It took some doing, but Emma schooled her face back into something like a neutral expression and led Oliver back into the kitchen.
Which was when the kitchen door opened and Caite strode in.
“What are you still doing here? I thought you’d all left.”
Oliver yipped. Pearl moved to grab the open folder off the counter, but not fast enough. Caite had already seen it.
“What are you doing with that!” she demanded. “These are private family papers! I knew something like this would happen!” Caite spat. “I tried to warn—” But she stopped without saying the name. “You don’t care about the festival and you don’t care about this job. You’re just up here to try and play Miss Marple and spy on . . . this family!”
Emma tensed, but Daphne answered before she could. “I’m surprised you’re that upset, Caite. From the way we talked before, you didn’t seem like you would care very much what happens to us.”
“You have no idea what you’re even talking about,” said Caite coldly.
“Actually, she does,” said Pearl. “And it’s all right. I’d be surprised if you didn’t feel conflicted right now.”
“Yeah, I mean, being in a relationship with Gus when you’ve spent years blaming his family for your father’s death. That would confuse anybody.” Pearl’s tone was utterly bland.
Caite stared at them, very much looking like a rabbit that’s spotted a fox. Then she snatched the folder up off the counter and stormed out.
Pearl whistled, a long, low sound. Helen just folded her arms and stared silently out toward the car park.
“Yeah,” agreed Emma.
“You’d almost think she had something to hide there,” said Daphne.
“You mean aside from the fact that she’s dating a member of a family she’s hated for years?” asked Emma.
“Yeah, actually,” said Pearl.
“Funny, I was just thinking the same thing.” Because Emma was also thinking about Caite sneaking in to get to Marcie’s computer, and the missing appointments, and the missing handbag, and the missing planner.
And she was thinking about Caite being so suddenly and abruptly sick when she heard the news of Marcie’s death.
Then she thought about what Oliver had told her. She’d been so focused on the possibility that he’d found the murder weapon, she’d almost missed the other part—that he’d seen Gus throw something into a pond.
“You don’t really think Caite did it, do you?” Pearl was saying softly. “Killed Marcie, I mean?”
Gus had thrown something into the pond. Gus had locked up the shed that might contain the murder weapon. Caite had risked sneaking back into the house to get to Marcie’s office.
“I don’t know,” said Emma. “But I do think she’s trying to cover it up.”
41
In the end, it was decided that Emma and Helen would be the ones to visit the solicitor’s office in Camelford, while Pearl and Daphne stayed at the house to fend off awkward questions, work out festival details and keep searching for information. After much persuasion, Emma convinced Oliver that he was needed to help Dash guard the girls.
As they drove through the looming green hills, Emma allowed herself to put the troubles at the grange behind her, at least for a while. She even convinced Helen to stop at a little roadside pub that looked like it had been there as long as the hills had and split a ploughman’s lunch and a pot of very strong tea. They talked about small things—Emma’s plans for the summer, how Daphne’s football team really was hoping to make it to the finals next year. Emma could tell just by looking at her that Helen had needed this small break at least as much as she had.
Refreshed, and determined, they got back into the car and headed out.
The offices of Minchin, Price & Little proved to be in a venerable slate-roofed building right off Camelford’s winding high street. Whoever had been put in charge of their interior decorating had clearly decided the wood signaled the correct level of solidity and stability for a law firm. The rooms were wood paneled, the furniture was all heavy oak, or at least oak veneer. Even the coatrack at the entrance was bentwood.
The chirpy, middle-aged receptionist took their names and bustled away into the interior of the office. A moment later she came back and said Mr. Minchin was ready to see them, if they would step this way, please?
Mr. Minchin’s office continued the theme of oaken stability, and so did the man himself. The truth was, he looked more like he should be a bouncer at a nightclub than a solicitor in a sedate, book-lined office.
When Emma and Helen filed in, he heaved himself to his feet. “Ms. . . . erm . . . Dalgliesh?”
“I’m Helen Dalgliesh.” Helen held out her hand for him to shake. “This is my friend Emma Reed.”
“Ms. Reed.” Mr. Minchin had the kind of overly soft handshake big men sometimes used with women. “Well, now, please sit down.”
Once they’d gone through the formality of taking Helen’s identification and her copy of Marcie’s death certificate, Mr. Minchin pulled a long file folder out of his in tray.
“I admit I was very surprised and very sorry to hear about Ms. Cochrane’s death,” he said. “I’d just spoken to her last Thursday. Tell me, has any decision been made about the sale?”
“The . . . I’m sorry,” stammered Helen. “What did you say?”
“The sale of the grange. Ms. Cochrane was working with an estate agent from Christie’s, at our recommendation—” He paused. “You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you, Ms. Dalgliesh?”
“No,” said Helen. “I mean, Marcie had recently talked with my daughter and me about the future of the estate, but she hadn’t mentioned the possibility of selling Truscott Park.”
“Was this a recent decision?” asked Emma, partly so Helen could have a minute to recover. She sounded rattled, and Emma couldn’t blame her.
“Ms. Cochrane initially approached me about six months back. She said she wanted to explore the possibilities. It was just last week, she let me know she had decided to move forward.”
“Right after she talked to Daphne,” murmured Helen.
“Yes, she mentioned that,” said Mr. Minchin. “And I believe she had an appointment with the agent recently.”
“Recently?” said Emma. “Could it have been Friday?”
“Possibly,” said Mr. Minchin. “I’m afraid I don’t remember the exact date.”
Emma sat back in the comfortable club chair, stunned. At the same time, it all made sense. Marcie was a planner. She knew there was a good chance Daphne would decide to turn down her inheritance. So, why not have her plans in place in case that happened?
“I’m sure we’ll want to be talking with the Christie’s agent,” said Emma, pulling on her office manners. “Do you happen to have the name?”
“Yes, of course.” He flipped open a leather portfolio and pulled out a business card. “That’s the number there.”
“Thank you,” said Emma. “Can you tell me, did Marcie have any other papers with you?”
Mr. Minchin obviously was not entirely comfortable with Emma doing the asking. He looked to Helen. Helen nodded.
“There was an estate inventory as well. I have it here.” He unlocked one of the lower desk drawers and pulled out a leather-bound ledger. Emma was not at all surprised to see it was stamped with last year’s date.
And now we know where that got to. She’d noticed last year’s inventory was missing the first time she’d walked into the office.
“And here, of course, is the will.” Mr. Minchin opened the folder in front of him, took out a sealed envelope and laid it on top of the ledger.
“Thank you.” Helen pulled the ledger and the envelope toward her with both hands.
“I’m sure you’ll want some time to familiarize yourself with the document, but we are ready to help with any question
s you might have. Administering such a large estate raises special issues.”
Emma recognized the light in the man’s eyes as the glowing reflection of pounds sterling.
“Thank you,” Emma said. “I’m quite certain we’ll be in touch soon.” She stood and Helen stood with her. “We appreciate all your help.”
They exchanged some final polite pleasantries, and Mr. Minchin walked Emma and Helen to the door.
As soon as they climbed back into the car, Helen shoved the ledger into Emma’s hands, ripped open the envelope and unfolded the long, thick pages of Marcie’s official last will and testament. She scanned the lines of legal script, breathing like she’d just run a marathon.
“She didn’t, oh, no, she didn’t.” Helen let her head drop back against the seat’s headrest. “Oh, Marcie, you idiot!”
“What is it, Helen?” asked Emma, but Helen just pushed the will into her hands.
Emma’s eyes swept over the legalese, until she got to the words “the bulk and residue of the estate, including all real property . . .”
“Oh,” she breathed.
Helen nodded. “She’s left it to Daphne after all. And me.”
And in the stroke of a pen, or at least of a keyboard, had turned Helen into Likely Suspect Number One.
42
“How could she do this to us?”
Helen sat in the parked car with her hands on the steering wheel. Outside, the shadows from the hills and the crowded buildings had already cast the street into twilight.
Emma read the will slowly. There was no question about what it said, or what it meant. Daphne and Helen between them owned Truscott Grange and Truscott Park.
“Daphne told her she wanted nothing to do with it!” said Helen to the windscreen and the world outside.
Emma flipped back to the first page of the will. “She had this written last year. Obviously, she didn’t get a chance to update it before she died.”
Helen pushed herself straighter. “Last . . . ? But I thought she had named Gus . . .”
“That’s what everybody keeps saying.” Emma folded the will back up and tucked it into the envelope. “Did you ever hear Marcie say it?”
Helen opened her mouth, and closed it. “I . . . I don’t know. I know I heard Gus say it. And Frank. And Bert, of course.”
“Of course.” Emma tapped the envelope against her hand. “Maybe it was easier for Marcie to let them think that. I mean, why give them one more reason to complain?” She stopped. “Or to hassle Daphne.”
“Oh, yes.” Helen rubbed her head. “And they would have, whatever Daphne had decided to do. But what about the rest of it? Was she really thinking of selling the place? Without telling anybody? I mean, I know she didn’t like confrontation but that seems pretty extreme.”
“I know how to find out.” Emma paused. “Do you have a pound coin?”
“Ummm . . .” Helen dug into her handbag and came up with a gold-and-silver coin. “Yes?”
“Good, give it here.” Emma held out her hand.
“What am I doing?” asked Helen as she dropped the coin onto Emma’s palm.
“You’ve just hired me.” She put the coin on the dashboard and pulled out her phone and the card Minchin had given her. She dialed the number and waited while it rang.
“I’ve hired you for a quid?”
“I’m a licensed accountant,” Emma told her. “There’s rules.” The ringing had stopped. “Hullo?”
An actual receptionist answered, and put her right through to William Drinkwater. Emma imagined herself in a board room in her best black suit, briefcase in hand, and said, “Good afternoon, Mr. Drinkwater. This is Emma Reed, financial representative for the Cochrane estate. I understand you were in discussion with the late Ms. Marcia Cochrane about the sale of Truscott Grange and Truscott Park?”
“I’m sorry. Did you . . . that is, Ms. Cochrane is deceased?”
“Unfortunately, she is. I am acting on behalf of the estate. I can fax you the relevant documentation, if required, or I have some photos here I can email you, or I can refer you to her lawyer, Mr. Minchin.” Emma crossed her fingers that the willingness to provide the paperwork would shortcut the actual need to provide it.
Mr. Drinkwater let out a long breath. Something rustled—paper or cloth, maybe both. “Well. We will of course need all that. May I ask, does the estate plan to move forward with the sale?”
“That is still being decided. I’m reaching out today to get an understanding of how matters were left between your agency and Ms. Cochrane.”
There was a pause. Emma could practically hear the estate agent’s brain ticking over, trying to decide whether he should stick to the rules or appear cooperative with someone who had the power to help him to what was going to be a truly outstanding commission.
Mr. Drinkwater evidently decided to try for a middle course. “I suppose I can tell you that things had advanced pretty far. We found a buyer who is quite excited about the property, even though Ms. Cochrane had not completely made up her mind to sell. Until last week that is, of course.” Until she’d talked to Daphne. “We arranged for them to attend an upcoming festival to be held at the grange so they could see firsthand how well it functioned as an event venue.”
“And that would have been last Friday?”
“Yes, we had a supper meeting and she confirmed she was ready to go forward with the sale of the house, and a considerable portion of the adjacent property. If there’s any question . . .”
“No, none. We’re just double-checking on the status of events. Thank you for your time. I’ll have Mr. Minchin’s office fax over the documentation, and let me give you my email, in case you need to get in touch.” Emma rattled off her address. Mr. Drinkwater expressed his condolences, and said he’d keep an eye out for the documents, and looked forward to working with the estate executors.
They said goodbye and Emma rang off.
“You’re good,” said Helen.
“Talking business is my superpower. Along with cake,” said Emma. “But at least that explains why Marcie was so anxious that everything be perfect at the festival this year. She wanted to impress these buyers.”
It also explained where she was the night she died, and why she’d kept it secret. Emma bit her lip. As it turned out, Marcie had been keeping a lot of secrets.
Marcie had started laying plans to sell the ancestral home months ago, without telling her brothers. Or anybody else. The quiet planner. The one who believed she could handle anything on her own. She’d set the process into motion, after she’d had a will written, so that whatever Daphne decided about the estate, all the brothers were formally disinherited. Emma wondered if there’d been another will before this one, and if that one really had named Gus as the beneficiary.
And if there was and if it did, what changed last year? Was that when she found out Gus was seeing Caite? Or was it something else?
Emma looked down at the inventory in her hands.
“What am I going to tell Daphne?” Helen was saying. “Good lord, what am I going to tell any of them?”
“We’ll think of something,” murmured Emma. She flipped the ledger open and scanned the neatly written pages.
Helen noticed, and cocked her head sideways. “What do you suppose she gave that to the lawyers for?”
“I don’t know yet,” said Emma. “But if Marcie was leaving it with her lawyer, it must have been something she didn’t want her brothers to see.”
Helen craned her neck trying to read over Emma’s shoulder. “Wait, what’s stuck back there?” She reached across and plucked at a bit of paper that stuck up out of the book.
Emma stuck her finger in between the pages and flipped them over.
What turned up was a screenshot of a website that had been glued into the ledger. An auction website to be specific, advertising an elaborate silv
er tea set for immediate sale.
At the time the printout had been made, the bid was more than Emma’s rent on her cottage for a month.
“I know that set . . .” began Helen.
Emma turned the page. It was another screenshot for the same auction site. This time advertising an “exquisite miniature circa 1800, believed to be by Richard Cosway, favorite artist of King George IV . . .”
“That’s the Prinny!” exclaimed Helen.
“The what, I’m sorry?”
“It’s a miniature of the Prince Regent. Apparently, one of the Cochranes was a favorite, at one point.”
“I thought that was with Charles the Second.”
“Yeah, well, him too. The Cochrane ladies were pretty popular company for a long weekend. What’s it doing for sale on the Internet?”
Emma turned the page. This screenshot was for a William Morris tapestry.
“What is going on?” Helen breathed.
“Is this the tapestry Tasha said was missing?” Emma asked.
Helen nodded. Emma closed the book. “Well, we can save everybody some trouble now.”
“And I guess we know why Marcie didn’t want Frank and the others to see this.” Helen rubbed her forehead. “I knew the estate had money troubles, but I didn’t know she’d been selling things off to try to make ends meet.”
“Well, she was going through a lot of trouble to keep it secret.”
“Selling the contents of the house, then selling the house and not telling anybody about any of it.” Helen blinked at the windscreen. “That’s a lot. Makes you wonder what else she’d been hiding.”
Yes, thought Emma. It really does.
43
The drive back to the grange was a quiet one. Helen pulled around back. As Emma climbed out to open the garage door for her, Helen put her hand on Emma’s arm.
“Please don’t tell anybody the details about the will,” she said. “At least not yet. I want a chance to talk to Daphne first.”
Murder Always Barks Twice Page 25
