by Ann Granger
Lottie was staring at me with mild interest, as if struck by a sudden thought. ‘Have you got a boyfriend or partner or anything?’
‘Not even an anything,’ I told her. ‘I’ve got a very good friend. We leave it at that. Why mess with an arrangement that works?’
Her expression changed and she leaned towards me with real seriousness in her face. ‘That’s so right,’ she said. She pointed at the denuded wall. ‘I’ve got a really nice pic of Duane. I thought I might have it enlarged and hang it there. What do you think?’
I didn’t share what leapt into my mind which was an image from that film, Friendly Persuasion. A Quaker farmer finds himself visiting a hillbilly cabin. Above the hearth, surrounded by a wreath, is a picture of the late head of the house, a grim-looking black-bearded type. Politely the visitor points heavenward. Firmly the widow responds by jabbing the stem of her pipe downwards. I saw the film on afternoon TV not long ago. I like old films. So I couldn’t help but wonder if Lottie would decorate Duane’s portrait with a silk bow and evergreen leaves. No, of course she wouldn’t. It was just my imagination behaving badly. I couldn’t control it, though I did my best.
‘Nice,’ was what I actually said aloud.
Adam Ferrier was growing restless. He probably feared this was going to descend into girl talk.
‘Lottie says you want to meet my grandfather.’
‘Yes, I do, and as soon as possible.’
‘That rather depends on his health on a given day. Some days he’s able to cope with strangers and some days he finds it all too much. Give me a phone number and I’ll call you.’
I gave him the number of Ganesh’s mobile. ‘I appreciate your grandfather has dodgy health,’ I told Adam, ‘but I do still need to see him asap.’
‘Will do,’ he said laconically.
It seemed we could only leave it at that. I had no wish to sit here with the gruesome threesome and they probably wanted to see the back of me. I stood up. ‘I’ll be in touch,’ I said sternly to Adam, just to let him know I wouldn’t be sitting around waiting for that promised call. If it didn’t come, he’d have me pestering him.
He reacted with a really antagonistic look. ‘I told you,’ he said coldly, ‘I’ll arrange it when it’s convenient.’
‘Great,’ I said and left.
You know how it is when you feel you’ve been dismissed? The French have a wonderful phrase about the ‘wit of the staircase’. It’s that clever reply you think of on your way out but unfortunately failed to think of when it was required. All the way back to North London I came up with various snappy quips to put Adam Ferrier in his place. By the time I got back home I was really frustrated.
Whether I did Ferrier a disservice or whether he realised I’d be a regular pain in the neck until he did what I wanted, he rang me late the following morning.
‘My sister has been to see our grandfather and it appears he’s able to meet you this afternoon. If you’re free, I’ll stop by and pick you up and take you there. Where do you live?’
I told him and he said, ‘Then it won’t be far. Just give me time to get to you.’
I remembered Lottie had told me he had a flat in Docklands. ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘I’ll be waiting.’
‘Two o’clock!’ he said crisply, swatting me again.
I tried to remember all the witty put-downs I’d worked out the previous evening on my way home and found I’d forgotten them all.
Adam turned up on time in a BMW. Perhaps the small car I’d seen at the house had belonged to Becky.
‘Flash wheels,’ I observed as I climbed in and buckled myself into the passenger seat.
‘Company car,’ he said briefly.
Why is it that once you are pretty well off, people start giving you things?
‘Are we going back to Teddington?’ I asked as we picked a way through the traffic.
‘No, not that far.’
I tried again. ‘Has your grandfather some particular medical problem or is his problem age-related?’
‘He’s recovering from surgery,’ Adam said in that clipped way and didn’t elaborate.
I didn’t ask further. He didn’t want to chat. Fair enough. When I met Grandpa I’d see for myself.
When I saw the place I gasped. It had that kind of effect on the first-time viewer. Normally I like to play it cool, but this house was really something. It was an old place, at a rough guess mid-Victorian, with weathered brickwork and elaborate stonework and carved gables. It was the kind of house that if it hadn’t been so beautifully maintained might have ended up looking spooky, as if either the Munsters or the Addams families might suddenly issue forth from the front door. But this was spick and span and so were the grounds. I realised the back garden must run down to the Regent’s Canal and probably had private mooring. The front drive was protected by a high electronically operated security gate. A burglar alarm stood out prominently on the façade of the house and the windows downstairs had those security grilles that concertina back and forth.You’d need to ram-raid this place to break in. Adam had been right in saying that location-wise it wasn’t far from me. But in social and financial terms we might as well have travelled to the Moon.
Adam glanced at me and allowed himself a little grin.
Smug bastard! I thought. ‘Nice place,’ I said aloud, trying to retrieve my loss of poise, ‘worth a bit.’
He didn’t reply to that, just operated a remote control device. Slowly the gate slid to one side to admit us.
I knew Ferrier wasn’t the sort who thought it vulgar to discuss money. People like Adam talk money all the time. He knew to the last penny what the current market value of this house was. I guessed at least a couple of million. Perhaps more? Was he hoping to inherit it? Or were he and his sister to be joint heirs? And, more to the point, was the fact that Grandpa was worth a mint a relevant factor in all this? And where the hell did a bag lady come into it?
I recalled Ganesh scoffing at my theory that all this business might be about a will. But perhaps I’d been on the right lines. Where there’s money there’s motive for murder.
The front door was opened as we got out of the car. A briskly efficient woman appeared, looking as though she might be part housekeeper and part nurse.
‘He’s feeling quite bright today,’ she said to Adam and extended her smile to me, something I appreciated after Adam’s attitude towards me. No one likes being treated like something the cat dragged in. ‘Just go on up.’
So far, thank goodness, there had been no sign of Becky.
I followed Adam up the staircase and he led me down a corridor to a bedroom door. He tapped, opened it and put his head through the gap.
‘OK, Gramps? I’ve got the woman private detective here, the one I told you about.’
An elderly voice murmured a reply.
The door was pushed wide open by Adam who gestured to me to enter. I walked past him and into a large, light room which had been converted from bedroom into a first-floor sitting room. There was not a great deal of furniture, just a couple of chairs, a television console and a bookcase. Nor was there any carpet. The floorboards had been sanded and stained. By the far window, looking out, sat a man who made no effort to get up and turn to see the new arrival. I could only see the back of his head. The rest of him was hidden by the invalid chair he occupied. That explained why he hadn’t got up and also why the room was half empty and there were no rugs to impede the chair’s progress. Mr Culpeper needed space to manoeuvre.
In a sudden movement the chair spun round with a soft electric purr. He was facing me and I saw the nature of the surgery that had left him disabled. Both lower legs had been amputated and a blanket lay across the remaining stumps. Whether all of this drastic surgery had been carried out recently or over a period of time, or what had necessitated it, I had no idea. But I could well understand why Culpeper had days when he’d no wish to be badgered by people he didn’t know and why he chose his grandson as his messenger.
He had n
ot spoken but sat watching me thoughtfully; perhaps wishing to see in my face how the sight of his mutilation affected me. I realised I was expected to make the first move and that a great deal depended on it. I had to get it right. I decided on the more formal and old-fashioned approach.
I walked across and held out my hand. ‘Good afternoon, Mr Culpeper. Thank you for agreeing to see me.’
His reply was a question. ‘Do you like my view?’
I was a little startled and turned my gaze to the window. It was easy to understand why he sat here. From this vantage point he looked over the long, well-established garden to the canalside mooring. There were trees and shrubs and lawns and a little gazebo. It was beautiful, peaceful and timeless. I did wonder what kind of security was down there to prevent intruders entering the property from the rear. Having seen the security gate out front, I was sure something lay hidden among the bushes: photo-sensitive scanners of some kind, floodlights, automatic alarms? There was probably a direct link to the local cop shop and the moment whistles started blowing, bells ringing, lights flashing or whatever would happen if an unauthorised foot was set on the turf, half the local force would be crawling over the place.
I wrenched my gaze away and turned it to my host. He was watching me now with a touch of amusement and also with pleasure. He knew the effect his view had on visitors and liked it. He presented quite an interesting sight himself. He must once have been an imposing figure of a man. Even in the chair he dominated the room. He’d been handsome, too, and still had a fine head of silvering hair and keen eyes pouched in wrinkled skin. Oddly, there was something familiar about him although I couldn’t ever have seen him before. It must be a shared likeness with Adam or Becky, I thought.
‘It’s beautiful,’ I said sincerely.
I realised with another start that I still held out my hand. Before I could withdraw it, he took it in a firm grip and held it while he subjected me to a further assessment. Eventually he released it.
‘Adam,’ he said, ‘perhaps you’d tell Alice we’d like a cup of tea?’
I had passed whatever test had been set me. I felt a spurt of relief. But I knew the last thing Adam wanted was to leave me alone with his grandfather. I took great pleasure in seeing him sidle out with a glare at me.
‘Pull up a chair,’ invited Culpeper. ‘I’m sorry to be a poor host.’
‘Look,’ I said, after I moved over a chair to join him, ‘I really am sorry to be a nuisance—’
He waved a hand to interrupt me. ‘If you were a nuisance, I wouldn’t have agreed to meet you. I’m glad you’ve come. I am not able to go out so I depend on people coming to see me.’
I decided to get in as much as I could before Adam came back.
‘Mr Culpeper, can we get down to business? I understand you engaged the detective agency run by Lottie Forester and her late boyfriend Duane Gardner to find Edna Walters.’
He nodded but said nothing.
I pressed on. ‘I’ve known Edna, on and off, for quite a while.’ I explained about the squat and Edna living in the churchyard.
Culpeper began to look distressed and I was alarmed. I didn’t want to be responsible for causing him to have some sort of funny turn. He turned his gaze away from me to the window. ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ he said quietly. ‘No one should be living like that and certainly not Edna.’
A prickle of tension ran down my spine. There was a note in his voice when he spoke Edna’s name which indicated some deep emotion. At least his words indicated some far-off old acquaintance with her.
‘She’s much better off now living in a hostel, as you probably know,’ I said. ‘The people who run it are quite young and very conscientious. They’re nice.’
He moved his thin hands on which the distended veins formed a network of blue-tinged cords beneath the skin. ‘So I’ve learned.’
‘Did Duane tell you?’ I asked, ‘or was it Jessica Davis?’
‘Ah, Jessica,’ he said. He turned his gaze, sharp again, back to me. ‘Have you mentioned Jessica’s activities to Adam or to that girl, Lottie Forester?’
‘Not to Adam,’ I said, ‘I didn’t think it necessary.’
He smiled, and it was a really charming smile. ‘Quite right,’ he said. ‘It’s not necessary. I’d be grateful if you don’t mention it to him, or to little Becky.’
I wouldn’t but Lottie might.
‘But Jessica is, um, enquiring on your behalf?’ I persisted gently, just to get the matter absolutely clear.
‘In a manner of speaking. Her - enquiries are not quite the same as those I asked Adam to set in train via the agency run by young Lottie. I was far from sure I should employ a private detective. Forgive me, but I’ve always thought of it as rather a seedy occupation. I’ve read too many Raymond Chandler books, perhaps!’
‘It is a seedy occupation,’ I told him. ‘But life is pretty seedy sometimes and someone has to get out there and deal with it.’
He nodded. ‘Down those mean streets . . .’ he quoted. He became brisker. ‘At any rate, when Adam told me about Lottie’s agency I was happy for him to hire it for me. I’ve known that girl since she was a baby.’ He chuckled suddenly. ‘To think of her being a detective! I did fancy she might be my granddaughter-in-law at one point, some years ago. But she and Adam didn’t make a go of it and later on she took up with that very strange young fellow, Duane Gardner.’
Henry sat here, a virtual prisoner in this lovely house, but he knew what was going on and who was out there. Who kept him in touch? Adam and Becky? Jessica Davis? A whole network of spies? For a moment I had an uneasy feeling that he was like an elderly spider sitting in the middle of his silken web and waiting.
‘Duane was a good detective,’ I said. ‘He found Edna for you.’
‘Yes, and then, as I understand it, you found him!’ The keen old eyes rested on my face.
Before I had a chance to reply, there was a tap at the door which opened before Culpeper could call out, and Adam entered carrying a small table. Behind him came Alice bearing the tea tray.
‘Here we are,’ said Adam rather too heartily, positioning the table by his grandfather and me. He took the tray from Alice and set it down. ‘Do you want me to stay, Gramps?’
His grandfather ignored the hopeful plea. ‘That will be all right, Adam. Fran and I will just chat for a few more minutes. Thank you for the tea, Alice.’
Adam stalked out.
‘Heh!’ I wanted to shout after him. ‘That’s what it’s like being dismissed! How do you like it?’ I had to content myself with smiling sweetly at Adam as he turned in the doorway to give me a last minatory look. The smile turned the expression on his face to something indicating imminent meltdown.
When we were alone again, Culpeper indicated the tea tray and said, ‘Perhaps you’d do the honours, Fran?’
I obeyed. ‘Mr Culpeper,’ I began again when we had a cup of tea apiece. ‘I don’t have the right and I don’t want to enquire into any private matter of yours. But I am concerned for Edna’s welfare.’
‘That’s good of you, my dear. But you need have no fears. I will see that something is done for Edna.’
He wasn’t going to volunteer his reasons for his interest in Edna but I couldn’t leave it at that.
‘Mr Culpeper, it isn’t going to be that easy. I realise that you’re pretty well informed in general terms. But, forgive me, sitting here and hearing about it isn’t the same as being out there . . .’ I waved at the window. ‘I don’t mean to be tactless but I really don’t think you’d be so calm about it all if you were able to get a feel of things from being amongst people.’
I feared he might take what I had said as ill-mannered but he didn’t turn a hair.
‘That’s what Jessica is supposed to be doing for me,’ he said with a touch of humour.
‘Yes, well, maybe she is and maybe not. Has she told you that Edna is currently in hospital?’
The teacup rattled in Culpeper’s hand and I hastened to rescue it.
‘I’m sorry,’ I apologised as I mopped up the tea that had spilled on his jacket. ‘That was pretty ham-fisted of me. She’s all right. She - she had a fall in the street.’
I thought telling him about the motorcyclist might not be a good idea. Anyway, if he contacted the police or hospital about it, that’s what they’d tell him: an old lady had tripped over her own feet. I was the only one who thought someone had tried deliberately to run Edna down.
But I had successfully destroyed the cosy atmosphere.
‘I must get in touch with Jessica,’ he muttered. He was beginning to sound agitated and fretful, his air of control over the situation evaporating.
