The corpse with the gran.., p.1
The Corpse with the Granite Heart, page 1
part #11 of The Cait Morgan Mysteries Series
COPYRIGHT
The Corpse with the Granite Heart
Copyright © 2021 by Cathy Ace
Four Tails Publishing Ltd.
Date of first publication worldwide November 2021
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may
be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form,
or by any means, including photocopying, recording,
or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the
prior written permission of the publisher.
For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed
“Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at this address: fourtailspublishingltd@shaw.ca
Cover artwork: © Four Tails Publishing
Cover photograph: via Dreamstime
ISBN 978-1-990550-00-3 (paperback)
ISBN 978-1-9992230-9-0 (electronic book)
DEDICATION
For all those who allowed me to discover and develop
my love of Shakespeare
MONDAY
“…all the world’s a stage…”
The taxi journey from London’s Heathrow airport to the Chelsea Embankment had been a trip down memory lane, seeing places I’d been familiar with when I’d lived in London decades ago. Sadly, my darling husband Bud didn’t seem quite as enthralled, however he bucked up a bit when we headed through Earl’s Court toward the Thames, understanding we were nearing our final destination – John Silver’s home. The main purpose of our trip was to meet John’s freshly minted fiancée, one Bella Quiller, to whom he’d recently become engaged…little more than six months after he’d endured a blisteringly acrimonious split from his then-girlfriend, Lottie, with whom we’d spent a difficult time in Jamaica, earlier in the year.
The cab came to a surprisingly silent halt; the new London taxis might look as though they’re just a refreshed version of their old diesel-guzzling forebears, but their sleek metal shells hide a secret – they’re powered by electricity, so no longer rattle and belch while you’re getting out of them.
“Will we fit?” I asked as the cab eerily hissed away.
“How d’you mean?” Bud looked puzzled…tired, a bit grumpy, and puzzled. To be fair, I’d managed to sleep for at least eight of the nine and a half hours of our flight from Vancouver while he’d – apparently – managed no more than a catnap; unusual for a man who swears his years in law enforcement allowed him to develop the ability to sleep on a pin, at will.
I replied, “I’d put money on Number 1, Thamesview Terrace, Pimlico – John’s home, in other words – being no more than twelve feet wide. Where’s he going to put us?”
Bud and I scanned the five houses which comprised the terrace – they were almost identical: the ground floor of each sported a window and front door; each upstairs floor was clad with slate, within which was set a pair of tall, narrow windows. The only distinctive feature of the dwellings was the color of the front doors – each was a different pastel shade. We were due to be John’s houseguests for five nights, and I was imagining us being shoe-horned into something no bigger than a box room.
“We could have stayed at a hotel,” I said, sounding as underwhelmed as I felt. “I know it would have cost a fair bit, but we could have afforded it.”
“We’re here as his guests, Cait. Besides, it’s a great view,” said Bud, turning and giving his attention to the Thames and the imposing sight of Battersea Power Station beyond it. He was right; the waters transformed the slate afternoon skies into an Impressionist’s rendering of color and texture.
A bus swooshed past, and I scampered away from the threat of filthy, flying spray. “Come on, it looks like it’s about to start snowing again.” I began to drag my uncooperative suitcase toward the two steps leading up to the doorway.
“Stay there – I’ll do it,” said Bud, grappling with both our bags. “I texted John from the cab, he knows we’re due.”
As my husband raised his hand to the knocker, the door flew open and there stood John Silver, Bud’s sometime-colleague in all manner of international intelligence-gathering activities, and our savior on a couple of occasions. He looked a great deal better than the last time I’d laid eyes on him: then he’d been haggard – looking older than his sixty-ish years – and coming to terms with a significant discovery about his own fallibility – so, not his best. Now? He looked happy, and in great shape; his long, lean body looked slightly fuller than usual around his midsection, and his smile? It could have illuminated the whole of Trafalgar Square.
“Bud! Cait! How wonderful. Come on in…”
John took Bud’s suitcase, and Bud stepped down to take mine. Once both men, and both pieces of luggage, had disappeared through the door, I followed. John immediately enveloped me in his long arms, squashing my face into his chest. Tall people never seem to realize they could easily suffocate a short person when they hug them.
John eventually released me, then stepped back and told us how well he thought we were looking – considering we’d been on the road for pretty much twenty-four hours. Bud commented upon the size of John’s smile. John patted his tummy, rolled his eyes in naughty-schoolboy fashion, and replied, “That’s not all that’s bigger these days – Bella’s a dab hand in the kitchen.”
“And we’ll get to meet the lucky woman this evening, right?” asked Bud.
“Yes…yes, you will…” John was faffing – never a good sign.
“Anything we should know?” I couldn’t help but ask.
John let go of the handle he was fiddling with and looked at his feet; another tell of his. “We’re having dinner at her place. You’ll meet her then, and her sister, and brother…and a few other close friends of the family, too.”
I could tell by the redness creeping up John’s neck there was something he wasn’t sharing; for a secret service liaison he’s worryingly transparent, on occasion.
“And?” I prompted.
Bud flashed a frown at me, but John finally made eye contact.
He swallowed. “It’s not one of her spag bol specials. Rather, it’s a dinner to mark what would have been Bella’s late-father’s eightieth birthday. He died a few weeks back.”
“Sorry to hear it,” said Bud. “Was he…? I mean, how did he…?” It’s not often Bud’s lost for words, so I decided he must have been as tired as he’d claimed.
John came to his old comrade’s rescue. “Don’t panic – no cause for alarm at all. I know what life’s like for you two, having to unmask killers wherever you go. This was one of those ‘blessed release’ situations; poor chap had been ill for some time. Cancer. Pretty much riddled with it by the end. Only managed three days in palliative care. Bella’s doing…not well, to be truthful. Maybe, considering the circumstances, that’s understandable, but be assured those circumstances are absolutely not suspicious. While death appears to follow you wherever you go, on this occasion it beat your arrival quite handily, but with no reason for you two to become involved. You may stand down, sir, madam.” He mugged a grin and saluted both Bud and me.
Bud seemed strangely relieved by John’s assurances. “Like I said, sorry to hear of his loss, for Bella’s sake, and her family. But, if what you say is true, at least we’re not wading into muddy waters.” Yes, Husband, you’re definitely tired.
I thought it best to not pick up on John’s comment that his fiancée wasn’t doing well. Besides, I was in urgent need of a loo, so had no option but to break the mood of the moment to ask if our host could direct me to the nearest bathroom.
“Let’s get you into your digs, then you can use your own,” he said, seemingly pleased to have an end to the conversation. He opened a door leading off the hallway, and I was surprised to find myself looking into an exceptionally large bedroom.
“Oh, it’s bigger on the inside!” I sounded as surprised as I felt.
Bud laughed. “That’s a Doctor Who reference, I’ve learned.”
John patted Bud on the shoulder. “No need to explain, old man. I grew up terrified of the Daleks too. And yes, it is, Cait. I dare say you’ve worked out by now that the front of the building I call home is no more than a façade. This terrace was built in the 1960s on the spot where two large Georgian homes had been bombed flat during the war. They built five little houses on the site, then a chap snapped up the whole lot in the mid-1980s and remodeled it like this, knocking four homes into one, leaving Number 5 as a separate dwelling. Vaseem and Vinnie live there – they look after this place when I’m away, and look after me when I’m here: shopping, laundry, cooking, driving, that sort of thing. I don’t take any rent from them, of course. Quid pro quo. Great blokes. Don’t know what I’d do without them.”
“Sounds like an ideal arrangement all round,” said Bud.
“It is,” replied John, beaming. “This’ll be your room for the duration, and your bathroom is through that door. I’m just along the hallway, at the back of the house. Everything else is upstairs – for the view to the river across the road, of course. I’ll let you get yourselves sorted, then why not come up when you’re ready? We’ll need to head out of here in about an hour and a half. Smart casual is fine – it’s nothing too formal this evening, just a small gathering, as I said. But, Bud, I suppose I should mention that smart casual here would suggest a jacket, if no tie, okay, old man?”
As Bud and John exchanged some friendly banter about John’s use of the term “old man” when referr
“I do remember what it’s like to move in London society, John,” I remarked, possibly more snappily than I’d meant to…because I could now actually see the door to the bathroom that was calling my name. “Bud’s brought one good multi-purpose jacket which should be suitable.”
John smiled. “Of course, you used to live in London, Cait. Right-o, see you in a bit.”
John left, and I dashed to the loo. When I emerged, Bud was coming into our room from the hallway with his suitcase; mine was already in front of the large built-in wardrobe.
“Nice room,” he said, bouncing on the edge of the bed – which I judged to be a double. “Tiny bed, though. We’ll have to cuddle.”
I sat beside him. “Yes, Wife will be a lot closer tonight than she usually is at home…though Marty won’t be between us, gradually wriggling himself into his preferred sideways position, with each of us hanging onto our edge of the mattress – so we’ll probably have more room than normal, if you think about it that way.”
“To be honest, I don’t care how small it is, this bed looks like heaven at the moment.” Bud actually stroked the duvet. “If we’re due out of here in ninety minutes, do you think it would be rude of me to grab a nap for an hour? I don’t know, maybe I’m getting too old for all this jetting around the world. I’m a bit wiped out.” He looked at his watch. “Do you reckon it’s too early back home to check with Jack and Sheila that Marty’s settled in okay?”
I squeezed Bud’s hand. “He’ll be fine – you know he adores going to stay with them, probably because they always spoil him rotten. He always comes back to us an even tubbier black Lab than when they take him in.”
“True,” replied Bud, yawning.
“Look, I tell you what, you get out of those clothes and into bed. I’ll pull out what we need for this evening, so the creases can ease in your clean shirt, then I’ll text Sheila, and pop upstairs to catch up with John while you nap. I’ll wake you in time for you to jump into what you’ll see is a spectacular shower – with body-jets and so forth – then I’m sure you’ll be your usual sparkling self over pre-dinner drinks.”
Bud yawned again. “No argument from me. And it sounds as though we’ll both need to be on form if we’re at a birthday party for a dead man, and meeting John’s fiancée. But at least this guy died a natural death, so I dare say we should be grateful for that, given our track record.”
I knew what he meant. “Yes, poor thing. Horrible, but natural, as you say. And I’m dying to meet Bella.”
“Not a joke, right?”
“Absolutely no joke intended,” I replied.
Bud was already clambering between the sheets, his clothes tossed on an antique slipper chair in the corner of the room. I unpacked as quietly as I could, then went to hunt for John upstairs.
I found him in what turned out to be an enormous open-concept white box into which had been dropped black leather sofas, a glass-topped dining table – all accented with massive pieces of multi-colored abstract art on the walls – and an all-white kitchen with a vast marble-topped peninsula.
John was sitting on a chrome stool beside the countertop, his head on his arm, his free hand clutching a tumbler of amber liquid. His back heaved as he sobbed.
Oh dear…what now?
“…the course of true love…”
My tummy clenched, but I strode the length of the room until I could rub John’s back. “What’s up?” I asked.
John’s face was puffy, his eyes rimmed with red. “Bella just phoned. She says the wedding’s off.”
I was taken aback. “Wedding? You only just got engaged. You’d already set a date for the wedding?” News to me.
“Chelsea Town Hall. This Friday at three thirty. Bella and I were going to ask you and Bud to be our witnesses when we were all together this evening. Now? Now I don’t know…”
I didn’t say anything. Sometimes I am capable of that…just about. I pulled a face to signify sympathy, and rubbed John’s back a little harder.
“I love her so much, Cait. I don’t know what I’d do without her.”
All sorts of comments swirled in my head, most concerning the fact that he and Bella had known each other for only a few months, and hadn’t he been head over heels for Lottie the last time I’d seen him? But I knew I shouldn’t utter a word. I also knew that if I rubbed his back any harder, or longer, I might start to slough off his skin through his shirt, so I stood back and looked around to see if I could spot a kettle: a pot of tea was called for.
“I’m so sorry, John,” was the most neutral and supportive statement I could muster as I scanned the cavernous kitchen. Not a kettle to be seen – neither electric, nor stovetop. How on earth did John boil water?
“Fancy a cuppa, instead of whatever’s in that glass?” I was concerned I might have to cope alone with John trying to drown his sorrows until I had a chance to rouse Bud.
“I’ll do it.” John sounded defeated, and looked it, too. He stood, still towering over me despite an unusual stoop. “She’s not been the same since her father died. She’d led me to believe they weren’t terribly close, but his death has cast a tremendous pall over Bella and her sister. I’ve been hoping tonight’s marking of her father’s birthday would give them a chance to get past this…this…I don’t know what to call it, really. They’ve both become extraordinarily maudlin since he died. Bella’s not like that, as a rule. One of the reasons I love her is that she’s always full of light, and hope. She’s such a wonderful person, Cait – always positive. Upbeat. Sees the good in everyone, and every situation. Loves to be…well, I suppose spontaneous is the best word. Surprises me all the time. A little madcap, on occasion. But I enjoy indulging her; life’s not been a bed of roses for poor Bella, not by a long chalk. Her sister…well, she was always the apple of their father’s eye, and Bella always came second in his thoughts. Nowadays she’s just dreadfully miserable all the time.”
I weighed my response. “The death of a loved one can affect a person in the most unexpected ways, John. Maybe seeing her father suffer through a protracted illness ground her down, emotionally, then his death provided the release you mentioned earlier, but at the expense of her feeling some guilt.”
“But she didn’t see him suffer, that’s the thing.” John sounded as though he were talking to himself, not me. “She hadn’t seen her father for years. He remained close to her sister, but Bella and he didn’t even speak to each other, and she rarely spoke about him. Until he died, that is. Prior to his death I knew almost nothing about him…except for his public persona. And I’d done a bit of extra research into him and his background, of course, when I was…well, while I was doing a bit of digging around in Bella’s history.” He nibbled his lip. “After that mess with Lottie, you’d expect me to at least do that, right?”
I nodded. Oh yes, at least that, John. “You learned a great deal from that, I’m sure. And I know from personal experience that it’s possible to pick entirely the wrong person before you find the right one. Just think of me and Angus; he was absolutely the worst thing that ever happened to me. Took me down to rock bottom. But now? Now there’s Bud. See? It’s possible to find good coming from bad. Though I’m sorry to hear you say Bella’s not coping well with her father’s death.”
“Oh Cait, she’s become obsessed by the man, and he’s no longer here – he’s dead and should be gone, but it’s as though his shadow has lingered, and it’s brought her to this point where she says she can’t go through with the wedding.”
I had no idea who Bella’s father had been, nor why he had what John had called a “public persona”, but I realized finding out wasn’t a priority at that precise moment. “Did she give you a reason for wanting to postpone the wedding?”
