“How did it go?” Monica asked, putting the Aston Martin in gear and driving away.
“As planned, I think; Pickering seems to have everything well in hand.”
“I was surprised at how subdued he was when he questioned me,” she said. “He has a reputation as a tiger in court.”
“I think he went out of his way to give the impression that he was unconcerned about the outcome. He would not have wanted the coroner to think that he was defending Sarah of a charge.”
“Then he’s clever.”
“Yes, he is.”
“Did he need to be?”
“It never hurts, if a lawyer can avoid being seen to be clever.”
They drove in silence for half an hour. Finally, Monica spoke again. “Lance seems to think that Sarah did it deliberately.”
“None of the evidence I’m aware of supports that view.”
“So you think it was an accident?”
“Yes.” And he would continue to prefer to think that. Then he thought about Sarah’s late-night visit to him two nights before. A fling on her part, nothing more, he told himself.
She dropped him at the Connaught. “Dinner this week sometime?”
“Let me call you; I don’t know yet how long I’ll be here.”
She handed him a card. “Home, gallery, and cellphone.”
He thanked her and followed the porter into the hotel.
“You have a number of messages, Mr. Barrington,” the concierge said, handing him some small envelopes.
Stone waited until he was back in his suite to open them. Two were from John Bartholomew, or whoever he was, one was from Dino, and one was from Bill Eggers at Woodman & Weld. Stone dialed the New York number for Bartholomew. The number rang, then was interrupted, then rang again.
“Yes?”
“It’s Stone Barrington.”
“I’ve been trying to reach you, but the phone I gave you wasn’t working.”
Stone looked over and saw the phone resting on its charger. “I’m sorry; I forgot to take the phone with me when I went away for the weekend.”
“I read about your weekend in the morning papers,” Bartholomew said.
Not the New York papers, Stone thought. Bartholomew was still in London.
“Hello?”
“I’m still here.”
“What have you learned?”
“That Cabot calls himself an independent business consultant.”
Bartholomew made a snorting sound. “Of course.”
“And that Erica Burroughs is not your niece.”
Now it was Bartholomew who was silent.
“And her mother is not dead, though her father is.”
“It’s not necessary for you to know everything,” Bartholomew said.
“Perhaps not, but it’s necessary, if we’re to continue this relationship, that what I do know is true and not a lie.”
“My apologies,” Bartholomew said stiffly. “What do you want to know?”
“Why do you want Lance Cabot in an English jail?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Is your interest in him personal, or are you working for someone else?”
“Both.”
“Who are you?”
“Do you wish to continue to represent me in this matter?” Now Bartholomew was angry.
“I don’t much care one way or the other,” Stone replied evenly, “but I don’t like to be kept in the dark about the motives for my investigation.”
“I’m afraid it will have to be that way for a time, but I’d like very much for you to continue.”
Stone made his decision. “All right, I’ll continue.” Until I find out what the hell is going on, he thought.
“Good. But please keep the phone I gave you on your person at all times. I don’t like not being able to reach you.”
“All right.”
“Contact me again when you have something to report.”
“All right.”
Bartholomew hung up without further ado.
Stone called Bill Eggers.
“Hi there, you called while I was in Chile?”
“Yes, I did. You’re going to Chile for the weekend, nowadays?”
“At the invitation of a client who has a Gulfstream Four.”
“You’re a lucky man. Who is the man you sent to see me last week?”
“How do you mean, ‘who’?”
“What’s his real name, for a start.”
“I thought it was Bartholomew.”
“It’s not; I know that much. How did he come to you?”
“A client referred him.”
“Who’s the client?”
“I’m afraid that’s confidential.”
“Where is the client located?”
“In Washington; you can infer what you wish from that.”