“But the conversation Jane overheard was still about the divorce,” Tess insisted. “There’s no need to stamp on my suggestions.”
“Sorry.” Maltravers gave her an absent kiss of apology as he sat on the settee again. “Let’s do this calmly. One, Ted Owen would only get excited about money with a lot of noughts attached. Two, that sort of money was somehow linked with his being married to Caroline. Three … ”
“Wrong,” Tess corrected. “It was linked with his being divorced from Caroline … but you say the divorce wouldn’t bring him anything. Or at least not enough to get him excited.” Maltravers grunted in agreement as the separated-out question of Caroline Owen’s death produced its own inexplicable facets.
“There was something else Jane said, but I can’t quite remember … ” He shook his head in irritation. “When Caroline put the phone down she made some comment about … What was it? That’s it! Sod her bloody aunt!”
“Sod whose bloody aunt?” Tess demanded.
“Daphne’s presumably … but where does it get us?”
“Does she have an aunt? Didn’t Louella say her parents died in a road crash when she was a teenager?”
“Yes … and she was brought up by someone else. The aunt?”
“Perhaps … but where does money come into it?”
“Think it through,” Maltravers said. “We may be getting somewhere. There’s a relation — an aunt — and there’s money. Tie them together.”
“Rich aunt?” Tess asked.
“Very possibly … and one who doesn’t approve of her niece living in sin?” Maltravers suggested. “The sort who’d cut her out of her will unless she got married?”
“But what’s the big hurry? Unless auntie’s about to peg out.”
“And if auntie’s worth a packet, it could be a motive for murder.” Maltravers stood up. “I’m going to phone Louella. Caroline may have said something to her.”
Tess was still turning it round in her mind when he came back into the room five minutes later. He looked disappointed.
“As far as Louella knows Daphne’s only living relative is a brother. And the two of them were brought up by their godparents. Ted was apparently quite open with Caroline about her. So no dying aunt.”
“But there’s still an aunt somewhere,” Tess commented. “Alive or dead.”
“And if not alive, then certainly dead.” Maltravers looked at her for a moment and she saw confused realisation cross his face. “So does that bring us back to a will?”
“Can’t fault it, but explain.”
“If I could explain, I wouldn’t be fumbling around.”
Tess crossed to the drinks trolley. “Stimulation,” she said as she returned with two tumblers. “We need it.”
“Thanks.” Maltravers accepted the glass. “Let’s go back to Daphne’s parents for a moment. She was only a teenager when they died, so any money they left could have gone into some sort of trust until she reached a certain age.”
“Then she’s probably got it now,” Tess pointed out. “She’s nearly twenty-five isn’t she?”
“Yes, but we don’t know anything about her parents. They could have specified any age … All right, not any age, but older than twenty-one.”
“So? Whatever it was, if she lives long enough she gets it. And what’s it got to do with this aunt?”
“Same principle. She’s also apparently dead, so the money Ted and Caroline were arguing about must be locked up in a will. If we could find that will it might tell us something.”
“How do we do that? We don’t even know who she is … or did Caroline tell Louella?”
“No. The only possibility is to look at her parents’ wills and see if there’s anything in them.”
“Same problem,” Tess objected. “How do you find them?”
“Wills are public documents and anyone can go to Somerset House and look at anybody else’s. Believe it or not, there’s an agency rejoicing in the name of Smee and Ford which makes a living selling the details to local newspapers. People often get cross about them being published, but there’s nothing they can do to stop it.”
“All right, but how do you find them?”
“We have a name — and Gillie’s fairly unusual fortunately — and they died about ten years ago. I’ve never been to Somerset House, but they must have a cataloguing system. I’ll call David Shirley my solicitor in the morning and ask him how it works.” Tess looked dubious. “It’s a long shot. Even if you find her parents’ wills, they might not tell you anything.”
“It’s all we’ve got at the moment … and of course if her aunt was also a Gillie, I might be able to find her will as well. Now that could be interesting.”
“I bet she married someone called Smith.”
“Pessimist. Anyway, it’s somewhere to start and fits in with what little we know.”
“It’s faintly weird, but worth looking into,” Tess agreed. “But where does it leave you with Kershaw and Jenni Hilton?”
“I’m positive there’s a link there and it may be easier to sort out if we can remove Caroline’s death from the picture,” Maltravers replied. “The immediate question is why is somebody trying to find her address? I don’t like that, but we don’t have to worry about it until she gets back to London in a couple of days. Then I’ll call her … and see if I can persuade her to talk about it. If necessary, I’ll tell her what I know about her affair with Jack Buxton.”
“Are you going to put forward your theory that that gave her a motive to kill Kershaw?”
“If I have to, yes. Not because it particularly bothers me, but because if it’s true, then whoever’s trying to find her could be big trouble.”
“Somebody who knows something and is going to blackmail her?” Tess suggested.
“I wish I could believe that, but all they’d have needed to do was write to her through The Chronicle. That would keep them anonymous as well.” Maltravers swirled his drink and watched dissolving ice cubes spin. “Trying to find where she lives must mean that someone wants to go there. I can think of only one reason why anyone should want that. Someone else suspects — perhaps even knows — that she killed Kershaw … and they could want revenge.”
“After all these years?” Tess raised her hand, gesturing away something outrageous. “Darling, come on. That’s too much.”
“You have other ideas for the committee to consider?”
“Not off the top of my head, but who could it be? Louella said that everyone hated Kershaw and was glad he was dead.”
“But his family weren’t,” he reminded her. “Don’t you remember Louella telling us what a row his mother made at the inquest?”
“Well, she must be pushing it now, even if she’s still alive,” Tess argued.
“Another relative then, or perhaps some friend from the East End who wasn’t part of his glamorous life. If he was as big a villain as we’ve been told, he could have been tied up with the Kray twins and their gang for all we know. He certainly knew where to hire those thugs who worked Jack Buxton over. Until we find out — if we ever do — who’s asked a private detective to trace Jenni Hilton, then I think we must assume the worst. At least I’ll be able to warn her when she gets back to town.”
“What about tracing his family?” Tess suggested.
“How?” Maltravers demanded. “He came from Wapping didn’t he? From Tower Bridge down river, London’s been torn up and started over again. The street Kershaw was born in probably isn’t there any more, let alone have his family still living in it. And suppose I did find them, what could I do? Knock on the door and say, ‘Hey, is one of you planning to murder Jenni Hilton?’ If I’m wrong they thump me, if I’m right, the river police are fishing me out of the Thames. I can’t swim even without a hundredweight of concrete tied to my ankles.”
“Would it help to tell the police all this now?” Tess suggested.
“What’s to tell? Put all the pieces together and it still doesn’t add up to much. Louella’
s convinced Barry Kershaw was murdered, I suspect there’s something behind Jenni Hilton not wanting his name mentioned in a feature about her, Alan Bedford’s been asked to find her address for someone. They’re hardly going to put an armed guard outside her house on the strength of that lot. More likely they’d start talking to some of the people who lied at Kershaw’s inquest and begin pressing perjury charges, if they’re still allowed to do so after all this time.”
“So what can you do?”
“Check out our theory about Daphne Gillie. Warn Jenni when she gets back. Perhaps see Bedford again and convince him he could be helping somebody to commit murder … and pray?” He grinned sourly.
“Do agnostics believe in prayer?”
“This one does. I also believe they’re answered — but not always the way we expect them to be.”
*
Alan Bedford rang Insignia Motors on Tuesday morning and made an appointment to see Terry Kershaw at eleven o’clock. He could have given him the information he had over the phone, but wanted to see him personally when he asked certain questions. Maltravers had planted enough doubts in his mind to cause him concern. When he arrived, Kershaw was looking as though he had slept badly.
“What have you got?” he asked wearily as the secretary closed the door behind her.
Bedford took a notebook from his briefcase. “Stephanie left your house shortly after nine yesterday morning. She went to a shop in Highgate village where she apparently bought shoes and then drove to Mill Hill and parked outside number forty-three Fawcett Avenue. She was seen to enter the house and remained there until four o’clock before returning home. My girl checked the electoral roll at the local library and the resident was given as … ”
“I know,” Kershaw’s voice was dead as he interrupted. “He’s one of our salesmen. Rang in yesterday and said he was ill. It’s happened a couple of times lately.”
“I see.” Kershaw closed his notebook. “Do you want me to continue having her followed?”
“No thanks. I don’t want to know any more. I’ll take it from here.”
“What I’ve told you isn’t much use in any legal action,” Bedford pointed out. “For all I know she was visiting the sick. She could deny there was anything more to it than that. If you’re thinking of starting proceedings, you’ll need more. Just reminding you.”
“I realise that. I’ll deal with it my way. Thanks Alan.” Kershaw turned round in his swivel chair and looked out of the window. In other circumstances, Bedford would have taken it as a sign that he just wanted to be left alone.
“There’s something else I want to talk to you about, Terry,” he said.
“What?” Kershaw sounded preoccupied and indifferent as he remained with his back to him.
“This Jenni Hilton inquiry you asked me to make … ” Bedford registered the twitch of tension in the slight movement of Kershaw’s head. “Somebody’s been to see me about it and I’m concerned.”
“Concerned?” Kershaw turned to face him again. “What about?”
“I’ve been told that she knew someone called Barry Kershaw years ago. He’s dead now. Relative of yours?”
“My brother.”
“You didn’t mention that.”
Kershaw shrugged. “Does it matter? I saw no need to tell you the family history … Who came to see you about this?”
“I can’t say. You know that.”
“So what did whoever it was say that’s worrying you?”
“Enough.”
“That’s no answer.”
“It’s all I’m saying at this stage,” Bedford told him. “I just want it putting on the record that if I discover anything that makes me — let’s say have doubts about your motives — I may have to do something about it to protect my firm’s reputation.” “Have I ever been less than straight with you in the past?”
“No. And that’s what I don’t like about this.”
For a few moments the only sound was the muffled rumble of the North Circular Road, then Kershaw said, “There’s nothing to worry about, Alan. I’ve not asked you to do anything wrong.”
“I know that. But I don’t know why you’ve asked me and I’d feel happier if I did.”
“What you don’t know can’t hurt you.” Kershaw smiled sourly. “That’s what my mum always used to tell me. Forget it.”
Bedford waited, but there was obviously no more coming as Kershaw looked at him impassively. He slipped the notebook back in his briefcase and left. In his car he repeated the entire conversation, virtually word for word, into a tape recorder then sat for a few minutes, fingers of his right hand making rapid four-stroke drumbeats on the steering wheel. Terry Kershaw had never been a good liar — incredible, considering that he had started in the second-hand car trade — and he was lying now. Bedford was becoming increasingly convinced that he should talk to Augustus Maltravers again.
*
Kershaw was shaken out of his thoughts by his secretary calling him on the intercom.
“The gentlemen from Honda are here, Mr Kershaw. Shall I bring them through?”
“Can you ask them to wait for a moment, Judy? Make them coffee.”
He flicked the intercom button off and picked up his private line telephone.
“Hello, Mum. I’ve found that address for you.”
Not for her. Not for Barry. Not for any reason he could explain. Perhaps for Stephanie. To hurt her as well, to hit back like an angry child.
Chapter Sixteen
Surrounded by façades of decorated Portland stone, Maltravers crossed the square quadrangle of Somerset House from the gates off the Strand and went through the double doors in the south wing with PRINCIPAL REGISTRY OF THE FAMILY DIVISION in gold lettering above them. Beneath his feet, somewhere in eleven miles of corridors, was kept a copy of every will which had been through probate in England and Wales since 1858. Had he wished, he could have read any one of them; only those of the Royal family remain private. Even Karl Marx felt it necessary to write a will rather than simply bequeathing everything to the toiling masses, and a soldier once simply put “I leave everything to her” on the back of an envelope. It is the shortest will among millions, although probate was never granted, possibly because of the problem of deciding who he was referring to.
Immediately inside the doors, the entrance hall was lined with hundreds of bound calendar books, immense alphabetical-order volumes bound in dark red leather, marked with the years. Inside each one were basic details of names, addresses and when probate was granted. It was only just turned eleven o’clock, but there were already thirty or so people pulling them off the shelves and poring over their entries; solicitors’ clerks checking recondite conditions of final wishes, people tracing family history, the hopeful looking for some legacy to which they were convinced they were entitled. The appropriate entry located, they took the books to a desk near the window overlooking the Thames and the details were written on a form which was slipped through a slot in the wall. Within half an hour, they would hear the name called and could see the copy in question for twenty-five pence; if it was what they wanted, they could have their own copy sent to them for another twenty-five pence a page.
Maltravers spent a few moments observing the system in operation, then found the stretch of books for 1980 which seemed a reasonable year to start. As well as the surname, he also knew Daphne’s parents had lived in Dorset. There was nothing for anyone called Gillie in that year, so he moved back along the shelf and looked in 1979. Bernard William Gillie’s will had been through probate on December fourteenth and he lived in Dorchester; immediately below that entry was one for Marion Ruth Gillie. Maltravers carried the volume to the desk and his request for both wills went through. He spent the next twenty minutes idly looking up entries for well-known people whose dates of death he could remember, discovering that Charles Dickens had left some eighty thousand pounds in 1870. He was still trying to calculate how much that would have made him worth in modern terms when “Gillie!” rang a
cross the room. He went to the desk, was sent along the corridor to first pay his fifty pence to the cashier, and returned to collect the copies.
The wills were initially complementary, each leaving everything to the other before they dealt with the question of predecease. Here there were slight variations, but the main parts were the same. The entire estate was left to their son Martin David Gillie and Daphne Elizabeth Gillie was to receive one thousand pounds a year until she reached the age of twenty-five. The phraseology after that was identical: “The legacy to my daughter takes into account the monies she is due to receive at that age under the terms of the will of Constance Elizabeth Gillie.”
“Hello, Constance. Are you auntie?” Maltravers murmured to himself. He reached into his pocket for a pen, then remembered something he had half noticed earlier. Turning round he saw the signs saying that brief notes could only be taken in pencil and everybody appeared to be observing it. He searched his pockets unsuccessfully. “Dammit.”
He was directed to one of the messengers who led him to a desk where a collection of pencil stubs, none more than three inches long, was kept.
“Do they steal them if you hand out long ones?” he asked.
“That’s it,” the messenger said cheerfully. “We’ve got full ones, but they always disappear.”
“I shall faithfully return it,” Maltravers promised and went back to his table. He copied out the key passages, handed the wills back, then returned to the shelves and started working backwards, looking for Constance Elizabeth. At least the surname was the rare Gillie again, but this time he had no idea of the year. The efficiency of the system was such that it only took him a few minutes to find her in 1975 and he went through the ordering process again. While he was waiting, he reread the brief calendar book entry and noticed that her address was given as Prestbury in Cheshire, some twenty miles from where he had been born and brought up. While the poor were always with mankind, they did not live in Prestbury, which had been one of the most exclusive villages in Britain in his childhood and still was as far as he knew. Constance Elizabeth had had money. Her will, when he received it, did not say how much, but he could make an educated guess. There were a handful of minor bequests, then came the critical paragraphs.
Murder in Waiting (Augustus Maltravers Mystery Book 5) Page 16