A Fine House in Trinity

by Lesley Kelly

  He thinks for a minute. ‘I’ve got a plan, Stainsie.’ He winks at me and gestures back over his shoulder. ‘We’ll have you living in Amityville there in no time.’

  ‘This is never going to work.’

  Wheezy and I are standing on Hanover Street looking at the lawyer’s offices. We’ve raided the back bedroom of the Priest’s House for a couple of suits, and I’ve had a shave, so I daresay we’re looking presentable. Well, I am, anyway. Wheezy’s beyond hope. I’ve never seen Wheeze in a suit before and I’m finding it quite disturbing. It just doesn’t look right, like seeing a monkey in a wetsuit, or a giraffe dressed as a French maid.

  ‘Aye, it will. Just do what we agreed.’

  The receptionist clocks me, and acts much less frosty this time. She shows us into a meeting room, and fusses around getting us coffee and biscuits, flashing us a substantial amount of cleavage while she dishes out the Chocolate Bourbon. I’m not sure if this improved treatment is because this time I’m not sporting the two-day stubble and carrying all my goods and chattels in a rucksack, or because Miss Spencely’s told her about my new status as the heir to a property empire. Either way I’m not that bothered now that she’s tipping me the wink. Never question a lassie’s motives, that’s my motto.

  ‘Miss Spencely will be through in a minute.’ She gives me a big smile, which I return, while Wheezy rolls his eyes. ‘Thanks, hen.’

  It’s half an hour before she turns up, full of apologies, and sits down, placing a couple of folders marked ‘Stoddart’ on the table.

  ‘So, how can I help you, Mr Staines and er...’ She looks in the direction of Wheezy.

  He throws her a wide smile, revealing a frightening lack of dental hygiene. ‘Mr Murphy. I’m an, eh, business associate of Mr Staines.’

  I break in before Wheezy can start building his part. ‘We were just wondering if you could give us an update about the will?’

  She smiles politely. ‘I’m not sure I’ve a lot to add to our last conversation.’ She reaches for one of the folders and gets the plans of Mavisview out. ‘As I said to you before it could take some considerable time… are you OK?’

  Wheezy is grabbing his left arm and gulping for air.

  ‘Oh. My God. Not his heart again.’ I fall to my knees beside him. I haven’t acted this hard since I was second shepherd in the school’s nativity play.

  Miss Spencely has half stood up in her chair. ‘His heart?’

  Holding Wheezy’s clammy hand in mine I turn to her and ask, ‘Could you get some help, Miss Spencely?’

  ‘Of course, I’ll go and phone an ambulance.’ She gets to her feet, her long dark hair flapping.

  As soon as she’s out of the room I help Wheeze to his feet. I grab the papers out of one of her files and Wheezy gets the papers from the other. We shove them all in my bag, then head out to reception. The receptionist is on the phone ordering our ambulance, with Miss Spencely hovering over her.

  I wave to them as we go past. ‘I’m just going to take him out for some air.’

  Miss Spencely looks confused. ‘Oh – are you sure that’s wise?’

  I nod solemnly. ‘He’ll be fine.’

  ‘Can you give us change for the machine?’ Wheeze bangs a tatty fiver down on Manny’s counter and gestures at the photocopier.

  ‘Five pounds’ worth? What are you photocopying – is it your first novel?’ He throws his head back and laughs. ‘What’s it called? Jurassic Jakeys? Anyway, much as I’d love to take your money, I can’t – the machine’s bust.’

  Wheezy and I exchange a look. ‘Shit – what do we do now?’

  ‘You could try the library?’

  ‘Naw thanks,’ says Wheezy with a brisk shake of his head.

  Manny leans on his counter. ‘What’s wrong with the library?’

  I look at Wheezy but he’s not catching my eye. ‘We’re not very popular there.’

  Manny’s intrigued. ‘In what way?’

  I sigh. ‘In a we’re-barred-from-there kind of a way.’

  Manny folds his arms and smiles smugly. ‘Well, there’s nowhere else round here that does photocopying.’

  All the way to McDonald Road, Wheezy’s ranting.

  ‘There was a time, right, when your honest working man could spend his days sitting in the library, reading the papers, having a wee flick through the magazines…’

  It’s stretching the imagination a wee bit to call Wheeze an honest working man seeing as he last had a job in 1984, and the only resemblance he has to a working man these days is a donkey jacket he won in a pub bet. Added to that, your average working man doesn’t tend to sit around libraries during the day, what with having to go to work, but I let him go on.

  ‘… not getting hassled by some over-promoted wee lassie that doesn’t recognise we have rights.’

  ‘Fair do’s, Wheezy, we were making a bit of a racket yon time.’

  ‘Nonsense.’

  Getting barred from places happens to Wheezy a lot, and in fairness to him it’s not always his fault. He’s barred from all the pubs on Leith Walk that have a trivia machine due to his extensive general knowledge, which always strikes me as a little unfair. And he’s banned from being within 500 metres of his ex-wife, but who’s to say who really has the moral high ground on that one? Marriage breakdowns are never easy, and having met Mo I don’t think she’s really living in fear of a middle-aged asthmatic with a limp.

  His exclusion from the two libraries in Leith is, however, his own fault, in both cases for attempting to read the newspapers while severely under the influence of alcohol.

  The library is pretty much deserted.

  Wheezy points to the library reception desk. ‘There she is – Little Miss Hitler.’

  ‘Behave yourself. Remember why we are here.’ I slick back my hair in an attempt to look respectable. ‘And give me some money.’

  He reluctantly digs the fiver out again and nods his head toward the photocopiers. ‘I’ll wait by the machines.’

  The librarian looks up.

  ‘I thought I banned you and your friend.’

  ‘Aye, you did. And you were right to do so under the circumstances. My friend and I were out of order, disturbing this house of learning.’

  I flash her my pearly whites. She doesn’t crack a smile. This is going to be more challenging than I had anticipated.

  ‘Thing is, we’ve got a bit of a photocopying emergency. All I’m looking for is to purchase two photocopying cards, do the business, then we are out of your hair so fast you’ll never remember we were here.’

  She stares at me, then sits back in her chair and crosses her arms.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Tell you what,’ I put Wheezy’s fiver down on the counter, ‘think of this as a good behaviour bond. Any nonsense out of us, you can put it in the charity box. ‘

  She sighs and takes two photocopying cards out of the drawer.

  ‘Very well. That’s £2 for the cards.’

  ‘Ah. Can you take that off the fiver?’

  ‘Are you making any sense of these?’

  I look again at the piece of paper in my hand. ‘Not really, Wheeze – what about you?’

  We’re sitting in the Priest’s House with the contents of Miss Spencely’s files spread across the kitchen table; there are piles of company details, bank statements and accounts everywhere.

  Wheezy sighs. ‘I’m not sure, right, but looking at these I’d say Isa was up shit creek by the time she pegged it.’

  I take a swig of coffee. ‘How come?’

  He brandishes a bunch of bank statements. ‘Well, look at these: healthy - bloody healthy in fact – up until about six months before she dies. Then she’s withdrawing left, right and centre. None of these accounts has got more than a few thousand in them.’

  Just my luck to be bequeathed the Stoddart millions at the point where they’re going bankrupt. ‘There goes my inheritance.’

  ‘But then she’s got that house that she’s working on – most
of these payments are to builders and developers. Except for this one – look.’ He fans out the statements for the last couple of years. ‘There’s been a regular payment of £20,000 into an account at the Banco Popular Español every month.’

  It could only be one person. ‘Guthrie?’

  ‘Aye, if he’s not dead and is hiding out on the Costa Del Paedo. But the funny thing is the payments stop completely about six months ago.’

  I take a look at bank statements. ‘So, what happened six months ago?’

  Wheezy shrugs. ‘Guthrie dies? Their divorce finally comes through?’

  I snort. ‘What, after a mere twenty-five years of living apart?’

  ‘Aye, well, they probably didn’t want to upset Lachie.’

  We laugh, then I feel a bit guilty. Poor Lachie.

  I go to take another swig of coffee when a thought occurs to me. ‘A house that size in Trinity must have set her back a fair bit. Maybe she’s economising.’

  ‘Aye, well here’s another funny thing – look at how much she paid for it.’ He shoves another piece of paper under my nose.

  ‘£250,000?’ That doesn’t seem right. ‘I’d have said it was worth twice that!’

  ‘Twice?’ Wheezy looks outraged. ‘Four time more like.’

  ‘Who did she buy it off – was it some kind of dodgy deal?’

  Wheezy shuffles the papers around until he finds the right bit of paper.

  ‘Says here the previous owner was a Miss Agnes O’Neill. And look at this – the correspondence address for her is Marrot Muir Nursing Home.’

  I don’t like the sound of that. ‘You don’t think Mrs Stoddart and her thugs have ripped off an old lady?’

  Wheezy snorts. ‘I think it’s exactly the kind of thing that Isabella Stoddart would have done. You can picture it, can’t you, some old dear, living on her own. No relatives, or none that take an interest anyway. Isa’s round there, befriending her, just sign here on the dotted line, Miss O’Neill, before one of my thugs rips your elderly head off.’

  ‘What are you two up to?’ We’re so caught up in our theories that we’ve not heard Father Paul come in.

  ‘Ah nothing much, Father,’ says Wheezy while I shuffle the papers together. ‘What about yourself?’

  Father Paul picks up the kettle and holds it under the tap. ‘Just been visiting my incapacitated flock – hospitals and nursing homes, you know. The usual.’

  ‘Have you heard of a nursing home called Marrot Muir, Father?’

  He turns round, kettle in hand. ‘Yes – it’s one of those big old houses in Trinity. I’ve got a parishioner in there in fact.’

  Wheezy and I exchange glances. ‘Who’s that then, Father?’

  ‘Oh –from before your time, Michael. Agnes is a very elderly lady – she was housebound for over thirty years before she moved into nursing care.’

  ‘Would that be Agnes Smith, Father?’

  He shakes his head. ‘Oh no. O’Neill is her name.’

  Wheezy and I exchange another glance, and behind Father Paul’s back he mouths the word ‘coincidence’ to me, and starts laughing.

  I show Wheezy to the door. My coat is hanging behind the door and I pull it off the peg. ‘So, what now, Wheeze – down to Shugs for a quick one?’

  ‘No.’ He goes to pull the door shut behind him but I manage to grab it before it closes.

  ‘No?’

  ‘Naw, you’ve got to get these papers back to that lawyer lassie.’ He makes another attempt at closing the door. ‘She’ll be doing her nut.’

  Right on cue my mobile rings.

  ‘How many messages is that she’s left you now?’

  I scroll through Miss Spencely’s irate text. I haven’t told Wheeze that her first text told me that I could have seen all the papers that I wanted without stealing them, what with me being the lawful executor. ‘This is the sixth.’

  Wheezy puts his hand on my shoulder. ‘Phone her and say it was a mistake and you picked her papers up in the heat of the moment, and that you’re on the way to return them right now.’ He gives me a little shake, just for emphasis.

  ‘Why me? Aren’t you coming with me?’

  Wheeze steps out of the house and finally succeeds in pulling the door shut behind him. Through the wood I hear him shout. ‘It’s not a two-person job.’

  I’m cursing Wheezy all the way back to Hanover Street, but he’s got a point. I don’t want to get Miss Spencely her jotters, or have her set the Polis on me, so I reckon I’ll post them through the door, then text her to say that I’ve done it.

  But when I get to the offices there’s still a light on, and I didn’t want to be nabbed by some lawyer-type as I put them through the letterbox, so I think I’ll hang around until it’s All Quiet on the Western Front. I don’t want to sit around in full view in case anyone notices me taking too much of an interest, so I settle myself in a doorway. I’ve just got my fag lit when the door of the offices opens and Miss Spencely appears.

  She spends a minute or two locking up and putting the alarm on, and as she does so a sports car pulls up, and the guy inside leans over and opens the passenger door. She flashes him a big smile and climbs in, throwing her arms round his head.

  Lucky bastard, I think, until the car pulls away and I get a good look at the driver.

  It’s Bruce.

  All the regulars are propping up the bar in Shugs. Wee Craigie West is holding forth about his wife’s shortcomings as usual; although if you are 5’ 1” and you manage to get yourself a wife that’s 5’ 7” in her stocking soles you think you’d be counting your blessings, not slagging the poor woman off at every opportunity. Jimmy Gillespie is nursing a pint of Special, a chaser, and his usual dour expression. Tam and Ricky are nodding along to Craigie’s ramblings, with Wheezy dotting about in the background. Nobody turns round when I walk in.

  Craigie’s being philosophical. ‘What is it about women, that from the moment you marry them they get uglier and more crabbit with every passing day? Is it, like, some kind of illness that they all have?’

  ‘Aye,’ I say, ‘it’s called Crone’s Disease.’

  Nobody laughs.

  Craigie shifts uncomfortably on his bar stool. ‘You owe me a tenner for a service I bought that you never rendered.’

  I think this a little unfair. ‘No, I do not. My job was to get that book out of town, which I did.’ Nobody specifically said I couldn’t come back, although everyone seems to have assumed I wouldn’t. Maybe they thought with £1,700 in my pocket I’d have drunk myself to death within a week.

  Big Malky’s drying glasses down the other end of the bar. He glares at me, obviously still worried that I’m putting his customers off their drink.

  ‘So, where is Ma Stoddart’s tallybook now?’ asks Craigie. I sense there is interest from the others on this issue. You could hear a pin drop as they wait for the answer. Maybe I should ask them all how much they owed Mrs Stoddart, then I could pass the information on to Bruce and get him off my back. I might give that serious thought if they keep giving me a hard time.

  ‘I destroyed it.’

  Craigie relaxes. ‘Really?’

  I nod. ‘Aye – you’ve no worries on that score.’

  Craigie thinks for a minute and looks at the others for reassurance. ‘Well, that’s not so bad I suppose.’ He’s not an unreasonable man when you get him off the subject of his wife.

  ‘So, where did you go?’ asks Tam.

  I debate with myself whether to tell them the truth and in the end decide it can’t hurt. ‘Newcastle.’

  ‘Really? I thought you’d have gone somewhere more exotic like, you know, Bournemouth or that.’ Tam isn’t widely travelled.

  ‘I’ve seen the world already, Tam, and most of it sucks. Anyhow, I was only bunking down there for a few weeks while I decided what to do next.’

  Wheezy grabs my arm and drags me down the bar toward Jimmy Gillespie.

  ‘Jimmy – tell Stainsie here what you were telling me earlier.’

/>   He looks up slowly from his pint. ‘About what?’

  ‘Your cousin’s laddie.’

  He nods, slowly. He’s not a man to do anything in a rush. ‘Oh, aye. Know my cousin Margaret, Stainsie? Works in the card shop in Great Junction Street?’

  I don’t but I decide it is quicker to nod.

  ‘Well, her laddie’s been working on the house in Trinity that’s been in the news – you know the one where they found the body?’

  I look at Wheezy. I hope he hasn’t been telling the whole scheme that I’m about to become a millionaire, or anything like that. ‘I may have heard something about it on the news.’

  Jimmy nods. ‘Lewis, that’s her laddie, says that the house is in an awful state, but the gaffer’s been telling them that they’ve got to keep all the ‘original features’, which I don’t really understand myself ’cause if you’re going to spend a fortune on a house surely you want state-of-the-art fireplaces and that.’ He stops for another mouthful of his beer. I take the hint and order the three of us another round. ‘Ta very much, Stainsie. Anyway, Lewis and this other laddie are working on one of the bedrooms on the top floor, and it’s got one of they seats built into the bay window. Lewis and the other laddie are assuming that this is one of the original features that they’re not supposed to be touching so they’re given it a wide berth, when the gaffer comes in and tells them off for being a pair of arseholes, and can’t they recognise a botch job from the seventies when they see it?’

  I laugh. ‘That’s harsh.’

  ‘Not really.’ Jimmy pulls a face and takes another swig. ‘Lewis is an arsehole. I had him and his pal do some wallpapering for me and they made a right arse of it and no mistake. Anyhow, Lewis and the other laddie set to ripping out this window seat, taking care not to damage the floorboards, because, of course, the house is to have stripped pine floorboards throughout…’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘… which I don’t really understand ’cause who spends all that money on a house and then has to get out of bed onto freezing cold boards every morning? Any road, they get the window seat removed and they notice that a section of the floorboards has been cut up, like as if to form a trapdoor. Lewis’s pal says how the gaffer’s not going to like this, and Lewis says maybe they should have a wee look at what’s underneath the trapdoor in case it’s a false floor or something, and maybe the floor’s not ruined.’