Jeffrey Archer: False Impression

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” said Jack, as Andrews poured him a cup of black coffee.

“Not you, as well,” said Arabella. “It’s no wonder so many people believe in conspiracy theories and police cover-ups. Now do try a little harder, Jack.”

“When I questioned my colleagues at MI5 this morning,” said Jack, placing his knife and fork back on the table, “they were able to assure me that no terrorists had entered this country during the past twenty-four hours.”

“In other words I got clean away,” said Anna.

“Not exactly,” said Jack, “but I can tell you that a woman of approximately five foot, weighing around a hundred pounds, with a gunshot wound, spent the night in solitary at Belmarsh prison.”

“From which no doubt she will escape,” suggested Arabella.

“I can assure you, Arabella, that no one has ever escaped from Belmarsh.”

“But they’ll still end up having to send her back to Bucharest.”

“Unlikely,” said Jack, “as there’s no record of her ever entering the country in the first place, and no one will be looking for a woman in that particular prison.”

“Well, if that’s the case, I’ll allow you to help yourself to a small portion of mushrooms.”

Jack picked up his knife and fork.

“Which I can highly recommend,” said Mr. Nakamura, as he rose from his place, “but I fear I must now leave you, Arabella, if I am not to be late for my meeting.”

Jack put down his knife and fork for a second time, as everyone left the table to join Mr. Nakamura in the hall.

Andrews was standing by the front door, organizing the packing of the red box into the trunk of a Toyota limousine, when Arabella and her guests walked into the hall.

“I think,” said Mr. Nakamura, turning to face Arabella, “that to describe my short visit to Wentworth Hall as memorable would be a classic example of English understatement.” He smiled, before taking one last look at Gainsborough’s portrait of Catherine, Lady Wentworth. “Correct me if I am wrong, Arabella,” he continued, “but isn’t that the same necklace you were wearing at dinner last night?”

“It is indeed,” replied Arabella with a smile. “Her ladyship was an actress, which would be the equivalent today of being a lap dancer, so heaven knows from which of her many admirers she acquired such a magnificent bauble. But I’m not complaining, because I certainly have her to thank for the necklace.”

“And the earrings,” said Anna.

“Earring, sadly,” said Arabella, touching her right ear.

“Earring,” repeated Jack as he looked up at the painting. “I’m so dumb,” he added. “It’s been staring me in the face all the time.”

“And what exactly has been staring you in the face all the time?” asked Anna.

“Leapman wrote on the back of a photograph of Fenston shaking hands with George W. Bush: This is all the evidence you need.’ ”

“All the evidence you need for what?” asked Arabella.

“To prove that it was Fenston who murdered your sister,” replied Jack.

“I fail to see a connection between Catherine Lady Wentworth and the president of the United States,” said Arabella.

“Exactly the same mistake I made,” said Jack. “The connection is not between Lady Wentworth and Bush, but between Lady Wentworth and Fenston. And the clue has always been staring us in the face.”

Everyone looked up at the Gainsborough portrait.

After a long silence, Anna was the first to speak.

“They’re both wearing the same earring,” she said quietly. “I also missed it completely. I even saw Fenston wearing the earring on the day he fired me, but I just didn’t make the connection.”

“Leapman immediately realized its significance,” said Jack, almost rubbing his hands together. “He’d worked out that it was the vital piece of evidence we needed to secure a conviction.”

Andrews coughed.

“You’re quite right, Andrews,” said Arabella. “We mustn’t keep Mr. Nakamura any longer. The poor man has suffered quite enough family revelations for one day.”

“True,” said Mr. Nakamura. “However, I would like to congratulate Mr. Delaney on a remarkable piece of detection.”

“Slow, but he gets there in the end,” said Anna, taking his hand.

Mr. Nakamura smiled as Arabella accompanied him down to his car, while Jack and Anna waited on the top step.

“Well done, Stalker. I agree with Mr. Nakamura, that wasn’t a bad piece of detective work.”

Jack smiled and turned to face Anna. “But how about your efforts as a rookie agent? Did you ever discover why Tina—”

“I thought you’d never ask,” said Anna, “though I must confess I also missed several clues that should have been obvious, even to an amateur.”

“Like what?” asked Jack.

“A girl who just happens to support the 49ers as well as the Lakers, has a considerable knowledge and love of American art, whose hobby was sailing a boat called Christina that had been named after the owner’s two children.”

“She’s Chris Adams’s daughter?” said Jack.

“And Chris Adams Jr.’s sister,” said Anna.

“Well that explains everything.”

“Almost everything,” said Anna, “because not only did Tina Adams lose her home and the boat after her brother had his throat cut by Krantz, but she also had to drop out of law school.”

“So Fenston finally crossed the wrong person.”

“And it gets better,” said Anna. “Tina changed her name from Adams to Forster, moved to New York, took a secretarial course, applied for a temping job at the bank, and waited for Fenston’s secretary to resign — a fairly regular occurrence — before she stepped into the breach.”

“And held on to her position until she was fired last week,” Jack reminded her, as Nakamura bowed low to Arabella before climbing into the back of his limousine.

“And even better news, Stalker,” continued Anna, as she returned Mr. Nakamura’s wave. “Tina downloaded every document that might implicate Fenston onto her personal computer. She kept everything, from contracts to letters, even personal memos that Fenston thought had been destroyed when the North Tower collapsed. So I have a feeling that it won’t be that long before you can finally close the file on Mr. Bryce Fenston.”

“Thanks to you and Tina,” said Jack. He paused. “But she still lost everything.”

“Not everything,” said Anna, “because you’ll be happy to know that Arabella has given her a million dollars for the part she played in saving the Wentworth estate.”

“A million dollars?” said Jack.

“Not to mention the million pounds she’s presented to me, ‘for the labourer is worthy of his hire’ was how Arabella expressed it in her letter.”

“St. Luke,” said Jack. “ ‘And in the same house remain, eating and drinking such things as they give: for the labourer is worthy of his hire.’ ”

“Impressive,” said Anna.

“And I didn’t even get breakfast.”

“Well, perhaps I’ll take pity on you, Stalker, and let you join me for lunch in first class on the flight home.”

Jack turned to Anna and smiled. “I’d much rather you came to dinner with me on Saturday evening.”

“Your mother’s Irish stew night?” said Anna. “Now that’s better than first class. I’d certainly be up for that.”

“But before you agree, Anna, that there’s something I have to tell you,” said Jack, as Mr. Nakamura’s car disappeared down the drive and out of the gates.

“And what’s that?” asked Anna, turning back to face him.

“My mother is under the illusion that you’ve already been married three times, you have five children, not necessarily by the three husbands, four of them are on hard drugs, and the other one is currently serving a jail sentence.” He paused. “She also thinks that you work in a far older profession than art consultancy.”