Trick of the Mind

by Cassandra Chan

  “I’ve got accustomed to it in my practice,” said Grenshaw complacently. “It so often matters in estate law, you know, exactly how people are related.”

  “Well, yes, I imagine it would,” said Bethancourt. He felt he had got rather sidetracked, and marshaled his thoughts quickly. “So Miss Haverford’s plans for the jewels were well known,” he said, thinking that this was more or less the death knell for his theory.

  “I don’t know as I’d say that,” Grenshaw interrupted him. “I wonder if perhaps I have given you a wrong impression of Miranda Haverford. She had her eccentric side, but in many ways she was very traditional. I doubt anyone knew what was in her will aside from she herself; she would have considered that her business and no one else’s.”

  “I understand,” Bethancourt said with a nod, brightening again. “My own people are rather like that. Can you tell me anything about the other heirs?”

  “As I said, there weren’t very many in the end,” answered Grenshaw. “Ned Winterbottom, the executor, is a very old friend of the family. At one time, in their youth, I believe there were some intimations of an amorous nature between him and Miss Haverford but it came to nothing in the end. He still lives here in London, although he recently had to give up his flat and move into a nursing home for health reasons. He is only a couple of years younger than Miss Haverford was, after all.”

  Bethancourt tried to imagine a man in his nineties with health issues climbing up onto a porch roof to break a window in order to hoist himself through it and rob a safe. It did not seem very likely, but before dismissing Winterbottom altogether he reminded himself that the elderly man need not have committed the burglary himself. Anybody could have an accomplice.

  Grenshaw was going on. “Then there’s Mrs. Burdall and her son. She’s Miranda’s neighbor on the eastern side of the property, and the Burdalls have owned that house almost as long as the Haverfords have owned theirs. Nicola Burdall is a very old friend of Miss Haverford’s, and in addition her son and grandson have obliged over the years with a bit of property upkeep when it became difficult for Miss Haverford and Rose Gowling to attend to such things themselves.”

  Young sons were more promising as potential burglars and Bethancourt made a mental note.

  “Lastly, there is May Kerrigan,” said Grenshaw. “She was, I believe, Miss Haverford’s best friend for many years, although the relationship lapsed somewhat since Mrs. Kerrigan moved north to live nearer her children. She, too, is now under medical care. But, as I say, none of these bequests are particularly valuable.”

  The name seemed to ring a faint bell in Bethancourt’s mind, but he could not bring the memory into focus.

  “What about the Fenimore Cooper?” he asked. “Did that go to anyone?”

  Grenshaw cocked his head. “I’m afraid I don’t know to what you refer,” he said.

  “There’s a collection of James Fenimore Cooper novels in the study,” explained Bethancourt. “They’re old enough to be worth a couple thousand pounds or so.”

  Grenshaw’s eyebrows rose. “I do not think,” he said, “that Miss Haverford could have been aware of that. As the probate proceeds, it is becoming very clear that she had, over her last years, sold off nearly all her assets except the jewelry. That she considered more in the nature of a trust than hers to dispose of as she would, or so I gathered.”

  “I was only curious,” said Bethancourt. “I noticed there didn’t seem to be much of value left in the house, so the Cooper books rather stood out.”

  “Thank you for mentioning it,” said Grenshaw. “The probate valuation is still under way, but I will take care that the books are appropriately accounted for.”

  “You’re welcome,” said Bethancourt.

  Grenshaw shook his head. “The Haverfords have been clients of my family’s for generations,” he said sadly. “I knew, of course, that the tradition would come to an end with Miranda Haverford’s death, and I considered that a sad thing. I never imagined it could be made worse.”

  “I’m very sorry you’ve had all this trouble,” said Bethancourt, rather touched. “I do hope it can all be cleared up quickly.”

  “Yes,” said Grenshaw, shaking off his mood. “We must try to look on the bright side. Well, I hope this has been of some help to you, Mr. Bethancourt.”

  “Yes,” said Bethancourt slowly, thinking it over. “Yes, I do believe it has.”

  Bethancourt was thoughtful as he returned to his car from Grenshaw’s office. Cerberus, asleep on the backseat, roused himself at his master’s return and licked Bethancourt’s ear as he slid into the driver’s seat.

  “Good lad,” murmured Bethancourt, starting up the Jaguar and then sitting thoughtfully for a moment, his hands motionless on the wheel. “I think,” he said slowly, “we might as well go and pay a visit to Mrs. Burdall, don’t you? It’s Saturday—ten to one either her son or grandson might be visiting. After all, it’s just time for tea.”

  Cerberus did not seem to care much about this itinerary; he had rearranged himself on the backseat and as Bethancourt put the car into gear, he closed his eyes again to resume his nap.

  The neighboring property was set out much like the Haverford place, and the house, though rather larger, was of the same architectural style. This house, however, was very well kept up and Bethancourt’s eye picked up additional improvements as he parked the Jaguar and got out. Through the bare branches of the trees to the west he could catch glimpses of the Haverford house, but it was far enough away that the neighbors could not very well keep tabs on one another. He doubted very much that the Burdalls would have heard a pane of glass breaking, particularly not if their windows were closed as seemed likely at this time of year.

  A slender girl of about fifteen answered the bell, which was not what Bethancourt had been expecting. She was dressed casually in jeans and trainers, with a Fair Isle jumper worn over a cotton turtleneck and her sleek dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. There was a mischievous look in her bright blue eyes as she looked up at him with lively curiosity.

  “Hello,” she said with a grin. “Can I help you? You don’t look like you’re selling things.”

  “Certainly not,” said Bethancourt, grateful he had dressed to meet Mr. Grenshaw and worn a proper overcoat. “I’m Phillip Bethancourt,” he said, proffering a card, which she took and read intently for a moment. “I’m a colleague of Colin James’s, looking into the burglary next door. I was wondering if I might speak to Mrs. Burdall or perhaps her son, if they’re about.”

  “Oh, they’re about,” she answered. “Grandma Nicky doesn’t get out much anymore.” She paused and leaned to peer around him out the door. “Is that your dog in the car?”

  “Yes, that’s Cerberus.”

  “You’d better have him in,” she said decidedly. “Grandma Nicky likes dogs, but won’t have one anymore because she says she won’t outlive it.”

  “Very well,” said Bethancourt, wondering if this was merely a ploy to take him away from the door so she could shut it. “If you think she would like that.”

  But rather than trying to shut him out, she accompanied him back to the car, saying, “Your card doesn’t have a company name or anything. Colin James’s did.”

  “That’s because I’m a consultant,” answered Bethancourt. “I’m not in Mr. James’s employ.”

  “Well, this entire upset has certainly been an eye-opener,” she said. “First we had the regular police, then we had the detective from Scotland Yard. We thought we were done then, but, no, next thing we get is Mr. James, who says he’s the insurance investigator, and now we’ve got you. I wonder who’s coming next.”

  “I think you may have struck bottom with me,” said Bethancourt, opening the door of the Jaguar. “This is Cerberus.”

  “Hello, Cerberus,” she said, holding out her hand to be sniffed in the time-honored manner of human greeting dog. “You’re a beauty, aren’t you? Yes, Grandma Nicky will like you very well indeed.”

  “Would you mind
awfully,” said Bethancourt, “telling me your name?”

  “Oh!” She looked startled, but then grinned impudently up at him. “I’m Nicky Burdall. Grandma Nicky is really my great-grandmother.”

  “Well, it’s very nice to meet you,” said Bethancourt. “Cerberus, heel.”

  “My,” said Nicky, “he’s a well-behaved one, isn’t he?” She turned and led the way back to the house, saying, “You’ll think it odd, no doubt, all four generations of us Burdalls living here together.”

  “Not at all,” said Bethancourt, who had been unaware until that moment that they did.

  She gave him a scornful look. “You needn’t pretend,” she said, “everyone thinks we’re quite eccentric. But it works very well, really. Dad and Granddad between them have got it all sorted, and the ruddy house is big enough, heaven knows. Here we are, then. Come this way—Grandma Nicky has her rooms at the back.”

  Nicky led him out of the foyer and down a carpeted hallway ending in a set of mahogany double doors. Nicky turned aside about halfway down and opened a door on the right.

  “Just wait in here a minute, will you?” she said. “I’ve got to let Grandma Nicky know she’s got a visitor—she takes a bit of preparing for anything new. I’ll be back in half a tic.”

  When she returned, Nicky was accompanied by an older man in his mid- to late sixties with a handsome head of gray hair and a somewhat stooped posture.

  “Good afternoon,” he said politely, holding out a hand. “I’m Neil Burdall, Nicola Burdall’s son.”

  “Phillip Bethancourt,” said Bethancourt, shaking hands. “I do hope I haven’t come at an inopportune time—I’d be most happy to come back at some later date if it’s more convenient.”

  “Not at all,” said Neil. “My mother quite enjoys visitors as she gets out so little these days. We were just having tea—she likes the old-fashioned routines. Do come join us. Ah, is this the borzoi Nicky mentioned?”

  “Yes,” said Bethancourt. “She seemed to think your mother would like to see him. If he’s too big—”

  “Oh, no, no,” said Neil. “Mother had English setters in her day—she’ll like this chap. Here, this way. Nicky, you had best let your parents know where you’ve got to.”

  “I’ll tell them and come right back,” she answered, looking to her grandfather for permission.

  “Certainly,” he said, smiling. “I’ll have your grandmother set out another cup. Mr. Bethancourt, if you would?”

  With Cerberus at heel, Bethancourt followed him down to the double doors, which he slid open to reveal a large double reception room with arched windows and French doors leading out onto a small veranda.

  At one end of the room, almost lost in the depths of a wing chair, was a frail, elderly woman with snow-white hair. A knitted afghan lay over her lap and she wore a thick cashmere cardigan over her thin shoulders. She smiled at Bethancourt as Neil led him forward, saying, “This is the gentleman, Mother. Phillip Bethancourt. He’s working with Mr. James, whom you remember.”

  “Oh, yes. Mr. James was most amusing. How do you do, Mr. Bethancourt? And what a lovely dog!”

  “This is Cerberus,” said Bethancourt.

  Cerberus stepped forward with great dignity, rather like one head of state greeting another, his feathered tail waving gently. He sniffed Mrs. Burdall’s hands graciously and then bent his head to be petted. The old woman clearly fell in love with him on the spot.

  “So nice of you to bring him in,” she murmured. “I do so miss dogs. Well, I’m neglecting my duties. Please do sit down and have some tea, Mr. Bethancourt.”

  Bethancourt sat as she indicated, and gazed bemusedly at the formal tea service set out on an antique tea table at Mrs. Burdall’s right. Today, he thought, seemed to be his day for visiting the traditions of the past.

  “I’ll pour out, Mother,” said Neil, seating himself at the end of the sofa. “Sugar, Mr. Bethancourt?”

  Bethancourt declined the sugar, but took a piece of shortbread from the offered plate and then waited politely while Neil served his mother and himself.

  “You’ve arrived at just the right time, Mr. Bethancourt,” said Mrs. Burdall. “I’ve always loved tea parties. My favorite kind of entertainment, really.”

  “Happy to be of service,” said Bethancourt, smiling back at her. He sipped at his tea and was immediately transported back to his boyhood and the beverage his own grandmother had used to serve. “Delicious,” he said.

  Mrs. Burdall nodded complacently, as if she expected the accolade.

  “Molly’s learned to make it just the way I like it,” she said. “I know she thought I was too picky when she first came, but she likes it herself now, doesn’t she, Neil?”

  “She does indeed,” said Neil, sipping at his own tea. “Well, Mr. Bethancourt, how can we help you? You must already be aware that we knew nothing about the burglary until the police came round asking.”

  “Yes, I know,” answered Bethancourt. “I shouldn’t have expected you to, really. The only noise would have been the glass breaking, and the houses are too far away for you to have noticed that.”

  “We might have in the summer,” said Mrs. Burdall, “when we have the windows open. But not now, with the central heating going and the windows shut.”

  “Of course,” said Bethancourt.

  A brief rap on the door heralded the return of Nicky, now accompanied by a boy of about ten.

  “Hullo,” she said. “Have you started yet? Oh, here’s my brother, Dylan.”

  She frowned repressively at the younger child who grinned unrepentantly and marched over to have his hand shaken properly.

  “Come have your tea then,” said Neil. “And do be quiet, both of you. I’ll warrant poor Mr. Bethancourt has already been here longer than he meant to be.”

  “Not at all,” said Bethancourt. “You have a delightful family.”

  “Are you married yourself, Mr. Bethancourt?” asked Mrs. Burdall.

  “No, ma’am, not yet.”

  “But I bet you’ve got a girlfriend,” put in Nicky.

  Bethancourt admitted that he had.

  “Do let him ask about the burglary, Nicky,” interrupted her brother. “He doesn’t want to spend all his time telling you about his love life. So”—here he turned to Bethancourt with eager eyes—“have they caught the thieves yet?”

  “No,” said Bethancourt, laughing. “I should hardly be here if they had, should I? I’m afraid I don’t have anything very interesting to discuss—I only wanted to know something about Miranda Haverford and those close to her.”

  “Well, we can certainly help with that,” said Mrs. Burdall. “We’ve all known her all our lives, haven’t we? She was a funny old thing, but I was very fond of her.”

  “But does this mean the police no longer believe it was a random theft?” asked Neil. “That was the theory they gave us—that it was a gang who broke into the empty houses of the recently departed.”

  “That may still be the case,” Bethancourt told him. “But at this point the field is wide open, and I’m looking into other possibilities. To that end, I’m interested in anything you can tell me about Miss Haverford’s relationships with those people she mentioned in her will.”

  They looked puzzled by this tactic, but complied readily enough, and it was clear it never once crossed anybody’s mind that they themselves could be suspect.

  In any case, thought Bethancourt, Dylan was too young, and Neil too old to have broken into the Haverford house; he rather wished he could get a look at Dylan’s father. Or mother. There was no point, he reminded himself, in being sexist about the thing.

  “Well, of course the Colemans inherited most of it,” said Mrs. Burdall. “In fact, we gathered that was the reason they were here, though whether Miranda wanted to vet them or they wanted to be Johnny-on-the-spot when she passed on, I could never quite make out.”

  She looked at her son, who shook his head in agreement.

  “Mind,” he said, “we didn’t k
now the Colemans before they arrived. We did wonder, when they first came, if they had come with the idea of persuading Miranda to leave them something in her will.”

  Nicky and Dylan both hooted at this idea.

  “As if Miss Haverford would ever have the wool pulled over her eyes like that,” said Nicky scornfully.

  “That’s true,” said Mrs. Burdall, smiling at them. “Miranda was a shrewd woman.”

  “So you were surprised when they turned out to be her heirs?” asked Bethancourt.

  “Well, no, I wouldn’t say that,” said Neil, looking toward his mother for confirmation.

  “Not by that time,” she agreed. “After all, the jewelry had to go somewhere, and Miranda hadn’t anyone to leave it to. I had rather thought she would leave it to a museum, but I could understand her wanting to leave it in the family, so to speak.”

  “I was surprised,” said Nicky. “I didn’t think she liked the Colemans that much.”

  “Nicky!” protested Dylan.

  “Just because you like Mrs. Coleman doesn’t mean Miss Haverford did,” Nicky shot back.

  “Liking,” said Mrs. Burdall, raising her voice to be heard, at which both children quieted, “liking does not necessarily have much to do with one’s financial affairs. And I believe your grandfather asked you to be quiet while Mr. Bethancourt talked to us.”

  “Sorry,” muttered Nicky, and nudged by his sister, Dylan chimed in, too. Bethancourt gave them a sympathetic smile.

  “What about the other people Miss Haverford was close to?” he asked. “You must have known Rose Gowling, her housekeeper?”

  Rose’s name elicited an immediate reaction from all the Burdalls: the two elders smiled broadly while the children pouted.

  “Oh, Rose was a dragon,” said Mrs. Burdall. “She was fiercely protective of Miranda and took very good care of her, but she was quite a character. She never trusted anyone or anything, and was generally pessimistic.”

  “Her relationship with the Colemans was particularly strained,” said Neil, smiling in amusement at the memory. “You would have thought from her attitude that they had come to steal the silver. No, I’m not joking, Mother,” he added as Mrs. Burdall started to put in a word of protest. “I actually found Rose counting the sterling one day, and when I asked why, she told me she counted it every day after the Colemans had been to visit.”