Believing the Lie - Elizabeth George [158]
“Grudge? No, you wouldn’t, would you? You’re far too well bred for that.”
“Really, Isabelle darling, you’re upset about nothing. It’s everything that I said it was. Hillier wants this unknown at the Met and I’ve kept it that way.”
“It’s about trust, you know. And I’m not just talking about this situation. I’m talking about the other as well. You could ruin me, Tommy. One word and I’m finished. Gone. It’s done. If you don’t trust me, how can I trust you? God in heaven, what’ve I done to myself?”
“What you’ve done is work yourself into a state over nothing. What do you expect I’d do to you?”
“I step out of line, I don’t cooperate, I’m not quite the woman you think I should be…”
“And what? I march into Hillier’s office and say I’ve been my guv’s lover on the sly for the past four months, six months, two years, whatever? Is that what you think?”
“You could destroy me. I don’t have that equal power over you. You don’t need the job, you don’t even bloody want the job. We’re not equals in so many ways and this is the biggest one. Add to that the fact that there’s no trust now and what have we got?”
“What do you mean that there’s no trust now? That’s ridiculous. It’s completely absurd.” And then the question, because he suddenly knew— was sure of it— that he’d been wrong at first about her condition. “Have you been drinking?”
Silence. It was the worst thing to ask. He wished he could unsay it. But he couldn’t and her reply was soft.
“Thank you, Tommy,” she said. She cut off the call. She left him looking out at Great Urswick’s pond and a family of swans peacefully afloat upon the placid water.
LAKE WINDERMERE
CUMBRIA
After the detective left, Manette drove directly to Ireleth Hall. She parked on the drive and strode to the folly. She’d left with Freddie telling her that he’d had no choice but to speak, that if indeed Ian’s death was no accident, they had to get to the bottom of the matter. Anyway, he’d said, it was becoming clear that there were other matters they needed to get to the bottom of, also. Well and good, had been Manette’s reply. Getting to the bottom of things was exactly what she intended to do.
Mignon was at home. When was Mignon not at home? But she was not alone as she usually was, so Manette was forced to sit through the last part of her sister’s thrice-weekly head-and-foot massage. This was administered by a grave Chinese man who drove out from Windermere for this purpose, which was an hour on the head and an hour on the feet. Which, of course, their father would pay for.
Mignon was in a reclining chair, eyes closed, as her feet were seen to: pressure, massage, whatever the hell else it all was. Manette didn’t know and she hardly cared. But she understood her twin well enough to throw herself into a seat and wait because this was the only way she was going to be able to garner her sister’s cooperation. Interrupt her pleasure and there would be hell to pay.
It all took a tedious half hour. Occasionally, Mignon murmured, “So lovely,” or “Yes,” or “A bit more pressure to the left, darling.” The solemn Chinese man obliged as instructed. Manette wondered what he’d do if her sister asked him to suck on her toes.
At the end, the masseur gently wrapped Mignon’s feet in a warm towel. She moaned and said, “So soon? It seemed like five minutes.” Slowly, she opened her eyes and cast a radiant smile upon the man. “You are a miracle incarnate, Mr. Zhao,” she murmured. “You know where to send the bill, of course.”
Of course, Manette thought.
Mr. Zhao nodded and packed up his things. Oils and unguents and whatevers. Then he was gone, as silent as an embarrassing thought.
Mignon stretched in her chair. Arms raised high over her head, toes pointed, all of it like a luxuriating cat. Then she unwrapped her feet, got up, and strolled to the window, where she stretched a bit more. She bent to touch her toes, and she worked her body to loosen her waist and her hips. Manette half expected her to start doing jumping jacks. Anything to rub in the obvious joke that Mignon was continuing