Chapter Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Seven
Baxter assembled the guests in the drawing room with the pretext of passing on an update from the gendarmes.
“You’d have thought they’d come themselves,” Damian grumbled.
“Typical French.” He took the corner of the sectional—the most comfortable seat—and leaned back, his arms stretched along the back of the sofa so that whoever sat next to him would fall automatically into his embrace.
A few days ago, Baxter thought, Sylvie might have made a beeline for that spot, but today she edged warily into the room and perched on the arm farthest away from him.
Jade and Carter sat on one side of Damian, Francesca on the other, at a distance that suggested strangers, not husband and wife.
There was plenty of room for Kaitlyn, but she pointedly fetched a dining chair instead, sitting stiffly with her hands in her lap.
Thierry, Miriam, and Red stood to one side. Everyone looked expectantly at Baxter.
He cleared his throat and prepared to channel his favorite detective, Hercule Poirot. “I expect you’re wondering why I’ve gathered you all here,” he said dramatically (and a little self-consciously; Baxter was not by nature dramatic).
“Not really,” Carter said. “You said the police had an update for us.”
“Indeed.” Baxter coughed. No one ever challenged Poirot like that. “But first of all, I have an update of my own.” He left a meaningful pause.
“Is it about the menu?” Sylvie said.
Jade perked up. “Could we have that fish thing again? The one we had a couple of days—”
“It’s not food related,” Baxter said firmly. “It’s about Mr. Prescott.”
“Surely Carter and I should be given any news privately,” Sylvie said. “We are his next of kin, after all. His only family,” she added pointedly, looking at Kaitlyn.
“This concerns you all.” Baxter clasped his hands behind his back. “Mr. Prescott’s death was not an accident.”
“We know that,” Damian said. “Damn fool should have played dead like the rest of us.”
“He wasn’t killed by the intruders.” Baxter paused. “In fact, there never was a break-in.”
Francesca gave a dry laugh. “Are you suggesting we imagined the whole thing? That my handbag ransacked itself?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“You’re talking in riddles, Baxter,” Carter snapped. “Get to the point.”
“The ‘burglary’ was an inside job.” Baxter’s gaze traveled over the guests, all of whom looked convincingly shocked. Several of them turned immediately to where Thierry, Miriam, and Red were standing.
“This is very disappointing.” Sylvie shook her head. “Alec told me you handpick your staff. Do you not ask for references? What about background checks?”
“It was not us!” Miriam’s outrage was instant. “Thierry and I have impeccable references.” She cast a sidelong glance to Red. “I cannot speak for her.”
Baxter held up a placating hand. He was beginning to enjoy this.
“Like you,” he said to Sylvie, “I considered that a member of my team was responsible. I have worked with Thierry for many years, and I am aware of his weakness for gambling. I wondered if he had borrowed money and had staged the break-in to cover his debts; he seemed in need of extra money.”
Thierry let out a low whistle. “I don’t owe anyone anything. Even if I did, I wouldn’t steal for it.”
“But it is true that you have been talking a lot about money,” Miriam said. “Always extra shifts, always hoping for a big tip …” She left this last hanging, glancing hopefully at the guests.
“I think you’ll find Thierry has been saving for something.” Baxter allowed himself a small smile. The crested paper he had seen in Thierry’s car had been a receipt from a prestigious jeweler in Cannes for a sapphire and diamond engagement ring. “I’m sure all will become clear very soon.”
“Nothing else is bloody clear.” Damian rolled his eyes. “Get to the point, man.”
“I considered Miriam too, of course.” Baxter tucked his thumbs into his waistband. “Mr. Prescott behaved indecently toward her, and she was understandably upset and angry about it.”
“So much for not speaking ill of the dead,” Sylvie murmured.
“You’re talking horseshit!” Carter banged his fist on his knee. “Dad would never do anything like that.”
Jade made a small sound, somewhere between a laugh and a cry. She cut herself short, but Carter had already turned to her.
“What?”
She seemed frozen, the color draining from her face. “I—”
“I do not presume to know precisely how Mr. Prescott has behaved in the past,” Baxter said, “but I understand he frequented an establishment at which Miss Thorne worked.”
“The Last Temptation,” Jade said quietly. “And I still work there, actually.”
“I thought you were a bartender at Bar 47?” Carter laughed, a slight unease creeping in. “The Last Temptation sounds like a—”
“Strip joint,” finished Jade. “It is.” She kept her eyes fixed on the floor in front of her. “I hate it, but it pays what I need to get myself through my law degree, and most of the patrons are respectful.” She paused and looked Carter dead in the eye. “Your dad wasn’t.”
“When Mr. Prescott recognized Miss Thorne,” Baxter said, “he saw an opportunity for what he called a ‘private performance.’ He threatened to tell Mr. Prescott Junior, something I imagine Miss Thorne feared could end their relationship.”
Tentatively, Jade reached for Carter, but he stood up abruptly, striding to the window and standing with his back to everyone.
“That’s a pretty strong motive for murder,” Damian said darkly.
“Indeed.” Baxter held his gaze. “But so is ambition, and you needed Mr. Prescott to finance your next project. With him out of the way, you would easily be able to convince the remaining company director to—shall we say—‘get into bed with you.’”
Francesca’s lower lip wobbled. Tears spilled over her lashes to run silently down her cheeks.
“Is that why …” Sylvie stared at Damian. “Was it only ever about the money?”
“It was never about the money. It was …” Damian looked first at Sylvie, then at his wife’s stricken face. “Oh God,” he said helplessly before—wisely, in Baxter’s view—falling silent.
“Of course Mr. Huxley wasn’t the only person who might profit from Mr. Prescott’s death,” Baxter continued. “Mr. Prescott threatened to cut off Carter’s allowance.”
“You think I’d have killed my own dad over that?” Carter stared at Baxter incredulously.
“No, I don’t.” Baxter paused. “Although it wasn’t only the allowance, of course. Mr. Prescott was in the process of redrafting his will to favor Ms. Hargreaves and their unborn baby … a baby we now know never existed.”
“The baby existed.” Kaitlyn’s interjection was sudden and raw. The whole room turned to look at her as she fought back tears. “He was only with me for a few weeks, but he existed.” Her hands crept to her stomach.
“You had a miscarriage?” Jade spoke quietly. “But you didn’t tell Alec?”
“And risk losing all that money?” Sylvie said drily.
“I didn’t care about the money!” Kaitlyn started crying. “I cared about him. About Alec. I loved him.” Looking at the stricken girl, Baxter thought she probably had. She wouldn’t see it now, but she’d had a lucky escape.
“You did care about the money though, didn’t you, Ms. Calloway?
” Baxter turned his attention on to Sylvie.
“As Mr. Prescott’s legal spouse, you still stood to inherit, and you were also keen to protect your son’s inheritance.
Which is presumably why you tore up the updated will.
” There were gasps at this. Sylvie flushed.
“What none of you realized is that there was no money.” Baxter watched the expressions on the guests’ faces. “Alec Prescott was broke.”
“So that’s why he wouldn’t invest in my film.” Damian shook his head. “I knew there was something up.”
“And why he wanted to cut my allowance,” Carter said slowly. “I thought he was just being tight. I mean, look at this place. It must have cost an arm and a—”
“It does indeed.” Baxter cut across him, feeling a slight thrill at behaving in a way so unbefitting of a butler.
“But Mr. Prescott was yet to pay for the hire of Villa Sérénité. In fact, he had several outstanding bills with the rental agency.” Baxter had called Anya Kovács earlier, informing her first of his findings in relation to Alec’s business affairs, including the phone call Miriam had overheard, in which Alec had begged for more time to repay a loan.
Anya had sighed. “As I feared. It seems I will have to have serious words with Mr. Prescott.”
“Ah …” Baxter had left a beat. “I’m afraid that’s the second thing I have to tell you …”
Now, Baxter walked slowly up and down in front of the fireplace.
“So many motives, and a break-in would offer the perfect opportunity.” He nodded to Red, who, on cue, slipped across the room.
“The murderer needed to know that should anyone be awake, they would be guaranteed to stay in their beds and not investigate any noises.”
The room was suddenly filled with an insistent, unrelenting hiss.
Kaitlyn screamed. Damian leaped to his feet, pulling his T-shirt up to cover his face, while Carter ran across the room and forced open the window, leaning out to fill his lungs with clean air and calling to Jade and Sylvie to do the same.
A handful of the room’s occupants were seemingly untroubled by the sound. Miriam and Thierry, whom Baxter had briefed, and Red, who was standing next to the sound system on which she had just pressed play.
And Francesca. She was on her feet too, moving slowly toward the door. Her tears had given way to a bitter expression, her cold eyes fixed on Baxter. He saw a glint of silver protruding from her trouser pocket, and realized she’d taken the key to the Porsche.
“Villa Sérénité has a high-spec sound system.” Baxter gestured to Red and as she pressed a button; the room fell mercifully silent again.
“There are speakers in all the rooms, positioned at around the same height as the air-conditioning units. I was intrigued to see who could have been playing music through the system in the early hours of the morning Mr. Prescott was murdered, and even more intrigued to discover the track had been intended to mimic the hiss of the sleeping gas used by the actual burglars. The sound system gave me the final piece of the puzzle: the phone used to upload the track.” Baxter looked at Francesca. “Yours, Mrs. Huxley.”
Sylvie gasped.
“Alec Prescott had insulted you. He said you were past your prime, too old even to play a character your own age. It destroyed you … so you destroyed him.”
“He deserved it,” Francesca spat. “He was an odious man— I’ve done you all a favor.”
“You saw me put in my earbud and listen to the track,” Baxter said. “You realized I had my suspicions about the break-in, so you greased the stairs and sabotaged the handrail, knowing I would be the first one up the following morning.”
Red walked toward Francesca. “We found the handrail screws in the pocket of a pair of shorts. We thought they were Sylvie’s at first—she was wearing them at breakfast—but they were yours.”
“Francesca said I could borrow anything I wanted,” Sylvie said. “I dropped a piece of nectarine on them at breakfast, so I put them in the laundry.”
“Rookie error, keeping the screws.” Red circled Francesca, wagging her finger. “You should have thrown them away.”
“I was going to put them back.” Francesca was backing away now, just a few steps from the top of the stairs.
“I recognized the scent of Ms. Thorne’s suntan oil,” Baxter said, “except that wasn’t hers either, was it?”
“I was using Francesca’s,” Jade said, her jaw falling open. “She left it by the pool—said I could help myself.”
“Unfortunately for you,” Baxter said, “I survived, and the incident only served to fuel my suspicions. You’re a good actress, Mrs. Huxley, but it’s time for your curtain call. The gendarmes are on their way to arrest you.”
Francesca narrowed her eyes. “Then I’d better get going.” She reached for the key in her pocket, and Baxter cursed himself for not thinking to hide them. The police had promised to be waiting, but if she got to the Porsche first, she could easily give them the slip.
But Baxter needn’t have worried. Francesca’s pocket was empty.
“Looking for something?” Red was grinning.
A Porsche key dangled from her outstretched hand.