A Banquet of Consequences (40 page)

“Never mind,” he told her. “Carry on, Sergeant.”

CAMBERWELL

SOUTH LONDON

India wished lying to Nat hadn’t been necessary. She’d already created an excuse to cancel her last three clients of the day and while telling them that there was a family emergency she had to deal with hadn’t actually constituted a lie, she still didn’t like having to let them down. But to Nat, she couldn’t use the excuse of a family emergency since he would ask with justifiable concern what the emergency was and could he do something to help her. So instead she’d asked him if he’d mind her cancelling their after-work wine date. Her last three clients had all changed their scheduled appointments, she told him, and that being the case, she’d like to go home early and do the pile of laundry that had been growing exponentially for the past two weeks.

“You wouldn’t be desperately unhappy if I just went home?” was how she put it.

He’d said, “Of course I’ll be desperately unhappy, darling. You were going to be the antidote to the day I’ve had.”

He’d been meeting at some length with an architect chosen to design the plans that would preserve an enclave of tiny cottages in Tower Hamlets, which comprised his new project. Facing one another
across front gardens with a single pavement bisecting the minuscule neighbourhood like a straight edge, they were just the sort of accommodation that could go under the wrecking ball in order to make way for a block of modern flats if someone didn’t fight for their historical significance, which Nat and his battalion of twinset-wearing warriors had done for the past two years. They’d won the day but now there was the matter of getting to the work of preservation, and in this cause the firm of architects Nat generally employed had decided that this particular project would be perfect for their twenty-three-year-old intern.

“Limited experience and thick as yesterday’s porridge,” Nat told India with a sigh. “I need a diversion. I was intent upon your being it.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Not to worry. Just tell me I’ve made an impression upon your guarded heart.”

“You know you have. And my heart has hardly been guarded in your case.”

“Christmas, then,” he said. “In Shropshire. Say that you’ll come. Dad dressed as Father Christmas for the grandkids. A neighbour’s four alpacas done up as reindeer. A wheelbarrow badly disguised as a sleigh. Hats, crackers, poppers, and the Speech after lunch. Really, darling, you don’t want to miss it.”

She laughed. “It’s only October. You might not be able to bear me by Christmas.”

“Try me,” he said.

“I shall think about it.”

“And I shall be thinking of you the rest of the day. You and your laundry.” So he’d accepted her excuse as given and as she
did
have laundry to do, India had not needed to mention that she was hosting her mother-in-law for what she earnestly hoped was going to be less than forty-eight hours.

Caroline had been in Camberwell since the morning. Charlie, as promised, had taken her to India’s house and had secured the spare key from where she’d left it just inside the rim of the porch light. He’d phoned India once he’d established his mother within. With thanks that India knew were sincere, he told her that Caroline was far calmer on
this morning than she’d been the night before. “It was a grim evening all round,” he said, “so it’s just as well that I kept her even though it meant sleeping on the sofa. Me, not her. What were we thinking when we bought that piece of furniture, India? It’s like sleeping rough in a shop doorway. At any rate, she shouldn’t give you any trouble. She was completely on board with staying with you in Camberwell. Far less obvious a place, she says, for a killer to come looking for her.”

“You haven’t been able to talk her out of seeing herself as the third victim?” India asked.

“I learned long ago that one can’t talk my mother out of anything. I don’t expect this will be any longer than a day or two, by the way. She doesn’t want Alastair on his own for long. I think she’s afraid he’ll get used to her absence and start seeing its benefits.”

India was depending on that repeated promise of brevity. She also knew that Caroline’s chameleon moods could make that promise a reality as well. She might have left Dorset in a state about Alastair, about his inamorata, about her treatment at the hands of the police who had come calling upon her, about the likelihood of someone out there having her—Caroline—in his or her sights as a murder victim, but all of that could turn on a knife’s edge and have her trotting back to Shaftesbury on a moment’s notice.

Finally back at home, India looked the house over before she entered the front gate. The curtains were drawn over the sitting room window, the window of the upstairs bedroom that India used as her office/sitting room was also curtained, and when she put her key in the lock, she found that the door was bolted against her.

She rang the bell. Once, twice, three times, although she had to admit herself unsurprised when nothing happened to give her entrance to her own house. Finally, she rooted her mobile out of her bag and punched in her home number. When the answer phone came on, she said, “Caroline? Caroline?” And then when Caroline did not answer, she went on sharply with, “Mum, open the door at once. I can’t get in.”

At this, finally, Caroline’s voice came into India’s ear. She said inanely, “Who is this? Please identify yourself.”

To which India snapped, “Honestly, who do you think it is? Open the door at once.”

“I’ve no idea who you are without your identifying yourself,” Caroline told her.

“Oh for heaven’s sake. Whoever I say I am, I might be lying, so I suggest you come to the sitting room window, have a look, and then open the goddamn door.”

There was silence at this. India reckoned that Caroline was trying to come to terms with the alteration in her previously compliant daughter-in-law who was now tartly ordering her about. After a moment, movement at the bay window attracted India’s attention, and she saw her mother-in-law peering through the glass at her, hand grasping one melon breast as if to still her pounding heart. India gestured at the front door, saying loud enough to be heard within the house, “Unbolt it at once. This is absurd.”

Caroline disappeared. Then came the sound of the bolt being released. The door opened. Caroline stepped back from it and said, “It was the way you were speaking to me. I’d no idea you . . . Well, never mind, then. I’m so glad to see you, darling India. Thank you so very much for allowing me . . .” She gestured round the small entry and beyond as India stepped past her. When the door was closed and once again bolted, Caroline went on. “I’ve been in the kitchen and the bedroom most of the day, just watching the telly and trying to distract myself from . . . I don’t know what to call it, India. From whatever is going to happen next, I suppose. First Clare and then Rory and then Scotland Yard detectives showing up on my doorstep with their questions and their peering at me like some kind of specimen, as if I might have actually had a hand in what’s happened. And there was Alastair being no support whatsoever because of that . . . that . . . I don’t want to call her what she deserves to be called.”

India moved past her. There was little enough room to do so, both because of Caroline’s girth and because of the size of the entry. She scooped up the post on her way and carried it into the kitchen, Caroline following her and continuing to speak. “Forgive me, India. I’m at the point of I don’t know what. If it hadn’t been for Charlie and his willingness to take me in—and your own willingness, of course, my dear—I wouldn’t have known where to turn. And I do understand why Charlie needed me out of his hair. He can’t have his
mum lurking round while he’s doing whatever it is he does with his clients.”

India had been thinking about tea, but she switched to the idea of wine. She had a bottle of Orvieto in the fridge, and she brought it out. Caroline, she saw, had already uncorked it.

“I would have cooked us something for dinner,” Caroline told her, “But I didn’t know and Charlie didn’t say what time you’d be home. And I have so little appetite myself. But can I get you something, dear? You must be exhausted. On your feet all day. Poking people with needles and having to listen to their stories of their aches and pains. I don’t know how you do it.”

As she poured herself some wine, India saw that the answer phone was blinking. She went to it. She said over her shoulder, “I’ll make us some pasta in a while. Do have some wine, Caroline. Some more wine, that is.”

“Oh my dear, I hope it was all right that I opened it? I thought . . . My nerves . . . I’ve been on the brink, India. That’s your dad on the phone, by the way. I didn’t pick up, of course, but I heard the message. And the young man you were supposed to see after work? He’s phoned as well. Nat, he’s called, isn’t he? Charlie told me his name.”

India set her jaw. She entertained a very clear image of Caroline rushing into the kitchen when the phone rang in order to hear the message being left. Determinedly, she pushed the button to her father’s voice saying, “Your mum has told me about this new bloke, India. Well done. You listen to your old dad when it comes to this. Only a fool decides to fold when there’s a chance of a royal flush if he takes another card.”

The message from Nat followed, with him declaring, “Darling, it’s me. We’ve only just rung off, but I want this message waiting for you when you get home. I’m completely serious about Christmas. And I forgot to mention the soot. Dad does himself up with soot in the beard as well. So far the grandkids haven’t noticed that the fire is gas and the chimney wouldn’t accommodate a gnome. They might this year, though. You don’t want to miss that. We’ll speak later, I hope. Happy laundering, by the way.”

India took a large gulp of the Orvieto before she turned to face
Caroline. Caroline was sipping her own wine, but her eyes were fixed on India’s face, taking in the colour that India could feel in her cheeks. She had no reason to be embarrassed or guilty or ashamed, India told herself. But she still felt . . . something. And this rankled her. She turned back to the work top, where she’d deposited the post. She began to look through it.

Behind her, Caroline said, “After Will’s suicide, do you really want to do this to Charlie? You’re breaking his heart.”

India said nothing. She divided the post into bills, useless adverts, and a greeting card-sized envelope with handwriting that she recognised as Nat’s. The bills she opened: phone bill, council tax. The adverts she binned. Nat’s card she slipped into her shoulder bag for opening later, once Caroline and she weren’t occupying the same room.

She decided that now was the moment to make that happen, so she took her things and went upstairs to the second bedroom, where what went for her office occupied a space in a corner opposite to that which was devoted to a small television, a sound system, and a DVD player. She saw that Caroline had been on the computer. She realised at once how easy it would have been for her mother-in-law to delve into her personal life. Her computer was set to remember every single one of her passwords. More the fool I, she said to herself.

Behind her once again, Caroline spoke, having followed her up the stairs. She said, “You didn’t answer me, dear.”

“I’m going to change out of my work clothes” was what India settled on saying to Caroline. “I’ll meet you back downstairs and then we can talk. But I won’t talk about Charlie, so you’re going to have to pick a different topic.”

Caroline regarded her, head cocked to one side. It was an evaluative look: the sort one gives to a recalcitrant child while one decides upon the best mode of disciplining her. She said nothing more but merely turned, and wineglass in hand, went back down the stairs. Ten minutes later—which was as much as India could stretch out her changing from workday clothes to leggings, ballet flats, and a tunic-sized sweater—India found her at the kitchen table, pouring herself another glass of wine. When Caroline opened her mouth to speak, India saw
at once what her mistake had been. She’d said she wouldn’t speak about Charlie. She hadn’t said as much about Nat.

Caroline flicked her fingers in the direction of the phone. “I suppose he had an idyllic childhood, complete with a loving father present every day. Just as you had, which makes you right for each other to your way of thinking, doesn’t it? You’ve decided that he’s solid and reliable, that he comes from an excellent family with no skeletons emerging from cupboards at inopportune times. And certainly no skeletons of the type—”

“I’ve told you, Caroline,” India cut in. “I’m not going to talk about Charlie or anything relating to Charlie.”

“But tell me, please . . .” And here Caroline’s tone altered. It was no longer arch as it had been, but instead pained, presumably with a mother’s love which, if she had to be honest with herself, India did not doubt Caroline possessed for both of her sons. “What is it that went wrong for you? Because there has to be a way to mend this. He
wants
to mend it, India. He’ll do nearly anything to have you back. He understands that, from the first, he should have . . . I don’t know . . . asserted himself more. And I’m at fault here. I’m intrusive. I always wanted the best for my boys in their childhood because God knows their father provided them with less than nothing in the way of nurturing and because of this, I hovered too much. And then I found it impossible to stop the hovering because I’d become so used to it and because no one told me just to
stop.
Someone should have said that to me. No one did. But now . . . India, if you give him another chance, you’ll see—”

“What part of my not being willing to talk about Charlie do you not understand?” India demanded. As she spoke, she set her wineglass on the work top with a
click
against the tiles that was so forceful she was surprised the stem of the glass didn’t snap in two. “Do you not listen when someone speaks to you or do you just disregard what they have to say?”

Caroline appeared to consider this, and for a moment India thought she’d got through to her mother-in-law. When she next spoke, however, Caroline’s tone of supplication had altered, but not to apology or to acquiescence. She said tartly, “You’ve changed entirely. It’s not
just your appearance. It’s the heart of you. It’s gone, isn’t it? Or is it just that the heart of you was never even there?”