I was longing for the fussy man to go, relieved when he went downstairs and I heard the door click shut behind him. I let out a breath and stared at the tiles of the fireplace, where spattered gobbets of blood had dried to a rusty brown. I closed my eyes briefly, and tried to block out the memory of Nick lying dead on the floor. If I allowed myself to remember him, I knew I wouldn’t be able to do what was necessary. I had to force myself to think only that this was a cleaning job, like any other. Dithering would only weaken my resolve.
I’d brought my own rubber gloves and bag of cleaning materials. I just needed a bucket and I knew Nick kept one in the cupboard under the kitchen sink. As I walked into the kitchen, I remembered what Inspector Ford had told me. There were no traces of blood in the kitchen, no sign that the killer had been anywhere in the flat but in the living room and on the stairs.
Nick had told me he kept some nasty things under his sink and he wasn’t wrong.
I had to move an ancient bottle of ether and a tin of naphtha out of the way before I could extract the bucket. I filled it with cold water from the sink, added some bleach, pulled on my gloves, selected an old cleaning cloth, then carried the bucket back into the living room.
I knelt before the fireplace, feeling like I ought to say a prayer. This was a job that should be carried out with reverence: wiping away the last, sad traces of a friend. I hesitated, then quickly wiped blood from the fender and the tiles, not stopping, not giving myself time to think.
Next I applied myself to the carpet. There was a telltale dark outline where one of the rugs had been removed and blood had seeped beyond the straight edge onto the carpet beneath. I sprayed vigorously with some carpet shampoo, scrubbed hard, and left the foam to do its stuff whilst I turned my attention to the wall. The splatters here were more of a problem. As they had dried, they had seeped into the surface of the thick, old-fashioned paper. I tried wetting one of the splashes with the cloth but all that did was make it spread, leaving a paler but larger, more noticeable stain.
I looked around me for inspiration. On Nick’s table lay a scalpel. I picked it up and scraped at the bloodstain, very carefully. I managed to scratch off the stained surface, leaving the clean backing paper behind. I did this several times over, meticulously scraping away at each droplet of blood, frustrated at the time it was taking. When I had finished, the wallpaper looked scarred, as if it had been scraped by furniture. But no one, who didn’t know already, would associate those marks with murder.
I returned to the carpet. The foam had turned a horrible pink and I decided to leave it a bit longer and get on with the dusting. Time was running short. The aluminium powder came off the polished surfaces easily. I paused briefly over the mantelpiece: the rectangle where the candlestick had once stood was still visible. I wiped the dust away, then, shoving the duster under my arm, I flipped through the post propped up behind the clock. Most of it was unopened and it all looked like bills. One torn envelope revealed a receipt for money paid for restoration work, dated two years before. Not likely to be significant.
I peeled back the cuff of my rubber glove enough to see my watch, checked the time, then rushed to the stairs where I did some hasty dusting on the woodwork. The smudges on the wall were more difficult to deal with and required rubbing in vigorous circles with a wet cloth. As I viewed my handiwork I had to admit that it was slovenly. Frankly, I’d have sacked myself if I’d been employing me, but I had to finish work in the living room and time was against me.
The carpet foam had taken most of the stain away, leaving a faint pink mark, made more noticeable because the halo of carpet surrounding the stain was now cleaner and brighter than the rest. I didn’t have time to scrub the entire carpet, and I wasn’t prepared to do it anyway. It really needed taking up and burning and that wasn’t my decision to make. There was only one way to solve the problem for the time being.
I nipped into Nick’s bedroom, dragged the rug from beside his bed into the living room, and laid it down over the stain, covering up my handywork.
Finally, I closed the windows and sprayed lots of air freshener around in the room. I’d done as much as I was prepared to do. If his children wanted deeper cleaning done, they could damn well do it themselves.
I checked my watch: hardly any time left for sleuthing. I dusted the top of Nick’s bureau and turned the key, pulling down the lid and exposing the wooden pigeonholes inside. They were stuffed, the slots jammed tight with paperwork. It would take hours to search through them. And any connection with Vlad or Bert was unlikely to exist on paper. I doubted if Nick kept written records of his illegal dealings. I wondered where all his account books were. Perhaps the police had taken them.
I closed the lid of the bureau, pulled open the drawers in turn and poked about with a yellow rubber forefinger. I found nothing but old pencil stubs, a couple of odd radio batteries, a few barley sugars, and springs and bits of metal that looked as if they’d come from inside a pocket watch. I sighed hopelessly. I was being an idiot. The police must have already searched through this stuff.
The chimes of St Andrew’s Church clock sounded as it prepared to strike the hour. Mr Young would be returning any moment. I’d wanted to search the bedroom but I didn’t want him to discover me rummaging through Nick’s drawers, and I still had to tidy up my cleaning things.
As I emptied the bucket down the sink, watching the dreadful pink water swirl around the plughole, I congratulated myself on how calmly I had coped with the emotions of the situation. I rinsed the bucket and put it away, stripped off my rubber gloves, collected the rest of my things from the living room and surveyed my handiwork. And suddenly I could see Nick, shuffling about in his carpet slippers. I am not ready to be ghost. His words came back to me and I buckled, sank to my knees near the fireplace and wept.
All of a sudden I was rushing for the bathroom. I made it to the toilet just in time and vomited violently. After I’d flushed, I hastily gathered myself together, washed my face, blew my nose and scuttled down the stairs like a frightened spider. Some sleuth I was. I decided I’d wait for Mr Young outside.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The atmosphere in the private room in The Dartmoor Lodge was strained to say the least. I sat on one of four upright chairs, facing the table where young Mr Young presided, just me and three other people who wondered who I was and what right I had to be sitting there.
I had to wonder myself. I’d received a phone call from old Mr Young, thanking me on behalf of the family for my efforts in their father’s flat. They had visited it, apparently. He also informed me that I should be present at the reading of the will because I was a beneficiary. I couldn’t imagine what Nick might have left me, or why, for that matter. I commented that it must be quite a recent will and Mr Young replied that yes, it was, and had only come to light in the last day or two, when the family were in the flat looking for something else. Fortunately, he added, and I didn’t really understand the relevance of his words until later, young Mr Young had been present at the time.
I didn’t get a good look at the family at the funeral. They’d been down in the pew at the front of St Andrew’s Church and I’d stayed with the handful of people at the back: Tom and Vicky Smithson, Mr Singh, Ricky, Morris and me.
Nick’s family obviously weren’t expecting anyone but themselves to be attending.
There were no refreshments laid on for mourners afterwards, and they didn’t even wait at the church door to receive our condolences. They just swept off. Mr Singh had to get back to his shop, but the rest of us made our own little party and raised a few glasses to Nick’s memory in the bar at The Exeter Inn.
Now I was close enough to get a good look at the three of them. Helena Burgoyne was in her fifties. She wore an expensively tailored black suit and high heels, but whilst she was certainly not fat, she was too thick through the waist and in the calves to look really elegant. But she was well maintained, her red nails glossy and her blonde hair, cut in a smooth bob, highlighted in shade
s of caramel that don’t exist in nature.
She sat rigidly upright, staring straight ahead, as if trying to pretend I didn’t exist.
In contrast, her husband fidgeted constantly, as if he couldn’t be comfortable sitting still; a bristly man with bristling, irritable vibrations. Even his breathing was fidgety and impatient. I got the feeling that he’d rather be elsewhere and resented this waste of his time. He looked the kind of man whose time is always more important than anyone else’s.
Sitting between Mr Burgoyne and me, was Nick’s son, Richard. He was a good ten years younger than his sister and there was nothing about his clothes or his manner that was the least funereal. He wore the same black jeans and trainers he’d worn to the service, with a blue crew-neck sweater and a cream sports jacket slung over the top, the sleeves pushed back to show his tanned forearms. He lounged in his chair with his legs stuck out in front of him, ankles crossed, his hands thrust deep in his pockets. With his wavy brown hair and beard he reminded me of a college lecturer, the sort that first-year students fall in love with. He looked vaguely familiar but I suppose that was because he’d inherited his father’s wicked blue eyes. When I sat down in my chair, he did a double take, grinned at me, and, to my amazement, winked.
I was glad that I’d yielded to pressure from Ricky and Morris and not worn the same black sweater, skirt, and slightly scruffy suede boots that I’d worn to the funeral. For the reading of the will I should not look like a poor relation, they told me: they insisted on dressing me up. The classic black wool dress came from a production of Witness for the Prosecution, as did the royal blue, edge-to-edge jacket that covered it. I’d resisted the tiny black velvet hat, despite their cries that it looked fabulous perched on my red hair; I thought a hat might be over the top. The burnt-orange silk scarf flung around my shoulders came from French Without Tears, along with the black shoes; and the amber earrings were Cordelia’s. I was grateful I’d agreed to carry the gorgeous, little royal-blue clutch bag that went with the jacket. It was comforting to have something to clutch.
Young Mr Young cleared his throat several times, the tense atmosphere obviously getting to him. ‘Shall we begin?’ he asked, smiling nervously.
The reading of the will took much longer than I had anticipated. It seemed that, as well as stowing cash in little bundles around the flat, Nick had invested in stocks and shares. And he’d been pretty canny at it and all. I lost count of what the various investments added up to, but they were bequeathed in their entirety to Helena Burgoyne. I dared a glance at her profile, but her expression didn’t flicker. To his son, Richard, he left a much smaller sum of money and also the Riley car, a fact which drew an appreciative chuckle from him and earned him a disapproving glance over the bifocals from Mr Young.
Nick’s flat, shop, the contents and stock, were left to Juno Browne.
There was a shocked intake of breath, not just from the Burgoynes, but also from me. Richard didn’t seem at all fazed by the news, just eyed me rather quizzically.
There was a codicil contained in the will, Mr Young hurried on before anyone had a chance to object, which stated that anyone who contested it in court would lose what they had received, which would then be awarded to the other parties concerned.
Richard laughed out loud. ‘The old devil!’ he cried cheerfully.
‘This is outrageous!’ Helena’s husband let out his breath in a snort of disgust. ‘It’s a bloody disgrace!’
‘Oh, belt up, Harry!’ Richard advised him pleasantly. ‘You surely weren’t expecting the old man to leave you anything? You never even met him.’
‘Of course not!’ Harry turned slightly pink. ‘But Helena’s got her rights.’
‘And I would say,’ Richard responded calmly, ‘with investments amounting to close on two hundred thousand, her rights have been very well taken care of.’
Helena, meanwhile, was saying nothing. She sat with eyes downcast, chewing her lip and looking a lot more upset than she had in church.
‘What about the property?’ Harry demanded.
‘Helena doesn’t want a grubby old flat and a shop full of tat.’
‘Look, we’re talking property here.’ Harry jabbed an aggressive finger. ‘That shop and flat are worth money. The builder down the road has already offered—’
‘Has he indeed?’ Richard cut him off, obviously nettled. ‘And when did this conversation take place?’
Harry did not speak; he huffed in embarrassment and turned a deeper shade of red.
‘We should count ourselves lucky that the old man left us anything,’ Richard told him frankly. ‘None of us have been near him in years. We couldn’t blame him if he left it all to a cats’ home.’
‘But he didn’t, did he?’ It was the first time that Helena spoke, and her voice quivered with outrage and bitterness. ‘He left it to her!’
Everyone turned to stare at me. I rose to my feet. ‘Please don’t quarrel,’ I said after a moment. ‘I’m as shocked by this as you are. I’d only known Nick for a few months and—’
‘You must have worked remarkably quickly, young lady!’ Helena said spitefully. It was the first time she turned to face me. Apart from her thickset figure, she bore no resemblance to her father.
‘Cleaning lady!’ Harry snorted contemptuously. ‘Look at her! She looks like a … a … film star!’ I didn’t realise I looked that good.
‘Tart!’ he added with devastating emphasis.
Or that bad.
‘Mr Burgoyne!’ Mr Young protested. ‘Really, that kind of language is most uncalled for!’
‘I understand that you’re angry,’ I told Helena. ‘But … as I said … I haven’t known Nick long. I wasn’t expecting anything from him … I feel awful about this.’
I was about to tell her that I renounced any claim to what Nick had left me, that I didn’t want it, they could have it all. But I didn’t get the chance.
‘Oh, I expect you’ve earned it.’ Helena’s glare was killing. ‘On your back!’
I laughed. ‘Are you serious? Nick was old enough to be my grandfather!’
‘For all we know,’ her husband chipped in, shaking a pointing finger in my direction, ‘she was in cahoots with these Russians, or whoever they are! Once she’d worked her wicked wiles on your father, got him to sign the will in her favour − if it’s genuine …’
‘Mr Burgoyne!’ Mr Young sprang to his feet. ‘I really must insist you withdraw that allegation!’ He waved the piece of paper he was holding. ‘I can assure you that this document is genuine. It has been witnessed and dated …’
Harry began to bluster again but I cut in. ‘Has it occurred to you,’ I asked, struggling to keep my voice level, ‘that if any of you had come down here to see your father now and again, I might not have had the opportunity to work my wicked wiles, as you call them?’
Suddenly Helena sprang forward. For a moment I thought she was going to slap me, but she grabbed my wrists, turning my hands over to look at my fingers. ‘Where are my grandmother’s rings?’
I tried to pull my hands away, shocked at her sudden strength. ‘What rings? I don’t know what you’re talking about!’
‘We searched that flat and they’re not there! What have you done with them? They belonged to my mother’s mother! They should come to me!’
‘Oh for God’s sake, Helena!’ Richard protested loudly. ‘You’ll be lucky if the old man didn’t sell ’em years ago!’
‘I don’t know anything about your grandmother’s rings!’ I protested, jerking my hands away.
Helena pulled out a handkerchief and began to cry. ‘Well, she shouldn’t have them!’
‘Be reasonable, love,’ Richard spoke to her more gently. ‘We never liked the old man and he never liked us. And if his leaving the shop to Miss Browne here is his way of putting two fingers up at us, well that’s not her fault. And,’ he added smiling, ‘it’s probably what we deserve.’
I said nothing. I felt ill, physically sick with the certainty that wh
at Richard had said was true. Nick had used me as a weapon of revenge against his nearest and dearest and I could have hated him for it. I didn’t want his shop. I didn’t want any part of the plot he’d been hatching against his family. He’d made a fool of me. I’d not expected to profit by his death and now everyone would think I had. I was on the verge of tears myself.
Richard put his arms around his sister. ‘Come on now, Helena. It’s not as if he left you penniless, is it? And old Harry here is as rich as Golden Balls anyway.’
‘I want my grandmother’s rings,’ she insisted tearfully. ‘I don’t want that trollop to have them.’
‘I don’t know anything about any rings,’ I repeated. Dear God, if it wasn’t bad enough Verbena Clarke thinking I’d pinched her earrings, here was another one who thought I’d helped myself to her baubles! I turned to Mr Young. ‘Is there anything else, or can I go now?’ I just wanted to escape from the room, get away from the sobbing Helena, away from all of them.
‘No, no. There are obviously legal formalities, Miss Browne, but nothing that needs your attention today.’
‘Then I’ll take my leave,’ I said with as much dignity as I could muster.
Mr Young hurried to my side. ‘I’ll show you out.’
‘Thank you for acting with such restraint in there,’ he said, as soon as he had closed the door behind us.
I deflated like a balloon. ‘I don’t want any of this.’
‘I wouldn’t be too quick to refuse it, Miss Browne. It is a considerable bequest. And,’ he added kindly, ‘I believe that Mr Nickolai left it to you because he had become fond of you – what I’m saying is, don’t act in haste. Take your time to think about it. You can always dispose of the property later if you don’t wish to keep it.’
I nodded glumly. I could hear voices being raised again behind the door. Richard and the Burgoynes were getting going again. I wanted to go somewhere quiet, somewhere I could think.
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