Inheritance

by Ellen Kefferty

Now he faced her across the desk, sat stiffly upright with his arms crossed. Outwardly calm, his swift rejection belied a deep animosity. He had seen her, and heard her, and owed her nothing more. He had nothing further to say but his decision, though he graciously allowed her time to respond.

  Edith let her fingers gently rest on the desk top. They slowly curled under her palm to shape a fist. “But I...” She had no idea where her response was going. She looked aside and thought. There was no way of demanding anything from him.

  “Samuel has left his affairs under my control.” He crooked his head to catch her averted gaze. His tone softened. “You’re putting his life in danger. Do you understand that?”

  “I am trying to keep him safe,” Edith considered her words, “to make him and his family safe. He was already in danger.” She wouldn’t look Hugh in the eye.

  “Safe? Safe?” Hugh stood and breathed, curtailing his rising anger. He dragged his chair out from behind the desk, moving it nearer to Edith then sat down. He leant forward and motioned to her with his hand. “Do you call two gunshots into his wedding suite safe?”

  “How can I be responsible for that?”

  “Samuel could have died!” Hugh shouted at Edith.

  She slid downward in her chair.

  “But...I don’t understand.” She shook her head. Why was she being blamed for this? “I don’t even know what happened.”

  “I cleaned the wholly bloody mess up, that’s what happened.” Hugh crossed his arms once again. “I had a hell of a job convincing the manager not to ring the police until the reception was over.”

  “So they came? Why did they not ask to speak with us?”

  Hugh laughed. “If you had stayed you would have known. But you obviously cared more to save your own skins and disappear.”

  “No, that’s not...” That wasn’t how Edith recalled it. They had been drinking, for sure, but they had been allowed to go. Instructed, even. The waiter who kept them in the kitchen said so. They never would have left otherwise. Well, maybe they were glad to leave, but would have stayed. Surely they didn’t sneak out?

  “The manager received a phone call from a farmer soon after the shots.” Hugh nodded gently. He had finally managed to draw Edith’s attention and her gaze. “It turns out that a contractor was culling badgers nearby, became lost, strolled into the park and accidentally fired toward the hall.”

  “Oh.” Edith looked downward. Sam had more or less said the same thing, though with less detail. She let her gaze fall to the floor and spoke like a mouse. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Shouldn’t the police have been called anyway?”

  Hugh shook his head. “One day you’ll understand. Never get the police involved if you don’t have to. Just too much hassle.”

  Edith thought that maybe her father would like Hugh. She grimaced inwardly at how alike they were. No–nonsense. Untrusting of officials. Treated her like somebody who should listen rather than question. She looked up at him and smiled for a second then looked back down at her bag. Fingering the zip, she wished she had more time to think. She desperately wanted him on her side because it would be the nearest thing to having her father able to help her.

  Edith turned to face him. She put her hand on his arm and looked straight into his eyes. She needed him. Even if Andrius was there for her he had no investment in the Faircotes. He might save Edith by taking her somewhere far away. The other would have to save themselves. Hugh had already sworn, multiple times, that he would do anything for Samuel. Now he needed to be pushed on that promise.

  “I need your help Hugh. There are powerful forces at work,” she sighed deliberately, letting her tone fall into worry, “and Samuel’s life could be at risk.”

  Hugh shook off Edith’s hand and laughed. “There’s no risk to Samuel. There’s no risk at all.”

  “Samuel obviously thinks there is, or he wouldn’t have left as he has.”

  “Sam’s just stressed. He wants to get away on his honeymoon. He’ll be back soon.” Hugh stood and paced behind the desk. He shoved his hands in his pockets. He neither spoke further nor dismissed Edith. He was thinking.

  She stood and rounded the desk, placing herself in his course. She leant backward on the desk and folded her arms.

  “I can still investigate,” she wanted Hugh to stop pacing, but he refused, simply walking round her, “just as anybody could. Whether you like it or not.”

  “You won’t be paid.” He shook his head.

  “Samuel will decide that,” Edith pitched her firmness right, “once it is over.”

  “I won’t pay you.”

  “I won’t ask you to pay me.”

  “I won’t help you.”

  “Not at all? Not one bit? I thought you loved Sam as your own son?”

  Hugh stopped suddenly and span on his heel. He leant over her with a stone cold stare. “Don’t you fucking play tricks. You don’t know what Sam means to me. I would do anything to help him. But I can’t see that you’re doing anything but stir up a lot of pointless bullshit and making him scared. I’m not helping you in that.”

  Edith swallowed. She would push it, just a little bit more.

  “Then prove it.”

  “I don’t need to prove a thing!” Hugh flung a hand on the air. Edith flinched. He resumed his pacing.

  Eventually he stopped by the window. “I’ve already proven myself to that family.”

  Edith looked on. “I know you did a lot for them after Sam’s father died.”

  “That was nothing. You wouldn’t believe me, but it was nothing.”

  “How so? There’s more?”

  “So much more.” He shook his head in disbelief that he had been brought to this. “If I tell you, will you promise never to mention of word of it to Sam?”

  “Yes.” Edith glibly swore without knowing what it would mean. She wanted Hugh’s trust as much as she needed his help.

  “And will you listen? And understand?” He pointed a finger at her chest. “You won’t think you know better than I do.”

  “Yes.”

  “When Sam’s father first learnt about his illness he confided in me. He couldn’t yet tell his family. He didn’t yet understand exactly what he had been told. His family would need him to be strong. His wife, his two young sons, all looked to him to centre their world. He needed to centre himself before he could do that. He wanted to get himself straight.

  “So Michael looked to me. With me could he be honest, yet we had hardly known each other for three years by that time. I guess that was the strength of our friendship. He concocted an excuse to his wife and dragged me up to Scotland for a week.

  “We stayed in a cottage on some barren mountainside. On the very first night he told me. I was stunned. I had envied his business, his wife, his sons, and now his illness was to take all those things away from him. Slowly, of course, but he would never live to enjoy them properly.

  “We drank prodigiously that night and walked in silence the next day. The following night we drank and played cards while we talked about life. What else were we to do? It seemed like that was all he wanted. Somebody to listen. Somebody to beat at poker. Over the week we won each other’s fortunes and lost them again.

  “One night, after hours of drinking, he became inconsolable. He wouldn’t tell me what had bothered him. I tried to calm him. I swore to him that I would look after his sons and keep them safe. He asked if I would do more. I said that I would look after his business and keep it healthy until his sons were full–grown—we didn’t know how long he had at that time—yet he asked if I would promise more.

  “I asked what more could I promise. He begged that I would kill him if he ever gave me a sign. I pondered it for a little while and, being drunk and feisty, and wanting to raise the mood, I said he could win the promise from me in a game of poker. He matched the stake by saying that if he lost I could be Baron Sisel.”

  Edith shifted round, desperate to see his face, but it was fixed
on something beyond the window. “So, who won?”

  “Well, he’s dead, isn’t he? And I’m not the Baron Sisel.”

  Edith stared in disbelief at what Hugh had just admitted. He turned to her and she saw his eyes wide with fear of his honesty, and with sorrow. She remembered that her father had said the most common motive for murder was love. There was no doubt about his bond with the Faircotes.

  “Will you help me, then?” Edith reached out a hand, palm open and upward.

  There was a silence. Hugh shut his eyes. He bent his head forward so it rested on the window pane.

  “You weren’t listening, were you? I’m not going to help you. I know what is best for the Faircotes, and it’s not your bloody investigation.”

  Day 15: Wednesday 15 November

  A lone chimney stuck into the leaden sky from the centre of its brick–walled compound. Somehow it had been left unmolested while the surrounding building had been razed so that only the ground floor remained. As thought parts, and only some, selected, parts of whatever had once stood there had been surgically removed. If the how was puzzling, the why was inexplicable.

  What was left, aside from the chimney, was a crumbling brick wall which encircled the site. At the front a fine ashlar entrance, blackened by soot, was closed with a crudely welded gate. Along the alley at the back a series of faded blue cast–iron piers framed bays now blocked with sheet metal.

  Edith leant up against one of the piers and studied the people who darted in and out of sight from the windows of the building opposite. It didn’t appear a suitable place for a meeting. Those people would see everything. Why wasn’t he worried about exposing himself?

  “They’re all drugheads. Nobody will believe them.”

  She turned to see a man with a grey goatee saunter toward her. He had spoken loud enough for anybody to hear him, though there was nobody else in the alley. He was in his late fifties and had a small but comfortable paunch. She guessed that he had retired from the police a few years ago.

  “New Cross isn’t what it used to be.” He pointed to a block of apartments which had sprung up a few years ago. A hotel was under construction nearby, and a decrepit industrial unit on another plot was being demolished. “Soon it won’t be any good for clandestine meetings.”

  She frowned at this man who wasn’t taking her seriously. He spoke like it was a game.

  When Edith had returned home from her unsuccessful meeting with Hugh she had been left with no choice but to confess to her father. ‘Did you get the licence plate number?’ That had been his sole concern. ‘Good, then we’ve nothing to worry about.’ He had a contact who could deal with things like that. His number was in a black book he kept for just such a purpose. Did she happen to know where it was?

  “Mike Kirkham?”

  “No. Pol Pot.”

  Edith stood up straight, awakened by his incorrect reply. “Sorry?”

  Mike shook his head. “Never mind. Before your time. How many people do you arrange to meet in dodgy alleys anyway?”

  “Whatever.” She shook her head. This guy was ridiculous. “Are you a police officer then?”

  “Retired. An ex–cop. As of this August.”

  “But you can still get me the information I want?”

  “You never said what you wanted. You only said I should meet you. So here I am.” He held out his hand. He chirped like a children’s television presenter. “Hello, by the way, my name’s Mike Kirkham.”

  “Edith Pimlico.” She frowned at his hand until he withdrew it unshaken.

  “Cheer up. It’s not often I get to meet a daughter of Ben Pimlico. Not in the last few years, anyway. And not this one.”

  She thought for a moment. He knew both her father and her sister. They had used him before, that much was obvious from Ben’s black book. He must have been a regular helper, and was still at it now even in retirement.

  “What does my Dad pay you?”

  “That’s the beauty of it: nothing.” Mike smiled and his goatee broadened with his mouth. “The best price there is.”

  “So why do you help him?”

  “Maybe he’s my friend.”

  “Maybe you’re corrupt.” She made it sound like she was teaching him something he had never heard.

  “I prefer compromised. Has a much nicer ring to it.”

  “Isn’t that the same thing? What’s the difference between corrupt and compromised?”

  Suddenly there was hate in his eyes. His mouth bent to a snarl. “A corrupt cop would cry if Ben died. A compromised one would rejoice.”

  She wanted to probe further. If her father wasn’t paying Mike then he had something over him. Mike was clearly unhappy with that state of affairs, especially as it had begun to drag into his retirement. It was unlikely that he would reveal the secret to her even if she asked directly. It was best left undisturbed.

  She turned away from him a little, aware that she was about to ask him to commit a crime.

  “I want to know who a number plate is registered to.”

  He nodded and blinked in assent. “Okay.”

  “You can do that? Even though you’re retired?”

  “Sure. It’s no problem.”

  “How long will it take?”

  He shrugged. “A day. Maybe two. Depends on a number of things. Do you have the registration number?”

  She slipped him a sticky note. He slid it inside his jacket.

  “Can I ask why you want to find the owner of this car? It’s best for me to know what I’m getting involved in, you know?”

  She knew not to answer too quickly. The whole truth wasn’t worth mentioning. It would either come over as ridiculous or give him an excuse to back out. Nobody would tangle themselves up with an investigation if they knew that it involved a conspiracy that went to the top. The police themselves might even be involved.

  Shit. What about Mike? She hadn’t stopped to considered the possibility. It was too late to back out now. Besides, they already knew who she was. Either she would get the information or she wouldn’t. She can’t be putting herself in any further danger than she already faced.

  “The driver cut me up.” She saw the perplexion in his face.

  He shook his head. “Is that it?”

  “Sure.”

  “You want me to look up a car registration because some guy cut you up while driving? You know what you’re asking me to do, right?”

  It was a pathetic reason. She mumbled an addendum. “He was threatening.”

  “Come on! You’re lying to me.”

  She turned to leave. She stepped away. “I just want the information. Let me know when you have it.”

  A hand on her shoulder yanked her round. He stood near to hear, the sticky note still in his hand. He searched her eyes with his. She couldn’t read his emotion.

  “Tell me the truth.”

  “I,” she looked down, the truth would have to be pared back, but it would be the truth, “I’m investigating a murder. The culprit tried to run me off the road. I need to track them down.”

  He weighed up her words. Within a moment his face regained a hint of friendliness.

  “Okay. That’s okay. I’ll get it for you.”

  His hand loosened on her shoulder and slipped down her arm to her wrist. He tugged gently so that she came nearer to him.

  “Edith. You don’t want to get mixed up in your Dad’s business. Sunny was bright enough to figure him out before it was too late.”

  She was wide–eyed at his words. What did he know? She wanted to ask. Why did this stranger know more about her own family than she did?”

  “Okay.” She mouthed her response without conviction, unable to ask the questions which crowded her mind.

  “Not ‘okay’, Edith. Somebody tried to kill you, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  He shook his head. “Just get out, before you end up dead.”

  “I’ve cooked something for you.” Edith lay the tray down before her father, kicking doubts fro
m her path like stray kittens.

  Ben grunted the customary thanks. Upon taking the weight of the tray in his hands he noticed it was heavier than unusual. Not eggs.

  “What is it?” He might have asked his doctor the same thing, with the same tone, on the eve of an unwelcome diagnosis. Disgust and trepidation. A lump in the life he was accustomed to. “I can smell that it’s not eggs. You know I like my eggs.”

  Edith grinned, hoping her father could it. “I thought you deserved something better. I haven’t been attentive recently have I? I forgot about you twice.”

  “You’ve a lot on your plate.” Ben delivered his wit without humour. He only wanted to know what was on his plate. “Are you going to tell me what it is?”

  “It’s a full English! It’s a treat.” Enthusiasm is infectious, so it is said. Just like a disease.

  “It’s not breakfast. It’s dinnertime.” There was no clink of cutlery as though he was ready to feast.

  “You can eat it any time of day. You eat eggs any time of day.”

  “But I like my eggs.”

  “It has eggs.” Edith reassured him. “It has lots of other things too, though. Bacon, beans...”

  “My idiot daughter,” his words bumped over hers like roadkill, “it may be that I know what full English breakfast is. I happen to like my eggs though.”

  She leant on the dresser which creaked in protest. “You always have the same thing. Don’t you think that it’s bad for you?”

  “I like my eggs.” It was his mantra. Impervious to logic. “You know that, of course you do.”

  “What’s the point in me being here every day just to cook you eggs? Is that the rest of my life?”

  “Princess, there’s no need to be like that. You’re a great cook. You cook eggs ever so well.” Ben kneaded the silence with his hands. There were no further words which came to him. He wanted things to go back to the way he liked them. No interruptions and no daughters with troublesome emotions. “I just, I just don’t want to trouble you. No further than I have to.”

  The inner door opened before his words had faded into the darkness.

  She called behind her. “Just eat the eggs then. I’ll throw the rest to the birds.”