No Comebacks

by Frederick Forsyth

  Hanson took a thick envelope from the mantelpiece. He extended it to Richards, who took it without comprehension.

  'I'm afraid,' said Hanson, 'that unless the future occupants of the Manor wish to continue to employ you, and even Mrs Richards, it will mean looking for another post.'

  'Yes, sir,' said Richards.

  'I shall of course provide the most favourable references before I depart,' said Hanson. 'I would, however, for business reasons, be most grateful if you would not mention this in the village, or indeed to anyone at all until it becomes necessary. I would also be happy if you would not seek further employment until, say, November the 1st. In short, I do not wish news of my impending departure to get about just yet.'

  'Very well, sir,' said Richards. He was still holding the thick envelope.

  'Which brings me,' said Hanson, 'to the last matter. The envelope. You and Mrs Richards have been good and loyal to me these past twelve years. I want you to know I appreciate it. Always have.'

  'Thank you, sir.'

  ' I would be very grateful if you were to remain as loyal to my memory after my departure abroad. I realize that asking you to seek no further employment for another six weeks may impose hardship. That apart, I would like to help you in some way in your future life. That envelope contains, in used and untraceable twenty-pound notes, the sum of ten thousand pounds.'

  Richards' self-control broke at last. His eyebrows went up.

  'Thank you, sir,' he said.

  'Please don't mention it,' said Hanson. 'I have put it in the unusual form of cash because, like most of us, I have an aversion to handing over large chunks of my earned money to the tax people.'

  'Too right,' said Richards with feeling. He could sense the thick wads of paper through the envelope.

  'As such a sum would attract a large forfeit in gift tax, payable by you, I would suggest you don't bank it, but keep it in a safe place. And spend it in amounts not large enough to attract attention. It is designed to help you both in your new life in a few months' time.'

  'Don't worry, sir,' said Richards. 'I know the score. Everyone's at it nowadays. And thank you very much, on behalf of both of us.'

  Richards crossed the gravel yard to continue polishing the new Rolls Royce in a happy frame of mind. His salary had always been generous, and with the free cottage he had been able to save quite a bit. With his new windfall there would perhaps be no need to go back to the ever-shrinking labour market. There was that small boarding house at Porthcawl in his native Wales that he and Megan had spotted that very summer...

  On the morning of 1 October Timothy Hanson came down from his bedroom before the sun had fully cleared the horizon. It would be a full hour before Mrs Richards came across to prepare his breakfast and start the cleaning.

  It had been another terrible night and the pills he kept in his locked bedside drawer were steadily losing their battle against the shafts of pain that tore through his lower stomach. He looked grey and drawn, older than his years at last. He realized there was nothing more he could do. It was time.

  He spent ten minutes writing a short note to Richards apologizing for the white he of a fortnight earlier and asking that Martin Pound be telephoned at his home immediately. The letter he laid ostentatiously on the floor at the threshold of the library where it stood out against the dark parquet. Then he rang Richards and told the sleepy voice that answered that he would not need Mrs Richards for an early breakfast, but that he would need the chauffeur, in the library, in thirty minutes.

  When he had finished he took from his locked bureau the shotgun from whose barrel he had sawn ten inches of metal to render it more easily manageable. Into the breech he loaded two heavy-gauge cartridges and retired to the library. '

  Meticulous to the last, he covered his favourite buttonback-leather winged chair with a heavy horse blanket, mindful that it now belonged to someone else. He sat in the chair cradling the gun. He took one last look round, at his rows of beloved books and the cabinets that had once housed his cherished collection of rare coins. Then he turned the barrels against his chest, fumbled for the triggers, took a deep breath, and shot himself through the heart.

  Mr Martin Pound closed the door to the conference room adjacent to his office and took his place at the head of the long table. Halfway down the table to his right sat Mrs Armitage, sister of his client and friend, and of whom he had heard. Next to her sat her husband. Both were dressed in black. Across the table, seeming bored and indolent, sat their son, Tarquin, a young man in his early twenties who appeared to have an inordinate interest in the contents of his oversized nose. Mr Pound adjusted his spectacles and addressed the trio.

  'You will understand that the late Timothy Hanson asked me to act as sole executor of his will. In the normal course of events I would, in this capacity, have opened the will immediately upon learning of his death, in order to ascertain whether there were any instructions of immediate importance concerning, for example, preparations for the burial.'

  'Didn't you write it anyway?' asked Armitage senior.

  'No, I did not,' replied Pound.

  'So you don't know what is in it either?' asked Armitage junior.

  'No, I do not,' said Pound. 'In fact the late Mr Hanson pre-empted such an opening of the will by leaving me a personal letter on the mantelpiece of the room in which he died. In it he made a number of things plain, which I am now able to impart to you.'

  'Let's get on with the will,' said Armitage junior.

  Mr Pound stared at him coldly without speaking.

  'Quiet, Tarquin,' said Mrs Armitage mildly.

  Pound resumed. 'In the first place, Timothy Hanson did not kill himself while the balance of mind was disturbed. He was in fact in the last stages of terminal cancer, and had known this since the previous April.'

  'Poor bugger,' said Armitage senior.

  'I later showed this letter to the Kent county coroner and it was confirmed by his personal physician and the autopsy. This enabled the formalities of death certificate, inquest and permission for burial to be hurried through in only a fortnight. Secondly, he made plain he did not wish the will to be opened and read until these formalities had been completed. Finally, he made plain he wished for a formal reading, rather than any correspondence by mail, in the presence of his only surviving relative, his sister Mrs Armitage, her husband and son.'

  The other three in the room looked round with mounting and less than grief-stricken surprise.

  'But there's only us here,' said Armitage junior.

  'Precisely,' said Pound.

  'Then we must be the only beneficiaries,' said his father.

  'Not necessarily,' said Pound. 'The attendance here today was simply according to my late client's letter.'

  'If he's playing some kind of joke on us .. said Mrs Armitage darkly. Her mouth adopted, as of much-practised ease, a thin straight line.

  'Shall we proceed with the will?' suggested Pound.

  'Right,' said Armitage junior.

  Martin Pound took a slim letter opener and carefully slit the end of the fat envelope in his hands. From it he withdrew another bulky envelope and a three-page document, bound along the left-hand margin with narrow green tape. Pound placed the fat envelope to one side and opened out the folded sheets. He began to read.

  'This is the last will of me, Timothy John Hanson, of...'

  'We know all that,' said Armitage senior.

  'Get on with it,' said Mrs Armitage.

  Pound glanced at each with some distaste over the top of his glasses. He continued. 'I declare that this my will is to be construed in accordance with English law. Two, I hereby revoke all former wills and testamentary dispositions made by me...'

  Armitage junior gave vent to the noisy sigh of one whose patience has been too long tried.

  'Three, I appoint as executor the following gentleman, a solicitor, and ask that he administer my estate, and pay my duty payable thereon, and execute the provisions of this my will, namely: Martin Pound of
Pound, Gogarty. Four, I ask my executor at this point of the reading to open the enclosed envelope wherein he will find a sum of money to be used for the expenses of my burial, and for the settlement of his professional fees, and of any other disbursements incurred in the execution of my wishes. And in the event that there be any monies remaining from the enclosed sum, then do I direct that he donate such monies to any charity of his own choice.'

  Mr Pound laid down the will and took up again his letter knife. From the unopened envelope he extracted five wads of £20 notes, all new and each encircled by a brown paper band indicating that the sum in each wad amounted to £1000. There was silence in the room. Armitage junior ceased exploring one of his cavities and stared at the pile of money with the indifference of a satyr observing a virgin. Martin Pound picked up the will again.

  'Five, I ask my sole executor, in deference to our long friendship, that he assume his executive functions upon the day following my burial.'

  Mr Pound glanced again over the top of his glasses.

  'In the normal course of events I would have already visited Mr Hanson's business in the city, and his other known assets, to ensure that they were being well and properly run and maintained, and that no financial damage would accrue to the beneficiaries by neglect of the assets,' he said. 'However, I have only just formally learned of my appointment as sole executor, so I have not been able to do so. Now it appears I cannot begin until the day after the funeral.'

  'Here,' said Armitage senior, 'this neglect, it wouldn't diminish the value of the estate, would it?'

  'I cannot say,' replied Pound. 'I doubt it. Mr Hanson had excellent assistants in his City dealership and I have no doubt he trusted in their loyalty to keep things running well.'

  'Still, hadn't you better get weaving?' asked Armitage.

  'The day after the funeral,' said Pound.

  'Well then, let's get the funeral over with as soon as possible,' said Mrs Armitage.

  'As you wish,' replied Pound. 'You are his next of kin.' He resumed reading. 'Six, I give to…'

  Here Martin Pound paused and blinked as if he had trouble reading what he read. He swallowed. 'I give to my dear and loving sister the rest and residue of my estate absolutely, in the confidence that she will share her good fortune with her lovable husband Norman and their attractive son Tarquin. The same being subject to the conditions of paragraph seven.'

  There was a stunned silence. Mrs Armitage dabbed delicately at her eyes with a cambric handkerchief, less to wipe away a tear than cover the smile that twitched at the corner of her mouth. When she removed the handkerchief she glanced at her husband and son with the air of an over-age hen who has just lifted one buttock to find a solid gold egg reposing beneath. The two male Armitages sat with open mouths.

  'How much was he worth?' demanded the senior one at last.

  'I really couldn't say,' said Pound.

  'Come on, you must know,' said the son. 'Roughly. You handled all his affairs.'

  Pound thought of the unknown solicitor who had drawn up the will in his hand. 'Almost all,' he said.

  'Well...?'

  Pound bit on the bullet. However unpleasant he found the Armitages, they were the sole beneficiaries of his late friend's .will. 'I should have thought, at current market prices, assuming all the estate is called in and realized, between two and a half and three million pounds.''

  'Bloody hell,' said Armitage senior. He began to have mental images. 'How much will death duties come to?'

  'Quite a large amount, I'm afraid.'

  'How much?'

  'With such a sizable estate, the bulk will be adjusted at the highest rate, seventy-five per cent. Overall, I suppose something like sixty-five per cent.'

  'Leaving a million clear?' asked the son.

  'It's a very rough estimate, you understand,' said Pound helplessly. He thought back to his friend Hanson as he had been: cultured, humorous, fastidious. Why, Timothy, for heaven's sake why? 'There is paragraph seven,' he pointed out.

  'What's it say?' demanded Mrs Armitage, breaking off from her own reverie concerning her social take-off.

  Pound began to read again. 'I have, all my life, been possessed by a great horror of one day being consumed beneath the ground by worms and other forms of parasites,' he read. 'I have therefore caused to be constructed a lead-lined coffin which now reposes in the funeral parlour of Bennett and Gaines, in the town of Ashford. And it is in this that I wish to be committed to my last resting place. Secondly, I have never wished that one day I might be dug up by an excavator or anything else. In consequence of this I direct that I shall be buried at sea, specifically twenty miles due south of the coast of Devon where I once served as a naval officer. Finally, I direct that it shall be my sister and brother-in-law who shall, out of respect for their lifelong love for me, be the ones who impel my coffin towards the ocean. And to my executor I direct that should any of these wishes not be fulfilled, or any impediment be placed before the arrangements by my beneficiaries, then shall all that has gone before be null and void, and I direct that then my entire estate be bequeathed to the Chancellor of the Exchequer.'

  Martin Pound looked up. Privately he was surprised to learn of his late friend's fears and fancies, but he gave no sign of it.

  'Now, Mrs Armitage, I have to ask you formally; do you object to the wishes of your late brother as expressed in paragraph seven?'

  'It's stupid,' she replied, 'burial at sea, indeed. I didn't even know it was allowed.'

  'It is extremely rare, but not illegal,' replied Pound. 'I have known of one case before.'

  'It'll be expensive,' said her son, 'much more than a cemetery burial. And why not cremation anyway?'

  'The cost of the funeral will not affect the inheritance,' said Pound testily. 'The expenses will come out of this.' He tapped the £5000 at his elbow. 'Now, do you object?'

  'Well, I don't know...'

  'I have to point out to you that if you do, the inheritance is null and void.'

  'What does that mean?'

  'The state gets the lot,' snapped her husband.

  'Precisely,' said Pound.

  'No objection,' said Mrs Armitage. 'Though I think it's ridiculous.'

  'Then as next of kin will you authorize me to make the arrangements?' asked Pound.

  Mrs Armitage nodded abruptly.

  'The sooner the better,' said her husband. 'Then we can get on with the probate and the inheritance.'

  Martin Pound stood up quickly. He had had enough.

  "That constitutes the final paragraph of the will. It is duly signed and witnessed twice on every page. I think therefore there is nothing more to discuss. I shall make the necessary arrangements and contact you in respect of time and place. Good day to you.'

  The middle of the English Channel is no place to be on a mid-October day unless you are an enthusiast. Mr and Mrs Armitage contrived to make perfectly plain before they had cleared the harbour mole that they were definitely not.

  Mr Pound sighed as he stood in the wind on the afterdeck so as not to have to join them in the cabin. It had taken him a week to make the arrangements and he had settled on a vessel out of Brixham in Devon. The three fishermen who ran the inshore trawler had taken the unusual job once they were satisfied over the price and assured they were breaking no law. Fishing the Channel provided slim pickings these days.

  It had taken a block and tackle to load the halfton coffin from the rear yard of the Kentish undertakers onto an open-backed one-ton van, which the black limousine had followed throughout the long haul down to the southwest coast that morning. The Armitages had complained throughout. At Brixham the van had drawn up on the quayside and the trawler's own davits had brought the coffin aboard. It stood now athwart two beams of timber on the wide after-deck, waxed oak and polished brass gleaming under the autumn sky.

  Tarquin Armitage had accompanied the party in the limousine as far as Brixham, but after one look at the sea had elected to stay within the warm confines of a hostelry
in town. He was not needed for the burial at sea in any case. The retired Royal Navy chaplain whom Pound had traced through the chaplaincy department of the Admiralty had been happy enough to accept a generous stipend for his services and now sat in the small cabin also, his surplice covered by a thick overcoat.

  The skipper of the trawler rolled down the deck to where Pound stood. He produced a sea chart which flapped in the breeze, and pointed with a forefinger at a spot twenty miles south of start point. He raised an eyebrow. Pound nodded.

  'Deep water,' said the skipper. He nodded at the coffin. 'You knew him?'

  'Very well,' said Pound.

  The skipper grunted. He ran the small trawler with his brother and a cousin; like most of these fishermen, they were all related. The three were tough Devonians, with nut-brown hands and faces, the sort whose ancestors had been fishing these tricky waters since Drake was learning the difference between main and mizzen.

  'Be there in an hour,' he said, and stumped back forward.

  When they reached the spot, the captain held the vessel with her bow into the weather, holding station with an idling engine. The cousin took a long piece of timber, three planks bolted together with crosspieces on the underside and 3 feet wide, and laid it across the starboard rail, smooth side up. The chipped timber rail took the plank almost at the mid-section, like the fulcrum of a seesaw. One half of the planks lay towards the deck, the other jutted out over the heaving sea. As the captain's brother manned the davit motor, the cousin slipped hooks under the coffin's four brass handles.

  The engine revved and the davits took the strain. The great coffin lifted off the deck. The winchman held it at a height of 3 feet and the cousin manoeuvred the oaken casket onto the plank. He pointed it headfirst towards the sea and nodded. The winchman let it down so it came to rest directly above the supporting rail. He slackened off and the coffin creaked into position, half in and half out of the trawler. While the cousin held it steady, the winchman descended, cleared away the shackles and helped lift the inboard edge of the planks to the horizontal. There was little weight on them now, for the coffin was evenly balanced. One of the men looked to Pound for guidance and he summoned the chaplain and the Armitages from their shelter.