6 - Superfluous Death

by Hazel Holt

  He put down the coffee cup.

  ‘Many ye [n">"Timars ago, O best beloved, there was a cantankerous old farmer who lived over the other side of Taunton. His wife had died, he didn’t have any children and he couldn’t stand any of his relatives, so he was rather stuck for someone to leave his farm to. Not that there was anything spectacular to leave; just a dilapidated farmhouse and about twenty acres of scruff, gorse and rabbits. The only person he could stand the sight of for more than five minutes was his wife’s niece, but, being as I said a miserable old so-and-so, he couldn’t quite bring himself to leave it to her outright, so in the end he made a will leaving her the life interest.’

  I straightened a slipping pillow and tried to take an intelligent interest, though my head felt as if it was stuffed full of cotton wool. ‘What’s a life interest?’

  ‘It means that she got the income the land produced, grass keep and so on, for as long as she lived, but she couldn’t sell the land and take the capital because there was a sitting tenant. And even if she had been able to sell, the proceeds would have to be invested and all she’d get would be the mingy bit of interest. Like I said, it wasn’t a case of him liking her the most of all his relatives, so much as hating her the least.’

  ‘Goodness,’ I said. ‘Real Cold Comfort Farm stuff!’

  ‘That was the best the farmer could think of,’ Michael continued, ‘or, rather, his solicitor—an old-fashioned type, who really loved the sort of will that would set a family at each other’s throats. They must have had a jolly time working it out together! But it left the question of who was to have the land when his wife’s niece died. In the end they both decided that she’d make the decision who’d inherit the capital when she popped off. We call that a power of appointment, by the way, though I don’t suppose for one minute that you’re interested.’

  I made a sound indicative of interest and Michael went on: ‘Well, he died, but not before he’d lived in the house on his own for so long without spending any money on it that the only thing keeping it from falling down was force of habit. As for the land, the sitting tenant was equally ramshackle, paying only half a groat a year or something equally traditional, and the whole thing was more trouble than it was worth.

  ‘Well, the niece forgot all about it, the house sort of slowly subsided, the rent on the land was paid to the solicitor, who used it to pay the rates and his fees, and that was that. I mean, why bother? In another seventy million years the earth will probably collide with the sun, and nobody will either know or care.’

  I reached over and took a sip of orange juice to help me concentrate. ‘So then what?’

  ‘Ah,’ Michael said, ‘here the plot thickens ever so slightly, because, after about ten years, the sitting tenant went bankrupt, which ends the tenancy, and—and here it gets really exciting—when the latest Area Plan came out last year (that’s the Planning Office’s statement of policy for the next five years or so, in case you wondered) it made it fairly obvious that for the first time it ought to be possible to get planning permission on those twenty acres, which means they’re suddenly very valuable indeed. In fact, one property developer has already expressed an interest in building an estate of executive homes (whatever they may be) on the site.’

  ‘That’s a nice stroke of luck for the wife’s niece,’ I said, trying to keep a grasp of the narrative.

  Michael grinned. ‘Would have been,’ he replied. ‘The land would have been sold, the proceeds invested in stocks and shares and she’d have had the income off several million quid to see her through her declining years. As it turned out, though, she missed the boat.’

  ‘How?’ I asked.

  ‘She’s dead. The wife’s niece was old Miss Graham. Isn’t that just,’ Michael opined, ‘like Life?’

  For a moment I couldn’t take in the implications. ‘You mean,’ I said slowly, ‘if all this had happened a bit earlier she would have had that enormous amount of money—she wouldn’t have had all that hassle over the flat?’

  ‘She could have bought up a fair slice of West Hill.’

  ‘Oh!’ I cried. ‘How awful! How unfair!’

  Michael shrugged. ‘Whoever said life was fair?’ he said.

  I blew my nose vigorously, as if by that I could clear my head and try to understand the significance of Michael’s amazing story.

  ‘I suppose that means that Ronnie stands to inherit a great deal of money?’

  ‘Ah well, I’m not certain. It’s a point of law I’m not sure about. I think, from what I could find out, that the old dear never used the power of appointment—you remember, the right to say who was to have the loot after she was gone. She’d have had to sign a deed, you see, actually naming someone. And I can’t find anything in the files to say that she ever did so. No point, as far as she was concerned. Couldn’t be bothered.’

  ‘I think I follow. So what will happen to the land? And the money?’

  Michael shrugged again. ‘At the moment it’s as clear as mud. You see, as far as I can make out, since nobody’s named in the old man’s will apart from old Miss Graham, and if she never used the power of appointment, then the whole caboodle may go to the Crown. Who will probably,’ Michael added, ‘fritter the whole lot away on urban renewal and infrastructure and stuff like that. Makes you sick really, doesn’t it?’

  ‘It certainly seems jolly unfair,’ I said. ‘Especially to poor Miss Graham.’ I finished off the orange juice. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Well, no, I’m not,’ he said, ‘since I am but a humble articled clerk and not up in the finer points of the whatsit. I was going to ask Edward, but he’s in Bristol today and Philip was busy with the punters all day. It’s maddening that today’s Friday so we’ll have to wait until Monday before I can continue with my enquiries, as it were.’

  ‘It’s an extraordinary story,’ I said. ‘Do you suppose it gives anyone a motive for killing Miss Graham? I can’t help feeling that a couple of million pounds has to be a motive for someone.’

  ‘I suppose it might be the Treasury, panting to get its hands on the dosh,’ Michael said, ‘but I think you might have a job proving it.’

  I laughed. ‘No little grey men in bowlers with briefcases hanging around West Hill? Oh dear, we shouldn’t laugh, it’s awful really.’

  ‘Well,’ Michael said, gathering up my glass and his coffee cup. ‘I thought it might divert your thoughts from your invalidish state. Shall I switch your telly on for the news?’

  I don’t know if it was the effect of Michael’s amazing story or what, but I felt very much better the next day and by Monday morning I was more or less back to normal again. Certainly well enough to do my usual shopping trip to the supermarket. It really is extraordinary how, if you turn your back on the housekeeping for even a couple of days, you mysteriously find you’ve run out of practically all the basics (‘But Michael, you can’t have used a whole pack of dishwasher powder.’) and have to start again from scratch.

  I was just trying to decide whether or not the ‘10% extra FREE’ justified my choosing a different brand of coffee from my usual one, when Rosemary came round the corner of the Beverages shelves. She was attempting to push a trolley with one hand, while trying with the other to retain some control over a small child who was making a determined bid for freedom.

  ‘Oh, thank goodness. Sheila, could you take this wretched trolley for a minute while I get Delia? She insisted on walking round with me, but she’s in one of her wild moods.’ She scooped her grand-daught [ gre I geter up and dumped her unceremoniously in the child-seat of the trolley. ‘Now do be a good girl and sit there nicely while Grandma does the shopping.’

  Delia opened her mouth to howl, thought better of it and fixed me with that unwinking stare young children often employ and which I find so unnerving.

  ‘Hello, Delia,’ I said. ‘Do you remember me?’

  She gave no sign of recognition but continued to regard me fixedly.

  ‘Where doggies?’ she asked suddenly.

/>   ‘Doggies at home,’ I said.

  ‘Why doggies at home?’

  ‘Doggies not like shopping,’ I replied, feeling like a Portuguese language course.

  Delia appeared to lose interest in me and the whereabouts of the dogs and devoted her attention to a packet of chocolate buttons that Rosemary had deviously introduced into her hand.

  ‘You seem to have your hands full,’ I said.

  ‘Well,’ Rosemary said, leaning wearily on the handles of the trolley, ‘it’s Jilly’s day for taking the baby to the clinic so I thought it would be easier if I had Delia. Unfortunately,’ she continued, ‘Delia managed to break one of Mother’s ornaments while we were round there—so ridiculous leaving all those breakable things at child level and then complaining that Jilly never takes the children to see her!—so I’m feeling more than usually harassed. How about you? You look a bit fragile.’

  ‘Oh, I’m all right, just getting over a rotten cold. I’d better not breathe too near you or Delia in case I’m still infectious.’

  ‘Oh, Taviscombe is full of germs at the moment,’ Rosemary said. ‘I daren’t go into the chemist! Talking of which, I saw Ronnie Graham on Friday and he still looks awful. If I were Carol I’d be really worried about him. It can’t still be the after-effects of flu after all this time.’

  ‘He always was a rather sickly child,’ I said. ‘Miss Graham used to worry about him.’

  ‘Oh well, perhaps the marketing course he’s going on this week will buck him up. It’s in Birmingham, I think he said, which isn’t exactly ... Still, it’ll be a change of scene for him.’

  ‘Oh, by the way,’ I said, ‘talking of Miss Graham and Ronnie, Michael told me the most amazing thing—’

  I was interrupted by Delia, who, having now finished all the chocolate buttons, decided that she was going to protest after all. She let out a tremendous wail. Rosemary gave me a despairing look and said, ‘Sorry, I’d better go. She’s capable of keeping this up for hours! What is it they say about the terrible twos! I’m sure Jilly wasn’t as difficult when she was that age. Maybe it’s just that I’m older!’ She moved quickly towards the check-out and I continued with my shopping.

  By the time I’d finished there were long queues at all the check-outs. Choosing one that seemed to have the least number of laden trolleys I found myself (as I so often do) landed at the check-out with the faulty till and, since I’d already loaded all my purchases on to the conveyor belt thing, I was trapped there until it was seen to by the supervisor.

  ‘Isn’t it maddening?’ a voice behind me said. ‘This always seems to happen to me!’

  I turned and found Jenny Drummond standing behind me. She was looking particularly handsome in a greeny-grey coat that set off the colour of her magnificent hair, which today she was wearing swept up in a coil on top of her head.

  ‘Oh, hello, Jenny. Yes, it’s always the same—banks, post offices, supermarkets—I always manage to pick the dud one!’

  She smiled. ‘I wouldn’t mind, only it’s my lunch break and I’m a bit rushed. How are you? Michael said you’d had a bad cold.’

  ‘Oh, I’m all right now. Michael did his ministering angel bit over the weekend so I was able to stay in bed for a day. I always think it clears up quicker if you can.’

  ‘Is Michael a good cook?’ Jenny asked.

  ‘We-ell, much as I’d like to give him a glowing reference, I’m afraid he’s a rather limited one—beans on toast or a good fry-up. But he did manage a bit of smoked haddock for me, bless his heart.’

  Jenny laughed.

  ‘Talking of food,’ I went on, ‘do come and have supper with us again one evening.’

  ‘Oh, that would be nice, I’d love to.’

  ‘Can we fix a day?’

  ‘Well, it’ll have to be next week, I’m afraid. I’m off tomorrow to spend a few days with my aunt who lives near Worcester.’

  ‘That sounds nice. It’s a very pleasant part of the country. Do you visit her often?’

  Jenny pulled a wry face. ‘Not as often as I should, I’m afraid. She’s a good soul and my only surviving relative, but—how can I put it?—we don’t have much in common. Her life is very much bound up with the church in the village and good works and things like that. Not wildly exciting!’

  ‘Oh well,’ I said soothingly, ‘you’ll probably have a nice rest and I’m sure it will do you good.’

  She laughed. ‘I don’t know that a rest is really what I want. Life, at the moment, seems so very unexciting, uninspired—boring, I suppose.’

  ‘But I’m sure you’ve managed to make lots of friends in Taviscombe,’ I said. ‘A lively girl like you!’

  ‘Oh well, there are a few people at badminton, and with the ornithologists and at work, but they’re really just acquaintances, not proper friends.’

  ‘There’s Michael,’ I suggested.

  She gave me a quick look. ‘Oh yes, there’s Michael and he’s really been so very nice and such good company ...’ Her voice died away and I was left uncertain as to what exactly she did think of Michael, which, I suppose, was her intention. A clever girl, Jenny.

  ‘Anyway,’ she went on, ‘I’ll look forward very much to coming to supper when I get back. I still remember that delicious lemon tart. Would you be very kind and let me have the recipe? I love cooking, it’s so relaxing when you’ve had a hard day at work or feel all tensed up over something. Oh, hooray, they’ve fixed the till at last, now maybe we can get a move on!’

  As I wheeled my trolley out into the car park I wondered about Jenny. A strangely self-contained girl, lively, charming, even, but it was difficult to know what she was thinking, what sort of person she really was. Aloof was the word that came to mind. Perhaps when she came to supper again I’d be able to get to know her better.

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘Well!’ Michael said, coming in and throwing his coat in the general direction of the hall chest. ‘There’s a turn-up for the book!’

  ‘What is?’ I asked, retrieving the coat and going to hang it up. ‘Oh dear, this loop’s gone again! I don’t know what you do with your things!’

  ‘Oh, do leave it! It’s really a most amazing thing.’ He followed me into the kitchen. ‘Old Miss Graham and that business of the power of appointment. I asked Edward about it today.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Well. You know that a lot of the standard clauses in wills are bunged in automatically now on the word processor and you just fill in the personal bits. Well, there’s this particular clause that says’—Michael took a deep breath and intoned with relish—‘ “I give all my real and personal property whatsoever and wheresoever not hereby or by any codicil hereto otherwise specifically disposed of (including any property over which I may have a general power of appointment or disposition by will) ...” It’s smashing stuff, isn’t it? Anyway. There you are.’

  ‘You mean ...?’

  ‘I mean that validly, if unintentionally, she’s passed the trust fund on to Ronnie, along with the little bit of money she had in her own right.’

  ‘Goodness,’ I said.

  ‘Furthermore,' Michael said, ‘you remember the property developer I told you about? Well, it appears that he’s surfaced again, made a definite offer. The Taunton solicitor—the one who drew up the old man’s will—he’s written to Edward about it.’

  ‘What an extraordinary coincidence.’

  ‘Isn’t it just!’

  ‘So,’ I said thoughtfully, ‘Ronnie’s going to be a very rich man indeed.’

  ‘So he is.’

  We were both silent for a moment, considering the implications of this.

  Then Michael said, ‘It’s a terrific motive.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ I agreed. ‘Roger says he always likes there to be a money motive in any case he’s dealing with. I wonder,’ I added, ‘if Edward has told him about all this?’

  ‘Client confidentiality,’ Michael said. ‘By rights I shouldn’t have told you anything about it.’
>
  ‘No, I suppose not. Still, it is a murder investigation.’

  ‘Anyway,’ Michael said, ‘Ronnie’s such a wimp. I mean you couldn’t imagine him doing anyone in!’

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘and there’s the business of the poison in the cakes. I mean, they were homemade, and he couldn’t have made them.’

  ‘But Carol could. She’s a much better suspect. Anyway, poison’s a woman’s crime.’

  ‘I’ve got a feeling,’ I said, ‘that that’s a sexist remark and no longer a politically correct theory.’

  ‘No, but seriously, Ma, it’s much more likely.’

  ‘But could they have known about this power of appointment thing, though?’ I asked.

  ‘As far as I know no one at the firm has said anything. Law firms being as they are, and with things moving at the speed of a geriatric glacier—as well you know—we haven’t really done anything about old Miss G’s probate yet and I’ve only just started to delve about into the file.’

  I began grating the cheese for the Bolognaise.

  ‘I suppose,’ I said, ‘Miss Graham might have mentioned it—in general terms—and they somehow cottoned on to it.’

  ‘It c Row c’s possible, I suppose, though I don’t get the impression she’d really grasped what it was all about.’

  ‘No, she hated any sort of forms or legal things, I know, and she was always a bit vague and unbusiness-like. That’s why the wool shop packed up.’

  ‘Too woolly-minded to cope,’ Michael grinned. ‘Sorry. No, as I say, Ronnie’s much too wet to have worked out anything like that, but Carol’s pretty sharp and if there was money involved she’d be on to it like a ferret up a drain.’

  ‘Well, they both have a motive,’ I said. ‘But are we suspicious of Carol because we’re rather sorry for Ronnie and don’t particularly like her?’

  ‘Likes and dislikes don’t really come into it.’ Michael began picking at bits of cheese as they came out of the grater. ‘She’s much more capable of murder than he is. A right little Lady Macbeth, I’d say.’