Next of Kin (25 page)

‘You've recently taken on a young man, haven't you? One Gareth Bentley.'

Montignac shifted in his chair and hesitated before answering. ‘Yes,' he said.

‘Any particular reason why?'

‘I have an eye for talent,' he replied with a smile. ‘I feel that Mr Bentley might be of some use to me.'

‘You know who his father is, of course.'

‘Yes.'

Keaton nodded and breathed heavily through his nose. ‘He may well prove to be one of your more perceptive finds,' he added after a moment. ‘And you enjoy your life at the gallery?'

‘There are worse jobs to do.'

‘I daresay there are. You're well paid for your services?'

‘Not particularly,' he admitted, unsure whether he should be answering such personal questions but presuming that there must be a point to them and that whatever game was being played out, he would be sensible to simply participate in it.

‘But then you were never really in it for the money, were you?' suggested Keaton.

‘Everyone works for the money,' said Montignac, confused.

‘Some people do,' he replied with a shrug. ‘I'm not sure that men like you and I do. And then of course there are those who are expecting to come into a large inheritance and who work in order to occupy their time while they're waiting for their loved one to pass away.'

‘That's true.'

‘But should that inheritance be cruelly and unexpectedly snatched from their grasp, then the idea of getting up to work long hours for someone else and for a small amount of recompense every day for the rest of their lives might begin to appear less attractive.'

Montignac stiffened in the chair. He liked to be in control of situations and felt that he almost always was. However, it was obvious that Keaton knew a lot more about him than he was comfortable with.

‘Who are you exactly, Mr Keaton?' he asked. ‘How do you know so much about me?'

‘I am merely a connoisseur of the arts,' he said with a smile. ‘And I find myself in a position where from time to time I can provide services for other like-minded connoisseurs.'

‘And what service are you currently providing?'

Keaton smiled and said nothing, but looked down at a series of pages on his desk. After a moment he looked back across the table at Montignac with a look of concern on his face. ‘You're quite the gambler, aren't you, Mr Montignac?' he asked. ‘Not very successful at it, of course.'

‘I've had some luck,' he said, a little offended.

‘I'm not sure that Nicholas Delfy would agree with you on that.'

‘You know him?' asked Montignac, his jaw rigid.

‘Not very well. I'm familiar with his work, of course. And I believe that he wants to see you in two weeks' time. A little matter of ten thousand pounds that you owe him. For starters.'

Montignac said nothing. He set his jaw and stared at Keaton, wishing he would get to the point.

‘Which is a lot of money,' conceded Keaton. ‘And if the things I've heard about Mr Delfy are true, then he won't take very kindly to being disappointed. He's not a very forgiving character, by all accounts. Very unsporting. On a separate note,' he said then with a flourish, ‘I believe that some of the pieces from the Cézanne collection will be passing through Cork Street in advance of their national tour?'

Montignac thought about it. ‘Yes,' he said. ‘That's true but they won't be on display at my gallery if that's what you're hoping for. We don't do any restoration work there.'

‘No. They're going to the one next door to yours, aren't they? The Clarion, I believe.'

‘I believe so.'

‘There are some lovely pieces in that collection, I imagine,' said Keaton, leaning forwards and smiling. ‘What do you say you find a way to steal them for me?' he asked as if this was the most natural question in the world and a perfectly acceptable thing to throw into a conversation.

2

MARGARET RICHMOND COULD HARDLY
contain her excitement. Twice during the week Stella had phoned to make sure that she would be at Leyville over the weekend as she had something of particular importance to tell her. Of course the phone calls had been pointless for there was no other place that Margaret could have imagined that she would be; she had no home of her own after all and no family to speak of other than the Montignacs. But she hated being left alone there for days at a time, with only her memories and loneliness for company, and was pleased that Stella's London trip was finally coming to an end.

Her excitement turned to apprehension, however, when she rose on Saturday morning to find a scattering of coats and bags in the hallway, some obviously belonging to Stella but the others, she presumed, the property of Raymond Davis. She hadn't expected them until lunchtime and so hadn't planned on making the beds in Stella's room, and another in a guest room, until later that morning but assumed Stella had managed this herself when she'd got home. The thought crossed her mind as to where exactly Raymond might have slept the night before but she dismissed it quickly. It was not something she wanted to dwell on.

She was in a state of some anxiety, therefore, as she waited for them to rise and didn't want to go back upstairs in case her worst fears regarding the sleeping arrangements were confirmed. She moved around the kitchen noisily, hoping that the clanging sounds of pots and pans would wake the dormant couple, and was just preparing a pot of tea when she was surprised to see them walking towards the back door from the garden.

‘Stella,' she said as they came inside. ‘I thought you were still asleep.'

‘Asleep? Oh no. We barely got any sleep,' she said, coming forwards and throwing her arms around her former nanny. ‘How are you, Margaret? Miss me, did you?'

‘Well of course I missed you,' she said, returning the hug. ‘You know I hate it when you're up in London. It's far too lonely down here for me and far too dangerous up there for you. Good morning, Mr Davis,' she added, a little nervously as she turned to Stella's companion, greeting him with uncomfortable formality.

‘Good morning, Margaret,' he said cheerfully. ‘And haven't I told you that you must call me Raymond?'

‘Raymond then,' she said with a smile, although she still felt awkward with the familiarity. ‘Well I hope you're both hungry because I've got the breakfast on.'

‘We're absolutely famished,' said Stella, stepping across to the oven to see the frying pans of bacon, eggs and sausages that were being prepared. ‘Smashing,' she added. ‘I'll set the table.'

They almost never used the formal dining room or even the smaller family room to eat in any more; instead most meals were taken around the small round table in the kitchen, by the latticed bay windows with the views over the garden. It was a most pleasant place to eat and now that the full-time servants had been let go one did not have to worry about the staff interrupting all the time.

‘How were the girls during the week?' asked Stella. ‘No problems with them, I hope?'

‘Not really,' said Margaret as they sat down to breakfast. ‘Obviously they're a little unhappy about only working part-time but I told them that they were more than capable of finding full-time jobs for themselves if they wanted them and all we needed was a cleaner a few times a week and a part-time cook. It's not like the old days, is it?' she added sadly.

‘No,' said Stella, recalling when there had been five members of the family living here along with the staff. In her grandfather's day there had been more than twice that number, what with all the members of the extended family tree who had taken up residence there when they'd fallen on hard times. Now it was just her, the last Montignac, actually living at Leyville.

‘And how was London?' asked Margaret. ‘Did you go to the theatre much?'

‘Once or twice,' said Raymond. ‘But mostly we dined out and caught up with some of Stella's friends.'

‘But you're home for a while now, aren't you?' she asked hopefully. ‘You're not going straight back to the city?'

‘Raymond has to be back for work on Monday morning,' said Stella. ‘But I'm not going anywhere. I intend to spend the rest of the summer lazing around here and keeping as far away from London as possible. It's too hot there and I'm sure there's a stench starting to rise up from the Thames.'

Margaret smiled; she could hardly have been happier. ‘Well that's wonderful news,' she said. ‘And we'll have each other for company.'

‘Yes,' said Stella, who—fond as she was of Margaret, despite everything—wouldn't have minded if there were a few more young people around the village. ‘But we'll be kept busy, of course. Planning, I mean.'

‘Planning?' asked Margaret, looking up. ‘Planning what?'

Stella and Raymond exchanged an excited look and he reached across and took her hand in his, giving it a gentle squeeze. ‘I'm happy to tell you, Margaret, that Stella has agreed to marry me.'

‘Well I knew that,' said Margaret, feeling a little confused. ‘Didn't you decide that at Christmas?'

‘Yes, but now we've set the date,' said Stella. ‘We're actually going to go through with it.'

‘Well don't make it sound like such a trial, darling,' said Raymond with a laugh before turning back to Margaret. ‘We're thinking of the first Saturday in October. How does that sound?'

Margaret opened her mouth but found herself lost for words. She jumped up from her seat and went around to Stella, who burst out laughing as the ritual of kisses and embraces began.

‘That's the most wonderful news I've heard in a long time,' said Margaret, who even went so far as to kiss Raymond before returning to her seat. ‘Oh, and there was me thinking that you were the types to have one of those long-drawn-out engagements. The kind that last for years and years and the bloom has gone off the rose before you've even made it down the aisle.'

‘Well we were thinking of that originally,' admitted Stella.

‘But I persuaded her otherwise,' said Raymond quickly. ‘We decided there was no point wasting any more time. Besides, I can't take the risk that Stella might come to her senses. So October it is, which only gives you two months to put the whole show together.'

‘And that's how you and I will be spending our time from now on, Margaret,' said Stella. ‘If you think you can handle it, that is.'

‘Handle it? I'll be delighted!' she said. Her head was already filled with the promise of what was to come. A family living at Leyville again. Soon enough there would be children, plenty of children she hoped, and she would still be young enough to take care of them. They'd have to bring the servants back then and life would be as it once was; her own future would be secure.

‘You don't think it's too soon, do you?' asked Stella after a moment, the smile fading from her face a little.

‘Too soon?' said Margaret. ‘No, I don't think so. You two have known each other for a couple of years now after all.'

‘No, I mean too soon after Father's death,' said Stella, correcting herself. ‘I mean it's only been a few months since … since he passed away. You don't think people will think it's a little insensitive to have a wedding in the same year?'

Margaret thought about it; there was no doubt there were some who would think that—had she been observing the family from a distance she would have muttered about it herself—but she couldn't afford for Stella to be discouraged from going through with this in case, as Raymond had suggested, she changed her mind.

‘No,' she said. ‘Not at all. By October it will have been four months since … since that happened.' She found herself unable to get the words out. ‘It's a perfectly decent amount of time to wait.'

‘Well I thought that,' said Stella. ‘And after all, Father would want me to be happy, wouldn't he?'

‘Of course he would,' said Margaret, reaching across and squeezing her hand in happiness. ‘And if he was here he'd tell you that himself.'

‘Then it's settled,' said Raymond. ‘The first Saturday in October. We'll do it here at Leyville and invite the whole world.'

‘Oh not the whole world, Raymond,' protested Stella, laughing. ‘Let's keep it relatively small. Sixty or seventy guests at most. Family and friends.'

‘Whatever you want,' said Raymond, eager to please, delighted and amazed that she had actually accepted his proposal to set the date.

‘Did you tell Owen?' asked Margaret cautiously after a few more minutes had passed. ‘When you were in London, I mean. Have you already let him know?'

‘Not yet,' said Stella. ‘We went for dinner one evening a few weeks ago and then I met him at the gallery the next day but he's been almost impossible to track down ever since. I don't know what he's up to. And Raymond and I only agreed on the date earlier in the week and I wanted to come here for the weekend to see you. I'll write to Owen on Monday.'

‘You'll
write
to him?' asked Margaret.

‘Yes. That's all right, isn't it?'

The two women locked eyes for a moment and it seemed to both that they were having a silent dialogue in those few seconds. Eventually, Margaret broke away and looked across at Raymond.

‘You do whatever you think is best,' said Margaret. ‘I'm sure Owen will be as delighted for you both as I am.'

‘I doubt that very much,' said Raymond.

‘Oh, Raymond, don't say that,' said Stella. ‘Please. You have to make an effort with him.'

‘I don't think Owen likes me very much,' explained Raymond to Margaret. ‘Perhaps he thinks I'm not good enough for his sister.'

‘I'm not his sister,' insisted Stella.

‘No, but you know what I mean. You're as good as.'