Fabian shook his head. ‘Ask her if you don’t believe me. Ever so pleased to see me, she was, when I turned up at Aunt Hilda’s funeral. She was there, of course.’
‘Why “of course”?’ asked Christopher. ‘She’s never said anything about you or your family to me.’
Fabian shrugged. ‘She probably would’ve, sooner or later. She seems a busy lady, keeping you auctioneers under control.’ He opened his mouth to say more, but a sudden twitch seemed to prevent speech.
Christopher filled the gap, holding up one finger. ‘Wait. Did she know that you and I were in Africa together? Has she always known that you and I had history?’
‘Course not. Come to think of it, there must have been quite a few years when I never sent her a card or anything. She was pretty stunned to see me again, I can tell you that. And I was just as gobsmacked to see that picture of you they’ve got up in the reception area. “Senior Auctioneer, Christopher Henderson” it says, large as life.’
‘Stunned but pleased, apparently,’ said Simmy drily, referring to Josephine. ‘We’re still not getting to the real point, are we?’
‘There’s no hurry, Sim,’ said Christopher, more irritably than ever. ‘What’s your problem?’
‘Sorry.’ She got up to make coffee, glancing at the big clock on the wall as she did so. It was well past seven, getting dark outside and wasting the cosy family evening she’d anticipated. Robin was in his pram in the half-finished living room, and she was missing him. Telling herself that was stupid, she produced three mugs of instant coffee and sat down again. Old habits were clinging to life, she realised. No way would she let Christopher hear whatever Fabian’s story might be without her. There was something substantial working its way to the surface, if she wasn’t much mistaken.
‘Okay. I’ll try and cut to the chase,’ said the visitor, with a placatory look at Simmy. ‘I don’t always find it easy to order my thoughts. It’s the trypanosomiasis at work, you see. I’m never going to be shot of it completely.’
‘Take your time,’ said Christopher.
‘The thing is, there’s a few family ructions over my cousin’s book. You know the way a person’s secrets all come out, once they’ve died. Old Hilda had quite a life, one way and another. She was a young girl in the Blitz, in Birmingham, spoilt rotten, clever at her schoolwork. She made a bit of a name for herself in various ways, good with money. Never over-endowed with friends, admittedly, but that never seemed to worry her. She liked to be the best at everything. People found that off-putting, I guess.’
‘Did she ever marry?’ asked Simmy.
‘If she did, I never knew about it, and it couldn’t have lasted long.’
‘Presumably you would know? Husbands don’t just evaporate.’ Again, Simmy felt irritable at the man’s vagueness.
‘There’s a lot of uncertainty as to what she was doing in the sixties,’ said Fabian stiffly. ‘She kept well away from the family for a good ten years. When she surfaced again, there was no sign of a husband. Mind you, she was a good-looking woman, even when she must have been in her late fifties, which is when I first had much contact with her. By that time, she was pretty well-heeled – dressed nicely and all that. All her energy went into making money and interfering in family matters. My mother died and she made a fuss of me. She was the oldest in the family and my mum was only a year younger. Then there were two brothers after her.’
‘Your uncles,’ nodded Simmy.
‘Right.’ He twitched again and seemed to deflate at the same time. ‘You won’t want to know the whole family history,’ he muttered. ‘No need for that.’ A sly look crossed his face. ‘I’ve heard quite a lot about you, one way and another. I know you’ve got a hotline to the police and a little gang of amateur detectives.’ He raised his eyebrows at Christopher. ‘Seems I really did come to the right place.’
‘We’re nothing like amateur detectives,’ Simmy protested. ‘Everything that’s happened has been pure accident – mostly connected to my work as a florist. I get dragged into the dramatic points in people’s lives – births, weddings, funerals, when I’d far rather stay out of them.’
‘And who’s talking about the police anyway?’ Christopher demanded. ‘What’s all that about?’
Fabian looked even more shifty at these words. ‘There are stones that are much better left unturned,’ he said cryptically. ‘That’s the thing with the police – they don’t know where to stop. And there’s no way of controlling them, either. As I say, it’s all very delicate. This cousin I told you about – Uncle Richmond’s son. He’s doing this book.’
‘Yes, you said,’ Simmy interrupted.
‘There’s a few sensitive matters from Auntie’s past that he wants to get straight. A bit of a scandal, and maybe people who’d not like to have the whole thing exposed. Uncle Richmond, for one.’
‘Did somebody steal a priceless oil painting, or what?’ Simmy demanded angrily. ‘Is that how Hilda got so rich?’
Both men stared at her as if she’d gone mad. ‘What?’ spluttered Fabian. ‘Where did that come from?’
‘She’s not getting a lot of sleep,’ said Christopher treacherously. Then he heard himself. ‘But you were hinting at something of that sort. Don’t forget I work with antiques.’
‘I didn’t forget,’ said Fabian, his eyes still on Simmy. ‘But it’s nothing to do with oil paintings.’ He smiled, as if at a secret thought. ‘Though you may not be a million miles wrong, after all.’
‘So there’s nothing going on that would interest the police?’ Simmy challenged. ‘You can assure us of that, can you?’
Fabian nodded carelessly, and then changed it to a shake of his head, which could have been one of his twitches. ‘Nobody’s committed any crime – at least not in the past fifty years or so. Even if they had, there’d be nothing in it for the cops. They only
