Scandalous Behavior Page 3

  “How do you do, Mr. Barrington?”

  “Very well, thank you. I expect you and I should sit down and have a talk about the place later on, but right now I need to send a fax. May I have a sheet of the house letterhead, please?”

  Bugg handed him a sheet, and he scrawled instructions to his broker, looked up the fax number on his iPhone, and Bugg sent it for him. He took care to retrieve the original note after it went through. “There,” he said, “that’s enough business for one day.”

  “I’ll walk you out,” Susan said, handing him a card. “My numbers in London.”

  Stone gave her his own card. “How about tomorrow evening?”

  “That would be fine.”

  “I’m staying at the Connaught. May we meet in the bar there at, say, seven o’clock?”

  “Yes, that would be convenient.” She came with him to the front door, where Stan awaited with the cart.

  “I’ll look forward to seeing you in London.”

  “I, too,” she said.

  5

  Felicity was returning to work the following morning, so he drove up to London with her in the Aston Martin.

  “I think you should take out Susan Blackburn,” she said as she whipped around a truck. “She’s unattached, at the moment, I think, and you’ll need to be entertained when I’m not around.”

  “I’ll consider that,” Stone replied.

  “What do you have to do in London?”

  “I’m lunching with my new attorney at the Reform Club to sign some documents that we discussed on the phone yesterday. I’ll see my tailor and shirtmaker, and I suppose I’ll need some transport, so I’ll take a look at cars.”

  “Sounds like you have a full day.”

  “When will you return to Beaulieu?” he asked.

  “Maybe this weekend—depends on work. The Middle East is a mess these days. We should call it the Muddle East. I gave you a key, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, you did.”

  She dropped him at the Connaught, but his suite had not yet been vacated, and he was asked to come back after lunch. He walked up Mount Street to his tailor, Hayward, and ordered some suits, a tuxedo, and a reefer suit, which was a double-breasted blue suit with yacht club buttons. He also ordered an overcoat, in case he was at the house in winter. He would need clothes to fill his new dressing room at Windward Hall.

  —

  The Reform Club was a grand edifice in Pall Mall, whence Phileas Fogg had departed on his eighty-day wager around the world, both in the novel and in the film, which shot the opening scenes on-site. His attorney, whose name was Julian Whately, met him in the dining room. “Let’s lunch first, then take our business to the library,” Whately said. “We’re not supposed to flash papers at table.” They passed a pleasant lunch with Whately trying to explain cricket to him, and even after dessert, Stone still hadn’t grasped either the rules or the point.

  Ensconced in a corner of the magnificent library with coffee and papers, Whately produced a contract sent over by Sir Charles Bourne’s solicitors. “This is the most extraordinary thing I’ve ever seen,” he said, handing it to Stone, “concerning a sale agreed at a first meeting. Virtually everything in the house included in the sale is listed—six or seven pages of it. They must have been working on it for weeks.”

  “Charles Bourne has known for weeks that he is dying,” Stone said.

  “Ah, that explains it. The only thing of note in the contract is that two paintings, a Constable and a Turner, are held out, but offered for separate purchase for two hundred thousand pounds. Are they worth it, do you know?”

  “I’ll find out at dinner,” Stone said, signing both contracts, “and let you know in the morning. If not, you can burn that piece of paper.”

  “Do you have the funds ready?” Whately asked on the sidewalk while hailing a taxi.

  “Yes, they’re in the bank, and I’ve already given Bourne my personal check.”

  “Extraordinary,” Whately said. “We can close whenever you and Sir Charles agree.”

  “Call his solicitor and tell him that. I’m headed back to Hampshire tomorrow, but I can stay, if he wants to close in London. Try for nine AM at the Connaught, in my suite.”

  “I’ll let you know,” Whately said. He got into the taxi and drove away.

  Stone strolled up to Jermyn Street to his shirtmakers’, Turnbull & Asser. He ordered two dozen shirts to be delivered to Windward Hall in four weeks, picked out a dozen neckties, and a couple of pairs of gloves, bought a dozen pairs of boxer shorts, half a dozen nightshirts, and a silk dressing gown, ordered them all sent to his hotel, then headed back to the Connaught on foot. He walked through the Burlington Arcade and found Anderson & Sheppard in Saville Row. He ordered two tweed jackets and some complementary trousers, then went on his way.

  Then, in Berkeley Square, he came to the Bentley showroom and walked in.

  A gleaming Flying Spur greeted him from a turntable, dark green metallic paint and Saffron leather. He watched it for two revolutions before a salesman materialized at his elbow.

  “Shall I wrap it, sir, or will you drive it away?”

  “How much?” Stone asked.

  “I’m very much afraid this one has been sold. I’ve been waiting for ten days for the buyer to pay for it.”

  “Do you have anything else ready to go?”

  “I’m afraid not, sir. It will take about three months to fill an order.”

  “Ah,” Stone said, disappointed.

  “Suppose my buyer backed out?” he asked. “Are you prepared to buy it now?”

  Stone looked at the sticker on the window and came up with a figure fifteen percent less.

  The salesman countered with ten percent.

  “Done,” Stone said.

  “Will that be for export, sir?”

  “No.”

  “Then we’ll have to add Value Added Tax and car tax.”

  “Of course.”

  “One moment, sir.” The man went to his desk and dialed a phone number. Stone caught snatches of his conversation. “Well, then, sir, we will refund your deposit immediately. Thank you for your custom.” He hung up and returned to Stone’s side. “I’m afraid the gentleman got caught a bit short,” he said. “The car is yours.”

  They spent half an hour wading through the paperwork, then Stone wrote the man a check. “I’ll pick it up at midday tomorrow,” he said.

  “Of course, Mr. Barrington. We will be ready for you.”

  Stone crossed Berkeley Square, passed Annabel’s, and then, at the end of the square, he spotted the Porsche showroom across the street. He went in and found a Carrera 4S, painted umber, with cognac leather, beckoning him. He checked the window sticker, but as a salesman detached himself from his chair and began coming toward him, Stone waved him away, then walked out and turned toward the Connaught.

  “No,” he said aloud to himself. “I can’t buy a country estate, a Bentley, and a Porsche all in the same day.” He arrived at the hotel and was led to his suite by a young assistant manager. The hotel had been sold and redecorated since he had last stayed there, and he didn’t see a single familiar face among the staff. Still, he liked his suite.

  He unpacked and turned on the TV, looking for some news, but he was distracted and could not concentrate on current events. Finally, he went downstairs, crossed the street, walked fifty meters, and bought the Porsche. He signed the documents, wrote a check, and asked the salesman to have it at the front door of the Connaught at ten AM the following morning, then he called the Bentley salesman and asked him to have the Flying Spur delivered to Windward Hall the following afternoon.

  He walked back to the Connaught feeling a little light-headed, but pleased with himself.

  6

  Stone was halfway through the potato chips on the bar by the time Susan walked in. He offered her a peck
on the cheek, which was accepted, then sat her down at a table.

  “I hope it wasn’t inconvenient for us to meet here,” he said, after he had ordered her a martini and himself a Knob Creek.

  “Not in the least,” she said. “I live in Farm Street, which is a stone’s throw away and is reached from here by a very convenient footpath. How was your day?”

  “Very good. I got quite a lot done.”

  “And what did you get done?”

  “I lunched with my solicitor, then visited two tailors and my shirtmakers and made them all very happy, then I set about cheering up two automobile salesmen.”

  She laughed. “All these things for the new house, I assume.”

  “I’m starting from scratch.”

  “When do you complete the sale of the house?”

  “Tomorrow morning at nine, here, in my suite.”

  “Which suite?”

  He told her.

  “I designed it.”

  “I rather thought you might have. It looks like you—cool, but with concealed warmth, and elegant. By the way, I have a question for you.”

  “Ask away.”

  “The two paintings—the middling Constable and the good Turner: Charles wants two hundred thousand pounds for them. Do you think that reasonable?”

  “I would have thought it reasonable yesterday, when I described them to you in those terms, but this afternoon they were delivered to my office, and now, having been cleaned and reframed, the Constable is a very good example, and the Turner is spectacular. I should think they’d bring at least half again, perhaps twice that at auction.”

  “Then I will accept his offer.”

  “I will have two van loads of things going down to the house tomorrow, and I’ll include the pictures, plus some others.”

  “Why don’t you drive down with me tomorrow, if you’re willing to put yourself in a car with a driver who is accustomed to driving on the right, not to say, the correct side of the road, and stay for a few days. You can even work, if you feel so inclined.”

  “Is that a business proposition or a personal one?”

  “A little of both, but you may choose your sleeping quarters from the available stock. I think every designer should sleep in the room or rooms she has designed. How else can you know if you got it right?”

  “A very good point. I’ll think it over and give you an answer later in the evening. Where are we dining?”

  “At Harry’s Bar.”

  “Yum.”

  —

  After the pasta course she assented to his invitation.

  “What made you accept?” he asked.

  “One martini and one glass of wine,” she replied. “Also, I know something that you won’t learn about until tomorrow morning.”

  “And what might that be?”

  “Sir Charles, after having requested permission from the new owner of Windward, intends to throw a bash in the house on Sunday evening for forty or fifty of his most intimate friends, and he expects me to have the public rooms ready to receive them. So I will work while I’m there, along with the crews I’m sending down tomorrow, and I’ll return to London on Monday morning.”

  “Perfect. And I will take off for New York on that day, too.”

  “How very convenient for us both.”

  Their osso buco arrived, and they returned their attentions to their food.

  After dinner, Stone walked Susan to her house, in Farm Street. She did not invite him in. “It’s rather a mess at the moment,” she said, “and the cleaners won’t be in until tomorrow.”

  “Then I will collect you a little after ten in the morning,” Stone said. He kissed her on the lips, and she went inside, closing the door firmly behind her.

  —

  Sir Charles, his solicitor, and Julian Whately arrived together shortly after nine the following morning and were given coffee and pastries before the briefcases were unpacked and the paperwork for the closing on the sale of the house was stacked high on Stone’s dining table, awaiting signatures.

  “First,” Stone said, handing Sir Charles a check, “I accept your offer of the two pictures, and Julian will give you the signed agreement.”

  “You are very welcome,” Charles replied.

  They began signing documents, and that took nearly forty-five minutes. “Congratulations,” Sir Charles said, finally, “you are now the legal owner and lord of the manor of Windward Hall.”

  “Thank you,” Stone replied, and the two men shook hands.

  “Now, I have a request,” Charles said. “On Sunday evening, may I host a party celebrating my eightieth birthday in the house?”

  “Certainly, you may.”

  “Don’t worry, I shall make all the arrangements and bear the cost.”

  “As you wish.”

  The two men shook hands, and they all traveled to the ground floor together, where Stone’s new Porsche awaited, his luggage already aboard. They all shook hands again, and he drove around to Farm Street to collect Susan.

  She had brought two large bags, and when he opened the boot, up front, he found it filled with his own things, and the space behind the front seats was taken up by the package Joan had sent him from New York and the things he had bought at Turnbull & Asser. “Don’t worry,” he said, placing Susan’s two bags in her lap. “I have a solution.”

  He drove into Berkeley Square and around to the Bentley dealer. He got out of the Porsche, rapped on the window, and beckoned the salesman outside, then he unloaded the two cases from Susan’s lap onto the sidewalk. “Will you kindly put these into the boot of the Bentley?” he asked.

  “Of course, Mr. Barrington.” He looked at his watch. “And I can have the car there by two o’clock.”

  “Perfect,” Stone said. He got back into the Porsche. “When you’re traveling in this car,” he said to Susan, “you need a Bentley following you with the luggage.”

  “An excellent solution to our problem,” she said. “And I can already feel the blood returning to my legs.”

  And so they set off for Windward Hall.

  —

  On the way out of London, clouds began to quickly gather, and by the time they were on the motorway, the downpour was so heavy that visibility was affected.

  They arrived at Windward Hall—the first time Stone had entered the estate by the front gate—and as they approached the house in the still-steady rain they had to drive past a good-sized tent pitched on the lawn some twenty or thirty yards from the entrance to the house. Parked alongside the tent were two police cars, one unmarked, and an ambulance.

  “What on earth is that?” Susan asked as they drove past.

  “It appears to be a crime scene,” Stone replied, “very likely a homicide.”

  7

  Stone drove around the house to the courtyard at the rear, which contained the stables and garages, and drove into an open bay. As they got out of the Porsche, the butler, Geoffrey, in his daytime apron and shirtsleeves, came out of the house and picked up as many of Stone’s bags as he could carry, while Stone collected the rest. Geoffrey led them into the house through the mudroom, which Stone figured would get plenty of use today.

  “What’s happened out front of the house?” he asked the butler, once they were inside.

  “A neighbor has been found, deceased, in the meadow, and the police have questioned all of the staff, one by one.”

  “Who is the neighbor?”

  “Sir Richard Curtis, who lives at the adjoining property to the south,” Geoffrey replied. “He was a very close friend of Sir Charles.”

  “Has Sir Charles returned from London yet?”

  “No, but he’s expected in the early afternoon.”

  “Have you spoken with him about what’s happened?”

  “No, his mobile doesn’t answer. Shall I put
your things in the master suite?”

  “Yes, please, in the dressing room—the old one, not the new one. Another car will be delivered this afternoon, and please see that it’s parked in the garage and that Ms. Blackburn’s bags are collected from the boot.”

  “Please put them in the Lilac Room,” Susan said quickly, before Geoffrey could ask.

  “Yes, madam,” Geoffrey replied. “Would you and Ms. Blackburn like lunch?” he asked. “We’ve some hot soup and sandwiches.”

  “Yes, thank you. Perhaps in the library? Susan, is it fit for lunching?”

  “I believe so,” she said.

  Geoffrey put Stone’s things in the elevator and went upstairs.

  “Do you know Sir Richard Curtis?” Stone asked Susan.

  “No, I’ve never met him—never heard of him, for that matter. It was inconsiderate of him, though, to die on your front lawn.”

  “From what we’re hearing, it sounds as if he had help.”

  They went into the library, which seemed in good order, but dark. Susan opened the curtains on both sides of the fireplace and let in the gray light. “The room is missing only the Constable and the Turner, and those will be among the first items unloaded.”

  A woman came in with a tray and set a mahogany card table for lunch.

  “Thank you, Elsie,” Susan said. She lit the fire that had been laid, and in a moment a cheerful blaze was going. “It’s nice to have a fire on a cold, rainy day,” she said, backing up to it.

  Stone came and warmed his hands. A moment later Elsie returned with a tray bearing a tureen and china and set the table further. “Luncheon is served, Mr. Barrington,” she said. “Would you like wine?”

  “A bottle of white burgundy would be good,” Stone said, holding a chair for Susan, and Elsie disappeared.

  He sat down and tried the soup. “Perfect,” he said.

  “Oh, Mrs. Whittle, Geoffrey’s wife, has a reputation as the best cook in the county,” Susan said. “Have you met her?”

  “No, I have some catching up to do, in that regard.” They finished their soup, and Elsie returned with their sandwiches and the wine. She uncorked it and gave Stone some to taste. “Excellent,” he said, looking at the label. “A Batard-Montrachet,” he said.