Chapter Twenty-Four

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

C onstance had not enjoyed the party at Lassiter Court. She had gone with certain expectations, and had been disappointed. The fact that Lillian was her late father-in-law’s widow meant the two women attempted to appear civil in public. They would never attempt to do so in private, but it was easier for them both to keep up the pretence, if not of friendship, then at least chilly civility. Lillian occasionally graced the classical concerts Constance and Lassiter Enterprises sponsored in the town hall with her presence, and Constance visited Lassiter Court for events such as the Christmas Eve party. Over the last eighteen months she’d derived a certain vicious pleasure in spotting, with the expertise of a long-time observer, the little stresses and strains in Lillian’s world. Enquiring about the restaurant had been fun the year before; then watching Grace blink back tears as Constance sympathised about the closing of her play during their last Christmas party had been particularly delicious. Not that she had anything against Grace, but she was married to Jack and living with Lillian. Constance held both responsible for her son Edmund’s injuries during the fire, and the ruination of her own plans. As a result, it was indeed pleasant to see Lillian and Jack witnessing Grace’s distress, and to gloat over their inability to do anything about it.

Constance had been looking forward to a little more panic, and a little more fraying at the edges that evening, and was bitterly disappointed to find everyone apparently having an extremely good time. Even noticing the missing Corot painting had not made her feel any better.

She let herself into her house with her own latch key, and was surprised to see Susan, her maid, waiting for her on a stool in the hallway.

‘Good evening, Mrs Lassiter,’ Susan said in a whisper. ‘There’s two men come. Older one says he’s a friend of yours, though he doesn’t look friendly. I didn’t know what to do. Shall I call the police? Or get Philips to throw him out? The older gentleman, he’s got a manner to him. What with Mrs Booth being away, I didn’t rightly know what to do. They’re in your study. The older one just poured himself a whisky and sat down like he owns the place.’

Constance paused for a fraction of a second as she pulled off her gloves, then handed them and her purse to Susan.

‘That’s perfectly all right, Susan. I know the gentlemen. You may go to bed. Tell Philips the same when he has garaged the car. I shall lock the front door myself when my visitors leave.’

‘But, Mrs Lass—’

‘Go to bed, Susan.’

The maid bobbed a curtsey and waited in the hall, her eyes cast down, until Constance had put her hand on the crystal door handle which would admit her to the study, and turned it.

Ray Kelly was sitting in one of the armchairs at the small table under the bookshelves opposite the desk, a cut-glass tumbler of whisky at his elbow, amber in the low light. By the window, almost completely hidden in shadow, stood his man Sharps, as thin as a flick knife.

‘Constance,’ Kelly said, waving his hand towards the empty armchair on the other side of the table. ‘Take a seat. We do hope you had a pleasant evening. Will you take a drink?’

‘A whisky,’ Constance said, sitting down. ‘I hope you are well, Mr Kelly.’

Her relationship with Kelly was mutually advantageous, but she was a wise enough woman to treat him with great care. People who displeased Kelly had a habit of disappearing as completely as the flame of a snuffed-out candle – a trace, an absence which resolved quickly into nothingness.

Her son Edmund had run up gambling debts with Mr Kelly – debts which would have crippled even Lassiter Enterprises at one point – and though Constance had greatly improved the health of the company books, there was still work to be done. Around the time of Edmund’s accident, she had allowed herself to associate with Kelly more closely. One of her managers was also on his payroll, and she was well aware that the trucks which rolled out from Lassiter Enterprises factories often carried more than china and tableware. One hand washed the other. As well as not having to worry about the debt being called in, Constance was in the enviable position among Highbridge business people of never having to worry about organised labour at her manufacturing sites. Any workers who started to talk about their rights too loudly would get a visit from Sharps or one of his minions, and would soon discover the welfare of their family was better served by their keeping their heads bent over their work stations and their voices down.

‘I am middling well, Constance,’ Kelly said with a sigh. Sharps poured Constance’s whisky into another of her tumblers and set it silently on the table, before withdrawing to his post by the window. ‘But only middling, which is why I’ve left my comfortable fireside in the dale, where I’m all snug for the winter, to pay you a visit.’

Constance picked up her glass.

‘I’m sorry to hear you’ve been disturbed, Mr Kelly,’ she said carefully.

‘We’re touched our comfort means so much to you,’ Kelly replied, his voice suddenly a low growl; then he picked up his glass and twisted it so the lamplight made the liquor in it glow. ‘There’s been a pair of London police in town. Came to visit Miss Stella Stanmore.’

Constance tutted. She had seen the woman at the party this evening, flirting with the blustering and blushing gentlemen of Highbridge. Kelly raised an eyebrow and Constance cast her eyes down.

‘Yes, we know how you feel about those theatrical types only too well. Don’t we, Sharps?’

‘We do, Mr Kelly.’ As he replied, Sharps drew a knife from his pocket, flicked it open and began to trim his nails by the thin rays of moonlight coming through the tall windows. Constance struggled to suppress a flicker of disgust.

‘We’ve been amused on occasion,’ Kelly continued, ‘watching you play silly buggers with them. Heads in the clouds, haven’t they? Think themselves so worldly, but naive as children.’

Constance said nothing.

‘But . . .’ Kelly set down his glass and leaned towards her. ‘You’ve overstepped, Constance. You buggering about has brought London coppers to my town. And I don’t like it.’

The wheels turned in Constance’s mind, and clicked together like the tumblers of a lock. Her mouth went dry. ‘I see. I’m very sorry. That was never my intention, Mr Kelly.’

He put his hand out, quick as a snake, fastened it round the back of her neck and pulled her towards him, bringing her face so close to his she could feel his cold breath on her cheek.

‘If I’d thought it was intentional, dear, you’d be dead already. And who’d give a shit if you were?’

His fingertips, dry and hardened, dug into the back of her neck; the sheer power of them was terrifying.

‘You stole from me, Constance. Not a lot. But there’s a principle there. You think I don’t count my goods as carefully as your best foremen? Think I don’t keep accounts?’ He gave the back of her neck a shake and she felt a paralysing, animal fear. ‘Didn’t you? Say it, woman!’

‘I did steal.’ She gasped, closing her eyes, willing herself to be calm. ‘How can I apologise?’

Kelly released her, a slow smile spreading over his gaunt features, and he sat back in his chair. ‘Sensible woman. Always thought you a sensible woman, Constance. Apart from your little feud with the theatre. Haven’t we always said so, Sharps?’

‘We have, Mr Kelly,’ Sharps replied. He hadn’t even looked up from cleaning his nails.

Kelly folded his hands in his lap and crossed his legs. ‘We’re not unreasonable. We’ve valued our relationship. But, Constance, you’ve been warned. You don’t have many friends – be careful to keep the ones you have.’