The Short Forever

“Certainly not.” Throckmorton chuckled.

“I don’t want anyone hit over the head or anything like that. I just want to find out what’s going on and report back to my client.”

“Nothing wrong with that.” He polished off his shrimp and whipped out an address book. “Let me go make a phone call,” he said. “I’ll be back before the sole arrives.”

Stone sat back and sipped his wine. As Throckmorton left, Sir Antony Shields entered the Grill with another man, and they were seated across the room. The man certainly eats well, Stone thought to himself.

Throckmorton returned as the waiter was boning the soles. “There’ll be two men here in an hour,” he said. “They’ll be waiting in the lounge when we’re done here. Their names are Ted Cricket and Bobby Jones, like the golfer. They both worked for me at one time or another; they’re smart, persistent, and discreet. You’ll get what you want from them.”

“Thank, you,” Stone said. The sole was excellent. “I believe that’s your Home Secretary over there.” He nodded at the table across the room.

“Yes, saw him when I came back to the table. I’ve shaken his hand, but I don’t really know the bugger, he’s too new. Came in with the Labour lot, the second man to hold the office. I’m told he’s reasonably bright; he made a name for himself as a barrister, prosecuting as often as defending. That’s how we do it over here, you know.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Likes to see his name in the papers, always has, I’m told, as long as it’s favorable. He’s gotten a good press so far.”

They had dessert and coffee, and Stone signed the bill. They left the Grill and walked out into the main hall of the hotel.

Throckmorton stopped and shook Stone’s hand. “Splendid lunch,” he said, “many thanks. The two chaps you want are around the corner, there,” he said, nodding toward the sitting room. “I don’t want to be seen introducing you.” He walked through the revolving doors and left the hotel.

Stone walked into the sitting room, and it was immediately obvious whom he was meeting. Cops were cops. They were dressed in anonymous suits, and both wore thick-soled, black shoes. Stone went over and introduced himself.

Ted Cricket was the taller, more muscular man, and Bobby Jones was short, thin, and wiry. They were both near sixty, Stone reckoned, but they looked fit.

“How can we help you, Mr. Barrington?”

“There are two men I want surveilled,” Stone said. “The first is named Lance Cabot, and he lives at a house called Merryvale, in Farm Street. He’s American, in his mid-thirties, tall, well built, longish light brown hair, well dressed. He lives with a young woman named Erica Burroughs, and she is not to be followed, unless she’s with Cabot.”

Both men were taking notes.

“The second,” Stone continued, “is more problematical, because I don’t know his name. He’s American, too, somewhere in his mid-fifties, six-two or -three, heavy, maybe two-ten, looks like a former athlete. He has a hawkish nose, thick, salt-and-pepper hair, and bushy eyebrows.”

“And where does he live?” Cricket asked.

“That’s one of the things I want to know,” Stone said. “He’s in and out of the American Embassy, through the front door, and that’s where you’re going to have to pick him up. I want to know where he’s staying, who he sees, and where he goes. I don’t know if he lives in London or New York, but my guess is, he’s in a hotel not far from the embassy.”

“Right,” Cricket said. “Anything else?”

“I don’t know whether the weekend would be productive; why don’t you start first thing Monday morning?”

The two men nodded. “And we can reach you here, Mr. Barrington?”

“Yes, and I have a cellphone.” He gave them the number.

“We’ll report to you daily,” Cricket said.

“By the way,” he said, “I didn’t mention this to Throckmorton, but is it possible to tap Cabot’s phone and record all his conversations?”

“Not legally,” Cricket said.

“I understand that. Can you do it, or have it done?”

Both men looked wary. Finally, Jones spoke. “I know someone who can do it. But for how long?”

“Let’s start with a week,” Stone said.

“Could be pricey; I mean, there is a risk.”

“I don’t mind paying, but I want someone who can do it without risk to himself, you, or me. And I don’t want him to know who I am.”

“Understood,” Jones said. “I’ll get onto my man today.”

Cricket spoke up. “You understand, I didn’t hear any of that.”

“Understood,” Stone said. “Bobby, why don’t you take Cabot, and Ted, you can have the other man.”

Both men nodded. They shook hands all around, and the two men left.

Stone looked at his watch; he had half an hour to pack for the weekend.

Chapter 9

MONICA BURROUGHS ARRIVED AT THE Connaught in an Aston Martin, and the combination of the car and the beautiful woman at the wheel impressed the doorman. Stone’s luggage was loaded, and Monica drove up Mount Street to Park Lane and accelerated into the traffic, driving faster than Stone would have under the circumstances.

“Did you sleep well?” Monica asked.

“Very well, thank you.”

“I’m sorry to hear it; I thought you’d have lain awake, thinking of me.”

“I dreamed of you.”

“Something erotic, I hope.”

“Of course.”

She cut across two lanes of traffic and turned into Hyde Park. Shortly, they were in the Cromwell Road, heading west, as Monica constantly shifted up and down and changed lanes.

Stone tried to relax. “Who are our hosts for the weekend?” he asked.

“Lord and Lady Wight,” Monica replied. “He recently inherited the title from an uncle, although he managed the estates for many years while the old man was in a nursing home. The house is a nice old Georgian pile that has just undergone a five-year renovation that cost millions. I can’t wait to see it. His lordship made lots and lots of money in property development, so he can afford the title.” She glanced at him slyly. “Before he inherited, his name was Sir Robert Buckminster.”

Stone sat up straight. “Is he related to a woman named Sarah Buckminster?”

“She’s his daughter; know her?”

“Yes.” He had known her all too well in New York. They had practically lived together until someone had started trying to kill him, and when a bomb was placed in a gallery showing her paintings, she abruptly left New York, swearing never to return. “I knew her rather well. How do you know her?”

“My gallery represents her work in this country. We had a very successful show last month, sold out the lot.”

“Tell me, Monica, did you know that Sarah and I knew each other?”

She smiled a little. “I’d heard your name from her.”

“And does Sarah know I’m coming to her father’s house for the weekend?”

“No. I wasn’t going to tell you about Sarah, either; I wanted to see the look on both your faces, but I couldn’t stand the suspense. Now, I suppose, I’ll have to be content with the look on her face.”

This was all too catty for Stone. “Take me back to the Connaught,” he said.

“What?”

“I think it would be extremely rude for me to turn up there unannounced, so take me back.”

“Oh, don’t be such a stick in the mud, Stone; this will be fun!”

“Not for me, and very probably not for Sarah.”

“I won’t take you back.”

“Then let me out of the car, and I’ll find my own way back.”

“Oh, really, Stone; can’t you just go along with this?”

“No, I can’t.”

“Oh, all right,” she said, picking up the car phone and dialing a number. “Hello, Sarah? It’s Monica. Yes, sweetie. I have to tell you the funniest thing. Last night, I had a blind date with someone you know, Stone Barrington.” She listened for a moment. “No, I’m not kidding; he’s over here on business and he met Erica and Lance, and they invited him to dinner.” She listened again. “He’s very well indeed, and I thought that, if it’s all right with you, I’d bring him down for the weekend.” She listened. “Wonderful! I’ll go get him, and we’ll be down in a couple of hours. See you then.” She hung up the phone. “There, she said she’d be delighted to see you. Satisfied?”

“I suppose I am,” Stone said, but he was still feeling uncomfortable about it.

“I may as well tell you this, too.”

“What?”

“Dinner tomorrow night is to celebrate her engagement.”

“Swell,” Stone said. “Are you sure she said it was all right for me to come?”

“She did, said she’d be delighted. She’s marrying a man named James Cutler, who’s something big in the wine trade. Sweet man, very handsome.”

“Monica, if, when we arrive at the house, Sarah is surprised to see me, I’m going straight back to London.”

“Stone, you heard me speak to her. Please relax, it will be all right.” They had reached the Chiswick Roundabout, and she turned toward Southampton, flooring the Aston Martin and passing three cars that were going too slowly for her taste.

“How often do you get arrested?” Stone asked.

“Hardly ever.”

“Do you still have a driver’s license?”

“Of course I do.”

Soon they were on the M3 motorway, and Monica was doing a little over a hundred miles an hour.

“Beautiful country,” Stone said. “Why don’t we slow down and see it?”

“Oh, all right,” she said, taking an exit. “We’ll go the back roads; it’s more fun that way anyhow.” Shortly they were on a winding country road that was perfect for sports-car driving, and Monica was driving it very well.

Stone was happier at sixty than at a hundred.

“Do you like art?” Monica asked. “I mean, apart from Sarah’s pictures?”

“Yes, I do; my mother was a painter.”

“What was her name?”

“Matilda Stone.”

“You’re kidding! I know her work very well; she did those marvelous cityscapes of New York, especially Greenwich Village.”

“Yes, she did.”

“I sold one last year for a very nice price. Do you have any of her work?”

“I have four pictures,” he said. “And I think they are among her best.”

“I don’t suppose you want to sell them?”

“No. They’re in my house in New York—well, one is in the Connecticut house—and I like them there. I’ll never sell them.”

“I understand. Are you interested in buying more of her work, if I should come across some things?”

“Yes, of course, if I can afford them.”

“I’ll let you know.” She stopped talking and concentrated on her driving.

Stone was relieved.

An hour and a half later, after a confusion of back roads and odd turns, they drove through an impressive gate and followed a winding road planted with trees that formed a tunnel. They emerged in a large circle of gravel before a limestone Georgian mansion that had been cleaned to within an inch of its existence.

“Wow,” Stone said.

“Yes, it’s like that, isn’t it?”

He was barely out of the car before Sarah came bounding down the stairs to give him a hug and a kiss, holding the hug longer than Stone thought an engaged woman should. She held him at arm’s length and looked at him. “You look wonderful,” she said. “Hello, Monica.” This over her shoulder. Sarah took Stone’s arm and led him through the front door, leaving Monica to follow.

Chapter 10

THEY ENTERED A GRAND HALLWAY containing a broad staircase to the second floor. The walls all the way to the ceiling were hung with paintings, portraits—no doubt of ancestors—and English landscapes.

“This is glorious,” Stone said.

“Wait until you see the rest of the house,” Sarah said; “it’s taken years for Mummy and Daddy to restore it.”

A houseman appeared, loaded with luggage.

“Miss Burroughs is in Willow, and Mr. Barrington is in Oak,” she said to the man. She turned back to Stone. “The guest rooms are all named for trees; there are twelve of them. There had been fifteen, but we used three of them to make room for private baths for all the guests.” She led him to their right. “The drawing room is here.” She pushed open a door to reveal a huge room furnished with many sofas and chairs. “It’s perfect for entertaining.” She led him across the hall and opened another door. “This is the library,” she said. “We have the books of seven generations collected here, and most of them have been rebound.”

Stone stood and stared. The room was paneled in walnut, and a spiral staircase led to an upper level that bordered the huge room. It smelled of leather and old cigar smoke. “Very beautiful,” he said, and he meant it.

“Come, I’ll show you your rooms.” Sarah led the way upstairs and down a hallway to the end. “You have the corner room, overlooking the Solent,” she said. “Monica, you’re there,” she said, pointing to a door across the hall. She opened the door to Oak, and Stone stepped into a large bedroom furnished with a four-poster bed, a chesterfield sofa, and a couple of commodious reading chairs, all very masculine. She led him to the window. “There is the Solent, in all its glory,” she said, “and that land on the other side is the Isle of Wight. Well, I expect you’d like to freshen up. Drinks are in the drawing room at six, and dinner will be at eight. We’re not dressing tonight; a lounge suit will do.” She gave him a big kiss on the lips and disappeared.

Stone watched her go, then stepped across the hall and knocked on the door of Willow.

“Come in.”

He opened the door and walked into a feminine counterpart of his own room, all chintz and lace. Monica was unpacking.

“We seem to have separate rooms,” he said.

“Oh, that’s how it’s done at English house parties,” she said. “They consider it more fun to tiptoe up and down the halls after lights out. Do you like your room?”

“Very much. You must see it.”

She came and put her arms around his neck. “I expect to, late tonight,” she said. “I’ll do the tiptoeing.” She kissed him.

When Stone got back to his room, his clothes had been upacked and put away by some invisible servant. He sat in an armchair by the window, picked up a copy of Pride and Prejudice on the table next to it, and began to read.

At a quarter past six, Stone rapped on Monica’s door and walked her down to the drawing room. There were at least twenty people in the room, ranging from their twenties to their fifties. He was surprised to see, among them, Erica and Lance, who waved from across the room. “You didn’t tell me they were coming,” he said to Monica.

“Didn’t I? I meant to, I think.”

Sarah came over, leading a tall man in the most severely cut English suit Stone had ever seen. “Stone, this is James Cutler,” she said. “James, I’ve told you about Stone.”

“Yes, you have,” James said through a clenched smile.

“I’m very glad to meet you, James,” Stone said.

Sarah’s parents appeared, her father portly, with a complexion that suggested the regular and copious imbibing of port, and her mother a faded blonde with what Stone thought was an exaggerated accent. They were both gracious and moved on when they had done their social duty.

A butler inquired of Stone’s and Monica’s wishes in drinks, then brought them. Stone had asked for Scotch, thinking they probably wouldn’t have bourbon, and he found it dark and smoky, obviously a single malt. Monica took him through the room, introducing him to everybody. Apparently, the Burroughs sisters, Lance, and Stone were the only Americans present.

At dinner, Stone was seated between Sarah and her mother, while Monica was relegated to the other end of the very long table. Stone counted thirty diners. The dining room had a high ceiling and much gilt. They had hardly sat down, when someone’s cellphone rang, and a brief hush fell over the table. Lance stood up, blushing, and left the room. A moment later Stone saw him outside the window on the back lawn, pacing up and down in the long English twilight, gesticulating. He wondered what had so upset Lance. When he returned to the table he looked unhappy for a moment, then managed a smile as he resumed his seat.

“I hate those damned things,” Lady Wight said, stabbing at something on her plate. “Only an American would bring one in to dinner.”

“Mother, not all Americans are so gauche,” Sarah said, nodding at Stone.

“Oh, of course not, Stone,” her mother said. “So very sorry.”

She didn’t sound sorry, Stone thought.

After dinner, the men left the women at the table and repaired to the library for port and cigars. Stone passed on the cigar but accepted the port with pleasure. He had not drunk enough vintage port in his life to suit him.

Lance wandered over. “How’s it going?” he asked.

“Very well,” Stone replied. “Business call at dinner?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Lance said, flushing, apparently still angry with whoever had called him. “You know about Wight, of course.”

“Not much.”

“He’s lucky not to be in prison. An office building he put up collapsed last year, fortunately in the middle of the night, so no one was killed. The incident prompted an inspection of a dozen of his buildings, and it was discovered that a lot of corners had been cut. Cost the old boy a packet of money and a bad bruise on his reputation. I think he was relieved when inheriting the title allowed him to change his name.”

“Mmmm,” Stone replied, not wanting to comment.

Half an hour later, the ladies joined them, and everyone talked until past eleven, when people began to drift upstairs to bed.

Stone had just switched off the light and was settling in when the door opened and someone entered. A moment later, she was in bed with him, her hands searching and finding what she wanted. Stone joined in enthusiastically, and after a few minutes they both came noisily, then collapsed. He was half asleep when she left the bed and went back to her room. Just as well, he thought, since he was exhausted and needed sleep.

He had just drifted off when she returned to his bed, snuggling up to him.

“What?” he said sleepily.

“Sorry I took so long,” Monica said, throwing a leg over his.

Stone sat straight up in bed. “How long has it been?” he asked.

“I don’t know; three-quarters of an hour, I suppose. I had a bath.”

Stone fell back onto the bed, realizing what had happened. “Monica,” he said, “you’re going to have to forgive me. I think I’ve had too much to drink.”

“Oh, surely I can bring you around,” she said, feeling for him.

“I’m afraid not,” he said. “I hope you’ll forgive me. Tomorrow is another day.”

“Oh, all right,” she said grumpily, and went back to her room.

Stone, before he drifted off again, had the momentary feeling that he was a character in a Feydeau farce.

Chapter 11

STONE SLEPT LATER THAN HE INTENDED and was still struggling with the time difference. When he came downstairs for breakfast, nearly everyone had finished. He scraped the last of the scrambled eggs from a silver serving dish and grabbed some bacon and toast.

He found a leather chair in the library and settled into it. As he started on the eggs, Sarah and her fiancé, James, appeared before him. He struggled to get to his feet, but Sarah motioned him back into his chair.

“And how are you this fine morning?” she asked, smiling broadly. “I hope you were very comfortable in your bed last night.” She winked, while James looked on, sure that something was going on, but without a clue what.

Stone choked down a big bite of eggs. “Yes, sure,” he managed to say without spraying her with food.

“I was certainly very comfortable in bed,” Sarah added unnecessarily.

“Good,” Stone said. “What’s up for the day?”

“Oh, you’re coming sailing with James and me,” she replied, taking James’s arm in a proprietary way. “James is just learning to sail.”

James nodded, clearly her prisoner.

“Great; what time?” Stone asked, longing to return to his eggs before they got any colder.

“Five minutes,” she said. “We’ll meet in the mud room and get you some gear.”

“Great,” Stone replied, returning to his eggs. They wandered away.

Monica appeared with two cups of coffee and sat down on the rug at his feet. “Good morning,” she said. “I hope you’re feeling better rested today.” Her voice dripped with meaning.

“Yes, thanks. I’m sorry about last night,” he said, accepting the coffee and setting it on a small table beside him. “It must be the jet lag.”

“We’re going sailing shortly,” she said.

“I heard.” He was shoveling in breakfast as fast as he could. He set down his plate and picked up the coffee. Black. He hated coffee without sugar, but he forced himself.

“I do hope you won’t wear yourself out too much today,” Monica said, archly. “Perhaps a nap in the afternoon?”

Outfitted with a slicker and a pair of rubber sailing boots, Stone climbed into a Range Rover with Monica, Sarah and her James, and Lance and Erica. Sarah drove like a madwoman, tearing down a narrow, winding track until she skidded to a stop at a dock, where a yacht of forty feet or so lay waiting on a pretty river.

“This is the BeaulieuRiver,” Sarah said over her shoulder to Stone. She pronounced it “Bewley.” “Up there a ways is the village of Beaulieu, and the other way is the Solent.”

Everyone climbed aboard, Sarah started the engine, and there was much scrambling with lines and sails. As Sarah motored down the Beaulieu, Stone began hoisting, first the mainsail, then a medium genoa, assisted by James, who clearly didn’t know what he was doing and didn’t seem to be getting the hang of it. Fifteen minutes later, they emerged from the river into the Solent.

Sarah set a course to the east, and Stone trimmed the sails. “Anybody else on this boat know anything about sailing?” he asked.

They all shook their heads as one person.

“Swell,” he muttered under his breath.

The sky was a mix of blue and clouds, and they beat into a stiff breeze of close to twenty knots. Stone zipped up his slicker and wished he had a hat. What with the breeze, it was chilly. They sailed up the Solent, Sarah pointing out the sights, until they were abreast of a town and harbor to starboard.

“That’s Cowes,” she said, “England’s capital of yachting; maybe Europe’s.”

Everyone looked glumly at Cowes. Sarah seemed to be the only person really enjoying herself.

Stone thought it wasn’t too bad. Then Sarah bore away, and he had to let out the sails to go downwind. Off the wind, headed west again, the breeze seemed to diminish, and everyone was more comfortable, even though the yacht was rolling enthusiastically. James climbed out of the cockpit, knelt at the rail, and tossed his breakfast into the Solent. He seemed to feel better then, and he went and stood on the afterdeck behind Sarah, holding onto the backstay to steady himself.

Stone began to enjoy the sail. He hadn’t been on a yacht since his trip to St. Marks some years before, and he had never sailed in England.

“Have you done much sailing?” Monica asked.

“At summer camp as a kid,” Stone replied. “And I spent three summers in Maine, as a hand on a yacht. We did a lot of racing up there.” He looked up at the mainsail and saw a slight curl as the wind flirted with it. They were sailing dead downwind, and the boom was fully extended.

Stone leaned over and said quietly to Sarah, “You’ll be sailing her by the lee in a minute, if you’re not careful. You don’t want to gybe her.”

“I know what I’m doing, darling,” Sarah shot back. Then, as if to prove that she didn’t, she gave the wheel a slight turn, and the rear edge of the mainsail began to flap.

“Watch it,” Stone said, trying not to reach for the wheel to correct her, and then it happened, and fast. The wind got behind the mainsail, and the yacht gybed. The boom whipped across the deck, catching James on the side of the head and catapulting him overboard. He disappeared into the water.

“Christ!” Sarah yelled, fighting the helm. “Gybing back!” She put the helm over.

It took Stone less than a second to think: Never go after a man overboard; then you’ll have two men overboard, and nobody on this yacht can sail, except Sarah. Then Stone stood up, yelled to Sarah, “Stop the yacht!” grabbed a horseshoe buoy from the stern, and jumped into the water.

The water was colder than he expected. Pushing the buoy ahead of him, Stone kicked his way toward the spot where James had gone under. He shucked off the slicker and took a moment to get rid of his rubber boots, which had filled with water. Moving faster now, he reached what he thought might be the spot where James had gone down. He dove under, feeling, looking, seeing nothing but greenish water. Again and again he dove, until he had no breath left. He came to the surface and looked around him. No sign of James, and the buoy had blown away from him. He treaded water and looked for the yacht. She was lying abeam to the seas, two hundred yards away, her genoa aback and the main flapping free.

He got his second wind and started diving again, and it quickly became apparent that his actions were futile. He was very cold and tired now, the yacht was a long way off, and he didn’t know if he could swim that far. He began to try.

He swam slowly, his arms heavy with fatigue. Lance was taking the genoa down on the yacht, and someone, probably Monica, was lying on top of it, trying to keep it from blowing overboard. He thought he heard the engine start. He hoped to God he heard right.

Suddenly, he was only fifty yards from the yacht, and it was headed toward him. Sarah brought the boat to a halt when he was abeam of the helm. “Switch off the engine,” he called out weakly. He didn’t want to get chewed up by the prop.

Somebody tossed him the other horseshoe buoy, and he grabbed it gratefully. Lance was reaching out to him, grabbing at his clothes.

It took Lance, Monica, and Sarah to haul him aboard, and he wasn’t much help. He lay in the cockpit, shivering and gasping for breath.

“Did you see him?” Sarah asked, oddly calm.

Stone shook his head. “He’s gone.”

Chapter 12

STONE WOKE SLOWLY. THE ROOM WAS dark, but faint daylight showed around the edges of the heavy curtains. Something had woken him, but he wasn’t sure what. Then there was a knocking at the door.

“Come in,” he said, as loudly as he could, struggling into a sitting position.

The door opened, and Lance Cabot walked in. “Good morning,” he said.

“Morning?”

“You’ve been asleep since we got you back to the house.”

“Then it’s tomorrow?”

“It’s today; the, ah . . . accident happened yesterday. How do you feel?”

Stone got a pillow behind him and leaned back against the headboard. “Dull,” he said. “I think I’ll probably ache a lot when I start moving around.”

“The police were here yesterday, but the Wights wouldn’t let them near you. They were very concerned about your health. The local doctor came, but you showed no signs of waking up, so he said just to let you sleep it off.”

“What time is it?”

“A little after nine. Why don’t you come down and have some breakfast? All the guests left yesterday, except you, Erica, Monica, and me. We’re all witnesses.”

Stone nodded.

“There’s going to be an inquest tomorrow morning. The locals hurried it up so they could get it done while we’re all here, so we’re staying over another night.”

“I see.”

“I thought you, Erica, Monica, and I ought to get our stories straight.”

Now Stone was awake. “Straight?”

“We should be in agreement.”

“About what?”

“About what happened.”

“Is there any disagreement about what happened?”

“That depends on how you see it.”

“The yacht gybed, and James went overboard, then I did.”

“The yacht didn’t gybe; Sarah gybed it. She knew what she was doing.”

Stone resisted the thought. “Lance, how much sailing have you done?”

“None, to speak of.”

“Then you don’t really understand what happened. Boats accidentally gybe all the time; people sometimes get hit with the boom. James was unlucky.”

“So that’s the story you’re sticking to?”

“It’s what happened; I was there, too, remember?”

“You weren’t on the yacht after James went overboard.”

“No. Did something happen then?”

“Very little. Sarah seemed . . . Well, I had the distinct impression that her only real concern was getting you out of the water.”

“Tell me exactly what happened after I went in.”

“I heard you yell, ‘Stop the yacht,’ and then Sarah yelled, ‘Gybing back.’ Or maybe it was the other way around. Why would she gybe back?”

“To get the sails on the same side of the boat.”

“But she didn’t gybe back,” Lance said. “She just turned into the wind.”

“That was the right thing to do,” Stone said. “When I looked back and saw the yacht, the genoa was aback, and that would stop the yacht.”

“Sarah wouldn’t start the engine—not at first, anyway. I asked her to, and she ignored me.”

“She did start the engine; she came back for me.”

“Only after I pointed out that you were still in the water.”

“She would have been stunned by what happened,” Stone said. “We were lucky she was able to function at all.”

“She was as cool as ice,” Lance said.

“Lucky for me.”

“All right, Stone,” Lance said. “You’re the lawyer. How should we handle the inquest?”

“Tell the truth; relate the facts as they happened; don’t offer any opinions, unless you’re asked, then be circumspect. The family is certainly going to have a lawyer there, and—”

“He’s already arrived,” Lance said. “Sir Bernard Pickering, QC. Very famous barrister, I’m told. A polite shark.”

“Then he’ll tear you and the others to pieces if you begin to imply that what Sarah did was intentional. Stick to the facts; don’t make reckless charges. Have you been questioned by the police?”

“Yes, but not the girls. I told the police they were too upset to talk yet.”

“What did you tell the police?”

“I played dumb, told them I don’t sail, don’t know anything about it.”

“Which was the truth.”

“After a fashion.”

“What do the girls think happened?”

“They don’t seem to have a clue.”

“Did they question Sarah?”

“No, she’s been locked in her room, except to have meals brought in. She won’t even talk to her parents, but I think the barrister is probably talking to her by now.”

“That’s as it should be.”

“So you don’t think what Sarah did was deliberate?”

“Of course not. I know her quite well, you know, and I’ve never seen her exhibit any behavior that would cause me to think she might want to kill her fiancé. She was marrying him, after all; if she wanted to be rid of him, she’d have dumped him in a straightforward manner. She’s a very decisive girl.”

“And you don’t think that’s exactly what she did?”

“I mean she’d have broken the engagement, told him to get lost. That’s pretty much what she did with me, except that we weren’t engaged.”

“How did all this happen?” Lance asked.

“We’d been seeing each other for a while, had been mostly living together in my house. Somebody from my past turned up—a man my partner on the NYPD had sent to prison for murder some years before. He began killing people close to me, and Sarah was, naturally, very frightened. Then he planted a car bomb outside a gallery where Sarah was showing her paintings. We managed to get everybody out before it went off, but after that, she just wanted to leave the country as quickly as possible. She asked me to come with her, and initially, I agreed, but then, at the airport, I changed my mind. She got on the airplane and, as far as I know, never looked back. I didn’t hear from her again after that.”

“Cool and decisive,” Lance said.

“That doesn’t make her a murderer.”

“I guess not.” Lance stood up. “I’ll take your advice, Stone. I don’t suppose anything I could say at the inquest would make a great deal of difference.”

“Not after the barrister got through with you,” Stone said.

“He wants to talk to you; you’d better get dressed and come downstairs.” Lance left the room and closed the door behind him.

Stone sat and thought about the scene on the boat for a minute. Lance couldn’t be right, could he? Of course not. He got up and headed for a shower.

Chapter 13

STONE SHAVED, SHOWERED, DRESSED, and went downstairs; the house was very quiet. He walked into the library and found a man sitting before a fire reading a leather-bound volume. “Good morning,” he said.

The man rose; he was of Stone’s height but much slimmer, balding, with pale gray eyes. “Good morning.” He held out his hand. “I’m Bernard Pickering. I expect you’re Barrington.”

Stone shook the hand. “Yes.”

“I’ve ordered us some breakfast,” Pickering said, nodding at a small table at the end of the room that had been set for two. As if on cue, a maid entered the room bearing a silver tray. “Come,” Pickering said, leading the way.

“I understand you’re a lawyer back in the States,” Pickering said, pitching into his eggs.

“That’s right.”

“Have you done any criminal work?”

“Yes, and I was a police officer for many years before I began to practice law.”

“And you’re a partner, now, in Woodman and Weld?” the barrister asked, rasing his eyebrows.

“I’m of counsel. I work out of my own office.”

“I see,” Pickering replied, though clearly he didn’t.

“I do much of their criminal work.”

Pickering’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, I see.” Now he really did. “Well, that should make our conversation easier. I’m glad you’re someone who will understand the, ah, limits of my questions.”

“You mean the limits of my answers, don’t you?”

“Quite so. A death of this sort is always a delicate matter, and, if we handle it properly, we can dispose of the entire incident at this inquest.”

“I hope so,” Stone replied.

“I’m a bit concerned about Mr. Cabot’s attitude.”

“We talked about it. I don’t think he’ll be of particular concern to you.”

“James Cutler’s body came up in a fisherman’s trawl in the middle of the Channel, late last night. It’s being examined now.”

“I expect that death will be determined to have been caused by blunt trauma to the head or drowning, or both,” Stone said.

“Very probably. Will you give me your account of the events of yesterday?”

Stone related his story quickly, without embellishment.

Pickering nodded as he spoke. He took no notes. “Tell me, Mr. Barrington,” he said, “are you an experienced yachtsman?”

“I’ve done a lot of sailing, but not recently.”

“Are you aware that the standard procedure in such an event is for the crew not to enter the water to help?”

“Yes, I’m aware of that, and I considered it before going after James.”

“And what was your thought process, may I ask?”

“If someone goes into the water after a man overboard, then there are two men to be rescued, instead of one, but in this instance I believed that the blow from the boom would have rendered James unconscious, and that he would be unable to help himself.”

“Mmmm,” Pickering muttered in an affirmative fashion. “I expect you did the right thing. Did you see or touch Cutler after you went in?”

“No, I swam to where I thought he might be and dove for him, but I never saw or touched him.”

“Are you familiar with the tides in the Solent?”

“No.”

“The tide turned while you were sailing toward Cowes, so by the time you came off the wind and sailed toward the Beaulieu River, the tide would have been ebbing, and you might have had a couple of knots under you.”

“That would have made no difference in my search, since James, the yacht, and I would have all been equally affected by the tide.”

“Good point,” Pickering said. “Did Sarah say anything to you during this incident?”

“No, she didn’t have time before I went into the water, and I was in no state to have a conversation with her after they got me aboard again.”

“Good,” Pickering said, almost to himself. “Do you recall any display of attitude or emotion on her part after you were back aboard?”

“No, I was shivering too badly to notice, then I must have fallen asleep or passed out. I don’t remember being brought from the yacht back to the house.”

“Good,” Pickering repeated. “Well, I think that’s all; we can enjoy our breakfast now.”

“Have you spoken to Sarah?”

“Yes, about an hour ago.”

“How is she?”

“Grieving, feeling guilty that she may have done something to cause James’s death. That’s preposterous, of course.”

“It’s not preposterous, but in my judgment, for what it’s worth, the whole thing was an accident.”

Pickering gazed over Stone’s shoulder and out the window. He seemed to be considering something. “Tell me, Stone,” he said finally, “if I may call you that . . .”

“Of course.”

“What do you know of Sarah’s personal circumstances?”

“Not much. I haven’t seen her for a year or so, since she left New York.”

“I understand you were, ah, close, while she was there?”

“Yes, that’s true.”

“Have you had any contact with her since she left New York?”

“None at all, until we met here on Friday evening.”

“No letters or phone calls? Email?”

“No.”

“And how did you come to be here this weekend?”

“I was invited by Monica Burroughs.”

“Did you know that the house party was to be at the home of Sarah’s parents and that the occasion was the announcement of her engagement to James Cutler?”

“Not until we were driving down here from London.”

“So Sarah was surprised to see you?”

“No, I asked Monica to call her and explain that I was coming.”

“Had Monica not planned to tell her?”

“I don’t believe so.”

“Why ever not?”

“I believe that Monica had intended my visit as a surprise.”

“I see.” He did not.

“I think it was probably mischievous on her part.”

“Oh, I see.” Now he did.

“But in any case, embarrassment was avoided by all because of Monica’s call to Sarah.”

“Good.”

“Do you think I could see Sarah? Is she up to it?”

“I suppose she is, but I’d rather no one who will be testifying tomorrow speak to her until after the inquest.”

“Would you tell her, then, that I asked after her and that I send my condolences?”

“Of course I will. I have one other question for you, Stone, and I would like this part of our conversation to be kept in the strictest confidence for the time being.”

“All right.”

“Are you aware that Sarah is James Cutler’s heir?”

“You mean she’s the beneficiary of his will?”

“Very nearly the sole beneficiary.”

“Is that sort of arrangement before a marriage common in this country?”

“It is not. I doubt if it is in the States, either.”

“In the States—or in New York, at least—they would be more likely to have a prenuptial agreement limiting Sarah’s benefits in the event of a divorce—or James’s, depending on Sarah’s circumstances.”

“Sarah’s circumstances are that she is a well-regarded painter with a nice income from her work, but she possesses no serious assets, except a long lease on her London flat. Whether she will inherit much from her father depends on the outcome of a number of lawsuits filed against him in connection with the collapse of an apartment building last year.”

“Was James particularly well off?”

“Let’s just say that Sarah is now the largest independent importer and distributor of wines in the United Kingdom, and she has widespread holdings in various French and Italian vineyards. She also now owns something upwards of a hundred and fifty wine shops and two hundred pubs. I doubt if she has much interest in running such a business, but it would bring a very large price if sold to one of the big wine and spirit conglomerates. Are you beginning to get my drift?”

“I believe I am,” Stone said.

Stone spent the remainder of the day reading more of Jane Austen in the library and joined the others for dinner, except Sarah, who dined in her room. Dinner was a quiet, almost somber affair, with little conversation. Everyone went to bed early, and Stone was not visited by anyone after retiring.

Chapter 14

STONE LEFT THE HAMPSHIRE COUNTY Council building and found Monica waiting for him outside with the motor running. His baggage was already in the boot of the car, and he had said his good-byes to Lord and Lady Wight, but not to Sarah, who was still sequestered, pending her testimony to the coroner’s jury.

“How did it go?” Monica asked, putting the Aston Martin in gear and driving away.

“As planned, I think; Pickering seems to have everything well in hand.”

“I was surprised at how subdued he was when he questioned me,” she said. “He has a reputation as a tiger in court.”

“I think he went out of his way to give the impression that he was unconcerned about the outcome. He would not have wanted the coroner to think that he was defending Sarah of a charge.”

“Then he’s clever.”

“Yes, he is.”

“Did he need to be?”

“It never hurts, if a lawyer can avoid being seen to be clever.”

They drove in silence for half an hour. Finally, Monica spoke again. “Lance seems to think that Sarah did it deliberately.”

“None of the evidence I’m aware of supports that view.”

“So you think it was an accident?”

“Yes.” And he would continue to prefer to think that. Then he thought about Sarah’s late-night visit to him two nights before. A fling on her part, nothing more, he told himself.

She dropped him at the Connaught. “Dinner this week sometime?”

“Let me call you; I don’t know yet how long I’ll be here.”

She handed him a card. “Home, gallery, and cellphone.”

He thanked her and followed the porter into the hotel.

“You have a number of messages, Mr. Barrington,” the concierge said, handing him some small envelopes.

Stone waited until he was back in his suite to open them. Two were from John Bartholomew, or whoever he was, one was from Dino, and one was from Bill Eggers at Woodman & Weld. Stone dialed the New York number for Bartholomew. The number rang, then was interrupted, then rang again.

“Yes?”

“It’s Stone Barrington.”

“I’ve been trying to reach you, but the phone I gave you wasn’t working.”

Stone looked over and saw the phone resting on its charger. “I’m sorry; I forgot to take the phone with me when I went away for the weekend.”

“I read about your weekend in the morning papers,” Bartholomew said.

Not the New York papers, Stone thought. Bartholomew was still in London.

“Hello?”

“I’m still here.”

“What have you learned?”

“That Cabot calls himself an independent business consultant.”

Bartholomew made a snorting sound. “Of course.”

“And that Erica Burroughs is not your niece.”

Now it was Bartholomew who was silent.

“And her mother is not dead, though her father is.”

“It’s not necessary for you to know everything,” Bartholomew said.

“Perhaps not, but it’s necessary, if we’re to continue this relationship, that what I do know is true and not a lie.”

“My apologies,” Bartholomew said stiffly. “What do you want to know?”

“Why do you want Lance Cabot in an English jail?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Is your interest in him personal, or are you working for someone else?”

“Both.”

“Who are you?”

“Do you wish to continue to represent me in this matter?” Now Bartholomew was angry.

“I don’t much care one way or the other,” Stone replied evenly, “but I don’t like to be kept in the dark about the motives for my investigation.”

“I’m afraid it will have to be that way for a time, but I’d like very much for you to continue.”

Stone made his decision. “All right, I’ll continue.” Until I find out what the hell is going on, he thought.

“Good. But please keep the phone I gave you on your person at all times. I don’t like not being able to reach you.”

“All right.”

“Contact me again when you have something to report.”

“All right.”

Bartholomew hung up without further ado.

Stone called Bill Eggers.

“Hi there, you called while I was in Chile?”

“Yes, I did. You’re going to Chile for the weekend, nowadays?”

“At the invitation of a client who has a Gulfstream Four.”

“You’re a lucky man. Who is the man you sent to see me last week?”

“How do you mean, ‘who’?”

“What’s his real name, for a start.”

“I thought it was Bartholomew.”

“It’s not; I know that much. How did he come to you?”

“A client referred him.”

“Who’s the client?”

“I’m afraid that’s confidential.”

“Where is the client located?”

“In Washington; you can infer what you wish from that.”

“I will. Do you have any idea what Bartholomew really wants?”

“I don’t even know what he told you he wants.”

“He told me a cock-and-bull story, and I’m annoyed.”

“I hope you haven’t done anything rash.”

“Like quit?”

“Yes.”

“Not yet, but I’m going to, if he keeps lying to me.”

“Stick it out, Stone. I can’t tell you why you should, but I’d appreciate it.”

“Oh, all right, Bill.”

“Thanks. I’ll remember.” He hung up.

Stone called Dino.

“How you doin’?” Dino asked cheerfully.

“I had a strange weekend.”

“Tell me.”

Stone told him.

“And she inherits the guy’s business?”

“Apparently so. What do you think?”

“You know what I think,” Dino chuckled, “but I have a more suspicious mind than you do.”

“I think I prefer not being suspicious right now.”

“I’ll be willing to bet you hear from Sarah before the day’s out.”

“She’s grieving,” Stone said.

“Yeah, sure. I gotta go; anything else?”

“Nope.”

“She’s going to call you.” Dino hung up.

Stone stood up and stretched, and the phone rang. He picked it up. “Hello?”

“It’s Sarah,” she said.

Chapter 15

SHE SOUNDED PERFECTLY NORMAL—not depressed, not upset, just Sarah.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Perfectly all right, thank you.”

“What was the outcome of the inquest?”

“Accidental death,” she replied. “Had you expected another outcome?”

“No, I was sure that would be the verdict.”

“Sir Bernard seemed to think I might have purposely gybed the yacht; is that what you think?”

“No, and I told him so.”

“Did he say to you that I might have done it on purpose?”

“No, and I don’t think he believes that—not from anything he said in our conversation.”

“What about Lance? Does he believe I killed James?”

“Lance doesn’t know anything about sailing; he didn’t really understand what happened. I explained it to him, and he seemed satisfied.”

She was silent for a moment. “There’s something I have to tell you.”

“All right.”

She seemed to be having trouble getting it out. Finally she spoke. “I didn’t intentionally cause James’s death, but I’m not really very sorry he’s dead. Does that sound awful?”

Stone avoided a direct answer. “Please tell me what you mean.”

“I wouldn’t have gone through with it—the marriage, I mean.”

“Then why were you having an engagement party?”

“My parents pressed me, told me I was getting old. I’m thirty-two, for Christ’s sake!”

“Maybe they just want grandchildren.”

“Oh, they do, that’s true. I liked James, but I was never in love with him. They kept saying what a perfect match we were, and I suppose it did look good on paper, at least. I guess we could have made it work, produced the grandchildren, bought a country house, given good dinner parties. But I just didn’t want it.”

“I’m sorry you had to go through that,” Stone said, because he couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“Have you seen this morning’s papers?”

“No,” Stone said. They had been stuck under his door when he returned to his suite, but he hadn’t even looked at them yet.

“We’re all over them, and the tabloids are hinting that I killed James for his money! Can you imagine?”

“Well, yes, considering . . .”

“We weren’t even married; how could they say I killed him for his money?”

“Well, there is his will.”

“What?”

“His will; he made a will. Surely you’re aware of that.”

“Aware of what? I don’t know anything about a will.”

“Apparently, James recently made a new will, making you the primary beneficiary.”

There was a stunned silence at the other end of the line. “That’s preposterous! Why would he do a thing like that before we’re married?”

“I don’t suppose we’ll ever know,” Stone replied. “But according to Sir Bernard Pickering, that’s what he did.”

“Why is it that everyone knows this but me?”

“I thought you did know it; I don’t know how Pickering found out, unless he prepared the will.”

“Pickering is a barrister; he wouldn’t do wills; a solicitor would have to do that.”

“Who is James’s solicitor?”

“I have no idea . . . Wait a minute, yes I do; I was introduced to him at a party a couple of weeks ago.”

“Do Pickering and the solicitor know each other?”

“I don’t know; I suppose it’s possible.”

“Could they work out of the same law firm?”

“Solicitors and barristers are in different firms.”

“Have you heard from the solicitor?”

“No.”

“I expect you will shortly, if there’s any truth to all this.”

“Tell me exactly what Pickering told you.”

“He said you were now the largest independent importer of wines in Britain and that you now owned a lot of wine shops and pubs.”

“Hold on a minute; someone is rapping on my door.” She put the phone down and returned after a moment. “It’s a letter from James’s solicitor,” she said. “Hand delivered.”

“What does it say?”

“I haven’t opened it.”

“Open it.”

“Oh, Stone, this is so crazy.”

“Open the letter and read it to me.” He heard the ripping and rustle of paper.

“ ‘Dear blah, blah, blah, condolences, etcetera. It is my duty to inform you that, shortly before his death, Mr. Cutler made a will, in which you are an important beneficiary. I would be grateful if you would call at this office at your convenience so that we may discuss this matter. Yours very sincerely.’ It says ‘important beneficiary.’ That doesn’t sound like I inherit everything.”

“Maybe it’s British understatement.”

“Oh, God, I can’t deal with this now; I have to arrange a funeral for James in London; he didn’t have any family to speak of—both his parents are dead, and he had no brothers or sisters, so it all falls to me.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Stone, will you go and see this solicitor and find out about this?”

“I think it might be better if you had your own solicitor go.”

“I don’t have one, and I hate Daddy’s. Just go and talk to him; I’ll tell him you’re coming.”

“All right. Is there anything else?”

“Let me give you his phone number and address.”

Stone wrote it all down, and Sarah’s London number as well.

“I’m coming up to London tomorrow, and I’ll call you then.”

“All right. I’ll be around here. Oh, let me give you a portable phone number, too.” Stone retrieved the phone from its charging cradle and read off the number, which was taped to the telephone.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” she said, “and I’ll call the solicitor now.”

“All right; tell him I’ll wait to hear from him.” Stone hung up and went to retrieve the papers. The story was on the inside pages of both the Times and the Independent, and it was brief in each case. It didn’t seem out of the ordinary to Stone. The phone rang. The solicitor, he thought. “Hello?”

“Mr. Barrington, it’s Ted Cricket; Bobby Jones and I would like to come and see you, if that’s all right.”

“Yes, fine. When’s good for you?”

“How about six o’clock this evening at your hotel?”

“That’s good for me. I’ll see you both at six in the same place we met the first time.”

“Good, sir.” He hung up.

Stone hung up, too, and the phone rang immediately. “Hello?”

“Is that Mr. Barrington?”

“Yes.”

“My name is Julian Wainwright; I am solicitor for the estate of James Cutler.”

“Oh, yes, Sarah Buckminster said you’d call.”

“Miss Buckminster tells me you’ll be representing her in the matter of the Cutler estate. I’m a bit confused; you’re an American, are you?”

“That’s right, but I’m not representing her as an attorney, only as a friend. Sarah is very busy with making funeral arrangements at the moment, and she asked me to see you about the letter you sent her today.”

“All right, then; will sometime this afternoon be good?”

“Yes, fine.”

“Say, four o’clock?”

“That’s fine. I have your address.”

“I’ll see you at four, then.” He hung up.

Stone hung up, too, and sighed. How did he get roped into this?

Chapter 16

THE SOLICITOR’S OFFICE WAS IN PONT Street, near Harrod’s, and Stone was on time. So was Julian Wainwright; Stone was shown immediately into his office.

“Been over here long?” Wainwright asked, showing him to a chair.

“Just a few days,” Stone said.

“Known Sarah long?”

“We knew each other when she lived in New York.”

“Forgive me, I’m just trying to understand why she sent you to receive this news.”

“I thought I explained that on the phone,” Stone said. “She’s busy making funeral arrangements, and, of course, she’s upset about the events of last weekend.”

“Ah, yes,” Wainwright said, shuffling some papers on his desk. “Well, I expect you’ll want to know the contents of James Cutler’s will.”

“That’s why I’m here,” Stone reminded him.

“It’s like this,” Wainwright said. “James left bequests to EtonCollege, MagdelanCollege at Oxford, to Oxfam—that’s a large charity over here—and to his club, the Athenaeum. The total of those was three hundred thousand pounds.” He paused, seeming to have a hard time reading the neatly typed document before him.

“Go on,” Stone said.

“The remainder of his estate, James left to Sarah Buckminster.” He took a deep breath and sighed.

“You seem in some way unhappy about this,” Stone said.

“I must tell you, I counseled James against it. He came in to make a will which would take effect on his marriage to Sarah. We went over everything very carefully, the full list of his assets. I was quite all right with it all, but when he came back to sign the will, after it had been typed, he noted that the will would take effect on their marriage, and, rather offhandedly, he asked that it be changed to have immediate effect. When I questioned this, he said, ‘Oh, hell, I’m marrying the girl in a few months’ time, just do as I ask.’ So I had the page retyped, and he signed it.”

“Was the will properly attested to and witnessed?”

“Of course,” Wainwright replied, sounding offended.

“Are you satisfied that the will represents his true intentions at the time he made it?”

“As unwise as his intentions may have been, yes.”

“Then I don’t see any problem.”

“You’ve read this morning’s papers?”

“The Times and the Independent.”

“Not the tabloids?”

“They don’t have the tabloids at the Connaught.”

“Well, they’ve as much as accused Sarah of murdering James for his money.”

“Then I should think she’d have a very good libel suit against the tabloids,” Stone said.

“Quite,” Wainwright replied.

“Tell me,” Stone said, “when James made this sudden decision to have his will take effect immediately, did he in any way intimate that Sarah was aware of this decision?”

“No, he didn’t.”

“And his decision seemed to you to be made on the spur of the moment?”

“Yes.”

“Are you aware that Sarah was unaware of the will until I told her about it this morning?”

Wainwright’s considerable eyebrows shot up. “No, I was not. And, may I ask, how did you become aware of the contents of the will?”

“I was told by Sir Bernard Pickering,” Stone replied, watching for a reaction, and he got it.

Wainwright gulped but seemed unable to speak.

“Are you and Sir Bernard acquainted?” Stone asked.

“We are next-door neighbors in the country,” Wainwright replied.

“And when did you convey the intent of the will to Sir Bernard?”

Wainwright was perspiring now. “I was having dinner at his home on Saturday evening, when he got the call from Lord Wight, requesting his services. I thought it my duty to make him aware of the circumstances.”

“For which I’m sure he was grateful,” Stone said. “What is the date on the will?”

“Two weeks ago.”

“And during that time, did you divulge the contents to any other person, apart from Sir Bernard?”

“I did not.”