‘If those are your men outside,’ he said to me, his voice tight, ‘you ought to keep an eye on them. They’ll smash the place down with their damned scaffolding.’

  And that, it appeared, was all he had for me. He looked away. His smile at Mary softened his expression.

  It was to me she spoke. ‘I’ve let him have the room he’s always used, when he’s here.’

  It was a hint to him, a warning. His eyes were at once cautious. I wondered how much she’d already told him. He spoke as though I was no longer there.

  ‘There’s otters under the bank, higher up. Sheba went wild, but they swam rings round her.’

  I was aware of a wet nose in my hand. A boxer’s face is flat, so you don’t get just the nose, it’s the whole face. ‘She’s soaking,’ I told him.

  ‘She’s got her own towel,’ Mary said. ‘You’ll want to wash your hands. I’ll show you.’

  She wanted to get me out of there, and away from Donald’s surly attitude. I glanced at him. He was unsure of his position, the poor manners masking his embarrassment. In any encounter he would always react in the wrong way, self-consciousness crippling him. Yet there was intelligence in his eyes, and an awareness. His sensitivity was over-active.

  I followed Mary through a door in the rear of the kitchen, along a short corridor, and thus into the hall. It was the first time I’d been to the front of the house, to view its faded splendour. The trend was towards marble and dark oak, to ponderous hat-stands and gloomy oak chests, black with an eternity of dust polished into the grain. The stairs ran up from one side of it, wide, curving towards the landing, the deep carpeting firmly trapped with brass stair-rods, each one polished to perfection.

  ‘Up to the landing, and the first door on the right,’ she told me. ‘I’ve put you a clean towel.’

  I found myself in a reception bathroom for guests, complete with facilities that were very old, yet apparently little used. Everything worked. The tablet of soap was fresh. She had prepared for me, yet had not been certain whether or not I was simply a guest.

  It was unfortunate that my return down the stairs coincided with the new arrival, Paul obviously. He was talking forcefully with Clare, who’d gone round to the front to meet him.. Mary Pinson was standing at the open door. I marched down like the lord of the manor.

  ‘It’s quite out of the question,’ Paul was saying. ‘I’m seeing the shop steward tomorrow. Really, Clare, my life’s been a misery…’

  He saw me, and stopped dead in the middle of the hall. Behind him, almost hidden by his bulk and subdued by his forceful character, followed a thin and sallow woman in full mourning, her face set in stubborn patience.

  ‘Who’s this?’ asked Paul.

  It had been an effort not to pause, myself. I continued down to face him. Perhaps I smiled. I left it to him to make the first move towards extending his hand. He didn’t make one.

  ‘Richard Patton,’ I said. Nothing else. Let him guess.

  He frowned. There was puzzlement in his eyes, and a sudden confusion. He blustered his way out of it. ‘Guests? At this time! Really…Clare…’

  His air of injured authority had melted away. It was something he exercised with those who would accept it, and who understood his necessity for it. He was, after all, works manager, and in this role must have been using authority every minute of his working days. But did he merely toss it around, instead of exercising it? Now that I came to consider him more carefully, I saw that for all his bulk—as tall as Donald but much thicker about the neck, wider in the shoulders, even sporting a small pot—he seemed to shrink within himself. There was a flabbiness to the flesh round his jaw, and a looseness to his mouth. The movements of his head suggested uncertainty. He was a man aware of his inadequacy, using bluster to hide it, unaware that in this way he drew attention to it.

  Mary, with pursed lips, was shaking her head. He scrambled for it, managing to say: ‘For the will, is it? Well…I suppose…’

  Donald rescued him, coming in from the kitchen. ‘Paul,’ he said. ‘How are you? And Evelyn. You haven’t changed, Evelyn.’ There was a hint of irony there.

  Paul nodded. Not a smile, I noticed. There was even disapproval, which might well have been meant for Donald’s clothes, for such a formal and important occasion. But it was deeper than that. His words indicated so.

  ‘They managed to locate you, then?’

  Donald shrugged. ‘You know I always kept in touch with dad.’

  ‘You’d need to, of course. But no word for us…

  ‘Would there have been any point?’ Donald demanded, bitterness carving sharp edges to it. Then he walked past his brother to his sister-in-law, took her shoulders in his hands, and leaned forward to kiss her on the cheek. ‘As lovely as ever, Evelyn. Why don’t you leave him and come to live with me?’

  It was only then, walking past to get out into the air, that I realised this woman must have been about Donald’s age. The beaten resignation had fooled me. When she put her hand to Donald’s cheek her smile was young, and probably rare, her eyes moist. ‘You’re a fool, Don.’

  Paul had flung open double doors to a room at the side of the hall. ‘I suppose we’re doing it in here.’ He marched in, as I marched out on to the drive, just in time to see our legal advisers arrive in a very nice Saab 9000.

  Philip Carne was smart in a blue three-piece suit, dark tie, black shoes. Very official, as befitted a will-reading. On a Sunday, too!

  His account would reflect it, might even pay for the suit. Heather was carrying the briefcase. She was wearing a slim black skirt with a little black jacket and a blouse with frills all up the front. She looked suitably solemn, though too beautiful to be taken seriously as a solicitor. I stood aside, winking at her. She pouted as they walked past.

  Mary had prepared the dining room, which was one of those shadowed rooms at the front, the windows heavily draped, the furnishings plain and functional. Maybe it would come to life with an evening meal, the two chandeliers sparkling, the silverware gleaming, the Royal Doulton polished. Now it seemed drab. Mary had left two of the eight chairs behind the table, but had distributed the other six around the room. To one end was a serving trolley bearing, as mentioned, snack sandwiches and bottles of red and white wine. Having already eaten, I poured myself a glass of wine, and chose an isolated chair to one side. The family did not sit together, but were spread out along the back wall. Mary slid in at the last moment, and when she saw that Carne and his sister were settled at the table, she quietly retired to the discreet chair she’d placed for herself in a corner.

  That large and imposing briefcase held only one document: the will.

  ‘Now!’ said Philip Carne, clearing his throat. ‘Mr Mann’s will.’

  9

  He did not simply read it out. That would have clashed with his cultivated personality of racy informality. But he was careful to read every word of the details of the actual legacies.

  ‘Last will and testament,’ he said, ‘of Walter Donald Mann, then…’ raising his head and smiling thinly ‘…there’s a lot of legal rubbish we have to put in to make it water-tight. After that, he listed his bequests, starting with Mary Pinson.’

  He beamed at her. She looked down at her hands.

  ‘“—To Mary Vivienne Pinson, my dear and loving friend, I leave the sum of ten thousand pounds, and the continuing use of the living quarters and facilities she has become accustomed to at my home, The Beeches, to be enjoyed during her lifetime, or until such time…”’ He looked up. ‘There’s a great deal of wording here, designed to cover any eventualities, such as the possible sale of the house. In that event…’ He returned to the will. “‘In the event of such loss of the facilities before-mentioned, she shall be paid the sum of twenty-five thousand pounds, such sum to be kept in trust and invested for her by the executor.” That’s me,’ he said brightly.

  There was silence. Mary was staring at him in disbelief. I caught her eye and nodded. She flicked me a smile, colour flooding her cheeks. Paul made a growling sound in his throat.

  ‘I’ve never heard of anything…When was this will made?’

  ‘It was signed and witnessed two days before his death.’ Carne raised a hand to the flutter of voices. ‘I can tell you that, apart from a suitable increase in the actual amounts, the bequest is in exactly the same form as it appeared in his former will. Can I get on? Down to the nitty-gritty?’

  They were silent, but already faces were set. Carne nodded, and returned to the will.

  “‘To my children, Paul, Clare and Donald, I bequeath to each the sum of ten thousand pounds, such sums to be paid free of duties and encumberments…”’

  He got no further. A chair crashed over. Paul was on his feet, shouting, Clare had her hand over her mouth, biting on dirty words. The nitty was proving to be too gritty. Donald had not moved. He sat, leaning forward, his face grey. Even in the dimness of that room I could detect sweat on his forehead. I wondered whether he was going to be sick.

  ‘This is outrageous!’ Paul was shouting, his wife tugging at his sleeve. ‘I must protest…’

  Clare lowered her hand. ‘We’ll see about this. We’ll bloody see.’ Then she beat both fists on her knees and made a high-pitched keening sound between her teeth.

  Carne waited. He looked down at the table. Paul shook off his wife’s hand and went forward to thump on the surface, bouncing the will about. He was shouting something into Carne’s face, whilst behind him, Clare was screaming: ‘The house! The house!’

  Donald had not moved, but Mary had gone to him and was bending over him, whispering in his ear. He reached for her hand and held it.

  In the face of Carne’s impassive silence, the uproar gradually fell away. He was earning his money. Heather stared straight ahead. Perhaps this aspect of the law had not been mentioned in her training, but I could have told her that more mayhem is committed in domestic situations than all the violence on the dangerous streets.

  At last Paul returned to his chair, which his wife had righted for him. But he could not prevent himself from turning to her repeatedly and venting his whispered fury on her.

  ‘“The residue of my estate”,’ read Carne steadily, “‘I bequeath to my niece Amelia Jane Patton.” Which about covers it,’ he finished, reaching hopefully for his briefcase. ‘Mr Patton is with us and has produced a power of attorney signed by his wife, only two days ago.’

  ‘Residue?’ cried Clare. ‘What residue, for Christ’s sake? Was he mad, or something? What about the rest of it?’

  ‘The word “residue” in this context means all that’s left after the other bequests are cleared, and the death duties and so on. The rest of it as you put it, Clare. It means this property here and its contents—subject of course to Miss Pinson’s bequest—and his shares in Mann Optics, plus the balance of his investment portfolio and his bank account.’

  ‘I’m not having it,’ cried Paul. ‘D’you hear, I’m not having it!’ Which was a bit stupid, considering he certainly wasn’t. But his voice held the weary, battered defeat of a man who has lost a lot of discussions with the shop floor convenor.

  But Clare was not defeated. In a shrill voice she declared she would see a solicitor, a proper solicitor. She said they hadn’t heard the last of it, by a long chalk.

  Donald was way beyond defeat. It seemed he was destroyed. I saw Mary taking him out, holding him by the arm.

  I sat through it. Heather did not look at me. Paul gradually talked himself out of the room, and Clare screeched herself into floods of tears. I sat, feeling miserable, wondering whether Amelia, had she been there, would have announced there and then that she was handing it all back, out of pity, or have remained silent out of disgust.

  At last I was alone with Carne and his sister. He smiled at me wanly, in apology. ‘I’ve seen worse. More trouble is caused by thoughtless wills—’

  ‘You think this was thoughtless?’

  ‘Not this one. He thought about it very deeply.’

  ‘So what happens now?’

  ‘I do a lot of homework on the financial aspect, and submit it for probate. Say a couple of months…three. Depending on the aggro we get.’

  ‘Aggro?’ A word I hated.

  ‘They’ll consult solicitors. There’ll be correspondence and phone calls. Eventually they’ll be told there are no grounds on which the will can be contested. It will be proved. And that’ll be that.’

  ‘In the meantime?’

  ‘I’ve explained. A certain amount of money can be made available, and I see no reason why you shouldn’t move in here, you and your wife when she’s fit to move. I’ve no doubt Mary will look after her.’

  ‘I’m sure she could. But there’s a snag.’

  It doesn’t take long to tidy away documents in a briefcase when there’s only one. Carne was poised to leave. He paused, frowning.

  ‘I don’t know of any snags.’

  ‘My wife isn’t happy with it. She doesn’t feel content to deprive Walter’s immediate family, unless she can be convinced he was justified in what he did.’

  He sat down again. Heather went to look out of the window. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘It makes things difficult.’

  ‘Especially for me. Don’t you see!’ I said, impatient at his blank stare. ‘You saw their reactions. It was a complete shock to them. So Walter didn’t, after all, tell them he’d disinherited them.’

  ‘I can’t understand that. It would’ve been his very first action.’

  ‘Yes. But if he didn’t, and they knew he was intending to, then there’s a very good motive for his murder.’

  But what’re you saying, Richard, I said to myself. Not only a locked room, but a guarded one as well.

  ‘I see.’ He beat a rapid rhythm with his fingertips on the table. He did not approve of this talk of murder. His work would be purely civil, no doubt. Heather’s would eventually be criminal, her natural venue the cut and thrust of the open court. ‘So…’ His tone was severe. ‘Your intention is to prove Walter was murdered, in order to make very sure your wife accepts the lot?’

  ‘Crudely put, yes.’

  It was then that Heather turned from the window. Her eyes were bleak. I could see she’d be a deadly opponent in court.

  ‘So all that talk was empty?’ she demanded. ‘Your promise to Chad—that means nothing? You’ve got to concentrate on your own…’

  ‘Promise? I made no promise.’

  ‘Your fancy words, your glib theories!’

  ‘Will you let me get a word in!’ I said loudly. She was silent, pouting, her hair untidy again. ‘My wife made me promise to help my young friends, as she called you and Chad, and to concentrate on Tolchard’s death. Perhaps, if I’m lucky, it might throw some light on Walter’s.’

  Carne said: ‘I’ve never heard the like.’ Heather looked as though she might throw her arms around me, but in her professional splendour she remembered her dignity. ‘You had me worried then.’

  ‘Me too. But you’ll have to thank my wife. You can kiss her when you see her. She won’t mind.’

  I saw the devil in her eyes, and grinned. Carne said: ‘Well…I don’t know.’

  ‘I shall have the assistance of a genuine detective-inspector,’ I told him. ‘So it won’t be too illegal.’

  He smiled.

  ‘Just tell me something,’ I asked. ‘You sent a man to trace my wife. What agency did you use?’

  ‘A firm called Burns and Rafton.’

  ‘Of Bridgnorth?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I rather think that Walter did, too.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be surprised. He asked me to recommend someone.

  So there we were. It was beginning to link up. I recalled the man who’d visited Amelia as dour and unresponsive, as no doubt he’d be if his partner had recently been killed.

  I watched them drive away. The other cars had already left. I turned back into the house, intending to ask Mary whether I could use the phone. But of course I could. Stupid of me. I still wasn’t used to it, perhaps ought not to make the effort required. All the same, I went to speak to her.

  She was sitting at the table in the kitchen, not completely aware of her surroundings. She made an effort when I stood in front of her, raising her head. Clearly she didn’t want to speak to me, but it was nothing personal. Her concern was for Donald, I decided.

  ‘Where’s Donald?’ I asked, trying it out.

  ‘He’ll be leaving tomorrow, after the inquest.’

  ‘D’you think I should be there?’

  She shrugged. ‘It’s your decision, Mr Patton.’

  ‘But you do think so?’

  ‘It might be…’ She waved a hand, indicating disinterest. ‘Well, decent, I suppose. But you weren’t here, and you weren’t involved.’

  ‘Nor was Donald, but he’s staying for it.’

  ‘It’s his father.’ She was severe. ‘Surely he can stay here one more night.’ Now her defence of him was brittle.

  ‘Of course he’ll stay here.’ I was impatient. ‘As long as he likes. It’s his home.’ Was it? I wasn’t going to discuss it, either way. ‘But where is he now?’

  ‘You want to talk to him?’

  ‘I don’t know. I wondered…he seemed upset. Very upset. I mean, it really hit him, and there’s so much I don’t know about Donald.’

  She got to her feet abruptly and went to look out of the window, over the gardens, as though looking for him. ‘He’s taken Sheba again.’

  ‘He’ll exhaust her.’

  ‘It’s Donald I’m worried about.’ Then she turned. ‘I know you’re trying to be bright and cheerful, but I’m sorry, it’s the wrong time. I can tell you all you need to know about him, but later. If you don’t mind.’

  I considered her carefully. She would need time to accommodate her mind to the changed situation, as I did. ‘I really wanted to use the phone.’

  ‘Oh yes, yes. Of course you do. It’s in the room opposite the dining room. Can you find it?’

  ‘I’m sure I can. And Mary—I’m glad it was all laid out in the will. It saves offering…you know what I mean. This way you can’t refuse.’

 

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