Whipped: An Arthur Beauchamp Novel(85)
“A busy Saturday for you?”
“We were about to go into session on Monday. We were incredibly busy. We were running the government of Canada, Mr. Beauchamp.”
“And that evening you entertained friends at your condo?”
Farquist studied the last entry on the page. “Yes, it would appear I did. I expect it was more of a work party to free up Sunday.”
“Let us continue to that Sunday. There is nothing in the morning.”
“I would have attended service at the Notre Dame Cathedral. As I do religiously.” Finally, a smile.
“You have scribbled ‘free afternoon’ with an exclamation point.”
“I ought to have crossed that out. I worked all afternoon, into the evening. As you see, I have a note halfway down the page, ‘all day prep parks bill.’ That’s the bill I would be introducing, the National Parks Improvement Act.”
“And when did you inscribe those words, ‘all day prep parks bill’?”
“That day, I suppose, or the previous.”
“You will note it was written with a blue-ink pen. All the previous notations were in black ink.”
“I imagine I used whatever pen was handy, Mr. Beauchamp. I’m not sure what you are implying. I spent all day at home and slept there that night. I distinctly remember wrestling with the phrasing of my bill — a thorny matter involving fees for roads and infrastructure.” He was looking right at Arthur, bold, unwavering. Glinka had spilled the beans to Farquist’s investigators, so he knew the importance of this date.
Arthur was certain that the blue-penned task was a recently contrived afterthought, the “free afternoon” having been spent in his log cabin where he was being flogged for his sins.
“Invariably, on your free Sundays you retreated to your chalet in the Gatineaus?”
“On the occasional weekend.”
“But mostly on Sundays. I count at least ten visits between January sixth and mid-May.”
“Fewer than that, I am sure. We were in session all that time.”
“Two Sundays on, you will see another empty page, blank except for the notification, ‘Lac Vert!’”
Farquist acceded to that, and affected surprise that Arthur was able to point to several similar notes on succeeding Sundays: “Lac Vert!” “Day off.” “Head for the hills!” “Lac Vert all day.” Arthur turned to Sunday, April 21. “And here you have, ‘Lac Vert, bring NEB file.’”
“Many of those notes were merely hopeful. I was often unable to get away.” He cleared his throat, shifted his bulk. “I don’t know what the point is of having a holiday home, Mr. Beauchamp, if you don’t use it.”
“And how did you use it?”
“To relax. Rearm myself for the battle. Build a fire. Read. Go online. Catch up on the world around me. I enjoy the solitude. In the summer, I might go out in my boat. I used to ski. Anything else?”
“Sometimes you took work with you?”
“Rarely.”
“You wrote, ‘Bring NEB file.’ Doesn’t that suggest work?”
“National Energy Board. An issue of expediting a hearing.”
“That would be with respect to the Coast Mountains Pipeline?”
“I am proud to say that was one of my major initiatives.”
Arthur felt relief that Margaret wasn’t there to hear this. He imagined the sparks from her silver eyes, the unsuppressed loathing.
“At this sanctuary, you also entertained individuals.”
“Again, rarely.”
It was time to give him the full Monty. “But in fact one was a regular, wasn’t she? Ms. Svetlana Glinka.”
“That is simply preposterous.”
Arthur tapped the day book, still open in front of him. “On each of these free Sunday afternoons you employed her services as a dominatrix. I put that to you.”
“I will say unequivocally that I have never been in the company of any Svetlana Glinka. Never seen her, never talked to her, never even heard of her until I first learned about Ms. Blake’s outrageous allegations.”
“I’m suggesting you had a relationship with her for four and a half months, commencing last January sixth.”
“That is a lie!”
“And that you played sado-masochistic games with her, during which you were whipped with a riding crop while pleading for your mother’s forgiveness.”
Farquist went silent for a moment, becoming puffy and red-faced, as if he might erupt. But he held it in. “This is intolerable. Mr. Beauchamp, I have been put through hell by your client — your wife! — painted as some kind of depraved idiot. I swear to God Almighty that there isn’t an atom of truth in what you say.”
Reeking of sincerity, so emphatic it caused Ms. Blair to dart a look of reproof at Arthur, a heartless bully. He was having trouble framing a follow-up, and Cowper took the opportunity of noting it was half past twelve. Lunch break.
BUGGED
Nanisha took Arthur to her favourite lunch spot, an old-fashioned diner festooned with photos of film stars of long ago: Chaplin, Garbo, Barrymore. There they morosely lunched on soup and sandwiches while they waited for Margaret, who’d returned to the hotel to meet Pierette — her flight had arrived late. What was the dire news she was bringing from Agent Fitz McGilroy?