During the short ride to the financial heart of London, my mind whirs. I ponder the role that Louis Williams may have played in the life of young May Daniels. He may have had no relationship with her at all; we might be grasping at straws in the absence of substantial evidence. Yet I sense May’s vulnerability, and I know how easily that can be exploited by an unscrupulous man. It happened to me, after all. I need to know if May was in the sway of Louis Williams.
When the elevator doors open onto the Mathers Insurance office, I step into its striking reception area. Dramatic silver-trimmed light fixtures dot the rich lacquered tan walls. Barrel-back chairs upholstered in a geometric chocolate-and-ruby-red pattern are scattered around the lobby. At the center is a wide mahogany desk inlaid with linear metallic designs and topped with gleaming cream marble. Rising above it all is a curved staircase leading to a second-floor landing and a wall listing the company’s principals in gleaming bronze letters.
The glamorous space overwhelms, and I don’t notice the secretary seated at the reception desk at first. But then again, she doesn’t exactly greet me. The young woman with blond movie-star curls and cherry-red lipstick hasn’t glanced up from her reading material once.
I clear my throat several times, but no reaction is forthcoming. “Excuse me, but I would like to see Mr. Williams.”
“Mr. Williams senior or Mr. Williams junior?”
“Mr. Williams junior, please.”
“Do you have an appointment?” She still hasn’t looked up.
“No, but I found myself in the vicinity and thought I should stop in. You see, he comes very highly recommended by several friends who are considering moving their extensive insurance business to him.”
That makes the woman sit up and take notice of me. “I’ll check to see if he’s available. You do know that we primarily handle commercial insurance?”
“I do.”
“Whom shall I say is calling?”
“Mrs. Fleming.”
She pushes her chair back and with quick, efficient steps strides into an adjacent room. I hear a low rumble of voices, after which she pops back out. “Mr. Williams junior will see you now.”
“Might I leave my bag at your desk?” I ask, lifting up the small battered-leather satchel I use for overnight trips.
She doesn’t appear pleased at the request, but she nods. Pointing to a space on the floor, she says, “You can place it there. Please follow me.”
As we approach the door, a silver-haired man wearing dark round glasses and a charcoal pin-striped suit exits the office. When he passes me, he smiles in my direction, nods, and greets me with “Welcome to Mathers Insurance.” To my surprise, his accent carries the vestiges of a working-class Welsh background. This incongruousness makes me wonder—could this betheJimmy Williams? “Successful insurance titan” and head of Mathers Insurance, infamous low-born bastard who’d made a meteoric rise?
“Thank you, sir,” I reply.
He extends his hand, and as we shake, he says, “I’m James Williams, founder of Mathers Insurance.” He tilts his head toward his son’s office. “I’ll leave you in Louis’s capable hands.”
I’d put limited forethought into this interview, but my lack of preparedness doesn’t hit me until I walk into Louis Williams’s elegantly appointed office. My stomach flips as a fair-haired, handsome young man with symmetrical features and a thick mustache stands up to greet me. For one of the very few times in my life, I am tongue-tied.
“Welcome, Mrs. Fleming. What can I do for you? It isn’t often that we get clients strolling in off the street, although I confess that two women did exactly that just the other day. So perhaps it’s a trend.” His smile never wavers as he gestures for me to take a seat opposite him.
How alluring he must be to a young woman,I think. Attractive, smooth, welcoming, probably very complimentary. A relatively sheltered girl like May Daniels would be easily charmed. But perhaps not so easily discarded.
“I have a rather large commercial and residential property in Essex left to me by a great-aunt, and I want to explore what sorts of policies might be available to insure it. I don’t think my aunt even considered insurance,” I lie.
“We handle very sophisticated types of insurance here, so a home policy is the easiest thing in the world. Let me show you several possibilities.” Beaming, he gathers up materials for us to review, then spreads them out before me.
As we discuss a mind-numbing array of insurance options for country estates, I study the man. Handsome: yes. Exquisitely turned out in a custom navy wool suit and Jaeger-LeCoultre Grande Reverso watch: yes. Dressing beyond his means: quite possibly. Married: yes, as evidenced by a silver-framed portrait on his desk showing him with a blond wife and two young children. An unsettling quality about his person: absolutely. Although I may be predisposed to feel that about him.
“Do any of these policies sound fitting to you?”
“Oh, dear me, I simply don’t know,” I say, acting flustered. “Perhaps I should review them with my husband. I’m certain you understand. Does your wife review all sorts of decisions with you?” I gesture to the photograph of the happy family.
“She does indeed, Mrs. Fleming. Even rings me before she heads to the butcher shop on some occasions.” He chuckles at this portrayal of a dim, dependent wife, and I like him even less. “Although you did mention that the property was left toyoubyyourgreat-aunt, if I’m not mistaken?”
“You are correct, Mr. Williams.”
“Well, Mrs. Fleming, I’m not one to undermine the authority of your husband, but it seems to me that the decision is yours to make. No time like the present.” His grin gets even wider, and hescoots a little closer. He thinks he’s hooked me. To some women, he might be irresistible, and all this attention is undoubtedly part of his sales pitch. But to me, his is a crocodile smile. It unleashes a torrent of memories and rage as I think about him seducing May with it.
Working hard to keep the anger from my voice, I say, “I appreciate your vote of confidence, but I may be cut from your wife’s cloth. Might I consult with my husband tonight? We have an evening of theater planned, and a good show always puts him in the right mood for a conversation,” I say, planting my seed. Now to see if I can get it to bear the desired fruit.
