"But that's just . . . daft!" said Charley.
"Yes, I agree," he said instantly. "And I thought, the simplest way for me to see how daft it was would be to see you again and wonder why I'd bothered."
It was silly for a sensible adult woman who really didn't fancy be- ing fancied by a weirdo to feel disappointed, but Charley definitely felt a pang of something a lot like disappointment.
"Good thinking," she said heartily.
"Not really. It doesn't seem at all daft to me now," he said. "In fact, it seems perfectly logical. And I'm sorry I thought even for a second you might have been in on that trick the police played to get me to talk. When I thought about it later, I knew I had to be wrong, and when I heard you stand up to the pair of them just now, I was certain. So there you go. What I feel about you might be hopeless, but it certainly isn't daft. Now I've got to go."
"Where? Why? " she demanded.
"To the Avalon. You were right, that girl Clara should be our main concern now."
He turned and walked swiftly away.
She felt an impulse to shout after his retreating figure, to say they needed to talk more, but she was fearful that anything she said might be taken as encouragement. If he knew it was hopeless already, why risk changing that?
As he climbed onto the bike, a familiar dusty old Defender drew up alongside the lawyer's Daimler and the driver jumped out. He was a tall young man with broad shoulders and a smile to match as he strode across the lawn toward her.
"Hi, Charley," he said as soon as he got within distance. "Don't be mad, but when we got your news, the only way to stop Dad coming straight over here to make sure you're all right was for me to come, and I reckoned that was the lesser of two evils! "
He was right. She should have felt mad, or at least hugely exasper- ated to know that the Headbanger still thought of her as a helpless child in need of protection.
Instead, as her brother reached her and put his arms around her, she surprised herself even more than him by saying, "Oh, George!" and bursting into tears.
7
In the large drawing room, the late Sir Henry Denham looked down upon the newly entered quartet of men with a patrician indifference.
Was the slight squint evidence of Bradley d'Aube's determination to paint a true portrait, warts and all? wondered Pascoe. Or had he just got fed up with being patronized?
The drawing room had been Mr. Beard's choice. He had led them there without consultation. Presumably this was where he usually encountered Daphne Denham. Also he was clearly a man used to be- ing in charge, even or perhaps especially in the company of policemen.
He sat down on a huge sofa. His secretary placed the briefcase beside him as an unambiguous signal that he intended single occu- pancy, then she sat down at a small ormolu table by the wall near the big bureau, pad and pencil at the ready.
Pascoe and Dalziel and Wield rearranged three armchairs so they cantered on the lawyer and took their seats with a synchronicity wor- thy of Busby Berkeley.
Beard said, "I take it, Mr. Pascoe, that you do not yet have the perpetrator of this monstrous crime in custody? "
"Afraid not," said Pascoe.
Beard nodded as if this came as no surprise.
"And you have not seen a copy of Lady Denham's will?"
"No." Else we wouldn't be wasting time sitting here with you, thought Pascoe, giving Dalziel a quick glower to stop him saying it out loud.
"I see," said Beard, not sounding surprised, but sounding as if he might be if he let himself. "In that case, assuming that you regard all of those who might reasonably expect to profit from my client's will as possible suspects, I think I am justified in revealing its contents to you in advance of the beneficiaries."
Dalziel scratched the folds of double chin with the baffled air of one who couldn't see how the fuck the lawyer should imagine he'd got any choice in the matter even if he did look like a self-portrait of Toulouse-Lautrec.
"That would be most helpful," murmured Pascoe.
Mr. Beard unlocked his briefcase and extracted a folder that looked as if it were made of vellum. Out of this he took a document.
He proclaimed, "I have in my hand what is, presumably, the last will and testament of Lady Daphne Denham."
"Presumably?" said Pascoe. "Any reason to think there might be a later one?"
Beard sighed like a French horn and said, "No specific reason, else I would have mentioned it. But in her latter years Lady Denham had got into the habit of writing wills. It is not uncommon. Some aging people solve crosswords, some do cross-stitch, a few take to the composition of haikus. But a large number devote themselves to the writing and revising of wills. Basically, size does not matter. As long as there is portable property of any nature and any quantity, the habitual will writer gains hours of pleasure from distributing and redistributing it. But where the estate is, as in this case, substantial, there is the additional element of exercising real power."
"So how often did Lady Denham revise her will?" asked Pascoe.
"Four times this year that I know of," said Beard. "By which I mean, four times when her purposed modifications were major enough to require my professional assistance. I suspect, nay I am sure, that there have been frequent minor changes, or even major ones that did not stand the test of time and bring her to the stage where she consulted me. Such documents of course would have no status unless properly signed and witnessed. So, as I say, this, to the best of my knowledge, is the last will and testament of Lady Denham. It is a document of considerable detail, and commensurate length. Do you wish to hear it all?"
Dalziel let out a sighing groan, or a groaning sigh, the kind of sound that might well up from the soul of a tone-deaf man who has just realized the second act of Gotterdammerung is not the last.
Pascoe said, "I think you might spare us the fine detail, Mr. Beard. The principal bequests are naturally what I am most interested in."
"As you wish. At what level would your definition of principal begin? "
Another sound from Dalziel, this one more ursine than human.
Hastily Pascoe said, "Start at the top and work your way down."
"That would in fact mean starting at the end," said Mr. Beard with distaste. "But if you insist. 'To my nephew by marriage, Sir Edward Denham of Denham Park in the county of Yorkshire, all the residue of my estate real and personal . . .' You see the problem, Chief In- spector? Without the details of the other bequests, the term is mean- ingless . . ."
"I'm sure you've made an estimate," said Pascoe. "We won't hold you to it."
"It isn't easy, property and the market being constantly in flux. I would say at least ten million. In fact, it could be as much as - "
"Ten million will suffice," said Pascoe. "Go on."
He went on. Esther Denham got a million and all her aunt's jewellery except for the single item Clara Beresford was invited to choose to accompany her five thousand.
"Five thousand," interrupted Pascoe. "Not five hundred thou- sand?"
"No, five thousand," said Beard.
"Not a lot, considering. By comparison, I mean."
"It is not a lawyer's duty to consider, Chief Inspector. Nor to com- pare. I will say that this was typical of the changes Lady Denham made in her will from time to time. The principal beneficiaries tended to remain the same, but the pecking order varied considerably. There have been times in the last twelve months when Miss Brereton was in line to inherit the hall and a couple of million beside. Presumably when my client prepared this will, she felt she had reason to feel ill disposed to her cousin. Had she survived another week or so, no doubt it would have changed."
Pascoe said, "Would these beneficiaries know of the changes Lady Denham made from time to time?"
"I don't think she made a public announcement, but I do not doubt she made her dispositions known to those most nearly concerned."
This would explain Ted Denham's confidence that the hall and the bulk of the estate were coming his way, thought Pasc
oe. But why was he rifling through the bureau in the drawing room? Looking for the copy of the will, perhaps? But what need, if he knew its contents? And in any case Beard would be in possession of the original.
Mysteries - but they were what kept him in gainful employment!
"May I proceed?" said Beard, bringing him back to the present.
"Please do."
"The other substantial beneficiary is Mr. Alan Hollis, who gets the freehold of the Hope and Anchor."
"The pub, eh? Worth killing for," said Dalziel. "Looks a tidy little business to me."
"Indeed it is, as I can testify. I always stay there on my visits to Sandytown."
"Oh aye? Had you down as more the Brereton Manor type," said Dalziel.
"I have been coming here for many years now, and the hotel, of course, has only just opened," said Beard. "In any case, I prefer the simple life."
"So what do you do when the pub's booked up?" said the Fat Man.
This sounded like irrelevant chitchat, but years of watching the Fat
Man's apparently aimless wanderings bring him to some longed-for shore kept Pascoe quiet.
"The two letting rooms at the Hope and Anchor are used solely by myself and Miss Gay or any other visitors stipulated by my late client. I am sure Lady Denham made sure Mr. Alan Hollis did not lose by the arrangement, and in any case his great expectations must have made him more than willing to oblige his patroness."
There was a noise from the ormolu table. The secretary had let her notepad slip to the floor. She stooped to pick it up, her cheeks flushing as she mouthed an apology.
"Great expectations equal bloody big motive to me," said Dalziel heavily.
"As a general principle, I would have to agree with you. In this case however Mr. Hollis is very comfortably situated and his expectations have never been in doubt. He seems to have possessed the happy knack of never falling out with his employer, and this bequest has been the one constant in all Lady Denham's wills, which strikes me as a clever move on my client's behalf, giving Mr. Hollis a powerful incentive to run as efficiently and as honestly as possible a business that would one day be his."
"Trusting him didn't stop her checking the accounts at least once a week," observed Pascoe dryly, recalling the dead woman's diary.
"Aye well, she were a Yorkshire lass. Belts and braces, tha knows" said Dalziel, a phrase which drew an appreciative smile from the sec- retary.
Pascoe said, "Anything else you'd like to draw our attention to, Mr. Beard?"
"As I indicated earlier, the length of the will derives from the small detail," said the lawyer. "None of the lesser bequests are such as to provoke a crime of greed, but one or two of them you may find peculiarly indicative of Lady Denham's state of mind as she made her dispositions."
"For example? "
" 'To Harold Hollis, the shaving mug, badger-hair shaving brush, and cutthroat razor belonging to his late lamented half brother, my first husband, that he might have the wherewithal to make himself presentable should he care to attend my funeral. Also the sum of five pounds, which should suffice to buy enough soap to last the rest of his life.' "
"Wow," said Pascoe.
"Wow indeed. They were not on good terms, but as you may al- ready know, by the late Mr. Howard Hollis's will, on his widow's de- cease the Hollis family farmhouse reverts to his half brother."
"Yes, we knew that. Anything else you'd like to draw our attention to?"
"Let me see. To Miss Petula Sheldon of the Avalon Clinic she leaves a bed."
"A bed?"
"Yes. A single bed, specified as 'the narrow hard single bed which will be found in what used to be the housemaid's room.' I do not com- pletely grasp the significance of this, but doubt if it is kindly meant. The Parthian shot from beyond the grave is a not uncommon testa- mentary feature, attractive in that it is unanswerable."
"Except by dancing on the grave and living another fifty years," said Dalziel.
"Not perhaps an option for all of us. But I do not wish to give the impression that my late client's small bequests were always motivated by malice. There is for instance the sum of one thousand pounds left to each of the children of Mary and Tom Parker of Kyoto House, the money to be invested on the children's behalf till they are eighteen, with the rider that a small portion of the interest may be used to buy them ice cream on their birthdays. Another legatee is Mr. Francis Roote of Lyke Farm Barn, who gets a thousand pounds toward the purchase of a motorized wheelchair. And a sum of ten thousand pounds is left to the Yorkshire Equine Trust on condition that they take care of her horse, Ginger, for the rest of his life."
This made Pascoe smile. Franny had been right. A monster with a heart.
"Mebbe the horse did it," muttered the Fat Man.
Pascoe frowned his distaste. His mobile rang. He looked at the display, mouthed Novello at Dalziel and Wield, and excused himself.
Outside he said, "Hi, Shirley. What's the news?"
"Good and bad. Bad is she's broken her right leg, her right arm and collarbone, plus several ribs, and she's cracked her skull right open. Good news is that they don't think there's any serious damage to her spine and she's stable."
"Conscious?"
"No. And until she is, they won't be able to assess the full extent of the damage to her head. Worst case is, she could be brain damaged."
"Are they planning to move her to a specialized unit?"
"Not till they're certain they won't do more damage by moving her. Anyway, I'm no expert, but this place makes the last NHS hospital I visited look like a doss-house. Dr. Feldenhammer's whistling up rele- vant consultants from the Central and other places. Seems they do this all the time for their rich clientele. He'll wait till he gets their advice before deciding. Unless Clara's got good medical insurance, the sooner she gets out of here the better, else the sight of the bill will probably kill her!"
"I hope no one's relying too heavily on her expectations under Lady Denham's will," said Pascoe.
"Why's that, sir? "
"She gets a bit but not a lot."
"This will, when's it dated? "
"Couple of weeks ago? Why?"
"Something else I was ringing to tell you. I had a look at her clothes. In the patch pocket on her trousers I found a handwritten will, signed by Lady Denham, and dated the day before yesterday."
"What does it say?"
"Not a lot," said Novello, clearly enjoying her spotlight moment. "It leaves everything to something called the Yorkshire Equine Trust. And here's the really interesting thing, sir. The witnesses are Mr. Oliver Hollis and Miss Clara Brereton. So she knew about it, and my guess is, if the earlier will leaves her anything at all, something's better than nothing, and she wasn't about to let this one see the light of day! "
Pascoe didn't say anything for a long moment while he tried to take in the implications of this.
"Sir? You still there?"
"Yes, Shirley. You haven't let anyone else see this will, have you?"
"No, sir," said Novello, sounding hurt.
"Good. Find anything else that might be useful?"
"Just her mobile."
"Right. Where are you now, Shirley?"
"I'm in the corridor outside the intensive care unit."
"Excellent. Stay there. Make a note of everyone who has anything to do with her, and let them see what you're doing. I'll send someone to relieve you, then get yourself back here ASAP. Something you can do to pass the time is check who Brereton's been ringing today, who's been ringing her, with times. Can you manage that?"
"Think so, sir," said Novello with the long-suffering tone of one to whom taking moving pictures on her mobile while playing sudoku, listening to Nickelback, and checking her e-mails was second nature.
"Fine, but above all don't let Brereton out of your sight for a sec- ond. If you want a piss, ask for a bottle! "
He used the vulgarism deliberately to reinforce his command. From Dalziel it would have passed unnoticed.
He didn't go straight back into the drawing room but headed out- side. PC Scroggs snapped to attention. He saw that Charley Heywood was now sitting in the middle of the lawn talking earnestly, but not to
Godley. Her companion was a tall, broad-shouldered, clean-shaven young man. There was no sign of the healer.
"Who's that?" he said to Scroggs.
"Miss Heywood's brother, sir. Thought it would be all right as she came along with the Super."
Some things didn't change. If the Prince of Darkness came along with the Super, that would be passport sufficient for all subsequent horned and hooved arrivals.
He realized Scroggs was regarding him fearfully.
"Yes, that's fine," he said. "You hurt your back or something? You're standing awfully stiff. I'd get it seen to, son. No shortage of therapists round here."
Leaving the bewildered constable, he made his way to the Inci- dent Room, where he found Seymour and Bowler.
To the latter he handed the envelope containing the photographs. He said, "The man is Dr. Feldenhammer. Blow up the best view of the woman's face, get rid of the doctor, then take it to the Avalon. Could be she was a patient there last autumn, perhaps an Indian. We need an ID. But be discreet. Check for rumours, but try not to start any."
"Right," said Bowler, clearly taking this as a sign that he was for- given.
Pascoe turned to Seymour and said, "Dennis, I want you up at the clinic too. Relieve Novello. You'll be watching Clara Brereton. And I mean watching. No one goes near her without a good medical reason. But watch the staff too, okay? "
"Yes, sir. Presume there's a good police reason why I'm doing this?"
Pascoe smiled and said, "Sorry. I think she may have been at- tacked and I don't want it happening again. Now go!"
"Hello again," said a voice behind him. "We can't keep on meeting like this, Pete."
He turned to see the cheerful face of Frodo Leach, the CSI.
Pascoe walked outside with him, explaining what had happened.
"So did she fall or was she pushed? Won't be easy, Pete, but who likes easy?"
"It would make a pleasant change," said Pascoe. "One more thing, if she was pushed, there's a cave in the cliff face where the perp may have hidden before making his escape. Have a good look there. That young woman can tell you where it is."
A Cure for All Diseases Page 39