wasn’t his strong point either. He had a couple of days’ growth of beard, his teeth were stained from chain-smoking and Toby could smell sweat. His clothes appeared to have been picked up in a jumble sale. A navy blue suit jacket which was too big and stained on the lapels, with brown trousers which hung over his dirty, rundown shoes. Next to Toby with his height, military bearing and tailored blazer, he looked like a tramp.

Toby had never learned his real name. All he knew of the man was his reputation for doing anything for a price, and until now he’d thought he could control him.

‘What’s this all about?’ Toby said irritably. ‘I’ve paid you the first half and you agreed to wait for the second.’

‘That’s the word of an officer and a gentleman, is it?’ Weasel’s voice was high, almost like a girl’s, and the sarcasm was obvious.

‘Of course,’ Toby sniffed. ‘What reason could you have to doubt me?’

‘Plenty.’ Weasel caught at the handle of Toby’s suitcase. ‘Come over here and we’ll discuss it.’

Toby looked all around. He had been paranoid about being followed most of the time since he flew back from Germany to Studley, although he hadn’t once seen anyone suspicious. Police had been countless times to Studley, picking over this and that. But they’d called less often in the last couple of weeks and he was sure they’d run out of steam.

‘There’s no one interested in us,’ Weasel snapped and led him over to the side of the station where the mail trucks were loaded and unloaded. It was quieter away from the milling passengers. A few pigeons gathered round an abandoned sandwich and a couple of old ladies were sitting on the only seat.

Weasel sat down on the edge of a luggage trolley and motioned for Toby to join him, pulling a tobacco tin out of his pocket.

Toby brushed off the wooden slats and sat down gingerly, lifting the knees of his grey slacks.

‘Come on then, out with it, you’ve clearly got a grievance.’

‘I want the rest of my money, now,’ Weasel said in a subdued voice, rolling a cigarette expertly.

‘You know I don’t have it yet,’ Toby said haughtily. ‘What are you going to do about it? Go to the police?’

He felt smug; the little shit couldn’t do a thing to him, he didn’t know why he’d worried in the first place.

Weasel hadn’t had much of an education, he could only just about read, but he was respected as being fearless and shrewd. Burglary had been his game until recently. He could strip a bedroom while the occupants slept on.

‘Disposing’ of people had started only two years ago, when he was asked to stage an accident for a man whose wife had grown tired of him. She was well away at her sister’s, and the wiring in their thatched cottage was ancient. All it took was smearing an already overloaded electrical point with some white spirit after the man had staggered home from the pub witlessly drunk and plugged in a kettle with no safety cutout. He then let himself out the front door. The next morning he read in the papers that the cottage had burnt to the ground due to an electrical fault. She got the insurance, a widow’s pension and her freedom – and Weasel got three thousand pounds for a two-minute job.

But the colonel was different. It was all very well Toby telling him he was sick in the head as well as being a cripple. But actually creeping up to the man while he was snoring, strapping him down, then holding a pillow over his face, that was just a bit too personal. He’d taken so long to die too. Bucking and heaving like a rhinoceros on heat.

Weasel wanted out. To put as many miles as possible between himself and Toby Stratton.

‘Don’t come it with me,’ Weasel snapped back. ‘For one thing you can’t do nothing to me without landing yourself in the shit. For another just remember I’m the bloke who makes “accidents” happen.’

‘There’s no need to talk like that.’ Toby used an aggrieved tone, but Weasel’s veiled threat frightened him.

‘I ’appen to know you’ve got a deal coming up.’ Weasel’s eyes narrowed. ‘You can pay me out of that.’

Toby’s gut contracted with fear. He couldn’t imagine how Weasel had found out about his sideline. Sweat was popping out all over him; he touched his upper lip and found it was wet.

‘Put the money in the account, soon’s the job’s done,’ Weasel said and got up from the trolley, his bright eyes cold and knowing. ‘Or else.’

Toby had to agree.

‘You promise you won’t contact me again?’

‘I’ve got no interest in you once I get the bread.’ Weasel looked Toby up and down with a sneer. ‘For all yer fancy school, yer looks and family estate, you’re a maggot, Stratton. Lowest of the low.’

He had disappeared into a crowd of people before Toby could think of a reply.

George Bayliss had never been one to stay in bed after seven in the morning. He normally jumped out, went down to his indoor pool and swam thirty lengths, showered and shaved, ate his breakfast and was out of his house in Essex by eight-thirty at the latest. But today George had no desire to get up. He was thinking about Dorothy.

She had everything he ever wanted in a woman: looks, brains, sensuality, and above all she was honest.

He doubted most men would agree with that but they were just fooling themselves. Dorothy laid her cards on the table at the outset, and if they couldn’t read them, they were fools. So she wanted rich men! Well that was honest. What woman actually planned to get a poor one? She traded her body, her company for a few comforts, but he would bet she never told anyone she loved them when she didn’t!