The Imposter

Hargreaves cleared the plates away and, as if that was the signal to resume the conversation, Joseph brought the conversation straight back to Jack Spot. “You think he spoke to the police?” he said, finishing the last of his glass of wine and pouring again.

“Who else would’ve done that?”

It was all becoming such an effort. Edward recognised the fatigue very well––the languor of a player who, in the furtherance of a difficult performance, has given his all. But he was in the last Act now, and he knew he must persevere. “I agree, for what it’s worth,” he concurred.

Hargreaves returned with soufflés and coffee. Edward attempted to finish his, and failed.

Violet dabbed her spoon through the delicate crust. “But how did he know you would be there?”

Thunder boomed overhead, rattling the glass in the windows.

Edward spoke calmly and carefully. “That’s it, isn’t it? Someone has betrayed you. Someone who’s been involved. They told Spot about Honeybourne and Spot tipped off the police. He wants the family off the street, doesn’t he?––can you think of a better way to do it than this? There’s no risk to him and no more bloodshed. It gets George out of the way, too. The police have done his work for him. It’s perfect. He’ll take his chance and take all of Soho now.” He stopped to let his words register. “If you don’t act now, there won’t be another chance.”

“What about Roger?”

“That must have been someone who knew you had a dog. Someone who knew the house, too, so that they could get in, take him, and get out again. Spot wouldn’t know that without help. And you, Joseph, unless it was all a complete coincidence, he must have been told by someone who knew what you were going to do that night.”

“I feel sick,” Chiara said.

Joseph pushed his untouched soufflé to the side. “Where was Billy today?”

“I’m wondering that too,” Edward allowed. He spoke with elaborate care––the very essence of probity––he would let them draw their conclusions themselves.

“He did all this?” Violet said.

“Who else?”

Violet’s cup made three distinct clicks against the saucer as she set it down. “It can’t be him. I knew his mother and father.”

“Then where was he this morning?” Joseph’s face was redder, and a nerve in his cheek trembled. He set his empty wine glass down rather hard on the table.

Violet went across to the drinks cabinet and poured four brandies. Chiara sipped hers and then, putting it down, pushed away from the table and stood. “This is just pointless talk!” she said indignantly, walking towards the fire. “Talk got us into this mess. There’s no more time for talk. We need to do something.” Her alabaster cheeks had turned to a pale olive colour and her dark eyes flashed at Violet. “Who cares if it was Billy? I don’t. We can deal with that later. Whoever betrayed us, that damage has already been done. It’s what comes next that is important. Look at us, sitting here, eating a pleasant meal, talking about it, doing nothing. Spot has had his way with us for too long. He’s gone too far. Do I need to spell it out? He came to our house. He killed my dog. Father would have had him shot for that!”

Edward was surprised, and secretly gratified, by this burst of vehemence. It was Joseph’s quick trigger that he had hoped to tease into activity. That was why he had spared him from the police and why he had humiliated him before his fiancée. His sister had never shown any interest in the family business before, and, although he had witnessed the Italian side to her personality––the temper, the sudden eruptions of fervour––he had never seen it in this context. She had always been ambivalent––or perhaps even slightly embarrassed––about the family business, or so he had thought. He saw now that he had misread her. It was a mistake that he was pleased to have made.

Joseph nodded avidly. “She’s right. Edward and I talked about it while we were walking here. He has an idea of what we need to do. You should listen to him.”

Violet sipped her brandy, her eyes glittering over the rim of the tumbler. “Very well.” She turned her cool gaze onto him. Her lips had a firm line, like lips that seldom smiled or spoke. “Tell us, then, Edward––what would you do?”

There was a portentous crack from the woods nearby and they automatically looked out of the window. The tops of the pines and the fir still flexed, but if any tree had fallen, it was too dark for them to see it.

“Well?”

Edward got up and walked to the window just as the wind threw a hard spray of rain against the panes. He winced at it, and then, his back to them all, took a breath and picked his words very deliberately. He had anticipated this, readied himself for it, and, after coming so far, he did not want to fluff his lines. “You can’t just ignore him any more,” he said, his tone calm and even. He spoke as if he were addressing a classroom of children who were not listening very well. “Spot isn’t going to settle for Soho, he wants everything. There’s no other choice––you have to fight back now. If you don’t, he’ll finish you off and then there’ll be nothing left for the family. No business. No income. No position. Nothing. He’ll take it all––this house, even, if he wants it. You don’t have anything to lose and it still isn’t too late. But you need to make a statement.”

She regarded him coolly. “What kind of statement?”

“Something he can’t ignore.”

PART SIX

London

April 1946

64

ST MARK’S WAS THE PARISH CHURCH nearest to Halewell Close. It was a Norman building, laid out in cruciform shape and with seating for three hundred. Violet had hired a London florist to dress the building for the wedding and it had taken three days until she was satisfied: armfuls of flowers had been arranged in vases and tied to the ends of the pews and the altar was lit with twenty large candles that spat and sputtered, throwing dancing shadows across the walls. It was cool and crisp behind the thick stone walls. Plenty of the seats were taken but there were spaces. George Costello and Jack McVitie and the other men who had been arrested at Honeybourne were all absent. Billy Stavropoulos was absent.

Edward allowed himself the indulgence of a private smile. Joseph had looked for Billy for three days with no success. He seemed more and more convinced of his guilt to the point that just the mention of his name now would trigger his temper. Edward didn’t have to do anything to foster his suspicion. Edward was proud of his work. He had engineered things so that Joseph would reach his own conclusions and everything else had followed naturally from there. He thought that it had been masterfully executed and, tonight, he would start to snip away the loose ends.

Joseph had asked Edward to replace Billy as Best Man and he had graciously accepted. That really was the icing on the cake, he thought. He allowed himself a moment of smugness. His fingers closed around the box in his right-hand pocket and he pulled it out.

Eve and Joseph were gazing at each other happily. Edward stared out into the crowd beyond. There were plenty of faces that he recognised. He drew his gaze forwards and, at the front, there was Chiara. She was one of Eve’s bridesmaids. She was wearing a peach-coloured dress, the same as the others, and the colour suited her. She noticed Edward’s eyes on her and she smiled at him softly.

The vicar arranged Joseph and Eve so that they were facing each other. At his direction, Joseph took the ring and slipped it onto Eve’s finger.

“I now pronounce you man and wife.”

Joseph bowed his head and kissed Eve. As he withdrew, and before he turned to the congregation, he looked to his side, at Edward, and smiled.