Believing the Lie - Elizabeth George [160]
“Which is?”
“That I was married to Freddie when Ian chose Niamh. Now, that doesn’t quite make things fit, does it?”
“Details,” Mignon said. “Utterly insignificant. You didn’t want to marry Ian, anyway. You just wanted to… well, you know. Some poking and thrusting on the sly.”
“Don’t be absurd.”
“Whatever you say.” She yawned. “Are we finished here? I’d like to have a lie-down. Massages take it out of one, don’t they? So if there’s nothing else…”
“Stop this nonsense with Dad. I swear to you, Mignon, if you don’t— ”
“Please. Don’t be ridiculous. I’m taking what I’m owed. Everyone’s doing that. I can’t think why you aren’t.”
“Everyone? Like Vivienne Tully, for example?”
Mignon’s face became shuttered, but only for the instant it took her to come up with a nonchalant reply. “You’ll have to ask Dad about Vivver.”
“What do you know about her?”
“What I know isn’t important. It’s what Ian knew, darling. And it’s like I said: People take what they’re owed at the end of the day. Ian knew this better than anyone. He probably took some of the dosh himself. I wouldn’t be surprised. It would have been child’s play. He held the purse strings, after all. How difficult would it have been for him to do some skimming, only to have Dad find out about it? Get into that kind of chicanery and you’re not going to be able to do it forever. Someone’s going to get wise. Someone’s going to stop you.”
“That sounds like a cautionary tale you ought to heed yourself,” Manette told her sister.
Mignon smiled. “Oh, I’m the exception to every rule there is,” was her airy reply.
LAKE WINDERMERE
CUMBRIA
There was at least some truth in what Mignon had said. Manette had loved Ian once romantically, but it had been a young adolescent’s love, insubstantial and unsustainable albeit as obvious as the longing looks she’d cast in his direction over family dinners and the desperate letters she’d written and pressed into his hand at the end of holidays when he left for school.
Ian, alas, had not shared her passion. He’d been fond enough of Manette but there had finally come that one dreadful and never forgotten moment when he’d taken her aside during a half-term holiday, had handed her a shoe box of every one of her letters unopened, and had said to her, “Listen. Burn these, Manette. I know what they are, but it’s just not on.” He’d spoken not unkindly because unkindness had never been his way. But firmness had, and he’d been firm.
Well, we all survive these things, Manette had thought eventually. But now she wondered if some women weren’t constituted in a way to do so.
She went in search of her father. She found him on the west side of Ireleth Hall, far down on the lawn and quite near the lake. He was speaking to someone on his mobile phone, his head down as if with concentration. She considered coming upon him stealthily, but before she could do so, he concluded his call. He turned from the water to move towards the house, but when he saw her heading in his direction, he remained where he was and waited for her.
Manette tried to assess the look on his face. It was strange that he’d come out of the hall to make a phone call. He could, of course, have been having a walk and received a call in the midst of it. But somehow she doubted this. There was a furtiveness to the manner in which he slid the mobile into his pocket.
“Why’ve you let all this go on?” she asked her father as she came to his side. She was taller than he, just as her mother was.
Fairclough said, “Which part of ‘all this’ are you referring to?”
“Freddie’s got Ian’s books. He’s printed the spreadsheets. He’s got the programmes. You must have known he’d be putting things in order after Ian.”
“He’s demonstrating his competency, is Freddie. He’d like control of the firm.”
“That’s not his style, Dad. He’d take control of the firm if that’s what you asked of him, but that’s the extent of it. Freddie doesn’t scheme.”
“Are you certain?”
“I know Freddie.”
“We always think we know our spouses.