Inheritance

by Ellen Kefferty

  Trugger chewed on his thoughts and stroked Molly’s neck. “We always go out walking me and Molly, all over, every day. Not but the worst weather will keep us indoors. I never wanted to be one of these old people who shut themselves up and die. So long as my legs work I’ll be walking. Molly makes sure of that.

  “That night we were out walking quite late, it being August and warm. It must have been about half ten and nearly fully dark. We had walked up by Rishworth Lodge and were coming down onto the main road. It’s not busy at night but even then I don’t like walking along it in the dark. There are no streetlights round about here. So I come over the road and start down the bank to walk along side of reservoir. Molly gets to have a swim too, you see.

  “Well, Molly went down before me and started barking like she had caught sight of a hare. I ignored her, as she knows better than to run off after one. When I get about half way down myself I can hearing this car engine idling. Now you can always hear the motorway but that’s a swishing sound, and the main road above the quarry was empty. So I’m wondering where it’s coming from and figure it must be the quarry. I walk down to the water’s edge and round into the quarry to see the car’s headlights, pretty faint against the quarry wall, and the outline of the car.

  “You wouldn’t believe it was the right shape to be car. It was all scrunched up, lying on its roof with the windows smashed. As I come near I see the man sat there in the front seat. Well, I say sat, he was dangling upside down, his head lolling.”

  “He was still conscious? They say he was still alive.” The news stories reported that Thomas Faircote was alive when the ambulance and rescue arrived. None mentioned that he was conscious.

  “Aye. He was moving and speaking.”

  “He was speaking?” Edith pulled back. “What was he saying? Did he sound drunk?”

  “Well, it’s like this. I come over to the car and try the door but it’s all crumpled and won’t open. But the window’s open—either that or it had smashed, I’m not sure—so I get it into my head that I can drag him out. I’m hardly the strongest nowadays but I reckon I could do it. Probably not the smartest thing, and maybe it hurt him more than it helped, but I felt sorry to see him trapped in there like that.

  “So I lean into the car and he’s whispering things to himself, between the groans. When I get him out he starts up again, mumbling and muttering, and I lean in to listen. But it’s all nonsense, gibberish. He stopped after a few minutes and I thought he had died there and then.”

  “Drunken nonsense?”

  “No, I shouldn’t think so. I’ve known many a drunken fellow, believe me, and it wasn’t like that. He wasn’t saying foolish things, rather he wasn’t really saying anything. Just noises. Like he’s in pain; he can’t pull his thoughts together. But here’s the thing...”

  Trugger trailed off and kicked the leaves at his feet. He scratched his cheek before turning back to stare right into Edith’s eyes. He weighed her up. The last person to believe fears every insult to be a personal one. He begged her with his eyes not to hurt him with disbelief.

  “The police said it were alcohol. But as I leant over him there wasn’t a trace of it on his breath. Not the smallest hint. I told them this but they said I must be wrong.

  “I can only say what heard and saw and smelt. That fellow wasn’t drunk. The police can say what they want but then so can I. And I would swear on my life the fellow hadn’t touched a drop.”

  “Interesting.” Ben stroked his chin. “The old codger’s probably wrong though. You can’t really argue with a blood alcohol test. Science, isn’t it? If the police tested him then they’ve got it straight.”

  “He was a nice guy, not an old codger.” Edith felt protective of Trugger. They had chatted for an hour or more. He hadn’t harmed anybody, yet the police had interrogated him quite needlessly. It wasn’t the thanks he had been expecting. “Besides, I thought you didn’t trust the police?”

  “Well,” Ben sighed, half at the thought of trusting the police, half at the thought of his daughter catching him out, “that’s true. Corrupt and incompetent, that’s what they are. Better not to trust them too much. I suppose they could have switched samples, or something. Used to happen all the time.”

  “It also tallies with what Samuel said, that Thomas Faircote was teetotal. There are obviously two versions of the story here.” Edith leant on a sideboard she vaguely knew existed somewhere near the bedroom door. There was more to discover about this case. She wanted to keep looking, to go deeper. What would it mean if the inquest was proven wrong? “Dad, if Thomas Faircote hadn’t been drinking, what are the possibilities?”

  “It could still be an accident. I wouldn’t worry.”

  “Worry?”

  “Sweetheart, it could be murder. I already told you that. It’s a possibility.” There was a creak as Ben shifted in his chair. He sucked in air with one long thought. “I don’t want you investigating a murder. I can do that.”

  Edith gazed into the endless blackness of the room. There was no answer to her father’s delusion.

  “I want you to collect some more information. Find out a few more details. See what’s what. Then if it turns out to be something dodgy I’ll take over.”

  “Dad!” Edith pushed herself back against the wall and kicked it with her heels. “I don’t think you’re really well enough...”

  “I’ll tell you if I’m bloody well enough! And I’m bloody well enough to work a case if I need to.” Ben spat out his words. “You’re just collecting information. You’ve done alright so far, but don’t get ahead of yourself. An idiot like you wouldn’t know where to start with a real investigation.”

  Edith let the silence hang. Out of anger, out of pride. He had been like this in the past, frustrated, taking it out on her. It was his situation speaking, grating on his patience. He couldn’t help it. She didn’t have to put up with it. Not now she was going beyond her duty of simply caring for him. He would never have spoken to Sunny like that.

  She waited.

  “Now, what’s the number one motive for murder?” Ben posed his question, changing the subject. If he could catch out his daughter too it be a bonus. She was incompetent. She knew nothing. It would be a good idea if she learnt that quickly.

  “Love?” Edith thrust her hands into her jeans pockets. There would be no apology for his outburst. “I guess, but I...”

  “Ha!” Ben snorted. “You’re right, in a way, but you’re thinking of a jealous lover.”

  “Of course, what else?”

  “Euthanasia. Thousands of them, every year. Hardly any of them ever get reported or charged. Bet you didn’t know that. Now, tell me, what’s the number two motive for murder?”

  “Erm, love?” Edith mumbled. “The jealous lover kind.”

  “Nah,” Ben waved Edith’s suggestion away with his hand, “it’s money. Now how much money did Thomas Faircote have?”

  “It seems that the Faircotes are a wealthy family. Sam said they were all doctors and lawyers living down in Knutsford. The company is a family concern too. So I guess a fair bit.”

  “Don’t just guess,” Ben clapped his hands, “find out! He would have had a will, or at least an estate. It’s a public record.”

  “Okay, give me a few minutes.”

  Edith left Ben’s room with confidence she didn’t have. She would figure it out somehow. Hesitation only gave him another chance to complain. He didn’t need any more of those.

  A few minutes on her laptop turned out to be enough. Recent wills were available with a quick search and a small fee. The document was emailed to her in seconds.

  Thomas Faircote’s will, short and simple. She read it through. There was an obvious problem, as Ben might have already guessed.

  “Thomas Faircote, of Sampson’s Fold, Milnrow. Total value of estate about £12,000. Left to various charities.” Edith beamed at her success as she read the will to her father. “That’s far too little, isn’t it? If his family is as wealthy as we think.
What are we expecting, ten times that amount?”

  “Or more.” Ben grinned at the thought of millions. Money put him in a good mood. Some of it would be his fee before long. “But it’s not enough either way. If Thomas had money we think he had, then something happened to it before he died.”

  “I’m going to find out what happened to it. Right?”

  “Sure, of course you are. There’s something else though. You didn’t see it, did you?”

  “No, what?”

  “Why is a wealthy guy from Knutsford living in Milnrow, of all places?”

  Day 3: Friday 3 November

  “I’m glad you came. Now go away and tell the Faircotes to stop this nonsense.”

  Edith froze, hand on the back of chair, knees half bent ready to sit.

  “I...”

  “You heard what I said.” The solicitor leant forward and folded his arms, nestling them neatly behind the name plate on his desk: ‘James Moxon’. “Don’t even bother sitting down.”

  Edith straightened and shuffled behind the chair for cover. Her sight scanned the room while she thought somehow to delay her departure.

  The small office overlooked Milnrow’s main street, stuffed in the upper floor of a Victorian terrace, an estate agent below. James Moxon’s name plate was faintly ridiculous, his being the only desk in the office. Paper was his main companion. Files crammed shelves and burst open filing cabinets which took up half the floor space. The faded wallpaper, at least what could be seen of its gold and green stripes behind the files, suggested that the work of entombing the solicitor in paper had begun at least a decade or two ago.

  James Moxon was the only lawyer in his practice and, bar the secretary, the only employee. Wearing an ill–fitting suit and inadvisable glasses, James was of an indeterminable age. Lacking the plumpness of middle age and the freshness of youth his body gave few hints. He could have been a young–looking fifty or an intensely unfashionable twenty–five. Maybe he inherited this kingdom of paper when it already well–established, merely adding his own sheaves in a lawyerly form of dynastic succession.

  Beyond the office window the main road hummed softly with midday traffic. The hairdresser’s across the road was named in the grand tradition of an inexecrable pun: Streaks Ahead. A man rammed an empty bottle into an overfull bin next to the layby where Edith had parked her sister’s car.

  James stared through the silence. Edith still hadn’t left. She had no intention of doing so.

  “So I’m not the first to ask to speak with you? About Thomas’s will?” Edith avoided James’s stare, or any acknowledgement that she was unwelcome.

  “No, indeed you are not.” James unsubtly glanced at the door, gripping a pen in his fist. Then he sighed his submission and threw the pen onto the desk, “Did they not tell you how many of them, their lawyers, have sat in that chair and tried to get information out of me? How many they have sent before you? That you’re just the latest in a long—and might I say, unsuccessful—line.”

  “Obviously not.” Edith coughed. Emboldened by his outburst she rounded the chair and seated herself. She leant back sloppily, one elbow on an armrest. “The Faircotes have hired lots of lawyers then?”

  James laughed and pulled at the knot of his tie. “They have probably spent more money on them then they ever have the chance of recovering.”

  “So there is missing money?”

  “I’m not suggesting there is any specific sum of money to recover, of course.” James quickly shook his head. “But I can assure you that the Faircote family is going to be out of pocket. They wouldn’t be successful even if there were money.”

  “But they all saw what I saw? That Thomas died with a pretty paltry sum to his name? Despite coming from a stinkingly rich family?” Edith waited for the solicitor to respond. When it failed to come she spoke to herself. “Well, I wouldn’t mind having twelve grand right now.”

  “Look, I won’t provide you with any information which is not public, so don’t waste your time asking me. Whatever you have read in his will is true.” The solicitor stood and swept his hand toward the door. “Now go.”

  Edith stood as a concession to his repeated request. She still wasn’t ready to leave. “Why did you say I should come when I spoke to you this morning, if you just wanted to send me away?”

  “To waste your time and money, just as you are wasting mine.” James smirked.

  “Thanks.” Edith scraped her chair forward. “I’m investigating a murder and you want to waste my time.”

  “Sorry?” James stared at her. “What murder?”

  “Of Thomas Faircote.”

  “But he died in an accident. He wasn’t murdered.”

  “Well,” the word trailed off to silence as Edith weighed her move, “I have evidence to the contrary.”

  James blinked. His lips parted, pregnant with questions he shouldn’t ask.

  Edith had her opening. She planted herself once again on the chair and crossed her arms, a crooked smile on her face. “That’s why I’m here, talking to you.”

  “Oh, come on!” James rolled his eyes and turned to the window. “Don’t be ridiculous. Of all the petty tricks the Faircotes have pulled to get their money back, this is the lowest. Are you seriously accusing me of murder?”

  “No. Should I?” Edith wouldn’t have dared to say such a thing had he been looking at her. The bravery was a front, the accusation no more than devilment. James Moxon wasn’t a murderer. The accusation shocked him, open bewilderment on his face. He was reeling from the possibility, not angry that he had been discovered. It wasn’t worth pushing him on it directly. “I think the missing money was the motive.”

  “I can’t believe I’m hearing this.” James slumped in his seat, his suit crumpling round his body. “I’ve already told you to go. Please, just go.”

  Edith bent over the desk, drawing her face as near to the solicitor’s as possible. Her heart quickened as she measured out her words. Something was driving her. Something new. Control? Power? There was no backing down.

  “Look, James, nobody ever even mentioned the will to me. I found that by myself. It took less than fifteen minutes. And the money thing jumped straight out.

  “I don’t care about the money, but I do care about the murder. I’m going to keep investigating it whether you help me or not. But if this much was obvious to me, it will be obvious to others.”

  James inhaled sharply. His face had changed from anxiety to confusion. He leant his head to one side and frowned. “That’s the second time you’ve said that.”

  “What?”

  “‘Investigate.’ You’re not a lawyer, are you?” James shook his head, half speaking to himself “You never said you were, did you? You only said you were working for his relatives. Look at the way you’re dressed.”

  Edith looked down at herself, thinking she was dressed smartly enough. Then she looked at James and felt the sting of an insult.

  “Yes. I mean,” Edith hesitated, “I’m working for Thomas’s cousin. But, no, I’m not a lawyer.”

  James leant back, crossing his legs loosely. “I’ll still only tell you information which is already public, but,” he gesticulated, “I’m willing to make sure you have the right background information, so to speak. Lest you, shall we say, continue with any false impressions.”

  “You’re so very kind.” Edith sat back, copying his posture.

  Something had changed. She struggled to understand what. Why did it matter she was an investigator? She knew about the possibility of murder, he didn’t. But now it was him leading her. With a gentle nod he gave her leave to being her questions.

  “So, it’s correct that Thomas died with twelve thousand to his name?”

  “Twelve thousand and forty one pounds, and sixty five pence.” The numbers rattled off without hesitation.

  “And he didn’t own the house he was living in?”

  “No. That would have been included in the total if he did. The house was rented from his neighbour. T
he twelve thousand is all his assets, not just ready cash.”

  “Yet he came from a wealthy family?”

  James shrugged. “That’s not for me to comment. I can’t possibly tell you anything about his family background that you don’t already know. You’ve met his family, form your own impressions.”

  “I’m pretty sure we can assume they are.” Edith thought back to Sam’s description of Thomas’s activities while he was alive. “Did he just give all his money away to good causes?”

  “His will left his entire estate to various charities, which you already know. But if you mean...,” James stopped for a second and looked upward in thought, “...if you mean the wealth that you purport to have existed, then clearly that must have been done before his death.”

  “Yet he didn’t know he was going to die, did he?” Edith shook her head. “Wait, when was his will written?”

  James smiled. “It’s public information, so I can inform you that the will was effective from February.”

  “Of this year?”

  “Yes.”

  “So he drew up a new will six months before he died?” Edith shifted in her seat and uncrossed her legs. She tapped a finger on James’s desk. “Am I right in guessing that, had he died before February, his estate would have been rather larger?”

  “Such information is not public knowledge, obviously.”

  “Let’s just assume it’s true, yeah?” Edith leant further over the desk. “Are you better off because of the changes to his will?”

  “My word! You are accusing me of murder, aren’t you?” James’s eyes widened as he spoke, following by a stuttery laugh.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “So you bloody well should be. That’s the second time you’ve insinuated it. I’m glad you’re not a lawyer else you wouldn’t last long going round firing off accusations like that”

  “I’m...” She had to get him on her side permanently. No more attacks or accusations. What was the use of them? His reactions were unpredictable and useless. They had to have a common goal. “I’m concerned. You must be too. How long did you know Thomas Faircote for?”