“Oh!”
“Sorry about that, Missus.”
A jogger coming quickly from behind nearly collided with them, but broke stride, sidestepped around them, and resumed a steady sprint on the grass. Frances bent down, let the pup catch the scent of her hand, gently scratched its head, and untangled the leash.
“No harm done,” she said. There was a composed cheeriness in her voice. Then she and Robert continued on. They said little for a long time, both stimulated by the freshness of the air and energized by the growing strength of the early summer sun.
Finally, Frances spoke. “I have to admit… your plan for the village is compelling.”
Robert smiled.
8
Anne’s head turned for a quick glance at the knot of people circling the tiny white dog, but she continued jogging without stop until she reached the end of the boardwalk.
“Geez, that was close!”
It had been a chance encounter. Fortunately, no one had recognized her. The couple had been too engaged with each other to take note of anyone. Still, when Anne had seen Mrs. Murphy, she’d pulled the brim of her ball cap further down over her face and, as Anne had sidestepped around them, she’d taken a mental snapshot of Mrs. Murphy’s might-be-dodgy friend.
Physically, Somerville was slight of build, a few inches taller than Mrs. Murphy, and his sandy grey hair, the crow’s-feet corners of his eyes, and his thickening eyebrows suggested a man around fifty-five years old. He supported his speech with sweeping gestures, gestures which were strong but fell short of theatrical. Mrs. Murphy received his full attention. Her demeanour was on the starchy side, but a certain playfulness around her mouth suggested that she enjoyed Somerville’s company.
Anne cut through a common area between several provincial government buildings and headed west into a residential area, one a good deal more modest than Mrs. Murphy’s, where she rented a two-bedroom ground-floor apartment. Anne slowed for the four-block walk to her apartment, a good cool-down distance. She stopped in for a quick shower and headed for the office.
Anne started her investigation with an internet search. The first keywords she tried were “Lord Somerville.” That search produced 36,000 entries on a Scottish royal line, ending with Lord number nineteen in the early 1800s. That’ll lead nowhere, she thought. “Briarsley” produced fewer hits. She refined her search to England only, and that eliminated some cocktail lounges, restaurants, hunting lodges, and a number of romance novel references. Narrowing the search even more brought up a few entries that looked promising.
One of them cited a small estate near Cambridge. It was described as a “manorial estate” once held by Harrison Somerville, until his death in 1984. Another was a newspaper article dated 1986, detailing the sale of the property by the several charities to which the properties had been bequeathed. Apparently, Lord Harrison Somerville had no heirs.
Her search for “Robert Somerville” turned up a few agriculturalists, authors, explorers, and even a knife-sharpener, but nothing connected to Mrs. Murphy’s Robert Somerville.
Anne sent off two e-mails. The first went to the National Archives of Great Britain and requested more information on the history and disposition of the Briarsley estate.
She sent the second e-mail to the Alumni Association of Corpus Christi College at Cambridge University. Mrs. Murphy had mentioned Robert graduating from that school sometime in the seventies. So there should be a record of his matriculation, maybe even a website of contacts or updates on fellow graduates.
Two hours staring at the screen had made her eyes blurry. Besides that, it was almost lunchtime. Anne turned off the computer, grabbed a light jacket hanging on a clothes stand near the door, and shut off the lights. She was closing the door behind her when the phone rang.
“Mrs. Murphy?” Anne listened for a few moments, picked up a pencil and jotted some notes on a pad. “Yes… yes… It’ll probably be a few days, maybe a week before I can give you something concrete… and thank you for the itinerary… I certainly will. Good-bye.”
Anne locked the office door behind her. She turned left on Victoria Row, and again at the corner, and walked deeper into Olde Charlottetown. She didn’t want to see anyone at The Blue Peter. She wasn’t in the mood for justifications or explanations. She wasn’t in the mood for being defensive. She just wanted a quiet spot to sift through the new information Mrs. Murphy had given her and to work out her next step.
Her Majesty’s Pleasure was a trendy Victorian-style restaurant behind the tourist-friendly waterfront. It featured a lot of dark wood, simple lines, and a delicate ornateness, all of which was set off with red and gold tapestries. Not far from the courthouse, it was filled with suits and ties, forty-dollar haircuts, and Italian shoes. Most of the shoes were filled with lawyers. Most of the lawyers were men. One of them was Dick Clements, who had been Billy Darby’s lawyer.
Anne was navigating toward a table at the back when Clements waved at her. She pretended not to notice, but he stood, waved again, and shouted, “Anne! Anne Brown! Over here!” She couldn’t avoid company now. So she took a deep breath, conjured up a cordial smile, and headed for his table.
Dick Clements waved again enthusiastically. He was a heavy-set, middle-aged man. His hairline had retreated to the crown of his head. The thin strands that remained were combed straight back. His suit had once been tailored. Now its clean lines had fallen victim to his growing paunch. Despite his washed-out appearance, Dick was good-natured, jokey, and a surprisingly effective lawyer.
“Anne, come sit with us, please. I’ll get another chair.”
There were three men at the table including Clements. The back of a greying head stood in front of her. Across were Clements and a handsome man in a summer-weight beige suit.
“No need, Dick. Take mine,” said the man in the beige suit looking at Anne. “I have to get back.”
“Thanks.”
He held the chair for her and, when she sat down, he bent over and added, “I’m just sorry that I can’t stay and enjoy the company.” Anne smiled back vaguely.
“I’ll phone you later, Michael,” said Clements. “That was Michael Ryan of Fitzgerald, Ryan and Keene. Bright fellow. Top-notch litigator. And hiding behind the menu there is Robert Somerville. Robert? Anne Brown.”
“I’m so terribly sorry. I seem to have got lost among the entrees. I’m very pleased to meet you Miss… I mean, Mrs. Brown,” said Somerville glancing at the wedding band on her ring finger.
“Mr. Somerville,” said Anne.
“Lord Somerville, actually,” Clements chirped.
“Nonsense, please call me Robert. No need for formalities,” he said, somewhat embarrassed, and offering his hand across the table.
“Then, I’m Anne.” She smiled and, as she shook his hand, she hoped that he could not feel the clamminess of her palm or notice the blanching of her face.
Anne picked up her menu and pretended to study it while she regained an easy rhythm of breathing and any composure she might have lost at the surprised encounter with Mrs. Murphy’s man of interest.
“What’ll you have, Anne? My treat,” said Clements.
“I’m thinking about the baked haddock,” she said. “You?”
“Cheeseburger platter with poutine looks real good.”
“Isn’t that prepared with an angina marinade?” Anne asked with a wry smile.
“Anne, when I finally go, it’s goin’ to be with the taste of barbecued ribs on my lips… not rabbit salad minus the rabbit. Life is too short.”
“Robert, what are you having?” asked Anne feeling a bit more bold.
“Most definitely the chicken tikki masala.”
“I would have thought you British types would go for something more traditional… like cold toast and a poached egg… or fish and chips wrapped in the London Times,” Anne laughed.
Somerv
ille looked offended. He grew erect in his chair, and his head arched like a snake about to strike. Anne stifled the last remnant of her laugh, uncertain about what might come. Then she thought she saw a flicker of mirth break through his stony façade.
“Never… in the Times. They’re far too Conservative to support the consequences of fish and chips,” he proclaimed.
A great round of laughter followed.
“However, I must tell you that chicken tikki masala is, indeed, British,” he added seriously.
“How can he say that?” she said, turning to Dick and shrugging in mock disbelief.
“No doubt about it,” Somerville insisted. “British through and through. Well, almost. It was prepared by a Scottish chef in one of Glasgow’s finest eateries many, many years ago…”
“Have you noticed, Dick, how a fancy British accent has the power to make even the most far-fetched story seem credible?”
“…and legend has it,” Somerville went on as if he had not heard her, “that chicken tikki masala is the only known antidote for haggis.”
Another great round of their laughter caught the amused attention of people at nearby tables. Anne looked over at Robert Somerville. He laughed heartily and openly, Anne thought, like a leprechaun over his latest prank or a ten-year-old delivering corny jokes on the school playground. She caught no semblance of the con man here, only a glimpse of the little boy who lived within the man.
The waitress slipped their food platters in front of them about ten minutes later. Almost every forkful was punctuated by light-hearted comments, arguments about the war in Iraq, analyses of Ottawa’s latest political blunders, and tastes in literature.
She had to admit that she liked Robert Somerville on one level. He was cultured, witty, and down-to-earth. He was dignified and showed a profound interest in those around him. On the other hand, that’s what a practised con man does. He ingratiates himself. He preys upon the vulnerable. He uses the love and the natural instincts of good people as tools to strip them, not only of their money, but of their dignity as well. On that level she despised him. And if she had any misgivings about her feelings, she only needed to imagine Mrs. Murphy perhaps in a few weeks, lying alone on her bed, sobbing at her losses and berating herself for having been so naive and so trusting.
9
Anne had no intentions of letting Mrs. Murphy down. She’d dig the skeletons out of Somerville’s closet if she had to dismantle his entire life, she thought. Then she sipped her coffee and smiled her warmest smile at Robert Somerville, who sat across the table from her.
“Dick called you Lord Somerville. Was he playing a joke on me?”
“No… no… it’s true.”
“Oh,” she said feigning surprise, “I am impressed. But what does that mean, really… being a lord? Do you get to lunch with the Queen? Play polo with Prince Andrew? Perhaps I’m being silly, but I don’t understand how the whole aristocracy thing works.”
“Well, to begin with, I’ve never lunched with the Queen – though I did meet her once in a receiving line – and I’ve never played polo with anyone. Never cared for horses. And I don’t believe you’re being silly. Actually, you’re the first person who has ever enquired about how it works… and, quite frankly, I don’t know if I can explain it adequately myself. It’s rather… complicated.”
“I don’t do ‘complicated,’ either,” she said. “What about the Aristocracy for Dummies version?”
“Well, I’ll give it a go. Let me see. Let’s go back a thousand years or so. In those days a European monarch owned all the land in their realm. In Britain the king needed powerful people to keep him in power. So he divided half of his land among a dozen or so knights called earls. They worked the land and made money, some of which they gave back to the king. When the king needed soldiers for a war, the earls, who were lords, armed their peasants and came to the king’s aid. Their titles were passed down from generation to generation.”
“So you’re an earl.”
“No. Eventually the land of the earls became subdivided among their heirs. The eldest male kept the title of earl. The others became lesser nobles, dukes and barons and such.”
“So you’re a baron.”
“Not quite, I’m afraid. Here’s where it becomes muddled. The subdivisions continued, land was bought and sold between barons and earls. Sometimes a baron committed some unforgivable faux pas, and the king killed the lord and all his kin and took back his land. In some cases, there was no male heir or no heir at all. And then we still haven’t talked about the other half of the country which still lay directly in the king’s hand. Much of this was given out as manorial estates for special favours to knights or statesmen. Besides that, there are lords who have no land at all, only a title. I believe there may be the odd rock-and-roller that fits into that category.”
“And you’re which of them?”
“I’m not a rocker, I assure you. Rather, Lord of Briarsley, a manorial estate.”
“That’s wonderful,” Anne said. “And that’s a hereditary title.”
“Yes, and, theoretically, in a long line of ascent to the throne.”
“How long a line?”
“At least one-third of the population of Great Britain would have to suddenly perish for me to become king. Perhaps you recall the American movie King Ralph?”
“I do.”
“Well, Ralph would be leagues ahead of me in accession.”
“What are you two so deep in conversation about?” asked Dick Clements, just returning from the washroom.
“American movies,” said Anne.
“It’s been wonderful meeting you, Anne Brown,” said Somerville, standing up. “I must be off. Hope to see you again. Good-bye. Good-bye, Dick.”
They watched Lord Robert Somerville walk out the door.
“Well, you two seemed to hit it off,” said Dick.
“He’s a pleasant enough character. Good lunch company. What’s your connection with him?”
“He’s a new client.”
“For what?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“My! Aren’t you Mr. Tight-Lips!”
“My memoir will be entitled Charlottetown Confidential: 30 Years of Provincial Secrecy.”
“In your dreams.”
“Listen to this: three Irishmen were at the wake of an old buddy. One was a lawyer, one was a used car salesman, and one was a banker. Did ya’ hear this one before?”
Anne shook her head. “Do I have to?” Clements went on.
“One of them said, ‘Ya know, in the old country there used to be a custom of putting some money in a dead friend’s casket, so they’ll have something to spend when they get to the other side.’ Each man nodded. They had all heard that story. The banker opened his wallet and dropped a hundred-dollar bill into the coffin. The salesman did the same. The lawyer thought for a moment. Then he picked up the two bills, put them in his pocket, and wrote his dead friend a cheque for three hundred bucks. Isn’t that a great one?”
Anne grinned. “Dick, you’re the only lawyer I know who tells lawyer jokes. My advice, counsellor: don’t run for president of the Law Society with that material.”
“Never entered my mind. But you can write me a cheque for one-fifty when you get the chance. That will cover my fee and a hundred in taxes to probate Billy’s will. The other papers you wanted me to look at? Give me a bit more time.”
“After that heart-attack-on-a-plate you just put away, are you sure you don’t want cash instead of my cheque?”
10
“Greg. Anne Brown at Darby Investigations. Got a minute?”
“Shoot. Whatcha need?” Greg Phelan leaned back on his wooden chair at Green Isle Realty. A blue ballpoint pen dangled like a cigarette from one hand.
“There was a property for sale near Fort Amherst. I understand
that Robert Somerville is buying it. Did he pay by cash or cheque?”
“What’s this about? Is there something wrong with the property? Did he hire you?”
“No, no, nothing like that. Did he pay by cheque?”
“Yes.”
“A Canadian bank or British?”
“What’s all this about, Anne? Should I be getting worried about now, or what?”
“Look, Greg, it’s got nothing to do with you. I’ve got a client who needs to transfer money to a reliable bank in England. I heard that Somerville had dealings with you and thought you could tell me the bank that he deals with. That makes sense, doesn’t it?”
“So, what exactly do you want to know? I can’t give you any confidential information. You know that.”
“Absolutely. Just tell me the name of his bank and the branch… if you can remember it.”
“I guess that’s okay. I’ve got the cheque here in my drawer.”
“You didn’t deposit it?”
“No, he just asked me to hold it until he could give his bank a head’s-up. You know, a big cheque from the remote reaches of the Commonwealth and all.” Anne heard a sliding of drawers and a shuffling of papers. “Here, it is. Barclays Bank, 25 Charing Cross Road, London.”
“And the account number?”
“Anne!”
“Easy, easy,” Anne laughed. “Just seeing if you were still awake, Greg. Thanks. See ya.”
Barclays may be a bit reluctant to identify the names of depositors, thought Anne. If so, she might have to retain a London investigator to do the job. She hoped to avoid that. If expenses grew very much, she might have to dump the pro bono effort and charge Mrs. Murphy. She’d rather avoid that, too. Still, she needed the information. Anyone can print up a stack of phony bank checks and pass themselves off as real ones. And Anne couldn’t help but think that asking Greg Phelan to hold the cheque for a while was suspicious.
The Reluctant Detective Page 4
