M Beaton: There Goes The Bride

‘Did she love him?’

‘Felicity had so much self-love there was not room for anyone else.’

‘Bitch!’ said Agatha. Her eyes filled with tears.

He leaned across the table and took her hand in a warm clasp. ‘You must care very deeply for your ex-husband.’

‘It’s not that,’ said Agatha furiously. ‘Whatever I felt for James is long gone.’

She could not explain that the whole business was making her feel old and frumpy. Also, she reminded herself that James had divorced her. No honour there. No sticking to the marriage vows.

‘Eat your lunch,’ he said gently.

‘I think I’ve had enough,’ said Agatha, pushing her plate away. ‘I should get back to the house.’

‘Have a coffee and brandy. You need it. Je t’en prie.’

Agatha pulled herself together. Good detectives surely didn’t emote all over the place. Patrick and Phil, for example, went doggedly on with their work. Bill Wong, even in the throes of a broken romance, never let emotion cloud his judgement. It was all to do with increasing age, she thought miserably. That awful feeling of losing powers of attraction, of growing wrinkles, nasty little face hairs, and a stomach that kept insisting on dropping slowly south were all very demoralizing. She must stop regarding Sylvan as a Frenchman she had thought attractive and stick rigorously to her job.

Toni meanwhile had secured the names and addresses of Felicity’s ex-fiancés. The first one was Bertram Powell and he worked as a solicitor in Hewes.

His secretary, a plump young woman with lacquered hair and a power suit, asked if she had an appointment and when Toni said she hadn’t one, the secretary gave a thin smile and said Mr Powell was busy all that day.

Toni glanced at her watch. Lunchtime. No sound from the inner office. She thanked the secretary and left.

She began to check the restaurants near the solicitor’s office, asking in each one for Mr Powell. She struck lucky at a steak house in one of Hewes’s cobbled lanes that led down to the river Frim. The maître d’, assuming that Toni was joining Bertram Powell for lunch, escorted her to his table.

‘Hello,’ said Toni, holding out her hand.

He rose from his seat, looking puzzled. He shook her hand. The maître d’ held out a chair for Toni and she sank down into it.

‘Who the hell are you?’ demanded Bertram. He was much older than Toni had expected him to be. She thought he might be approaching fifty. His face was broad and pugnacious and his nose looked as if it had been broken at one time. His hair was black and sleek, as black as his small eyes.

‘I am a private detective investigating the murder of Felicity Bross-Tilkington.’

Bertram looked suddenly amused. ‘Go on with you. You’re a child.’

Toni handed over her card. ‘Don’t be put off by appearances. I am very good at my job.’

A waiter hovered with a menu. ‘Have you something uncomplicated, like steak and chips?’ asked Toni.

‘Of course.’

Toni ordered a well-done steak and chips and a bottle of mineral water. ‘I do not expect you to pay for my lunch, Mr Powell.’

‘I should hope not. I can’t tell you anything about Felicity. We were engaged some time ago.’

‘Why did you break off the engagement? You were the one to end it, weren’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘I’d rather not say.’

The waiter brought Toni’s steak. The speed with which it arrived was a bad sign, she thought. It had probably been sitting up on a hot plate in the kitchen for ages. The waiter was an extremely good-looking young man with slim hips. Bertram eyed him appreciatively as he walked away.

Toni’s eyes sharpened and she studied Bertram’s clothes. He was wearing a dark suit, striped shirt and silk tie, all suited to his job. The suit was exquisitely tailored.

‘Why are you staring at me like that?’ demanded Bertram.

‘I was wondering whether you were gay,’ said Toni.

‘You cheeky little… Oh, for heaven’s sake, yes, if it does you any good.’

‘And that was why you broke off the engagement?’

‘Yes, her father found out. I didn’t know he’d put a private detective on to me.’

‘So why did you break off the engagement and not her?’

‘She wanted to go through with it. She told her father that’s what she wanted. I had only just discovered I was gay.’

‘But what about sex?’

‘Felicity thought about little else. She pointed out that we had never had any trouble in that department and that the invitations to the wedding had all been sent out. But I insisted everything was off. George Bross-Tilkington was furious. The Bross-Tilkingtons, when you get to know them, are as common as muck. George’s father, old Harry Bross, was a scrap merchant down the East End of London. Tilkington was his wife’s maiden name. He relished the idea of being the sort of squire of Downboys with his daughter marrying a solicitor. He said a good psychiatrist would soon sort me out. I refused.

‘So he spread it around the town that I was homosexual. I thought that was me finished, but it backfired on him because I began to get all the gay law cases in town. And we’re near enough to Brighton, England ’s San Francisco. Don’t mess with the Brosses, young lady. They’re a scary bunch.’

‘Anything criminal?’

‘Not that I know of. George seems to have made a legitimate pile of money out of the real estate business in Spain.’

‘Have you heard any rumours about why they have so much security at their home?’

‘No. It’s not unusual. Lots of crime around, and people with money get scared of burglars.’

‘When were you engaged to Felicity?’

‘Eight years ago.’

And there was someone after you who called it off. Ernest Wheatsheaf Do you know where I can find him?’

At the Southern Bank in the High Street. He’s the bank manager.’ Bertram called for the bill. He asked for a separate receipt, paid his bill, and hurried off. Toni finished as much of her steak as she could, remembered to switch off the powerful tape recorder in her open handbag under the table, paid her bill and went out in search of the Southern Bank.

Sylvan watched Agatha from under his heavy-lidded eyes as she excused herself and went to the toilet to freshen up. She had a nice high bottom and very long legs, he thought appreciatively, and she exuded an air of very strong sensuality of which she seemed totally unaware. Perhaps a little fling might brighten up his visit. George had begged him to stay on.

At the bank, Toni demanded to see the manager, and was told that he was too busy and someone else would need to deal with her.

‘That’s a pity,’ said Toni. ‘I’ve just won the lottery and -’

‘Oh, wait here,’ said the woman at the desk by the door. ‘I think he’ll want to see you.’

In three minutes’ time, Toni was ushered into Ernest Wheatsheaf’s imposing office. He was a tall thin man with greying hair. Like Bertram, Toni guessed he must be pushing fifty. Why had Felicity never gone for men her own age?

Ernest seized Toni’s hand in a warm clasp. ‘It will be a pleasure to handle your affairs, Miss…?’

‘Gilmour.’ Toni handed over her card. He studied it, his eyebrows almost disappearing into his hairline. ‘I am actually a private detective hired by Mrs Bross-Tilkington to find out who murdered her daughter.’

‘Then leave my office immediately! You got in here under false pretences.’

‘Look, Mr Wheatsheaf,’ said Toni, ‘you may as well practise on me because I am sure you will soon be interviewed by the police.’

He had half-risen to his feet. He sank back into his chair.

‘Why?’

‘You were engaged to Felicity. They’ll want to make sure it was you who called off the wedding.’