“I know her. I know of her, I should say.” Boodle opened the other black lacquered door in the waiting room and led us into his dark, grotto of an office. There were heavy curtains on the window at the back, a low desk lamp, and a sense of oppression which was compounded by bookcases which had us completely surrounded. Boodle sat behind his desk and we took two high-backed, black leather visitors’ chairs that swallowed us the way a jellyfish swallows a prawn.
“Tea? Coffee? Something a little more festive? I think I’ve still got about a hundred bottles of whisky remaining from the annual Christmas tradition observed by Londoners who, every year, try to introduce their legal counsel to the boundless delights of chronic alcoholism.”
“Thank you, no,” said Ivor, and I was forced to mirror this rash refusal with a reluctant gesture of despair. There’s no thirst, I’ve long ago discovered, like the thirst of one refusing a drink against his will.
“Right ho,” said Boodle, and fixed Ivor with a pose not dissimilar to that which he flashed for the cover of his seminal treatise of copyright law. “What can I do for Scotland Yard?”
“I regret to have to inform you that Major Aaron Fleming is deceased.”
“Oh. I… see.” Boodle concentrated for a moment on his hands. “That’s rather rotten news, isn’t it? How did it happen?”
“The major was murdered,” said Ivor. “I understand that he was your client.”
“Yes. Yes, he was. Murdered, you say? Do they… do you know who did it?”
“An arrest is due imminently,” said Ivor. I objected to this, of course, but with an immense exercise of will kept my views to myself. I had no control, however, over what had become in the few moments that had felt like hours, a clawing thirst. I coughed lightly, and Ivor received it as a breach of conditions. He issued a sidelong reminder to maintain my neutrality.
“In the meantime,” continued Ivor, “if you could enlarge on the nature of the business that you had with the major.”
“I was his solicitor. He had rather a lot of administrative details that needed seeing to — he received rents and tithes on most of the farmland in Steeple Herding and Graze Hill.”
“And you collected these payments on his behalf.”
“In a nutshell.”
“What becomes of all this money?”
“Bank, mainly.” Boodle raised his palms and shoulders in the helpless shrug of creativity constrained — the purebred legal racing horse yoked to the plough of mundane financial transactions. “The major didn’t have a great deal of interest in his legacy, as such. Instead, he had a pathological fear of debt, and instructed me to take no risks with his money.”
“Had he cause to worry?”
“Not even a little,” said Boodle. “He came back from the war to a very stable income and virtually no outgoings. As did I — I inherited the Fleming trust from my father on return from service.”
“Were you also a pilot, Mister Boodle?”
“Me? Oh-my-dear-no,” laughed Boodle. “Colour-blind, myopic, and prone to motion sickness. I was also too tall, which surprised me rather, and I have all the spatial-awareness of a clam, which didn’t. No, I saw action as quarter bloke, blighty division. Got to France first week of September, 1914, got home second week of September, same year.”
“Wounded?” guessed Ivor.
“Deeply.” Boodle nodded gravely at the painful past. “They took my rifle away when I accidentally discharged it in mess hall. It was a dreadful overreaction — the sergeant got his hearing back in time. But they said a man of my talents would contribute more from Dover. Can’t say they’re wrong, but my survivor’s guilt gave me nightmares for, oh, must have been a good week. Sure you won’t have a drink?”
Boodle sprung from his office chair and deftly manipulated volume four of English Tort Law, which swung open, along with volumes one through three, to reveal an ingeniously equipped library bar. He splashed the perfect quantity of brown happiness into a thick glass, then held up a tantalising bottle and gave it an inviting shake.
“Thank you, no,” repeated Ivor, with what I took to be deliberate spite.
I cleared my throat, subtly and discreetly, like a man of breeding dying in the desert.
“Did you wish to add something, Mister Boisjoly?” asked Ivor at last.
“Well, as it happens…” I began, my eye on volumes one through four of English Tort Law.
“Oh, yes,” bulldozed Ivor. “Mister Boisjoly was asking about the status of the rights to the major’s life.”
“Rights?” Boodle took a long, luxurious draw on his drink and leaned back in his chair. “You mean, as in story rights, books and whatnot?”
“And motion pictures, for instance.”
“Is this regarding the mad plan of the chap claiming to be his nephew?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, Flaps was a public figure. There are no special rights required to tell his story, unless you want your biography to enjoy the dubious distinction of being ‘authorised’, or, of course, you’re planning on defaming him.”
“Defaming?”
“The great risk in selling someone else’s story is, should they object to any of it, and they can show in court that you’ve done harm to their reputation or earning ability, they can drive you to ruin. Moral is, if you must make a picture about a war hero, best wait until he’s dead.”
“I say, Mister Boodle, in your waiting room I noticed an article authored by you on the subject of copyright law. Does it cover what you just told us, about defamation and the deceased?” I asked.
“Briefly. The real meat of the piece though is in derivative works and summary remedies. Would you care for a copy? I have hundreds.”
“I’ll pick one up on the way out.”
“If we could return to the subject of the death of Major Fleming,” steered Ivor.
A shadow crossed Boodle’s face. “You’re quite sure you know who did it?”
“Quite sure,” said Ivor.
“Well, some of us are more sure than others, who are merely sure who didn’t do it,” I clarified.
“Mister Boisjoly, I wonder if you might pop across to the pub and keep a watch for Mister Barking,” said Ivor with calm reproach. Or so he thought, because what he didn’t know was that across the street at the pub is exactly where I wanted to be.
“You can count on me, Inspector,” I said. “No Barkings will get past my ceaseless vigil. Pleasure meeting you, Mister Boodle.”
I let myself out into the waiting room where Mrs Boodle was restacking the legal treatises that I had carefully left in disarray.
“I say, Mrs Solicitor,” I said. “One gets the distinct impression that the real brains of this operation, as is so often the case, is the lady of the manor. Is it correct to assume that you handle your husband’s appointments?”
“Those here in town, yes,” she responded, unfolding like a jackknife.
“Did Major Aaron Fleming come round very much, would you say?”
“No,” said Mrs Boodle. “Mister Boodle would visit him in his home, in Graze Hill. He never came here.”
“To his immense loss, I’m sure,” I said. “What about his nephew, Cosmo Millicent?”
“Why, no, or, rather, yes.”
“I understand. I’ve met him myself, but I am going to have to ask you to pick a side.”
“He was here this morning,” she said in hushed wonder, as though Cosmo’s appearance alone carried a hint of scandal, but by morning light he was a positive outrage. “But this was his first visit and, I should think, his last.”
“Quite possible,” I agreed. “He’s a man of mystery. But why do you say so?”
“He just disappeared,” she said. “He asked to see Mister Boodle, without an appointment, which is an exception one typically only makes for the police, of course. He insisted, so I put him in the waiting room. I went to tell Mister Boodle that he was here but while I was going up the stairs Mister Millicent dashed out the front door. He didn’t even bot
her to close it.”
“Doubtless intimidated by the rarified atmosphere of British Law,” I explained. “I often feel quite nonplussed when I’m up before a magistrate at Bow Street.”
“Are you a barrister, Mister Boisjoly?”
“No. I know rather a lot of barristers, but typically when I’m before a magistrate it’s in my capacity as a private citizen.”
“Does this happen often?” Mrs Boodle’s eyebrows condemned me quietly.
“I suppose that depends very much on your definition of often,” I said. “I thank you for your time, madame, I’ll impose upon it no longer. If you need me, I’ll be at the Steer & Steeple, across the street.”
The Steer & Steeple was a jolly, warm, deep-stained oak and red-carpet pub of beamed ceilings and a crackling fire and laughing, apple-cheeked patrons. It was fully tooled-up with whisky-and-warm-waters and nooks by the window from which to study the fascinating discipline of copyright law and watch for the arrival of either Barking or Ivor or both.
Ivor won by a length and, after visiting the bar to order, of the vast array of options, tea, he joined me at the window.
“That was certainly illuminating,” said Ivor, hugging himself into the upholstery.
“I’ll say,” I agreed, brandishing as an illustrative prop my copy of Copyright Infringement and Remedy. “There’s a bit here that should interest you very much. Did you know that according to the terms of the Norman Costumal, which forms part of the basis of our modern libel laws, one who falsely accuses another of being a ‘manslayer’ must not only pay damages but must also, in a public place no less, hold his nose with his fingers and declare himself a liar. You’ll want to watch your step, Inspector.”
“I think I’m on safe enough ground,” Ivor said, and then added, “Thank you,” as the barman slid a tea tray onto the table. “After we left we got onto the subject of Major Fleming’s last will and testament.”
“You’re not going to tell me he left the lot to my aunt.”
“No, not at all.” Ivor paused to sip his tea with loud satisfaction. “Didn’t even have a will, it turns out.”
“Then what is that gives you this disagreeable and entirely uncharacteristic air of smug self-satisfaction, may I ask?”
“The major didn’t have a will because he didn’t need one. Just before he died, he signed over all his worldly possessions to your aunt.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Devious Dealings Over Dunkirk
Aunty Boisjoly was in the library, performing a pagan fertility dance and strewing flowers from her hat. Those weren’t her precise actions, but she was humming, and by the standards of Aunty Boisjoly, open humming approached the naked abandon that would secure most people a choice room with a view of the lawns of Bethlem sanctuary.
“Just a word of advice from one with better than average familiarity with the view from the dock,” I said, choosing my words delicately, “you might want to avoid chirping like a madwoman when the King’s Counsel asks you to characterise your reaction to the brutal murder of your former lover.”
“Please don’t speak in riddles, Anthony,” said Aunty, pirouetting on her heel away from the fire. “It gives you airs, like those fellows with unkempt beards who smoke small cigarettes and pronounce on things from the recesses of a Paris café. Fix me a drink.”
My sixth sense had already drawn me to the sideboard, whereon I found machines and makings necessary for the composition of two generous whisky-sodas.
“That’s very rich indeed, coming from one of England’s foremost contortionists. Tell us your methods, Miss Boisjoly, are you of the Classical School? Or do you subscribe more to the Stanislavski Technique, and go about telling little fibs whenever the opportunity presents itself?”
“What are you babbling about, Anthony?” Aunty accepted her drink and swirled it distractedly as she wandered back to the window.
“Do you deny that you denied your romantic entanglement with Flaps Fleming?” I asked. “I’ll warn you, before you answer, that there’s unimpeachable testimony to the contrary. I’m not naming names, but you should know that the witness for the prosecution is a respected country clergyman with a dangerously extensive familiarity with the Book of Acts.”
“Ah.”
“The mot juste,” I agreed. “Ah.”
“I wasn’t fibbing, Anthony. Flaps ended our engagement before he died.”
“Well he could hardly have done so afterwards, could he?” I pointed out. “Surely you see how this looks.”
“It’s why I didn’t tell you.”
“No, it’s why you didn’t tell the police,” I said. “Your motives for not telling your adoring nephew defy reason. What happened?”
“It was just before Christmas. I would always pop by Tannery Lodge for a natter, every evening. It’s been our little arrangement for months now. But just a few days before Christmas he was very cold and circumspect, and said that he thought that he would soon be leaving Graze Hill.”
“Did he say why?”
Aunty nodded uncertainly. “He said that he was done hiding away from life. That it was time to rejoin the world.” Her eyes twinkled with dewy sadness. “He said I would hold him back, Anthony.” And the dew overflowed.
“Rather harsh. Are you aware that days before his death the major went to his solicitor to transfer title of all his holdings to you?”
Aunty Azalea shifted gears abruptly. “All of it?” She wiped away the tears. “Blimey.”
“My thoughts exactly. You didn’t know, then.”
“I didn’t.”
“Pity,” I said. “Quite sure? Because it rather dilutes your motive for murder if you did. Not entirely, of course, but you’re less likely to kill someone who’s just given you a fortune than, say, someone who hasn’t.”
“Quite sure.”
“Well, can’t be helped. Anything else you’re keeping from me? You don’t have a secret sideline spiriting nobles out of revolutionary France?”
“No, that’s everything.”
“I’m relieved to hear it.” I swallowed my drink and put the glass on the tray. “Inspector Wittersham will be anxious to know your views on your newfound fortune, and I’m afraid you’ll have to be more forthcoming, in future.”
“Oh, Anthony, that inspector’s not coming back, is he?”
“Not in the near term, no,” I assured her. “He has a head cold, and I took the liberty of lifting a 1925 Ragnauc from your cellar. It has a pleasantly floral nose with traces of wheatfield harvest, and the bouquet finishes with hints of fruit and almond, neatly masking an alcohol content that could float a barge. I don’t expect to see him again until late tomorrow afternoon.”
“Very wily, Anthony. Now if you can only suggest a way of getting you out of the house for the evening, I could enjoy dinner alone with Monty.”
“Say no more, Aunty,” I said. “I’ll have Vickers shovel something onto a tray and bring it to my room, and then I’ll unleash my newfound expertise in copyright law on the regulars at the Sulky Cow.”
Sun sets in the wintertime in Hertfordshire around tea time, after which all sense of time and space is absorbed by the twilight and fog. There was a dreamlike quality to the evening, if one is unfortunate enough to have dreams which are not only foggy and cold but also clammy and wet. The warm, dry, glowing interior of the Sulky Cow, therefore, was particularly welcome and welcoming when I clattered in.
The scene was set exactly as it had been when I first laid eyes on the place — Sally was at her counter, performing one of those infinite tasks that always seem to be in the purview of barkeeping, Barking and Everett were in unidirectional conference at a table, and the familiar stack of coats next to the fire turned out to be Soaky Mike, marking the inexorable passing of time by chewing on an orange rind from the bottom of his cup of mulled wine.
“Evening gentlemen.” I ladled myself a cup of steaming stupefaction and took up space on the upholstery between Barking and Soaky. “Cosmo not in tonight?�
�
“Poor chap’s head down working on his book,” said Everett. “I admire that, I don’t mind who knows it. Wish I could write. Probably my greatest regret, among legion others. Just don’t have the gift, like he has. Got about enough economy of language to order a pint. After that I’m dumb as a teak tortoise.”
“You saw him today, then.”
Everett nodded briskly. “Only for a second. He was stoked on pure, anthracite inspiration. Says that your performance last night gave him an idea for a cracking ending. The man’s a juggernaut. A powerhouse. It’s humbling, downright humbling, to be in the presence of crackling creative energy.”
“He didn’t say anything about securing the rights to tell the major’s story?”
“Not to me. Say anything to you, Trev?” Everett directed this to Barking, who was eyeing the clock, which in that moment ticked over to a perfectly perpendicular nine o’clock, and Soaky snapped into action and helped himself to a cup of cheer.
“Eh? Oh, no, not that I recall.” Barking had allowed his mind to wander, and when it returned it appeared to have stumbled on something and knocked it over. “Said he might be back in later.”
In that very moment the door flew open as though struck by a cannonball, bounced off the bench and slammed shut again. A second effort was made, followed by a staggering inspector from Scotland Yard.
Ivor counted several coins onto the counter, saying, “A cup of this mulled wine of which I have heard such excellent reports, Landlady, and a round for my friends.”
“Good evening, Inspector,” I said. “You seem much improved.”
“Thanks to you, Mister Boisjoly, and the fine people of France.” Ivor occupied a stool across from me at our table.
“Nothing for a cold like an eau de vie from the Cognac region,” I declared. “The prescribed posology though, as a rule, is to combine the brandy with hot water and an absorbing novel featuring soldiers and/or consulting detectives.”
“Ran out,” explained Ivor.
“You drank the entire bottle?”
“You didn’t say not to.”
“No, fair enough. You have me there,” I conceded. “I also neglected to advise against breaking a hole in the ice and having a bathe in the canal, so I’ll mention it now, in case you get the urge.”
The Case of the Ghost of Christmas Morning (Anty Boisjoly Mysteries Book 2) Page 15