Aftershocks

10

Aftershocks

    Cray, Lexie and Pete arrived shortly after seven-thirty the next morning, by which time Peter had already been in touch with the unfortunate Mr Walton and could de-activate the alarms on his suspect art works for them. The Bevan in Cassie’s room was declared “an outright copy, the cheeky bugger” by Pete, and the one in my room rated a snort and: “Who did he think he was kidding?” Nobody voiced the obvious answer. Meanwhile Lexie had the backing off the large work in Marie-Louise’s room and reported: “Well, he’s aged the canvas nicely, but a bucket of tea and bit of dirt’ll only go so far. Crooked as Dick’s hatband.”

    “How many of those were sold up in Byron?” asked Cray, the face unmoved.

    I sighed. “Several. Artist unknown, no provenance, claimed to be inherited from, I think, a distant cousin. He’d sold them to the gallery owner outright, so he didn’t rake in the entire amount but, I presume, enough.”

    No reaction.

    Lexie had brought along Marie-Louise’s purchase of the previous day—did bloody Cray make her sign for it? I wondered. She and Pete in concert then got going on it, looking at it for some time, both from a distance and close up.

    “All prejudice aside, what sort of feeling does it give you?” Pete asked me.

    “Er… It’s hard to put all prejudice aside, Pete, knowing what I do. Possibly a little too careful for a Munnings study of his later period, though his style was more finished, less free, by then… Um, well, don’t quote me, but while the brushwork seems less free, the style’s always seemed to me more finished but coming easily to him. The ponies at Trethewin are in his earlier style but a bit too careful to be genuine, too.”

    “Mm. Same impression as I got way back when. I’d only just finished my degree: written a paper on Munnings, which was why the cops ended up coming to me. The experts at the big galleries all contradicted one another,” he said with an easy grin. “Art forensics were pretty much in their infancy back then, but we did some tests and he’d used a couple of paints that wouldn’t have been available to Munnings, so that clinched it. I’d say this is a fake, but you better take a couple of samples, Lexie.”

    “Righto.”

    They’d done that and had gratefully accepted cups of real coffee from Lalla when Cray’s phone rang.

    “Cray. –WHAT?” he shouted.

    We all swung round and goggled at him.

    “What moron didn’t connect—” He took a deep breath. “All right, Brangwyn. Well, yeah, I’ll get on over there and grill the other bugger, for what good that’ll do.” He rang off.

    “Scarpered?” suggested Pete, raising a cynical eyebrow.

    “Plus and torched the fucking place—yeah.”

    Cassie, Lalla and Marie-Louise all gasped, and Lexie cried: “Jesus!”

    “I think,” said Peter tightly, “we should have seen it coming.”

    “Yes,” I agreed grimly. “I’m sorry, Inspector Cray. I should have stressed the point that bloody Andrews is an arsonist.”

    “Alex, my dear, it is not your blame!” cried Marie-Louise vividly. “The man takes no notice of one’s opinions, this is very clear yesterday!”

    “Don’t, Maman,” said Peter with a sigh. “I really don’t think that Andrews is a compulsive arsonist, merely an opportunistic one. Presumably it was easier to burn the evidence rather than cart it away.”

    “If he’s burnt it all,” noted Pete drily.

    “Ah!” spotted Marie-Louise. “That is a very good point, Pete! You have the analytical mind!” She beamed upon him.

    “Uh—thanks,” he said feebly.

    “You mean he might have carted it all away to start up again somewhere else?” said Lalla. “Oh, dear. –Don’t go, Inspector Cray. It’s not your fault, we’re not really cross with you, we’re just shocked. Why not finish your coffee and have some toast? Or I could do you some bacon and eggs, if you’re hungry,” she smiled.

    Well, three cheers for lovely Lalla Sale! The man was absolutely flabbergasted! He stared disbelievingly at her, then turned very red, and said: “Um, no thanks, Mrs, um, Lady Sale. I’ve had breakfast. I’ll have to get over to South Yarra. Brangwyn’s put out an alert but I’m afraid there’s not much hope of catching Andrews, he’s had too much of a head start, and with all the visitors coming and going for Cup Week…” His voice tailed off.

    “Of course; we understand,” she said kindly.

    “You might get something out of the Petrovich fellow from the other gallery,” said Peter.

    The wiry Pete Goodwin’s clever blue eyes sparkled. “Unless he’s scarpered, too! Cripes, it’s all go, isn’t it? –You still want our reports on this lot, Jack?”

    “What?” said Cray distractedly. “Yes. Uh—look, sorry, Mr Cartwright. I’ll be in touch.” And with that he hurried out.

    Silence fell.

    It was the middle-aged Pete who broke it, not entirely to my surprise. “Have a medal, Lady Sale. I’ve known Jack Cray for years, never seen him so took-aback!” He laughed.

    “Just ‘Lalla’, Pete, we think the title’s silly; Peter only accepted it to please the people at work. I didn’t mean to disconcert the poor man.”

    “No!” said Cassie with a sudden loud giggle. “That made it better!”

    “Yes, it did,” I grinned. “Well, if that offer of bacon and eggs is still open, Lalla, I could do with some.”

    And, Marie-Louise having agreed that food would be a good idea and she would make some more café au lait, we all sat down to it. There didn’t, really, seem to be anything else to do.

    We stood in silence in Acacia Lane and looked at the wreck of Art on Acacia.

    Nobody would have recognised us as the affluent group of yesterday. Lalla’s was the most complete metamorphosis: the Paris fashions had vanished, replaced by an elderly pair of soft black tracksuit trousers—in which, to the male eye, she certainly didn’t look bad, however—plus the red tee-shirt of the evening of our arrival and a tired-looking little fluffy pale grey cardigan which, Marie-Louise had remarked with a sigh, she’d found at an op shop. Lalla had merely smiled her sweet smile at her and said: “I love it, it’s so soft and cosy.” The long, wavy brown hair was no longer up in a fashionable do but loose around her shoulders. Marie-Louise herself had deserted what I was pretty sure had been offerings from the House of Givenchy both yesterday and at the Cup for unremarkable neat black slacks and a pale blue twinset. Peter had mentioned when he issued his invitation that he knew a trainer who lived not far away and there could be the chance of a ride at the end of the week, so he and I were both in the jeans we’d provided ourselves with. His were worn with an honourably aged tweed jacket, his silvered fair hair being shielded by a tired greyish tweed cap which Lalla had greeted with a cry of: “Peter! I thought you’d thrown that horrid old thing out!” I was unremarkable in a brown pullover. Cassie, of course, looked as lovely as ever, in the jeans she’d worn on the plane and her pale yellow tee, definitely my favourite. Sadly, though, she was hiding it with Mrs Crozier’s tan leather jacket. The lovely hair was in her usual big fat plait.

    The gallery was completely gutted, the roof gone, nothing left of the interior but very wet ashes and a couple of blackened beams. Next-door on the far side a little millinery shop had suffered badly: the brick party wall was three-quarters destroyed, the shop itself half burnt. The owner, a youngish woman, was looking stunned, unable to say anything but: “Thank goodness it didn’t happen the week before the Cup.” On the near side a small interior design establishment was well singed all down the party wall, but otherwise still standing. That owner, also a woman, but middle-aged, was being interviewed by a uniformed cop and repeating in despair: “I don’t know anything! Everything’s full of smoke, I’ll never get it out, it’s all ruined!”

    One fire engine with a snaking hose and two very bored-looking firemen were apparently there to see that no spark started up again. There was no sign of the Press, thank God.

    As we stood and stared stupidly Cray appeared from somewhere at the back of the little block. He came over to us, frowning. “There’s no point in you being here, the lot’s gone.”

    I didn’t trust myself to speak, frankly, but Peter replied with his usual calm: “What was it, do you think? Petrol?”

    “Yeah. Why?”

    “It—it was petrol at Trethewin,” said Cassie in a trembling voice.

    “Easy to get hold of,” he said dismissively. “Well, since you’re here, I’ll need those depositions, so I’ll see you back at HQ in twenty minutes.”

    He strode off, looking busy.

    “So,” I said, “do we hurry off to collect Dylan and rush back to HQ? Or do we patronise that nice little coffee bar that we passed on the way and tell him the traffic was impossible?”

    “Personally I wouldn’t tell him anything!” cried Cassie, rather flushed.

    “Moi non plus,” Marie-Louise agreed. “Yes, my dears, let’s try the coffee bar: it also serves herb teas, I notice!”

    That was it, then. We repaired to the coffee bar, where Marie-Louise had chamomile, Lalla and Cassie both chose peppermint, Peter drank English Breakfast, and I had what purported to be Earl Grey and which certainly reeked of bergamot, but was definitely not Twining’s. Oh, well, I was at the other side of the world, after all.

    The rest of the morning—up until well into the afternoon, in fact—was unspeakably putrid.

    We tottered outside at last and looked around us, blinking.

    “Well—uh—look for some lunch?” said Peter feebly.

    Lalla hugged his arm. “Let’s just go home. I’ve had it. Why did they go on and on about the Petrovich man? I mean, he hasn’t run away, has he?”

    “God knows,” he sighed. “What do people feel? Home, James?”

    Home, James, it was. Or rather, Home, Dylan. I think everyone was relieved when Peter dismissed the boy kindly at the curb, with a very large tip. Nice young fellow, but speaking for myself, one more question from whatever source would have finished me off. And, Norm having opened the door, we staggered into the Art Deco lift and were borne aloft to the comfort of the big pale grey sofas of the Waltons’ sitting-room.

    Where, thank God, Peter dispensed brandies all round.

    Once again I thanked Mother Nature for her bounty in the shape of grapes, grape mould, fermentation and distillation. Er—perhaps not entirely for fire, though, this time round.

    After quite some time Peter ventured: “It sounds as if Petrovich is going to wriggle out of the lot.”

    “Mm,” I agreed.

    “But he is in it up to ’is neck!” cried Marie-Louise indignantly. “Obviously he gets together with Andrews and describes Alex and Cassie!”

    Peter leaned back on his sofa and closed his eyes. “No proof,” he murmured.

    “No,” I agreed.

    “But heck!” cried Cassie.

    “Surely!” cried Lalla.

    “No,” he sighed.

    “Peter, there must be something we can do!” cried Lalla.

    I took a deep breath. “There isn’t, Lalla. I’ve involved you far too much as it is, I’m afraid. I can only apologise to all three of you. I should never have let you visit the bloody gallery.”

    “Don’t be silly, Alex, of course we had to help you!” she protested.

    “Yes, certainly,” Marie-Louise agreed. “You could not give yourself away by walking into the gallery, Alex, you would not have been safe.”

    “I should have gone straight to the police,” I sighed.

    “Huh! Them!” cried Cassie scornfully.

    “Yes, well.”

    Silence fell.

    Finally Peter roused himself and suggested: “Another brandy?”

    Marie-Louise came to. “Non, non, mon fils, you turn us all into alcoholics! What is the ti— Mon Dieu!”

    We all looked at our watches. It was half past five.

    “I make soupe à l’oignon,” she declared firmly. “But first, a tisane. –Non, non: sit!”

    We all sat.

    “Um, what is it?” ventured Cassie into the silence.

    “She brought chamomile and, um, that other French one,” said Lalla limply.

    “Tilleul,” said Peter, once again with his eyes shut. “Pray that it’s that.”

    “Yes, I hate chamomile,” she agreed.

    “So—so does what she said, tizz-something, does that mean herb tea in French?” fumbled Cassie.

    “Not word for word, but yes. Anything they pour hot water on and drink, really, apart from actual tea,” I explained.

    “And apart from un grog,” Peter noted.

    “Shut up, I notice you dashing over to the brandy behind her back!” I retorted.

    “Pas si bête,” he murmured.

    “That’s French for ‘not that dumb’, Cassie,” Lalla explained kindly.

    “I see! Gosh, she’s wonderful, isn’t she?” she said in awe. “Like a—a little dynamo, really!”

    Peter opened his eyes and grinned at her. “Precisely! We adore her, but we’ve long since admitted that the only way to cope is to give in.”

    Cassie nodded fervently. “You would!”

    My shoulders shook, but I didn’t say anything. Peter Sale wasn’t known in the City for giving in when he’d made up his mind to do the opposite thing. His bright, busy little mother had been spot-on yesterday when she’d informed Cray he wasn’t soft. He gave a damn’ good imitation of it, though.

    … Tilleul. Lime flowers. Er, no, possibly in the Antipodes one had better say linden, instead, but luckily nobody even tried to translate and Cassie didn’t ask. The onion soup was superb. Naturally.

    The bloody fire was on the local television news but we turned it off and listened to some Mozart instead. Nobody mentioned it was Thursday and we’d missed the Oaks. We just tottered off to bed.

    Peter’s trainer friend, Mark Bostwick, wasn’t racing on the Friday, so he rang him, having decided by nine-thirty that enough was enough, after a succession of police phone calls from three states. The word was, come out by all means, the strings would have been exercised by the time we got there, but there were a couple of hacks we’d be welcome to ride. So we called up Dylan, who was thrilled at the chance of a decent drive out of the city, and went.

    Mark was a bluff, cheery Aussie, his wife, Dolly, was a happy-faced plump woman who made us all very welcome, and a great time was had by all. The hacks turned out to be three retired eventers plus a placid, fat brown mare that Dolly usually rode, and Mark’s own big bay. He’d of course been on horseback most of the morning, but after Dolly’s lovely lunch of quiche—choice of cheese and onion or cheese and ham—with tomato and lettuce salad, followed by blueberries and yoghurt because she was watching Mark’s weight, and excellent coffee, and a certain period of digesting and chatting, we saddled up. Cassie, Peter and I took the eventers, and Mark his own rangy bay. Neither Lalla nor Marie-Louise rode: they stayed behind with Dolly, but Dylan, revealing cheerfully that he’d ridden a bit on an Outback holiday, happily got onto the fat brown mare, uniform trousers an’ all.

    Mark trained flat racers but his heart was with eventing, so after a certain amount of walking, trotting, making sure Dylan wasn’t going to fall off, and gentle cantering, we headed for the jumps.

    “Crikey!” gulped Dylan as Peter, nothing loath to accept Mark’s suggestion that he lead the way, duly flew over the first fence, followed by Cassie. “My one isn’t gonna do that, is it?”

    “She,” Mark corrected with a grin. “Chocolat is a mare, little mate. Don’t worry, she might do it if ya stuck a stick of dynamite under her, but I doubt it. –You coming, Alex?”

    “Race you,” I suggested.

    “You’re on!” And we streaked for the jumps.

    I won, but only because I wasn’t as heavy as Mark.

    Peter rode over to us, smiling. “Well done, Alex. Meanwhile, back in the City, heart attacks are taking place in two boardrooms…”

    I made a face. “Your lot like that, too, are they?”

    “Worse. And for God’s sake don’t tell Lalla or Maman I jumped, will you?”

    Oops. “Scout’s honour,” I agreed.

    “Ooh, heck! In that case, we’d better warn Dylan!” gasped Cassie.

    How true. I laughed so much I nearly fell off Mark’s good old Postman.

    “It wasn’t that funny,” she said, smiling uncertainly.

    “No. It just came all over me,” I explained feebly.

    “Come on, we’ll ride back to him, shall we?” said Peter, smiling. So we did that. And duly warned him.

    “Nah, ’course not! I’m not barmy, mate!” was the vigorous rejoinder. “Hey, you were great! Hey, you won, eh, Alex? Good on ya!”

    “Thanks, Dylan,” I replied weakly.

    “Old Postman wasn’t mine, ya know, Alex,” said Mark as we rode on slowly.

    “No?” I replied in surprise.

    “Nah. Belonged to a bloke that used to do a lot of eventing. Broke his leg badly and his wife put her foot down. By that time Postman was getting on anyway, and the bloke wasn’t up for his board and lodging. He’d have ended up at the knackers. So I took him—well, plenty of room here. But I usually ride good old Thunder, here,” he said, patting his neck, “so Postman doesn’t get enough exercise, really. The lads are usually busy with the string, of course. My cousin’s boy used to come over regular, but he’s at uni interstate, now. Wouldn’t like to take him off my hands, would you?”

    I was very taken aback.

    He looked at my expression and added: “Um, there is one drawback. He won’t take the whip, so if you usually ride with a crop—”

    “No, not these days.”

    “That’d be oke, then. Some time back in his history we think he must’ve been badly beaten, poor fella—wasn’t the bloke I had him off, would’ve been when he was very young. If you hit him, he stops dead. But there’s nothing else wrong with him---very sweet-tempered.” He looked at me hopefully.

    “Uh—there’s plenty of room at Trethewin, certainly, Mark, but, uh… Well, he’s certainly got plenty of go left in him.”

    “Yeah. Whaddaya reckon?”

    Oh, why not! “Yes, actually, Mark, if you’re sure, I’d love to have him. Name your price.”

    “Don’t be mad, he’s yours if ya want him, you’d be doing me a favour.”

    Which was how I came to acquire one seventeen-hands brown gelding, black mane and tail, no distinctive markings, named Postman.

    The Saturday of the Melbourne Cup Carnival (its official name) and Cup Week (its Australia-wide popular name) being “family day”, we went en famille, in much more casual clothes than our outfits of Tuesday. We all lost ten dollars on the Mackinnon Stakes, Marie-Louise won a little on the Sprint Classic while the rest of us lost another ten each, and we all lost another ten on the Queen Elizabeth Stakes. The two stiff Wainwrights hadn’t turned up, but Arnie Simpson and his pleasant wife had, and a merry time was had by all, rotating between the box, the paddock, and the Tote.

    Funnily enough everyone had forgotten to turn their mobile phones on, and Peter had forgotten to put the answering machine on at the flat, so five minutes after we got back a very angry Inspector Cray was on the line, demanding to speak to me. Where had we been? I rolled my eyes madly.

    “Who is it?” hissed Cassie.

    “Cray.”

    “Ugh!”

    That put it well.

    “We’ve been to the races, Inspector, which is what we’re actually in Melbourne for,” I said acidly. “And may I enquire whether your police investigations have resulted in any news at all of Andrews?”

    Lalla clapped her hand to her mouth and rushed out of the room. I winked at Cassie. She also rushed out of the room.

    “I’m really not interested in your excuses, Inspector,” I said coldly over the noise of feminine hysterics from the Walton passage. “Please don’t bother me or my friends again unless you have some definite news. Good-day.” I hung up.

    “Well done, Alex!” cried Marie-Louise, her eyes shining.

    “Well, yes, old man, but now he’ll do less than ever to find Andrews,” said Peter.

    I eyed him drily.

    “No, you’re right,” he conceded. “Well, a bracer?”

    “One only, Peter,” said Marie-Louise firmly. “I shall just have a shower and shange, and then we think about a nice light dinner, d’ac?” She bustled out.

    The frailer sex tottered over to the sofas clutching triple brandies. True, Peter had merely passed the receiver to me, and also true, I’d more or less cut the man off in full flow— No. Last straw, really. We didn’t even say “Cheers”, let alone anything with more than one syllable. We just drank.

    Eventually Peter offered: “There’s nothing much of value in our house—‘Green Gables’, Lalla’s choice, because it is—barring a bit of jewellery in a very heavy safe, but nevertheless I think I might have a full set of alarms put in. Windows and doors.”

    “Going by the track records of the Australian police of three states,” I said with precision, “I would.”

    “Good. ’Nother belt? I won’t tell Maman if you won’t.”

    “Damn good idea.”

    We did that.

    Cassie and I flew back to Adelaide on the Sunday, with Postman due to follow us later in the week—at my expense, I’d insisted on paying at least for that, and Mark had given in. For some time a question about bloody Andrews had been niggling at me, and on the flight it got the better of me, and I asked her. Well, not outright, no.

    “Cassie, how did so-called Brownloe strike you, when he was at Trethewin?”

    She hesitated. “Well, he was very charming, of course… Everybody liked him, Alex.”

    “Mm, you’ve mentioned that before. Did you like him?”

    She took a deep breath and looked me straight in the eye. “I didn’t fall for him, if that’s what you mean.”

    It was, of course. I felt myself go a dull red, what a fool. “Good,” I muttered.

    “He wasn’t interested in me. I was pretty sure at the time it was because I didn’t have any money. I mean, at first he did seem quite keen, only once he’d really chatted Mum up and pretty much wound her round his little finger—you don’t wanna believe a word she says now, she thought the sun shone out of his ears—well, um, then he was just sort of friendly but noncommittal, y’know? And I’m pretty sure it was because Mum told him all about Jenny that he started sucking up to her.”

    “Jenny?” I fumbled.

    “Jenny Crozier, of course, Ralph’s sister. She’s miles younger than him, she’s only a year older than me. Mr Crozier didn’t believe in leaving money or property to girls, so poor Jenny didn’t get Trethewin; she was the only one apart from him that really loved it, and loved the horses. But he put a lot of money in, um, I think it’s called a trust fund, while he was alive. Is that what you call it?”

    “Yes, a trust fund, that’s right. She’d get the income from it, depending on its terms, but that’s the usual arrangement. And possibly she’d be able to apply to the trustees for a capital outlay for something she really needed, such as purchasing a home or investing in a business.”

    “That sounds about right. Then when he died he left her a lot more like that. I don’t know how much, but Leanne was angry, she said it was far too much, so it must’ve been quite a lot.”

    I nodded feebly, croaking: “Why did Ralph Crozier ever marry the woman?”

    “Mum said she always had the right sort of look and she’s from an old Adelaide family. And she went to a fancy school and everything.”

    “In Australia?” I sighed.

    “Mm. Um, I overheard some of the awful girls at school sniggering about the Croziers, once. Old Mr Crozier’s grandfather was a blacksmith on an Outback station. Him and a mate went prospecting and found a huge deposit of copper. It’s mined out now, but that’s how the Croziers got rich.”

    “I see. I gather it’s mainly property these days.”

    “Mm. Anyway, then one of those horrible girls said to Jenny ‘Have you shoe-ed any horses lately?’ and they all giggled and I punched her out.”

    I gave a startled laugh. “Good for you, Cassie!”

    “No, well, I nearly got the sack, but the headmistress, she was quite decent really, she believed me. She said it was understandable and it was, um, I think the word was laudable, laudable of me to stand up for my friend, but she couldn’t approve of, um, a physical attack and I wouldn’t be allowed to go with the class on the next industrial visit. They were trying to educate us about things people worked at, and we’d already been to a big construction site and a small factory that employed a lot of ladies, and the next one was gonna be the chocolate factory, so it was a real punishment.”

    “I see. It sounds a very good school, Cassie.”

    “Yes, it was. Mr Crozier insisted on paying for me to go as company for Jenny,” she said, going very pink. “We were weekly boarders, we came home for the weekends. But it was expensive, you see, so most of the girls were horrible snobs. Me and Jenny only made friends with Cindy Chong and Lily Black. Lily was a scholarship girl and the horrible ones had a go at her because she didn’t have the right underwear, would you believe?”

    “I would, actually. They sound exactly like my ex, Annabel,” I replied, sounding a lot sourer than I’d intended.

    She gave me a horrified look, and said quickly: “Um, anyway, Tony was making headway with Jenny and they’d been out together quite a few times—I don’t think Ralph knew—only then you bought the property, and he dumped her. I didn’t see the connection back then, of course, but looking back I’m sure it was because it was you, there can’t have been any other reason, can there?”

    “No, I wouldn’t think so. In that case I’d say burning down the stables wasn’t just in order to destroy the paperwork, it was partly spite aimed at me.”

    “I was wondering about that… Only why should he be the one to feel spiteful? I mean,” she said awkwardly, “he sort of won, didn’t he?”

    “He did, indeed. No, simple jealousy because I was rich and he wasn’t, I think, Cassie. That was probably a motive for running off with Annabel, too. When he lived next-door to us he certainly took every opportunity to use everything I owned,” I added wryly. “And I’m pretty sure now that he pinched a valuable gold watch. At the time we assumed it was a sneak-thief who’d got into the house through an open window one afternoon when we were out. It was summer: we’d been asked to a garden party by a couple who couldn’t stand Anson—Andrews.” I shrugged. “Perfect opportunity.”

    “Mm. I hope it wasn’t a favourite watch, Alex, like from your grandfather or something.”

    “No, it was a piece of gents’ jewellery that Annabel decided was appropriate to my status and made me buy. I thought it was too flashy and only wore it when she decreed I should. –She didn’t like the people who’d invited us, so she didn’t care what I wore that day.”

    “I see,” she said, looking at me in sort of horrified awe.

    “Put her down as a Leanne clone, Cassie,” I sighed.

    She nodded hard. “Mm. I’m awfully sorry, Alex.”

    I blinked. “Uh—don’t be! I’m well rid of her, believe you me! Er… it was sex, Cassie: I was young and stupid and she bowled me over. Even Mum and Dad not caring for her didn’t wake me up.”

    “Mum says blokes are like that,” she said seriously.

    I gave a started laugh. “Yes! Wise woman, your mum.”

    “Sort of. She was completely taken in by Tony—horrid Andrews, I mean. I suppose I was, too, for a bit, only after seeing him smarming up to Mum and Miranda—she thought he was wonderful, too, poor thing—I kind of went off him.”

    “I’m glad to hear it.”

    She went very pink and looked away from me, murmuring: “Dad never liked him, actually.”

    “Really?”

    “Yes. He always said he had too much charm. And he reckoned he was the sort that Mr Crozier said would look you straight in the eye and tell a thumping great lie. Mum rubbished him, of course. He tried to remind her of some groom they’d had that Mr Crozier had sacked for laziness, and afterwards it turned out he’d been the one that had been nicking stuff from the others, but she said that was rubbish and he hadn’t been charming at all. I don’t remember him, I was only little, but Dad said he was good-looking, too. Dark hair, though, not fair.”

    Well, good for old Fred Forrest! Not quite the dull pudding that Christina Evans thought him, was he?

    “What did Christina think of Andrews?” I asked idly.

    “She always said he had too much charm for his own good. And, um, something about a smattering—was it? Um, yes, a smattering of—of something weird, trifles or something, not covering up the lack of a solid education and a mind like a flea. Um, she’s like that, though. She likes clever people that know their subject. She likes Mike because he really knows wine.”

    “Mm. I think she might have said ‘unconsidered trifles’, Cassie.”

    “That was it, yeah. How on earth did you guess?”

    “Shakespeare. Quite a well-known quote.”

    “Oh. Which play is it from?”

    “The Winter’s Tale.”

    “We didn’t do that at school. We did Macbeth and stupid Romeo and Juliet. Most of the girls went wild over that. Did you see that awful film?”

    I winced. “Yes. On a plane. So you loathed it, too?”

    “Yes. Well, I can’t stand Leonardo DiCaprio. I’ve never seen Titanic, either. –Mum thinks he’s sweet,” she added heavily.

    “Good grief.”

    She giggled suddenly. “Yeah! But I hated the play, too. What a pair of nits!”

    I looked at pretty, sensible, honest Cassie with her clear grey eyes and her firm chin, and smiled. No, that piece of hugely romantic writing from the Bard wouldn’t appeal. As a matter of fact I’d never liked it, either, so I said as much.

    “Well, that’s two of us,” she concluded on a dry note. “Even Miranda thought the film was wonderful.”

    “Mm, but she fell for Brownloe-Andrews’s charms, didn’t she?” I replied drily.

    “Help, yes, you’re right!” She thought it over. “Heck, maybe it’s a—a…”

    “A touchstone,” I suggested lightly.

    “I was gonna say an indicator, but yeah, that’s a good expression! Maybe we oughta ask everyone who’s come in contact with the horrible creep if they liked the film, and that’d tell us whether to trust their opinion of him!”

    We laughed, and dropped the subject in favour of coffee and sandwiches from the redundant stewardess kindly provided by Michael Stuart, whose company owned the Lear jet. He was both a friend and a business rival, though ABC Freight wasn’t in the same class as the huge Stuart Group, and did no air freight business in Australia. Something like eight years back Michael had married an Australian girl, a lovely little thing with a very sweet personality who was about half his age. They were a devoted couple, with two little kids, and did their best to lead a simple life. And Peter and Lalla, also with a considerable age gap between them, were clearly very happy together… Well, food for thought, wasn’t it?

    Everything had settled down at Trethewin. Postman arrived safely and was happily installed in the horse paddock, making friends with Millicent Rose and Ring-a-Ding, the senior Forrests had now moved themselves and their belongings into their new “home unit” in a pleasant retirement complex, Gavin was back at school fulltime (“Aw, heck!”), Cassie, Fred and I had visited a saddler and ordered some gear for me and some replacement gear for Cassie, and even the winemakers had accepted the new régime and were knuckling down to statistics and balance sheets and predictions. Er, well, Miranda, horrified by Andrews’s attack on me, seemed to have persuaded the two men that I was a poor wounded hero deserving of their sympathy and cooperation—she was phoning me every day to be quite sure that there was nothing I needed and that I was feeling okay—but at this stage I was merely grateful for it. Jim was reported to be mending well and due home next week, and Perry was still in the doghouse with Junie. And Fifi was happily sailing round the Whitsundays, good show.

    Everything in the garden, in fact, was rosy, and bloody Cray’s phone calls had ceased.

    Then the house caught fire.

Next chapter:

https://deadringers-trethewin.blogspot.com/2025/07/conflagration-and-recrimination.html