Helen frowned. “Good Lord, Jack, whatever can I tell you about Nigel that you don’t already know?” She seemed surprised.
“Quite a lot, I think. You see, I never really knew him, and my mother always bad-mouthed him. Peter, God bless him, never uttered an unkind word about anybody, and chose not to discuss Nigel with me, when I asked questions as I grew older.”
“But what is it you want to know?” She frowned, peered at him. “And why now?”
“Because I’m writing about something that happened in the nineteen-seventies, and I think he might have been friends with one of the men featured in my piece,” he improvised.
“Oh, I see, all right then. Ask away, my dear.”
“It’s a story about art, actually, Aunt Helen, and I was told that my father used to be a friend of a man called Marius Remmington. Is that true?”
Helen was silent for a moment, and then she nodded. “They were more than just friends, Jack, they were best friends. At one time they were virtually inseparable, as I remember it. That would have been thirty years ago, in 1977. Before Marius had opened the Remmington Gallery in Cork Street. He had a much smaller one called the Glade Gallery, I think.”
“Do you know if my father was ever involved in business with him? In the art business?”
“I don’t know. . . . I don’t think so. Why?”
“I just wondered, that’s all. So was Marius married in those days?”
“Oh, no, he was single, and quite the gay blade, the man about town. So was your father, well, a little bit. . . . Nigel was a flirt, and it was all harmless fun, as far as he was concerned. But I know your mother used to get angry with him.” Helen shook her head. “She just didn’t like Marius. She thought he was a bad influence on your father, leading him astray.”
“You say that as if you don’t believe it.” Jack scrutinized his aunt, wondering about those years long ago, very curious now.
“I never thought your father betrayed your mother, not in the early days. They were married when they were both twenty-eight, and in love. Then you came along two years later. Nigel was all right, a nice chap, as I said.”
“And Marius? Tell me more about him.”
“He was good-looking. Very handsome, and the silver hair was unique, especially with that young face of his. He played around a lot, but he was single at the time. Then he became entangled with some young artist. I can’t remember what she was called, it was an odd name, but she was beautiful, and they were an item for a long time. It might have been that the friendship with your father cooled a bit around that time.”
“So they quarreled? Is that what you’re saying?”
Helen sat thinking, and then murmured, “No, I don’t think they fell out, nothing like that. But Marius was really involved with the girl. For several years at least, and I guess she took up a lot of his time. And I think your father was . . . well, left out.”
“I know what you mean, two’s company, three’s a crowd. Anyway, were Marius and my father still friends when Nigel was killed?”
Helen sat up in the chair with a slight jerk and stared at him. “Killed? What do you mean by that?”
“Nigel was killed in battle. He stepped on a land mine on some battlefield in some far-flung corner of the world, according to my mother.”
“Your mother told you that?” Helen’s eyes narrowed, and she kept shaking her head over and over, looking baffled and a bit put out.
Jack said, “My father was a war correspondent, wasn’t he?”
“No, he wasn’t.”
“But he was a journalist?”
“Yes, and right in the beginning, when he was in his twenties, he did a short stint as a war correspondent. After he married your mother, Eleanor made him give it up. You see, she was afraid he would be killed. And after that he was based in London. He soon made a name for himself with a very clever column, which was so well written it won him countless accolades and major prizes all the time. He became famous.”
Jack sat back, gaping at his aunt, shocked by her words. Why was nothing ever the way it seemed? he wondered, and let out a long sigh. Then he asked, “Why on earth would my mother fabricate that whole story about him being addicted to war? Forever chasing danger, being blown up on a battlefield? It doesn’t make sense.”
“I’m afraid it doesn’t, Jack, and I don’t know why she told you a pack of lies. Nor do I know why she bad-mouthed him to you.” There was a pause, then she continued, “Perhaps she felt let down by him. About twenty-five years ago, Marius broke up with the artist, and he and your father were back being best mates. If I remember correctly, that’s when your mother was growing disenchanted with your father. Perhaps after his death, when you were old enough to ask questions, she wanted to glamorize him, and so she said he was a war correspondent who died in action. A hero perhaps? I just don’t know.”
“I cannot believe she’d do that. . . . She lied to me. And over and over again. Why did she want me to hate him? Because she did?” Jack was suddenly angry, as well as shaken up.
Helen North shook her head, as baffled and upset as her nephew was. Rising, she went and sat down next to him on the sofa, took hold of his hand. “I have no explanation for her behavior, Jack, and I know how upsetting it is to hear that she didn’t tell you the truth. But I am telling you how it really was.”
“Oh, Aunt Helen, I know that. I’m just bloody astonished and shocked. Anyway, how did my father die?”
“He fell down some steps and hit his head. It was a bad injury.”
“Where did this happen, Aunt Helen?”
“In his house in Notting Hill. You might not remember it, but you lived there as a child.”
“No, I don’t remember the house. So what happened? I mean, was he dead and someone found him? Or what?”
“Actually your mother and I found him, Jack.”
“Oh, my God! That’s terrible. It must have been some shock for you both.” He threw her a sympathetic look, squeezed her hand.
“It was. Let me explain. Your mother and father had separated. He loved the house, your mother didn’t, so she was happy to let him keep it. She moved into a flat near me. Anyway, one evening she decided we must go over to see him. She wanted to pick up certain things. She still had a key. We went in and found him on the hall floor. Bleeding. There was a lot of blood, Jack.”
“Oh, my God.” He shuddered. “So you called an ambulance, is that it?”
“Yes, we did. . . .” Helen paused, bit her lip. “It was a shock for your mother, and for me . . . finding him like that.”
“Was he actually dead when you arrived? Or did he die in hospital?” Jack wanted to know everything.
“In the ambulance,” Helen murmured, her voice low and sad.
“Well, at least I know the whole truth now,” Jack asserted quietly.
Helen sat back on the sofa, remembering that night so well. It was as if it had happened only yesterday, so vivid was it in her mind. And she also remembered something else. She wanted to tell Jack about what she had seen, but hesitated, not sure that she ought to do so. All this had happened so long ago.
Jack, as always astute, said, “Are you holding something back, Aunt Helen? Is there something you’re not telling me? You do know you can tell me anything, don’t you? After all, we’re family. In fact, except for Kyle, you’re the only family I have left.”
“I know. . . . I was remembering that night. It came back to me with such vividness I feel a little shaken, to tell you the truth.” She turned to him, looked into his eyes, and said slowly, in a voice so quiet it was almost inaudible, “I saw something when we were going into the house. . . .”
“What was it?” he asked tensely, his gaze riveted on her.
“I saw someone, Jack, and I thought at once that the person must have just left Nigel’s house. . . .” She stopped and took a deep breath, obviously not wanting to go on. “I do remember thinking exactly that.”
“But whom did you see?” Jack pressed, anxious to know everyt
hing.
“Marius Remmington,” she said at last. “Just a few yards down the street, getting into a taxi. It was April, and there was a full moon, and I recognized his profile, and especially the silver hair.”
“And what did my mother say?”
“She didn’t see him. She was looking in her bag for the key, getting it in the door, then going into the house. I was behind her on the step, and happened to look down the street. And I saw him. I heard your mother scream, and I ran into the house, and I forgot about seeing Marius in the street. But much later, I did think about it again, and worried about it.”
“Why?”
“Because the doctor at the hospital made a remark about not being sure if your father had died because of the fall. Or because he had been hit by an object which had caused blunt force trauma. Words to that effect.”
“You mean somebody might have hit Nigel on the head?”
“Perhaps. Of course there’s no way of knowing, and perhaps I shouldn’t have told you. I don’t want you to think I’m accusing Marius Remmington of anything, because I’m not. I think it was him in the street that night, but obviously I can’t swear to it.”
“But why would Marius Remmington want to kill my father?”
“There was no reason. They were best friends,” Helen said, wishing she had kept quiet.
“Perhaps Marius arrived, found Nigel before you got there, discovered he was dead, and just left,” Jack ventured.
“But would he leave his best friend in that condition? Wouldn’t he have called an ambulance? Like your mother and I did.”
“Yes, he would. And I don’t think Marius would have been that callous. Nigel might have fallen after Marius left.”
“So many doubts . . . Am I not correct, Jack?”
“Yes, you are. Was there an inquest?”
“There was. The verdict was accidental death.”
“So the blunt force trauma was never proved.”
“No, it wasn’t. . . . There was always doubt there.”
Jack stood up, walked over to the window, and looked out, his thoughts racing. Finally he turned to face his aunt. “You’ve told me a lot more than I expected to hear today, Aunt Helen, but I’m glad you did. It helps to know the truth, at least most of it.”
Helen gave Jack a penetrating glance. “I hope you won’t use that bit about Marius, because I’m not really sure it was him in the street, you know.”
“Of course I won’t use it. He’s still alive and I don’t want to get sued for libel or defamation of character or some such thing. I’m afraid I’ve got to leave now, but I’ll pick you up tomorrow at ten.”
“That’ll be lovely, Jack,” Helen said, and walked with him to the door.
After hugging her he left and went down in the lift, his thoughts still racing. Marius Remmington. The man was more paramount in his mind than ever. Malcolm had said he was dangerous. Was he a murderer? Jack aimed to find out.
Forty-two
“Malcolm Stevens is in reception, Annette,” Esther said from the doorway. “I know you’re about to leave for a meeting at Sotheby’s, but he absolutely insists on talking to you. He says it’s an emergency.”
“Oh, my God! I hope Laurie’s all right. Please show him in, Esther.” Annette stood up and walked around her desk.
“What’s wrong, Malcolm?” Annette asked as he came into her office a moment later. She saw how worried he looked and knew something serious had happened. She went over to him and he hugged her.
“It’s nothing to do with Laurie,” Malcolm then reassured her. “It’s about Marius.”
“Marius?” She looked puzzled. “What about him?”
“He’s in hospital, Annette. St. Thomas’s. We must go to see him immediately. I have a car waiting.”
Annette grabbed her handbag, and as they hurried out she stopped at Esther’s office, quickly explained where they were going and why, adding, “Please cancel my appointments for today. I’ll be in touch.”
Once they were in the street and Malcolm had called the car on his mobile, she said, “What happened to Marius? Was he in some kind of accident? What’s wrong with him?”
“I’m not exactly sure, but we’ll know as soon as we get there. I received a phone call about twenty minutes ago, from a woman called Elizabeth Grayson. She said she had a breakfast meeting arranged with Marius. It was about buying a painting. She was waiting for him in the lobby of the Dorchester. As he came in, he saw her, waved, and came walking over, then suddenly collapsed in the middle of the lobby. She ran to him, as did several of the hotel staff. An ambulance was called, and as they were waiting for it to arrive, Marius gave her my number, asked her to call me. Which she did.”
“But why did he collapse? What’s wrong with him? Didn’t she say anything else?”
“No. Just that Marius wanted her to phone me. She did explain that the ambulance men didn’t want her to go to the hospital with him. That’s all I know.”
At this moment the car arrived. Malcolm helped her in, went around to the other side, and got in next to her. “Try not to worry. I’m sure he’s going to be all right,” he said, squeezing her arm.
“He just had a checkup, Malcolm. The doctor said he was very fit.” After a moment, Annette added, “Elizabeth Grayson must be a new client. I’ve never heard of her, have you?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“I wonder why Marius told her to call you, not me?”
Malcolm was silent.
Annette looked at him, and said in a quiet tone, “I don’t actually know where exactly he was this weekend. He went to Gloucestershire to see a client.”
Turning, Malcolm stared at her. Frowning, he asked, “Didn’t he phone you over the last couple of days?”
“No. He’d left me a note. I found it after I came back from lunch with Laurie. He’d written that he might stay over. I didn’t give it another thought. He’s always been like that, sort of . . . well, evasive, vague, hard to pin down, to find. Not that I ever try to do such a thing now. Once when I did he was furious.”
“He’s always been a bit of a loner in a certain sense.”
“Yes.” She looked out of the window, wondering what was wrong with Marius. Thinking out loud, she said, “Could he have had a stroke? A heart attack? What do you think?”
“I don’t want to play guessing games,” Malcolm murmured. “Let’s wait until we get the proper opinions from doctors.”
The traffic was moving quickly and the car was soon traveling at a good speed down Westminster Bridge Road, heading in the direction of St. Thomas’s. A few minutes before they reached the hospital, Malcolm’s mobile rang. He flipped it open, said his name, and listened. “Thank you, Maeve. So we’re to ask for Dr. James Ellwood,” he said, and thanked her again.
After closing the phone, Malcolm said, “I had my secretary call a surgeon I know at St. Thomas’s. Luckily he was able to locate someone to meet us. Better than going there cold.”
Malcolm asked for Dr. James Ellwood at the reception desk in the lobby of the hospital, and a few minutes later a tall, fair-haired man was walking over to them.
“I’m Dr. Ellwood, Mr. Stevens,” he said. “Your friend Dr. Latimer asked me to meet you, since he’s operating at the moment.”
The two men shook hands, and Malcolm said, “This is Mrs. Annette Remmington, Dr. Ellwood. Her husband collapsed this morning in the lobby of the Dorchester Hotel, and was brought here by ambulance.”
He shook hands with Annette, and gave her a friendly smile. “I heard that from Dr. Latimer. Your husband’s on the cardiovascular floor, Mrs. Remmington. I’ll take you up there.”
“Has my husband had a heart attack, Dr. Ellwood?” Annette asked as she walked with the doctor and Malcolm to the elevator.
“Not exactly. But that is not my area of expertise, so I’ll refrain from answering. I don’t want to mislead you. They’ll tell you everything you need to know.”
“I understand,” Annette answered as they
went into the elevator. Within seconds they were stepping out on the cardiovascular floor, being introduced to Dr. Martin Chambers. He explained he was in charge of the case of Mr. Remmington, who was now his patient.
“What has happened to my husband?” Annette asked at once, sounding anxious and looking pale, worried.
“He is suffering from aortic dissection. This is a potentially life-threatening condition, Mrs. Remmington,” Dr. Chambers said, then went on to explain. “It is a condition in which there is bleeding into and along the wall of the aorta, the major artery leaving the heart. And quite obviously it is serious.”
“What causes it?” Annette now asked.
“A number of things, but usually aortic dissection occurs because of a tear or damage of some kind to the inner wall of the aorta. It usually happens in the chest portion of the artery, but can also occur in the abdominal portion,” Dr. Chambers told them.
Annette nodded. “I understand, or at least I think I do. What you’re saying is that my husband has a tear in his aorta, the main artery from the heart. Am I correct?”
“Yes, you are. Mr. Remmington has an eight-and-a-half-inch tear, rather a bad one I’m afraid. It is a diagonal tear.”
“How is this treated?” Malcolm asked.
“First of all, we have to prevent complications, and that’s why immediate hospitalization is required. A Type A aortic dissection requires surgery to repair the aorta, but a Type B aortic dissection can be treated with medication. That’s what we are doing, Mrs. Remmington, treating your husband with medication.”
“So it’s Type B?” she asserted.
“Yes, it is.”
“What caused it, do you know?” Malcolm interjected.
“High blood pressure, in my opinion. Mr. Remmington told me his physician had prescribed pills some time ago, but that he often forgot to take them. In the last hour his blood pressure had been going up and down like a yo-yo. We have to control that, and are doing so.”
“Is he in pain?” Annette asked.
“He was earlier. What caused him to collapse were severe stabbing pains in his chest and then under his shoulder blades and on his back. But he’s on strong painkillers, and, as I said, drugs that lower blood pressure are being given. He’s more comfortable now.”