No one knew that Lord Charlton, one of Britain’s wealthiest bachelors, had an heir until the terminally-ill textile magnate summoned his solicitor, Ambrose Quince, to his London townhouse in Belgrave Terrace. There he revealed that he wished to alter his will in favor of his nephew, the son of his black-sheep brother. The boy had been secretly adopted by American parents and taken to live in the United States when his own parents were killed in a bombing raid on London during World War II. His present whereabouts: unknown.
When Lord Charlton dies suddenly, he takes with him the secret of Simon Warwick’s identity. Two men come forward claiming to be Warwick. Then one turns up dead in Ambrose Quince’s office and Henry Tibbett, Chief Superintendent of Scotland Yard, is faced with a double mystery: Who is the murderer? And who is Simon Warwick?
The astonishing answers are revealed in an ingenious and wholly satisfying manner that will keep readers guessing right up to the end.
PATRICIA MOYES is the author of fourteen mysteries including The Curious Affair of the Third Dog, Black Widower, and The Coconut Killings. Her most recent book is How to Talk to Your Cat. She lives on Virgin Gorda, one of the British Virgin Islands.
Copyright © 1978 by Patricia Moyes
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce
this book or portions thereof in any form.
Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data
Moyes, Patricia.
Who is Simon Warwick?
(A Rinehart suspense novel)
I. Title
PZ4.M938Wh 1978 [PR6063.09] 823’.9’14 78-53951
ISBN 0-03-044726-7
First Edition
Printed in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
For Helen and Charles Marwick
All the characters in this book are purely fictitious, and bear no resemblance to any actual person, living or dead. The University of Virginia and the Boar’s Head Hotel in Charlottesville are both real places, but I have peopled them with characters drawn entirely from my imagination. I could, of course, have invented a mythical university, but I could not resist the temptation to share with my readers at least some of the delight that I have myself experienced in Monticello and Charlottesville, and at the University of Virginia in particular.
1
A rainy November night in London. Roads like black satin ribbons, reflecting restless pools of bright lamplight, and the shifting, stabbing beams of car headlights. In the small streets behind Belgrave Square, a few scurrying pedestrians under black umbrellas, a few dark-suited men trying to hail taxis, while their pale-chiffon ladies shiver under the inadequate protection of neo-classical porticoes; a few cars—like cats, all black in the dark—making their hesitant, rain-blinded way on the slippery tarmac.
Ambrose Quince, peering at the street ahead through the metronome-swish of windshield wipers, thought longingly of his snug drawing room in Ealing, of a mellow Scotch and soda, and of his wife, Rosalie, warm and supple in a silky housecoat, her bare feet tucked under her as she sat on the floor in front of the log fire. Ordinarily, he would have been home an hour ago; but, on this filthy evening, the telephone had had to ring just as he was leaving the office in Theobald’s Road. Miss Benedict, his secretary, had announced that Lord Charlton’s office wished to speak with him, and shortly afterward an authoritative male voice had informed him that Lord Charlton would be grateful if Mr. Quince would wait upon him at his London residence at eight-thirty. It was in connection with His Lordship’s will, so Mr. Quince would be kind enough to bring the document with him. Thank you very much, Mr. Quince.
Well, a modestly situated solicitor in his late thirties does not hesitate when his only really important client requests his presence, even at eight-thirty on a December night. He makes it his business to be there, even with bad grace. In fact, Ambrose knew very well that he was extremely lucky to have retained even a small part of Lord Charlton’s business. It was a sentimental gesture on the old man’s part, a recognition of the days when Ambrose’s father and three uncles had formed the law firm of Quince, Quince, Quince and Quince, and when His Lordship had still been plain Alexander Warwick, a pushy young businessman with unorthodox ideas. By now, Ambrose was the only Quince in the establishment that bore his name fourfold. His current partners—Mr. Rudley and Mr. Silverstein—were not, if one faced up to it, really very good. Ambrose, in his own mind, felt that he himself could have been good if he had had enough interesting cases to hold his attention. As it was, the firm jogged along, minimally efficient and completely uninspired; and Alexander Warwick—now Lord Charlton, the textile millionaire—provided a steady income by confiding his most personal but least important affairs to the last of the Quinces.
Lord Charlton’s will, which now reposed in Ambrose’s briefcase on the empty passenger seat of the car, was a document that had caused Ambrose many headaches in its time. Charlton was a bachelor, and his only brother and sister-in-law had both been killed by a German flying bomb that hit their London home near the end of the Second World War. With no close relatives or dependents, Lord Charlton had decided to leave his fortune to charity, apart from a few bequests to personal staff. This was not so much from a desire to help the worthy causes concerned, as from a determination that the collateral branches of the family should not lay their hands on a single penny. As a young man, Alexander Warwick had experienced nothing but hostility from his family, and he remembered his uncles and aunts with particular dislike. It infuriated him to think that their children’s children might now have some legal claim on the money that he had worked so hard to amass. Ambrose’s job was to provide a list of suitable charities as legatees, to set up a foundation to administer the money after Lord Charlton’s death, and to make sure that the wording of the will itself was legally impeccable. As far as he knew, he had succeeded. He wondered what the trouble was now.
Twenty-one, Belgrave Terrace, was an imposing house on a quiet but piercingly expensive street near Hyde Park Corner. Ambrose drove his three-year-old Ford up to the front door, got out under the shelter of the portico, and rang the bell. At once the door was opened by a courteous butler, who requested the car keys so that the footman might park the car in the mews behind the house. His Lordship was expecting Mr. Quince, and was in the library. If Mr. Quince would kindly step this way . . . ?
The house was very quiet. No traffic noise permeated those thick Georgian walls, and the pale Wedgwood-green carpet muffled Ambrose’s footsteps. A French marble clock in the hallway chimed the half-hour with a thin, silver note. The butler opened a door, said, “Mr. Quince, Your Lordship,” and stood back to let Ambrose enter the room.
Where the hall had been white and pale green, the library was brown and crimson. Floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookcases, stacked with leather-bound volumes; well-worn, comfortable leather armchairs; deep-red Persian rugs matching the velvet curtains; a great fireplace with the remains of two huge logs dissolving softly into glowing embers.
From one of the armchairs, a voice said, “Come in, Ambrose. Sit down.”
“Thank you, Lord Charlton. Good evening, Lord Charlton.” Clutching his briefcase, Ambrose sat down in the chair on the far side of the fireplace. Every time he came to this house, he was determined not to be overawed by the old man. After all, what was Charlton but an opportunist who had made a fortune by getting into the synthetic-fabric market just ahead of his rivals? Nevertheless, there was something about the man. Something about the house. Ambrose could not deny it, even if he resented it.
He became aware that Charlton was looking at him steadily. The craggy face seemed thinner than usual, and more deeply lined. A trick of the flickering firelight, probably.
Ambrose said,
“I believe there’s something about your will, Lord Charlton. I have it here . . .”
Charlton did not appear to hear him. He sighed, then smiled and said, “Your father and I were good friends, Ambrose.”
There did not seem to be a suitable reply, so Ambrose said nothing. Charlton went on, “I look forward to meeting him again.” This time, Ambrose did a small double-take. His father had been dead for eight years. Charlton, watching Quince’s face, said, “Yes. You’re quite right. The doctor told me today. Six months at the outside. So . . .” Suddenly the old man stood up, became brisk. “So there’s no time to waste. We must get working on that will.”
“Working, Lord Charlton?” Ambrose was on his feet, heartily thankful that Charlton’s sudden switch of mood made it unnecessary for him to proffer condolences. “I thought you were quite satisfied with the will, sir. We went through the list of charities together only last—”
“No, no, no” Charlton spoke quietly but decisively. “I am changing my will entirely. Everything I possess is to be left to my nephew.”
“To your—?” Ambrose Quince sat down again, abruptly.
“Did you not know that I have a nephew? At least, I hope I have.”
“No, Lord Charlton, I didn’t.”
“I also, apparently, have a conscience. Interesting, isn’t it, Ambrose? I only discovered it this afternoon, after the doctor left. If I am to look your father in the eye, wherever it is that we may meet again, I shall have to account to him for what I did not do. I shall—” He paused. Then, “I see that all this comes as news to you. I thought that your father might have—but no, of course he wouldn’t. He was far too discreet. Well, then, I had better explain. You know, don’t you, Ambrose, that there was only one member of my family who was close to me—whom I loved?”
“I have heard . . . your brother . . .”
“That’s right. My young brother Dominic. He married Mary Cheverton during the war—1943, it must have been. A very beautiful and charming girl. They had a little boy, you know. Not very long before they were killed in that flying-bomb attack.”
Ambrose said, “They were all killed.”
Lord Charlton, who was leaning against the mantelpiece gazing into the fire, suddenly turned to face Quince. “No,” he said. And again, “No.” There was a long pause. “It was given out later . . . we let it be understood . . . that the baby had died with them. That’s not true. The baby survived.”
“Then what on earth—?” Ambrose began.
Charlton silenced him with a small gesture. “Your father,” he said, “got in touch with me at once. The baby had been taken to a children’s hospital. Bobby Quince told me that I should adopt the child. I was the only living relative, you see.”
“Was there nobody on the mother’s side who—!”
Charlton smiled, a little grimly. “Nobody who wanted to know. Dominic Warwick was considered ill bred, a wastrel and maybe worse. So was I, you must remember, Ambrose. It’s only quite recently that I have become respectable. Mary Cheverton—the Honorable Mary Cheverton—was cut off with the proverbial shilling when she married my brother. No, I was the only person the little fellow had in the world—and I refused him.”
“Why?” Ambrose had not intended to ask the question, but it came out of its own accord, and hung for a moment, unanswered.
Then Charlton said, “Who knows? Ostensibly, I was too busy. I had no wife, I was no fit person to look after a small baby. I had just begun to make money, and I wanted complete mobility, complete independence. Do you understand that?” There was an appeal in his voice.
Ambrose had no difficulty in replying. “I understand it absolutely, sir.”
“Besides,” added Charlton, “there was old Humberton.”
“Old Humberton?”
“A solicitor. Friend of your father’s. Practiced in Marstone, down on the south coast. He’d arranged some private adoptions during the war, and it seems he told your father that he could fix up young Simon—that was the baby’s name, Simon—that he could arrange for Simon to be adopted by a very eligible young couple. An American army officer and his English bride. The girl had some sort of female internal trouble . . . could never have children of her own. The husband had been wounded in Normandy, and they were due for repatriation to the States in a matter of days. They wanted to take the baby with them.” Another pause. “It seemed suitable. I agreed. And that was the end of Simon Warwick—until this afternoon.”
Ambrose Quince swallowed, and said, “Well, sir, if you want to trace your nephew, you’ll have to contact Mr. Humberton and get the name of the adoptive parents. Then—”
Charlton had walked over to the sideboard. He interrupted to say, “Whiskey or brandy, Ambrose?”
“Whiskey, if your please, sir. With water.”
Charlton poured two whiskeys, added water, and carried them across the room to Ambrose Quince. “Here,” he said.
“Thank you, sir. Your good health, sir.” The words came out automatically, before he could stop them. He became aware that he was going very red in the face.
Charlton looked at him with a sardonic smile. He said, “We have already discussed my health, Ambrose. Of course, the doctor has told me that I mustn’t drink spirits. One small glass of wine a day, perhaps. Otherwise, I am likely to die even sooner than predicted. Well, the few weeks of grace are not worth it.” He raised his glass. “To your health, Ambrose. To my death.”
Ambrose looked at his feet and mumbled something about being sorry.
“Nothing to be sorry for, for heaven’s sake. The thing to do now is to find my nephew Simon.”
“Well, sir, as I was saying—”
“No. No use. Humberton himself died five years ago, and his firm died with him. Papers relating to living and active clients at the time of his death were returned to them. All others, as far as I have been able to ascertain, were destroyed.”
“But how—?”
Lord Charlton smiled, and lit a large and aromatic cigar. “Another pleasure prohibited by the medical profession. I must say, it gives a man a great sense of release to be beyond the aid of doctors.” He took a leisurely puff. “Yes, some of my other lawyers have been investigating Humberton this afternoon. You must know that I employ other lawyers, Ambrose.”
“Of course, sir.”
“They did the footwork,” said Charlton smoothly. “You can take it from me that nothing connected with the late Alfred Humberton will lead us any closer to Simon Warwick. In my dealings with Humberton over the adoption, he referred to the American couple as Captain and Mrs. X. I believe this is usual. The child is supposed to start life with a new identity, and no connection with his previous family.”
Ambrose said, “It’s a very strange story, sir.”
“Strange? What d’you mean, strange?”
“Well. . . a private adoption arranged by a lawyer in a matter of a few days . . . and to a foreign couple who were taking the baby out of the country. I don’t see how the formalities could have—”
“The war, my dear boy. The war. You’re too young to remember. A lot of people sent their small children across the Atlantic to avoid the air raids during the blitz, and the rocket attacks set off a new exodus. Many of the children traveled alone, with labels on their coats, to be picked up by relatives or friends on the other side.”
“They still needed passports,” said Ambrose.
“Yes, of course. My inquiries have led me that far. A British passport was issued to the infant Simon Warwick in 1944. Presumably that was the document with which he entered the United States.”
“So he was not officially adopted when he left England?”
“Apparently not. The formalities must have been concluded in America. I never heard any more about it, from Humberton or anybody else. I regret to say that at the time it was a great weight off my mind. But now . . .” Lord Charlton sat down slowly, like the old man he was. “First of all, let’s get that new will drafted.”
“But,
sir—”
“Don’t argue with me, Ambrose. Just get out pen and paper, and we’ll do it in no time. I, Alexander Warwick, Baron Charlton, being of sound mind et cetera, do give and bequeath—got that?”
“Yes, sir, but—”
“Do give and bequeath all my worldly possessions . . . goods and chattels . . . whatever the legal mumbo-jumbo is, you fill that in, Ambrose, I mean everything . . . to my nephew Simon Warwick. That’s simple enough, isn’t it?”
A near groan from Ambrose Quince indicated that it was far from simple. “Lord Charlton . . . I beg you . . . surely you must find the young man first and alter the will afterwards?”
“Certainly not. I’ve told you, Ambrose, the doctor remarked with some relish that I might drop dead at any moment. Change that will, and find Simon for me.”
“How, Lord Charlton?”
“I don’t know what’s the matter with you, Ambrose. Perfectly simple. Start off by drafting an advertisement, which you will run in all prominent newspapers, both here and in the United States. Start with the name, in block capitals. ‘SIMON WARWICK. Will Simon Warwick, only son of Dominic and Mary (nee Cheverton) Warwick, get in touch with Messrs. Quince and Quince and— however many there are of you. Will hear something to his advantage.’ What’s difficult about that?”
“Lord Charlton,” Ambrose said, “the boy . . . the man . . . he must be in his thirties by now . . . the man won’t know who he is. I mean, who he was. The name Simon Warwick will mean nothing to him.”
“We can’t be sure, Ambrose. Humberton, quite rightly, never told me the identity of the new parents, but they knew whose son they were adopting. They may have told him. More likely, they’ll see the advertisement themselves. And then, as you so rightly pointed out, there was that childhood passport in the name of Simon Warwick. It’s perfectly possible that somewhere, in some American suburb, there lives a rising young executive who knows very well that he is Simon Warwick, and who will turn up with that passport to prove it. I want him. I want him here, if possible before I die.”
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