by Roy Lewis
The peal echoed inside the house. As if in immediate response the door of the next house opened and a small, stocky woman With bright, needle-sharp blue eyes looked at him over the hedge. ‘No one in, hinny. Old man died some time back. House is empty now, like.’
Ward nodded, smiling slightly and produced the key from his pocket, inserted it into the lock. The woman next door raised her eyebrows. ‘Hey, what you doin’?’
‘I’m from Francis, Shaw and Elder, the solicitors,’ Ward explained. ‘We’re dealing with the estate.’
She stared at him as though legal gentlemen were beyond her experience or understanding. ‘I’m Mrs Towers,’ she said defensively. ‘I was his neighbour.’
Ward nodded, accepting this self-evident fact and then stepped into the narrow passageway. It was cool and dim inside, and there was a fusty smell in the house, damp and disuse already marking the atmosphere. The stairs stretched up ahead of him; to the left was a small sitting-room, the door ajar; ahead of him a kitchen in which there was also a table from which the old man had obviously taken his meals. Ward placed the file on the table and commenced an inspection of the house.
He was somewhat surprised that Paul Francis had not yet arranged for an estate agent to clear the furniture and sell it by auction — not that there was much there to sell. A three-piece suite, two bedrooms furnished, but one obviously hardly used, a quiet spartan living, it would seem. On the other hand, maybe Paul had done nothing because of the letter.
A strange note, and an unusual one to bring the firm into the administration.
When he returned to the kitchen again he picked up the file and extracted the letter. It had been found in Egan’s bedside locker at the hospital, after he had died. Ward read it again, now.
‘I have every respect for the professional integrity of the firm of Francis, Shaw and Elder. In the event of my death I wish them to administer my estate. If my only child remains unprovided for I wish all money to be put to her benefit. If this is unnecessary, the money should be held in trust for my grandchildren.’
Paul Francis had snorted over that. It was unlikely Arthur Egan’s estate would amount to very much after the costs of administration and other bills were paid. Looking around the house now, Ward was inclined to agree. But the letter, in Egan’s handwriting apparently, but with no superscription and no signature, was an odd way to hand over an administration. It was as though reluctance, or secretiveness, had dogged the old man on his death bed.
Ward sat down at the table, thinking. There was no point in making an inventory this evening — even if he had time. And though it was a typical minion’s job, he felt he would be justified in calling in an estate agent; it was reasonable, whatever the heir or heirs might say later. If there were any heirs; nothing was disclosed on the meagre file. No heirs, no money.
No money. And no personal effects at the hospital. A wallet with five pounds in it, but no personal mementoes, it seemed. Odd. Ward rose, and prowled around the kitchen, thinking. Paul Francis obviously hadn’t looked closely through Egan’s things — one look at the file and he’d discounted it as a valuable estate to administer. But where would an old man keep his personal effects?
The answer was obvious. Ward climbed the stairs, opened the wardrobe, searched through the pockets of the suit, and two changes of clothing hanging there. Nothing, apart from matches, cigarettes, the usual rubbish that a man accumulated in his pockets. Intrigued suddenly, Ward worked swiftly through the drawers of the dressing-table. They were virtually empty.
He sat down on the edge of the bed, frowning. Egan had died of cancer. The hospital seemed to know little about him; notes on the file suggested there were no friends or relatives to be contacted. The hospital had arranged his burial and there had been no mourners.
‘Hallooo!’
The voice echoed through the house and Ward rose, went to the top of the stairs. In the cool dimness he could see Mrs Towers from next door peering up at him. ‘Wondered if you’d like a cup of tea,’ she lied. ‘Door was open.’
Ward came down the stairs. ‘No, thank you. I’ll be leaving in a few minutes. I just called in for a preliminary look around.’
‘All have to be sold, won’t it?’ Mrs Towers said. ‘When it is, wouldn’t mind first offer of that three-piece in there.’
‘I expect it’ll go to auction.’
‘Ah.’ She folded her arms across her narrow bosom, and expressed disappointment. ‘Who’ll get the money that’s left, afterwards?’
‘I don’t know.’ Ward hesitated, then asked, ‘Did you know his... child?’
She stared at him for a moment, then pursed her lips and shook her head. ‘Didn’t know he had any kids. Never saw them around here if he did. Never saw anyone around here for that matter. Bert used to have a chat with him, occasionally, when he was in the garden. Liked him, Bert did.’ She hesitated. ‘It’s Bert been doin’ the garden since Egan’s dead. Keepin’ up appearances, like. And because Bert liked him.’ She shuffled carpet-slippered feet. ‘Got some of the old man’s tools, by the way. For the gardening.’
‘I should think that’ll be all right,’ Ward said carefully. ‘What . . . what was Egan like, then?’
‘Quiet, kept to himself. No visitors. I remember him movin’ in. Years ago now. But he never was very neighbourly. Polite. Kind, in his way. Soft spoken. But kept to himself, if you know what I mean. And . . . and there was something else.’
‘Yes?’
‘He never looked at you. I used to get the feeling that if he passed me in the supermarket he wouldn’t recognize me.’ She sniffed. ‘He did, of course. Always said hello, in fact. But never stopped to chat. Just to Bert, sometimes.’
‘What did he do for a living?’
She looked around her, as though measuring the dead man’s possessions for signs of accumulated wealth. ‘Didn’t have a bad job, up until a year before he died. Cancer, wasn’t it? Yes . . . He worked as a market gardener, over Stanley way somewhere. Travelled every day on the bus. Must have saved a bit — no car or nothin’, just himself to keep. Still, you can’t tell, can you?’
There was a slight challenge in her voice as though she felt Eric Ward could tell. He wasn’t prepared to, and when the silence that fell between them lengthened, Mrs Towers shuffled her carpet slippers again. ‘Well, if I can’t do anything to help . . . we couldn’t go to the funeral. Bert had a bad chest. Many there?’
‘As far as I understand,’ Ward said quietly, ‘there was no one there.’
Her eyes told him she took it as a criticism. She turned and marched out of the house. Eric Ward stood in the passageway for a few minutes, thinking about the lonely old man dying of cancer; clearing out houses like this was an unpleasant job. Even a different one like this . . . with no personal things. Had the dead man had any, or had he cleared them out in anticipation of death? A person of his introverted, secretive nature might well have put his own personal house in order, contemplating death. But not everything; he would not have destroyed everything. Some things, really personal things a man would keep, and keep close to him in his terminal illness.
But if not in hospital . . . Eric Ward turned and walked back up the stairs, entered the bedroom and got down on his knees. A moment later he felt the case under the bed and drew it out. Small, leather, the kind of case that might have held Masonic regalia. It was not locked. He sprung open the catches. There were very few items in the case, but they would have been all that remained of the memories of Arthur Egan. A leather wallet, seamed and broken, with the initials A. E. lettered faintly in gold. A sealed envelope. A small folder containing a single page letter and a sheaf of five or six photographs. And a bank book.
The initial deposit had been made in April 1965. No drawings’ had been made, but the interest had been added, year by year for fifteen years. Ward stared in surprise at the sum stated on the first page of the book. It was written in a neat, front-counter clerk hand. It was for twenty thousand pounds.
* * *
‘How much?’ Paul Francis raised his eyebrows in astonishment. ‘Twenty thousand? Where the hell did he get that much from, the secretive old bugger!’
‘Life savings, maybe.’
‘And the house, too, that’ll fetch a bit. What do you reckon?’
Ward shrugged. ‘About fifteen thousand, maybe. He had a mortgage on it — there’s some five thousand outstanding. He must have taken an extension of the mortgage at some time, to still owe that much after fifteen years with inflation the way it’s been. Anyway, it comes to a reasonable sum for distribution — say thirty thousand.’
‘Let me see the letter again.’ Francis took it and read it aloud. ‘Well, we’ll have to try to find this kid of his, I suppose. Not that he’ll deserve the money, if you ask me. I gather the old man lived alone, never got visitors.’
‘Who never received visitors?’ the voice came from the open doorway.
Ward swung around. Joseph Francis, the senior partner in Francis, Shaw and Elder stood in the doorway, a file in his hand.
Paul Francis stood up, shuffling his papers. ‘We were talking about this administration file, sir. On Arthur Egan. Seems he lived alone. But the estate should come to some thirty thousand.’
‘Is that so?’ Joseph Francis said flatly, uninterested in what his son was saying. ‘I gather you’ll be helping us with the Morcomb matter, Eric. Had time to have a look at it yet?’
‘Not in any detail. I thought at the weekend . . .’
‘Yes. Long-running business. Anyway—’
‘Something puzzles me,’ Ward said suddenly, as the senior partner began to turn away.
‘About the Morcomb file?’
‘No. About this Arthur Egan business.’
‘Yes?’ Joseph Francis had a narrow, patrician face; His silver hair was always neatly parted, smoothed back, never out of place. It was like his face: Ward felt that each morning Joseph Francis arranged his features and kept them that way, unruffled, unmoved, imperturbable. And his voice was similarly controlled — smoothly modulated, a hint of boredom, an affectation that in an odd way served to accentuate his efficiency and sharpness of mind. Or maybe the affectation merely left a client with that impression — behind the cool, casual manner hummed a sound legal brain. But however a man could order his face and his voice and his manner, there was one thing, in Ward’s experience, he could not completely control. His eyes. And for one brief moment Joseph Francis had allowed something to flicker through his old, uninterested glance.
‘I’m just puzzled as to why Egan should have nominated us in the way he did.’
There was a short silence. Joseph Francis stared at him, but his eyes seemed to look beyond him, searching the past.
‘Maybe . . . maybe he’d just heard about us in the town,’ Paul Francis offered.
Joseph Francis flickered a quick glance at his son, then gave a little shake of his head. ‘No, I imagine it will have been because we once acted for him.’
‘He was an old client of ours?’ Paul said. ‘Ah well, that explains it.’
Not for Eric Ward. ‘It was an odd way to ask us to take on the administration, even so,’ he said.
Joseph Francis regarded him for a few moments. ‘Perhaps the letter . . . I admit it was an odd way to give us the work . . . perhaps it was something he was hesitating over. A reluctance . . .’
Ward waited a moment, but the senior partner seemed suddenly lost in thought. ‘Reluctance to face up to the fact he was dying?’
A faint smile touched Joseph Francis’s cold lips. ‘I think not. More probably, a reluctance to be reminded of the past.’
He turned to go, again, but Eric Ward persisted. ‘When he was a client of the firm, you mean?’
Joseph Francis looked back over his shoulder. He hesitated, then nodded. ‘Yes, I would think so. And in a way it’s rather flattering that he nominated us. I can’t say we — we did very much for him at the time.’
Arthur Egan. The words stirred in Eric Ward’s brain. There was something... ‘What did he ask the firm to do for him, then?’
But it had slipped into place for him even before Joseph Francis answered.
‘He asked us to arrange his defence to a charge of murder.’
* * *
Eric Ward took the Morcomb file home to Wylam at the weekend and spent most of Friday evening reading it. After supper he took a walk along the river bank; the moon was high, the dark water gleaming beyond the bridge. To walk like this eased him after a hard day’s work and, he hoped, it eased the tension that might bring him another painful attack. In the sky the orange glow that was the lights of Newcastle extended in a long arc until it faded against the pearl-string of lights rising up towards Stanley. It was up there somewhere that Arthur Egan had worked as a market gardener.
Arthur Egan.
He had known the name, if not the man. Eric Ward had been a young policeman, not involved in the case itself, but hearing a certain amount about it as it had proceeded. Robbery, burglary, and a struggle with an armed householder. The charge had been murder, but at the end of the trial a conviction for manslaughter had been brought in. It still gave Arthur Egan a stiff prison sentence, Ward seemed to recall As Joseph Francis had remarked, the solicitors had not done a great deal for him in their briefing of the defending counsel; even so, Egan had remembered the firm and asked them, in his curious, secretive manner, to administer his estate.
As he walked along the river bank Ward could hear the soft chuckling of the water, an occasional splash as a nocturnal animal entered the stream under the alder bushes that flanked its edge, but he was hardly aware of his surroundings. He was thinking about the house in Westerhope, with its evidence of a quiet restrained lifestyle. Arthur Egan had left prison and found a job as a market gardener and then, effectively, dropped out of the public eye. And, it would seem, the eye of his family. No son had come to the funeral; no relative. And the letter to Francis, Shaw and Elder had been reluctant: the man had not enjoyed opening up the link with his past. He had tried to make a new life for himself, and succeeded, until the end.
As Eric Ward hoped to succeed . . . He still had doubts. They came, at their blackest, when the pain ripped at him late at night, when he looked back at a career in the Force that had achieved little, at a marriage that had broken down after five years when his lonely wife had sought solace elsewhere, and at a growing physical disability that struck at the very root of his pride. He liked what he was doing; he might have turned to legal practice in any case. But the choice had not been his and when the doubts came he locked himself away like this, alone on a river bank, as enclosed by the evening silence as he would be by any darkened room.
On the Saturday morning Ward drove into town early, did enough shopping to see him through the week, and after a coffee in the Eldon Centre, retrieved his car to drive back to Wylam. He took a light lunch; then settled down again to the Morcomb file, to familiarize himself with the main issues involved in the case and obtain some understanding of the background. It was a complicated enough matter to engross him throughout the afternoon: a decision had been taken by the Lands Tribunal against which Lord Morcomb had appealed; the appeal had been heard by the Court of Appeal, who had made an order rejecting the application and supporting the decision of the Lands Tribunal; now, Lord Morcomb, who seemed
to be a rather determined individual, was pressing for a further — and final — appeal to the House of Lords; Not that Eric Ward criticized him for that, when the matter involved an estate ,worth in excess of three million pounds.
By five o’clock he had had enough. He took a bath and as he lay in the hot water his thoughts returned again to Arthur Egan. He had brought the Egan file home with him in the car but he had not yet looked closely at the contents of the dead man’s wallet. He had been somewhat reluctant to do so: Arthur Egan had been a near recluse in terms of his personal life and it seemed wrong now to pry into those possessions that he had deemed the only ones worth keeping.
; It had to be done, nevertheless, and after he, had dressed he went down to the small front room he used as an office and opened the briefcase containing the Egan file.
He spread the few relicts of Arthur Egan’s life in front of him. The seamed leather wallet; the single-page letter; the photographs, and the sealed envelope.
He had not opened the envelope; he had felt it with his fingers and guessed it held very little, and not a sheet of paper, but now, gently, he teased open the flap. The light gum had lost its adhesiveness and it came away quickly. He looked inside the envelope but did not remove its contents.
There was just a thick lock of blond hair.
Eric Ward sat staring at the lock for a little while. It could have been Egan’s sentimental remembrance of his child, or of a lost love, or of his mother. Ward suspected he would never discover which, now the colour of a person’s hair changed as much as his appearance and character changed, over the years.
He turned to the photographs. There were six of them. One was of a young man of perhaps sixteen years of age: a bright, smiling face, a boyish lock of hair falling in his eyes; a grin that would win him friends. He was looking into the sun and though it robbed his face of character, there was yet enough in the snapshot to suggest that the boy had a liveliness of spirit that would make men like him and women love him. There was a second snapshot of the same person, taken perhaps five years earlier, and a third, of a man with his arms linked with the boy. Eric Ward set them aside; they would do to begin enquiries.
He picked up the other three. One was of a baby, but there was no way of telling when the photograph had been taken, nor of the sex of the child. Ward stared at it, guessing it could well be the child who would be heir to Egan’s thirty thousand. The next two photographs were a surprise. The first one was of a churchyard, with cypress in the background and part of a Norman tower at the left, but it was blurred and difficult to make out. The last snapshot had probably been taken in the same churchyard; it displayed less background and concentrated on a single, unpretentious tombstone. The photographer had been no expert; it was impossible to make out the name or the epitaph on the stone for the angle at which the sunlight struck the stone rendered it unreadable.
