‘We could. But if you had that young man in mind – the one you addressed as Dog-face or something similar – I think we’d be much more likely to implement your grandfather’s wishes.’
‘Until when?’
‘I think the figure mentioned was age twenty-five.’
‘But that’s another seven years!’
I wished that Mr Enterkin were at hand to guide me, but now that the subject was out in the open I felt that I had to go on. ‘Of course, if the young man became an acceptable member of society, took his degree, got a job and was in a position to provide for you . . .’
‘But he wouldn’t need to provide for me,’ Miss Hay pointed out, as though to a simpleton.
‘No,’ I agreed. ‘Except that we wouldn’t release more than a bare living allowance to you if you married or . . . or cohabited with somebody who depended on you financially and was incapable of earning a living, with the possible exception . . .’
‘Yes? What exception?’
I gathered my thoughts. ‘With the possible exception of an artist or writer of acknowledged talent or an athlete preparing for major competition. Those, at least, are my views as I think they would have been your grandfather’s and I expect them to be supported by Mr Enterkin.’
She sat down again, more carefully this time. ‘And you expect Roland to put on a dark suit and join the ranks of the ordinary breadwinners?’
‘Not “expect”, exactly,’ I said. ‘“Hope” would be a better word.’
Of course, it was too much to hope that that would be an end to it. She kept her temper but spoke vehemently for some minutes, making reference to ‘little grey men’, ‘proletariat’, ‘stultification of the expanding soul’, and much else which was beyond my comprehension. I nodded occasionally, while keeping a judicious smile on my face, but my mind went off on its own. The danger, as I saw it, was that the girl might decide for herself that the solution to her dilemma might lie in a touch of pregnancy, real or fictitious. Women, I was aware, sometimes resorted to that expedient. In Miss Hay’s case the threat of a hit man, as well as being a fiction of my own, would no longer carry conviction after the death of her grandfather. I decided that it was time to make as much peace with her as I could, at the same time edging her away from any such measure.
I waited for her to run out of steam before adopting my most avuncular tone. I probably sounded insufferably patronizing, but did seem to earth some of the electricity out of the air. I avoided starting out by saying that she was very young. ‘Time is very much on your side,’ I began instead. ‘If you desperately want to marry now, it must be because you’re not sure of him, in which case he isn’t worth it.’
‘I’m absolutely sure of him,’ she protested.
‘In that case, you have time to mould him into what we and you would want you to marry. Unless you really want to be tied for life to somebody your grandfather wouldn’t have let across the doorstep, and forced to do so on a small fraction of your real income.’
Instead of exploding again, she looked at me thoughtfully. ‘How would you suggest I do that?’ she asked.
‘Women always do find ways,’ I said. I drew a quick mental analogy with spaniel training and realized that it was valid. ‘Don’t ask me to explain the mysteries. Thinking back, I believe it’s a long slow process of applying gentle pressure and then showing less or more affection according to whether or not the lesson has got through.’ As I spoke, I had a sudden revelation in which I recognized that Isobel had treated me during most of our marriage in just such a manner. ‘If you’re so set on wedding bells,’ I went on, ‘keep in mind the first three steps in the wedding ceremony. You walk up the aisle. You arrive at the altar. You sing a hymn.’
‘Yes?’ She was puzzled.
‘Aisle . . . altar . . . hymn,’ I said. ‘Think about it.’
It took a few seconds for the penny to drop. ‘Very funny!’ But I could see that she was amused. I decided that there was hope for Miss Hay yet.
Moments later she was all seriousness. ‘I really did love the old boy. We fought. But he wasn’t always going to be there and it was the rest of my life I was fighting for. Do you understand? And now he isn’t there any more and I’m sorry. Because I didn’t mean some of the things I said and I don’t think that he did either, and now we can’t take them back and say that we’re sorry and tell each other . . .’
I had a feeling that her grandfather had meant every word that he had said about the insufferable Roland, but it did not seem to be the time to say so. ‘I shall be staying here for the moment,’ I said. ‘Except probably at weekends. You might find it convenient to move back for now, until we’ve sorted out the estate.’
‘But Roland doesn’t come inside?’
‘You’ve got it.’
‘I’ll get back to university. I’ll need my degree if I’ve got to support both myself and Roland.’ Her surly alter ego resumed control. ‘What do you need me here for anyway? Don’t worry, Joanna will look after you, just as she did for Granddad. You realize that, one way or the other, I’ll be a wealthy woman one of these days?’
I held onto my temper or the occasion might have become a screaming match. ‘I’m long retired, so threats of that nature mean very little to me.’
‘Then you might pass the word along to chubby-chops.’
‘Are you sure that you want to make enemies of us just yet? We could probably arrange things so that you wouldn’t see a penny of your money until after we’re dead and buried.’
‘I don’t give a damn,’ she said, but her voice was less certain.
She left shortly after that. I promised that she would be contacted again as soon as the Trust Disposition and Settlement had been studied.
*
The custom of the house, I discovered, was that Mary Fiddler, who lived with her husband in a cottage rather nearer to the town, would prepare Sir Peter’s dinner and then go home, leaving the meal to be served by Joanna who was then responsible for all domestic duties until Mary returned in the morning after completing her own housework. (In compensation for her long hours, Joanna was given considerable latitude regarding time off during the day.) The arrangement seemed to have been long-standing and satisfactory to all parties, so I saw no need to interfere.
I spent as much as I could of the time remaining before dinner in delving deeper into the Trust Disposition and Settlement. Peter Hay had dealt with each aspect in as straightforward a manner as possible, but his interests had been large and far-ranging and sometimes his solution to a dilemma had of necessity been complicated, on top of which I could detect the hand of Ralph Enterkin rephrasing large sections of it, rendering it almost incomprehensible to the layman but indestructible by his fellow lawyers. By ignoring the telephone messages which were accumulating in the answering machine I managed to concentrate for minutes at a time.
Visitors were more difficult to deflect. Several were turned away by Joanna with the news that Miss Hay had returned to university. They left messages of sympathy.
Dorothy Spigatt, however, was a horse of a very different colour, although it was only when she flatly refused to go away without seeing me that I discovered how very appropriate that metaphor was. I saw her close to for the first time at the front door in fading daylight and she had the elongated face that is often regarded as equine, together with a complexion which was either very tanned or the product of mixed races. The Jaguar on the gravel was a recent model and polished to a mirror shine. The rising moon was reflected in its roof.
‘I would like to come in and talk to you for a moment,’ she said. She spoke very precisely, in an accent which I could not pin down but which impressed me as being both English and educated. I guessed her age to be a well-preserved forty.
In his treatment of his granddaughter’s boyfriend, Peter Hay had set an example of excluding undesirables. He had not made an exception in the case of Ms Spigatt so I decided to emulate his example. I glanced down at the card that Joanna had brought me
. ‘You should see Mr Enterkin,’ I told her, without moving aside.
She had started to advance as she spoke so that we collided gently, chest to chest. She recoiled, managing not to look indignant but looked instead surprised. Surely a lawyer must have learned by now that not everybody would withdraw before her? She dismissed the subject of Mr Enterkin with a tiny shrug. ‘Is it true that Sir Peter Hay died this morning?’ she asked. ‘You can surely tell me that.’
‘Quite true.’
‘And that you are one of the executors?’
‘I am,’ I said. ‘But how did the facts come to your attention so quickly?’
‘News travels fast around here and several people knew that I would be interested. May we talk? Inside?’
‘I don’t think that I know enough yet to be able to talk sensibly about what I assume you want to discuss,’ I told her.
‘I might be able to add to your knowledge and understanding. And it’s very cold on the doorstep,’ she added, although it was a warm evening and she was wearing a coat which, in the poor light, I took to be real fur of high quality.
‘I’m about to eat dinner,’ I told her. ‘I suggest that you seek an appointment with Mr Enterkin in the morning.’
‘And what are you assuming that I want to discuss with you?’
‘All I know,’ I said, ‘is that your partner embezzled a large sum from Sir Peter’s funds.’
She glanced around, looking for eavesdroppers in the gathering dusk. ‘That remains to be proved. But if it’s true, then it was his own doing and he is no longer a member of the firm. But I, who never made a penny out of it, am being hounded to make good any loss out of my own pocket and I just do not have that sort of money.’ Her voice was straying from its measured tone and becoming plaintive. With the change, I thought that I detected a trace of a Midlands accent. ‘Is that fair?’ she asked me. ‘Is it reasonable?’
‘Not knowing what part you played in the embezzlement—’
‘I had no part in it at all, and no profit from it,’ she said furiously.
‘But that also remains to be proved,’ I said. ‘I don’t know enough to say whether it’s fair or reasonable. But I gather that it’s necessary. I have to take my legal advice from my fellow executor.’
‘Even if he’s wrong?’
‘I am not competent to judge between you,’ I told her. ‘But he is my colleague. If you tell me that he is wrong in law –’
‘You could get counsel’s opinion on the point.’
‘But would you pay for it, if it did not support you?’
She changed the subject quickly. ‘The executors represent the interests of the deceased and his heirs. As such, they will have a great deal of discretion. You know about the Scottish Solicitors’ Guarantee Fund?’
‘Yes,’ I said. I saw no need to explain that I had only just heard of it for the first time.
‘They will make good the loss. Then they will press you, as executors, to sue me for restitution. But if you insist that the case is not strong and that it would be throwing good money after bad . . .’ She lowered her voice until I could barely hear her next words. ‘How do you like my car?’
‘It’s very handsome,’ I admitted.
‘Less than three thousand miles on the clock. It could be yours. Think about it. Goodbye.’ She turned away.
‘Offer it to Mr Enterkin. I have a perfectly good car.’
‘For the moment.’ She settled into the driving seat and started the engine, leaving me to guess whether her parting words related to her farewell or to my car. I ducked through the kitchen and out at the back door to make sure that the garage was locked. I was very glad that the task of dealing with Ms Spigatt would fall to Ralph Enterkin. I judged that she was a tough and tricky lady, and becoming desperate.
*
Mary Fiddler had left for home, leaving for me a dinner of one of my trout with almonds and local vegetables, followed by a crème caramel and cheeseboard. It was a satisfying and delicious meal without tempting an old man to overload his tender digestion. Either Peter Hay’s taste or Mrs Fiddler’s judgement, or both, met with my full approval. I would have hesitated to make inroads into his cellar (now probably his granddaughter’s – I meant to have another look at the will) but a glass of white wine, a white Bordeaux I thought, appeared with the meal, probably on Mr Enterkin’s instructions.
The meal was served by Joanna. Her behaviour was excessively formal, much more so than when Sir Peter had been alive. It was as if she had decided to show that she could be the perfect maidservant when she tried, yet something put it into my mind that we were a man and a woman alone in the house for the night, and I was sure that the consciousness was not originally my own but somehow emanated from her via some trace of body language too faint to identify. Surely, I thought, she could not be afraid of being molested by someone of my years? No, I had to be letting my imagination run riot.
After dinner, I settled again in the study. I had spent enough time on the Trust Disposition and Settlement to have a general overall picture of Peter Hay’s wishes. I dipped into it once more, long enough to see that the older wines in Peter’s cellar were to be distributed among his more discerning friends but that the younger vintages, those which would only arrive at perfection when Elizabeth Hay would be of an age to entertain guests, were to be saved for her.
My mind was too choked with the ramifications of the will to start absorbing any more detail at that time of night and yet too full for casual reading or watching a television service which seemed to be staffed by and run for the benefit of randy teenagers. I looked for an alternative occupation. Mr Enterkin, quite admitting to being about as technically minded as the Labradors, had taken my nodding acquaintance with Isobel’s computer as evidence of complete computer literacy and had made it clear that anything in Sir Peter’s computer was, at least in the first instance, my baby. I decided to spend a little time in trying to explore its contents.
I had expected that much of the material would be methodically arranged, like Isobel’s, in a family tree of subjects. But Peter had been remarkably unmethodical even for one who must have come, like me, to the computer age late in life and, having initially arranged his files in a garbled and confused fashion, had allowed the same non-system to continue. It had been a workable system only because he knew his way around it. Lacking that advantage and hampered by not always coming up where I expected, I made halting progress. After scanning the directories, I was tempted to discount a great deal of personal or obsolete text but I had a suspicion that many a vital nugget might be found among the dross. When I had at least an outline of the problem I tackled the more confidential material. Here, Peter Hay had been both tidier and more security minded, but he had had the forethought to tell me the code word which unlocked a list of other codes. Now I had access to the most sensitive items, listed alphabetically from Arnold Drayne to Weimms and Spigatt.
With some interest I pursued the story of the embezzling solicitor. It was much as Mr Enterkin had outlined it except that he had skated rather lightly over Dorothy Spigatt’s part in the original fraud. It seemed that the lady’s own hands were far from clean; indeed, if the matter ever came before a court she would almost certainly face prosecution. The offer of a £20,000 Jaguar in return for my help began to seem a little miserly.
The evening was slipping away. In my unfamiliarity with the system I was making heavy weather of tracking any subject from document to document and I was terrified that some well-intended move would cause the whole thing to wipe itself clean. I wanted to make hard copies of everything interesting, for later study, but the printing paper was almost exhausted. Some of the material was duplicated on floppy discs, but I could not follow Peter’s method of identifying subjects. However, by the time Joanna brought me my usual nightcap of a cup of tea and a biscuit, I had at least a better overview of the tasks ahead.
Joanna’s manner was respectful but she brushed my ear with her breast and when she stooped to the low
coffee table I was given a view of a pair of very good legs in thin nylon. I was left to wonder whether these treats were due to carelessness or calculation. Surely, I thought as I walked the two Labradors under the moon and whistled for the missing spaniel, her skirt was shorter than the one that I remembered? It seemed unlikely, but possible, that a change of scene had triggered a resurgence of the old pheromones. There was always hope. Perhaps my hormones, too, were making a sympathetic recovery. I sent a little message down my body but received no reply.
Oh well. The age of miracles, after all, is past.
Chapter Six
Sleep, I have been told, was given to us to allow us to digest new experiences. For this reason, or perhaps just because I was tired by so much fresh air and drama in a single day, I slept surprisingly well but roused early. Still in a half-wakened state, I almost expected to hear Peter Hay exercising Spin on the grass outside. Then it came back to me. Peter was dead and Spin had disappeared and instead of Peter’s voice and whistle there was the song of a robin – distastefully cheerful until I realized that he was only defending his territory or calling for sex. I was also worried about Spin – not only his loss but that he would not be getting his charcoal biscuit. If somebody had given him shelter, they might well have been driven to turn him out again. I came fully awake and realized that this was nonsense, but by then I knew that sleep had escaped me.
Bathed and shaved and dressed in a more respectable suit as befitted one who was in charge of a house of bereavement and the affairs of the deceased, I descended to find that Joanna was already up and about. There was still no sign of Spin. I gave the two Labradors the short walk that they seemed to expect, whistling and calling in vain for the spaniel, and went in to breakfast. Joanna was still in dark and subdued colours but her skirt was shorter than ever. Just in case there was any misunderstanding, as I made my escape I muttered something about phoning my wife.
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