The Executor (Keith Calder Book 10)

by Gerald Hammond

  ‘And if they have any guns?’

  ‘Come back and tell me.’ He handed Deborah his wallet. He believed in letting her learn from her mistakes. If she blew this one, it would still be a lesson cheap at the price. ‘But if you see one which you think’s underpriced, buy it. You understand?’

  Deborah nodded, wide-eyed.

  ‘If you pass a shoe shop, get yourself some school shoes. You’ve a spare pair of socks in your pocket. Shoes must go on over both pairs of socks, got it?’

  ‘Yes, Dad.’

  ‘Off you go, then. Meet me at Mr Pride’s shop as soon as you’re done. You remember where it is?’

  ‘Where we bought the Von Dreyse rifle.’

  ‘Right.’

  He watched her out of sight, a slim figure beginning to move with the confidence of womanhood, of knowing that she is to be admired. He would have to speak to her about that provocative swing of the hips. She was at the shooting-up stage and her height was always surprising him. He shrugged and went into Angus Pride’s shop.

  *

  Molly, meanwhile, was on the phone to Wallace. ‘Keith’s gone into Edinburgh,’ she said. ‘He’s Robin Winterton’s executor and something’s gone wrong. Somebody conned the widow into selling the gun collection for peanuts and Keith’s trying to get them back.’

  ‘I t-take it that he’s earning a fee?’ Wallace was the money-man of the partnership.

  ‘I suppose so,’ Molly said. ‘Do executors get a fee? I know he gets a commission on selling the guns.’

  ‘Well, whatever, let him get on with it. This is the quiet season and we d-don’t want him getting bored. Last occasion that he found time lying heavy on his hands, he started building a blasted wheellock for competition shooting and we hardly got any work out of him for months.’

  ‘We got some useful publicity out of it,’ Molly pointed out.

  ‘Not enough. K-keep him out of mischief until the rush of guns for overhaul starts. And try to stop him buying any of the guns for the business without showing me the inventory first. Otherwise he’ll get up to his usual trick.’

  ‘What usual trick?’ Molly asked curiously. After all these years, she was still learning.

  ‘Juggling the values. Buying for his personal collection at a low price and making it back for the client by pushing up the ones he buys for the firm to where our profit’s minimal. Don’t let him think I don’t know, that’s all. I don’t mind him cheating the tax man – not a lot – but I’m damned if he’s doing it at my expense.’

  Molly hung up. She bit her lip. That was very naughty of Keith. But it was clever.

  *

  The antique shop was quiet. Angus Pride handed over to his assistant, a girl so young that Keith suspected that she was either a YOP or a WEEP and therefore heavily subsidised by the Manpower Services Commission.

  From the street, the shop looked small; but it rambled away behind the adjoining shops and into the upper floors of the building so that the casual visitor, intending no more than to glance around, was easily trapped into spending an hour or more in exploration.

  Angus took Keith upstairs to where, at the back of yet another showroom or gallery, he had his own office.

  ‘Those damned stairs’ll be the death of me,’ he grumbled, settling his stomach more comfortably on his knees. ‘Now, Keith, what are you after?’ Pale blue eyes stared suspiciously from under his white eyebrows.

  ‘An old lady I know was conned by a knocker the day before yesterday,’ Keith said. He repeated Mrs Winterton’s description. ‘I’ve jotted down any names I could think of which might fit, allowing for an error or two on her part.’

  Angus Pride ran his eyes down the list. ‘You’re not far off,’ he said. ‘I could maybe add a name but it wouldn’t help you – the man I’m thinking of was in Fife the last few days. You can forget most of the rest. This one’s in hospital. The next spent all week trailing round the dealers, trying to unload a set of chairs he paid too much for. The next was in Inverness, following up a story about a set of claymores. The next – George Baker – wears a beard these days. Vague as your old dame seems to be she could hardly have missed that.’

  ‘When did you see him last?’ Keith asked. Beards can be removed.

  ‘This morning. And Snotty Harris uses a black Rolls-Royce van he converted out of a hearse. That leaves you with Duncan Laurie. Aye, it could be him. He was knocking somewhere south of here, last I heard. Of course, an Edinburgh accent’s not much to go on; it could still be somebody working out of Glasgow or Newcastle.’

  ‘I’ve got to start somewhere,’ Keith said. ‘Does Duncan Laurie have a grey van?’

  ‘Damned if I know. Parking’s difficult around here, so they carry in what they’re selling, most times, unless it’s huge.’

  ‘Where’s his store?’

  ‘Waterman’s Lane, off the Cowgate. It still says Frazer’s Frozen Foods over the door.’

  Keith smiled. ‘Thanks, Angus. I owe you a favour.’

  ‘You could sell yon pair of duelling pistols for me,’ old Angus said hopefully. He gestured towards a pair of saw-handled pistols with octagonal barrels in a mahogany case.

  Keith tried not to smile. ‘Are those the ones you bought for the American tourist who turned out to be one of the gang? They’re fakes, and not very good ones. I’ll not sell them as real. But, if you like, I’ll sell them as interesting copies with a story attached to them.’

  ‘The story being how I was had for a sucker?’

  ‘It’s that or most of your money down the drain,’ Keith said.

  ‘So be it,’ Angus said with a sigh. He pursed his soft, pink lips. ‘You’ll tip me off if anything good comes on the market from Halleydane House?’

  Keith looked at him hard and met a return stare from the pale blue eyes. ‘What put Halleydane House into your mind?’ he asked.

  ‘Come off it, lad,’ Angus said. ‘You were as thick as thieves with old man Winterton and steered all his money into antique guns. Then, three days after he gets himself topped during a break-in, you’re running around in a tizzy and looking for a knocker who underpaid a widow for some guns.’

  ‘I didn’t say guns,’ Keith protested.

  ‘But you’re you,’ Angus pointed out. ‘You wouldn’t be getting in a sweat over snuff-boxes or old china. Rumour has it that there was something very special in the Winterton collection.’

  Keith felt himself jump. ‘Where did you hear that?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s true, then? It was just a word that went the rounds. You know how it would be. The owner isn’t going to keep his treasure buried for ever. He tells or shows a friend. The friend drops a hint and the word’s on the move. You think the knocker was there for a purpose?’

  ‘I’ve been wondering,’ Keith said. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Depends. It depends,’ Angus said shrewdly, ‘on how well it was known that the old shrew didn’t know the value of the guns and would be only too glad to be rid of them. I knew it, but not everyone would. Look at it this way. Somebody gets word that old Winterton has something of great value in his collection. It was well protected?’

  ‘Very,’ Keith said. ‘A vaulted cellar under the house, steel door and infra-red alarms connected through to the police station.’

  ‘There you are. I’ve seen the old girl around the auctions – never buying anything, just watching and running the bidding up when she felt safe. Whenever a gun turned up in a sale she’d start grumbling about Winterton’s guns. I’ve heard her, myself, saying that she was going to chuck the lot into the sea. An arrogant old biddy and stupid with it.

  ‘So they wait until her husband’s alone in the house and send in a screwsman who knocks him on the head. The police are going to seal off that part of the house, but they’ll only look once round the rest of it. The widow has to go on living there, doesn’t she?

  ‘Then, first time the place is clear of fuzz for a minute, the tame knocker arrives, rustling a bundle of notes. Likely there
were men standing by, and if she hadn’t taken the money there’d have been a knife at her throat until she unset the alarms and opened the door.’

  ‘I was wondering along the same lines,’ Keith said. ‘If you’re right, I’ve got problems. Would Duncan Laurie go along with murder?’

  ‘Likely he would. Anybody’ll do anything if the money’s right and Duncan’s no better than most and worse than a lot of ’em, and he’s got money-troubles just now. He went to court over payment for a pair of vases which didn’t stand up to examination, and he lost. Nothing’s worse for a knocker than being short of working capital. Or he might even have not known that there was any connection with the murder, just been sent in to buy.’

  Keith stood up. ‘I’d better get going,’ he said.

  ‘Most of them’ll likely be offered to you anyway.’

  ‘Christ! I don’t want to buy them,’ Keith said. ‘I’m Mr Winterton’s executor. I just want to get them back for the estate.’

  ‘His executor, are you? Don’t forget me, then. I hear there’s some good stuff in Halleydane House.’

  *

  Keith threaded a careful way through the expensive clutter of the shop. The young girl assistant, abandoning for the moment her true mission of deterring shoplifters, caught him at the door. ‘Are you Mr Calder? There’s a phone-call. . . .’

  ‘If it’s his wife, he isn’t here,’ Keith said flippantly. Young girls, especially young girls with budding bosoms and round behinds, always brought out the worst in him. ‘If it’s his girl-friend, I’ll take it.’

  ‘I don’t know who it is,’ the girl said, unsmiling.

  Keith took the phone. Molly’s voice came through sweet and clear. ‘Keith? There are some messages. Mr Enterkin’s receptionist rang. She’s tried every dealer in the Lothian and Borders yellow pages. Nobody’s got a dower chest but they all said they’ll call her back if one turns up. But they may not bother. Several of them said that hers wasn’t the only enquiry.’

  ‘Fine,’ Keith said. ‘What else?’

  ‘Sir Peter’s phoned his friends for about twenty miles around Halleydane House. A man with a grey van was on the knock a few days ago but nobody sold him a dower chest and nobody seems to have seen him on the day after Mr Winterton was killed. A Mrs Fairlie sold him an ormolu clock. She says there was no dower chest in the van, but the van was definitely grey. And she kept his card.’

  ‘Let me guess,’ Keith said. ‘Laurie. Right?’

  ‘You are the most maddening person,’ Molly said. ‘You get all sorts of people sweating blood for you and running up colossal phone bills, and when they come up with the answer you wanted you’ve already got it. This isn’t the first time.’

  ‘I’ll try to be stupider in future,’ Keith said humbly.

  ‘Don’t be silly. And Michael Winterton—’

  ‘The old man’s son.’

  ‘—phoned. He wants to get in touch with you. He’s in Edinburgh. I said that he might be able to catch you at Angus Pride’s shop.’

  ‘He’ll have to be quick.’

  ‘Is Debbie all right? Can I speak to her?’

  ‘Right as rain. But she isn’t exactly here at the moment. She’s getting shoes,’ Keith added quickly. That might pacify Molly.

  It didn’t. ‘Keith, you haven’t let her go wandering off on her own again? I told you to keep her with you.’

  Keith glared at an inoffensive Toby-jug which glared back at him. ‘Och, a little responsibility teaches her self-reliance,’ he said. ‘She’ll be back in a minute.’

  ‘She’s too damn self-reliant already,’ Molly said. ‘That child is old beyond her years. You go and find her at once and have her call me or I’ll never speak to you again.’

  ‘You promise?’ Keith said. He hung up quickly.

  Outside, still carrying the case of pistols, he looked around. There was no sign of Deborah among the mixed sightseers and shoppers. He knew that Molly was over-cautious and yet, infected with her anxiety, he could not suppress a sense of panic. When a large estate-car drew up beside him and somebody spoke his name, the distraction was a relief. He recognised the face above the steering-wheel by the drooping moustache and the air of ruddy good health as belonging to Michael Winterton, old Robin’s son.

  ‘It is Mr Calder, isn’t it? Your wife said you might be here. Hop in. I’d like a word.’ He had a voice which could only have emanated from at least one expensive school.

  ‘You hop out,’ Keith said.

  ‘I’m on yellow lines. We could drive round the block.’

  ‘No, we couldn’t. One, I’m waiting for my young daughter. Two, I’m your father’s executor and I don’t think I should be seen to be having private conversations with one of the beneficiaries. Three, there’s little or no traffic. Four, as soon as my daughter turns up, I’m off in a hurry. And, five, if a traffic-warden approaches, we can see him . . . her . . . oh, damn! . . . it, a hundred yards off.’

  Michael Winterton grunted and got out of the car. He was a man of about Keith’s age or slightly less but several inches taller. His heavy frame showed no trace of excess fat but, close to, the signs of dissipation were present. A nerve was twitching beside his mouth and when they shook hands his skin was hot and moist. Keith decided that a murdered father was enough to make any man nervous.

  The back seat of the estate-car was folded down and Keith saw that two good-looking labradors were sprawled at ease in the generous space provided. ‘Nice dogs,’ Keith said. ‘The sporting press tells me that you’ve been having your wins with them.’

  Winterton smiled fleetingly. ‘The yellow’s a granddaughter of Septimus Spry. You used to own Septimus, didn’t you?’

  ‘That’s right.’ It was Keith’s turn to smile. Sep had made him a lot of money in stud fees in his day.

  Few things establish a quicker empathy than a common interest in dogs. Winterton seemed to relax. He leaned an elbow on the roof of the car and Keith did the same, resting the weight of the cased pistols. The roof was still wet from a car-wash.

  ‘I don’t want to compromise you,’ Winterton said. ‘Just a quick word. Is it true that that charming and intelligent old lady, my revered stepmother, has let the most important part of my father’s property go for a song?’

  ‘That seems to be the case,’ Keith said carefully.

  ‘In that eventuality, what’s left comes to me?’

  ‘And your sister,’ Keith reminded him. ‘You’d better speak to Ralph Enterkin, but that’s how I understand it. Subject to certain questions about capital transfer tax.’

  Winterton looked away. ‘How long is all this going to take? Don’t misunderstand me. I’m not short of a bob or two. But I’m in business for myself and I’m planning an expansion. It makes a big difference if I can safely take the more expensive short-term loan as against a cheaper loan that would have to run full-term.’

  It occurred belatedly to Keith that he should have expressed his condolences, but the moment seemed to have passed. He was also remembering that, on the few previous occasions when he had been within speaking-distance of Michael Winterton, the vet had preferred to converse with those whom he considered to be his social equals. Keith himself rarely thought in terms of class and, whenever he encountered it, his hackles rose.

  ‘I’ve started preparing an inventory of the estate,’ he said, ‘but I can hardly start distributing it before the police have finished their investigations.’

  ‘Why not, for God’s sake? Surely the matters are separate.’

  Keith realised that he might already have gone too far. He tried to back-pedal. ‘The lawyers could argue that I might be handing out legacies to somebody who was disqualified.’

  ‘Are you suggesting,’ Winterton enquired angrily, ‘that my stepmother or I – or my sister – might have burgled the house and killed my father?’

  ‘Certainly not. But the lawyers might argue that the possibility existed. Presumably if there isn’t a trial there’ll be an enquiry. That should
settle the matter. Then again, your father’s will specified that all his assets be sold. You don’t sell a place like Halleydane House in two minutes.’

  Winterton sighed and decided not to embroil himself in argument with the hypothetical lawyers. ‘If I could just be sure that I had the proceeds of the sale coming . . .’

  ‘I wouldn’t go borrowing on the strength of it,’ Keith said. ‘Capital transfer tax will be taken off before any legacies are handed out. If the Inland Revenue decides that tax is payable on the real value of the estate, everything realised will be gobbled up.’

  Keith had forgotten about Deborah. Now he realised that she was pulling at his coat. ‘I got shoes,’ she said. ‘And Granny Howett had saved you the lock from a Tower Musket. I gave her four pounds for it. Was that all right?’

  She gave Keith his wallet and then handed him the lock, wrapped in her handkerchief. Keith put on one of the cotton gloves from his pocket before accepting it. The Calders knew that, while a delicate piece of the gunsmith’s art might have the acid fingerprints of centuries etched into it, there was no sense in adding to them. ‘Very reasonable,’ he said.

  ‘She wanted ten but I beat her down.’

  Michael Winterton looked at the device without interest. ‘You knew, if anyone did, that my father had some valuable Scottish guns,’ he said. ‘Could they have reached the antique shops already? I ask because there’s one in a window near here, in West Bow.’

  ‘It’s only a fowling-piece,’ Deborah said haughtily. ‘About eighteen seventy. It’s been there for weeks. And I’m not surprised,’ she added, ‘because they’re asking far too much.’

  ‘Sorry I spoke,’ Winterton said faintly.

  Deborah waved a hand. ‘That’s all right. You weren’t to know.’

  ‘We’ll have to be going,’ Keith said. He pointed over Winterton’s shoulder. ‘And there’s a warden beyond that van, arguing with the driver.’

  ‘I’m off,’ Winterton said. He got into his car. The dogs snuffled at his neck and he pushed them away.

  ‘See what you can do to hurry things along, will you, Mr Calder?’ He slammed his door and drove off.