by Cathy Ace
‘Take Eustelle and Dad to St Lucia for a nice long holiday so we could see the extended family and spend some proper time with them, then I’d come back here and learn to drive – or I suppose I could afford a car and a chauffeur like Althea’s got. Have my own Ian Cottesloe.’
Tudor gave Annie an odd look. ‘Just to drive you about? Nothing else?’
‘Nah – that would do me,’ said Annie, handing Gertie’s lead to Tudor and entering her own front door. ‘I’ll pick her up later. Hopefully about five. Maybe I’ll have a bite at your place.’
‘I’ll eat with you,’ said Tudor, taking his leave.
As he walked away, Gertie and Rosie gamboling in front of him, Mavis pulled up in her Mini. ‘Hang on a mo, Mave – got to use the you-know-what, then I’ll be with you,’ called Annie, running inside the cottage.
The drive to Brecon took longer than the two women had expected, or hoped. The traffic was heavy, the roads clogged with all sorts of vehicles. At least it gave Annie the chance to listen to Mavis as she sorted through her thoughts about the case.
‘Maybe Althea has a point,’ began Mavis, ‘maybe the elderly are being bamboozled into doing something against their true wishes by a con-artist acting on behalf of the Cruickshanks. Carol’s found nothing in the searches she’s been able to conduct in the way of legal actions being taken against either Mountain Ash House as a corporate entity, nor the Cruickshanks personally, by any disgruntled family members of the deceased. Chancery’s something of a minefield, Carol’s made that much clear. However, the fact there are no publicly available records of any such actions doesn’t mean such legal cases don’t exist, just that they are invisible to simple searches. To do more would require a significant investment of time, effort, and the likely requirement to spend money out-of-pocket to gain access to court records.’
‘And that’s a no-no for now, I’m guessing?’ asked Annie when Mavis drew breath.
‘Aye, for now.’
Annie listened while Mavis rattled on, informing her it was true the layers of approvals for care homes and nursing homes in the UK provided many checks and balances for such places. However, as Carol had pointed out, explained Mavis, those dwellings offering merely sheltered or communal living, where residents were perfectly capable of looking after themselves in all respects, but chose to live a more companionable lifestyle, were not subject to the same levels of oversight.
Mavis was also well aware that a last will and testament properly drawn up to respect the wishes of a person possessed of mental clarity as defined and agreed by a medical practitioner was difficult to overcome, so a quick meeting with a solicitor might well put a family member off taking any action. She told Annie she’d been impressed by Carol’s thoroughness in contacting all the Citizens Advice Bureaus in the region to ask if they’d been approached by anyone wishing to make an informal, or formal, complaint about Mountain Ash House. There had been none.
Mavis then went on to explain how she knew only too well how hospitals, clinics and even barracks thrived on whispers, rumors and gossip. There was no reason to doubt an old folks’ home would be any different – and Althea would have access to all that while in her disguise. ‘Gladys Pugh,’ concluded Mavis. ‘Althea really has thrown herself into her role.’
At this point Annie dared a quick, ‘I bet she’s lovin’ every minute of it,’ much to Mavis’s consternation.
Mavis then moved to the matter of Daisy Drayton’s death, much though she said she didn’t want to contemplate it as suspicious at all. Despite Althea’s insights having possibly established that Daisy Drayton had died at a local hospital rather than at the home, Carol hadn’t, sadly, been able to make any further progress, there not being any death records for a D. Drayton anywhere in Powys at any point during the past ten years. That was a puzzle. And annoying too. As Mavis said, the woman was dead, that much was clear, but where or when exactly she’d died was a mystery, as were any intentions she’d put into her will. If only they could somehow find that, they’d know if she’d bequeathed the books with the valuable miniatures to the Cruickshanks. Mavis hoped the dowager’s continuing enquiries, however bizarrely carried out, would yield some results on that front.
When they finally arrived in Brecon they found it difficult to park, so ended up walking more than a mile to get to the antiques market itself, by which time several of the stallholders were packing up. Deciding it was best to split up, Mavis and Annie applied themselves to their task, and met up again half an hour later to compare notes.
‘This one—’ Annie gave Mavis a business card – ‘he’s been buying china from Fred Cruickshank. The dealer’s specialty is Gaudy Welsh Pottery. Hideous, if you ask me, but it seems to be all the rage. And he does crystal too, but they haven’t had much of that. This stuff, though it looks ’orrible, can be worth quite a bit, he said. And this woman—’ she passed another card to Mavis – ‘also deals only with Mr Cruickshank and he’s been bringing her silver. Bits and pieces, all sorts, for about nine months. None of them here had seen Sarah Cruickshank at all, and nothing of Fred much before that timeframe either. Everyone said they knew him, but not her. Didn’t have anything bad to say about him, though I got the impression Fred’s seen as a firm negotiator.’
‘Good job, Annie. It sounds as though he’d come with a variety of pieces to sell each time. If you’re telling me he’s sold specialist pottery and silver, you can add furniture through this chap—’ she showed Annie a business card – ‘and decorative items like mirrors, figurines, that sort of thing, through these two people.’
‘So only the husband’s been shifting valuables.’
‘Exactly,’ agreed Mavis. ‘The wife’s been giving away little bits of bric-a-brac, here and there, clothes and books included, while he’s been selling what sounds to be a fair amount, and certainly for a good bit of money. And that side of it started when that Tristan Thomas went out of business. So maybe the idea Fred Cruickshank was selling Thomas a whole range of items before that holds water.’
‘So – back to Anwen?’ asked Annie, hoping the answer was yes.
‘Aye, let’s get you back to your Tudor Evans,’ replied Mavis with a smile.
‘I keep tellin’ you, he’s not my Tudor Evans.’
Mavis marched off in the direction of the car park. Annie caught up with her and linked arms with her friend and colleague, an inexplicable lightness in her step.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Christine was pleased to be back in her car and heading away from Swansea prison. She’d felt more depressed in the past couple of hours than ever before in her life. The sound of the outer door shutting behind her had been the last straw, and she’d allowed herself to have a good cry before getting ready for the drive back.
Heading out toward the M4 she realized she was passing a site Lizzie Llewellyn had portrayed in one of the miniatures, Swansea University’s new Bay Campus. On not much more than a whim she turned off the main road and decided to stop to take a look at the Great Hall and compare it with Lizzie’s interpretation of it. She marveled that the woman had managed to pack so much detail into such a tiny piece of art, and realized, as she compared that specific miniature to some of the others that, to be fair, Nathaniel had made a valid point – some of Lizzie’s pieces were, by comparison, a little less rigorous. The campus ran all the way down to meet the beach, and Christine gave herself permission to go for a stroll beyond the imposing buildings onto the wooden walkway that meandered among the dunes. The wind buffeted her, blowing away the stench of the prison, and she realized how grateful she was to be able to be mistress of her own fate – to be able to do as she pleased. To be free.
Turning her back to the sea she looked up at the edifice constructed on what she knew had once been an industrial site – plaques had greeted her describing how the land had been reclaimed and gifted to the university. As she stood there reading about exactly how the project had been undertaken, something niggled at the back of her brain. She returned to her ca
r and pulled out the artwork created by Lizzie Llewellyn, then she looked at the building itself. Again she was struck by the perfection of the rendition, but she was tingling with another realization: the building hadn’t been completed until a year after Lizzie’s presumed death. How, then, had the artist managed to do what she’d done, if she was dead at the time?
TWENTY-NINE
When Carol sat down to watch Althea’s filmed output again, she could see she was only about five minutes behind the live feed.
At first, all Carol got was white noise and a black screen. Knocking sounds and bizarre images led her to believe Althea had the phone in her pocket. Carol wondered if the dowager had pressed the ‘broadcast’ button by mistake, but a moment later it became clear that was not the case.
Carol worked out that Althea was holding the phone in her hands, probably in her lap, but certainly beneath a table. When Althea didn’t fiddle with it, Carol could hear quite clearly, even if all she could see were fingers and a lump of wood. The conversation seemed to make no sense at first.
A man’s voice said loudly, ‘If you’re having problems I can come there.’
Was Althea in trouble?
Gladys replied very loudly, ‘Just speak up more.’
Althea’s not deaf.
‘Maybe I can fix it,’ offered the man, speaking slowly.
‘I’ve killed it completely this time,’ said Althea.
Killed what?
‘Is there some other way I can help?’ Carol thought he sounded cross.
‘I tell you what, I’ll plug in my headphone things and you can talk into this – that usually does it.’ Carol gathered Althea was pushing headphones into her phone, then she stuck it right in front of the man’s face. Carol recognized him; it was the William Williams she’d been able to find listed as an office manager at the partnership in Brecon for whom the Cruickshanks had furnished a testimonial. He looked slightly less polished than in his online photograph.
‘So what do I do now?’ he shouted into the camera.
‘No need to shout,’ said Gladys in her normal tone, ‘this amplifies it for me and I’m recording you, so I can listen to everything again later on. I can hear you properly now. Just talk normally.’
‘Looks like it’s a camera too,’ said William, peering into the tiny lens.
‘It is, do you mind?’
‘Not really.’
‘Good. I’m only using it to listen. I can see you very well. Just hold it in front of your mouth and speak. Now, what did you say about elephants?’
Carol could only see the man’s lips, so had no idea what the rest of his face was doing, but even his mouth looked puzzled. ‘Elephants? I don’t think I mentioned elephants at all Mrs Pugh.’
‘You said elephants were going on a date. Made no sense to me, that’s why I remember it.’
The man’s mouth pursed, then smiled. ‘Oh – I think you must have misheard me saying your inheritance would go to the state. That’s what I said; if you don’t have a proper will, the state will take all your belongings, and all your money too, so it’s worth spending a little bit now on getting your papers in order.’
‘And if I move in here, does that advice come free with my rent?’ Carol liked the way Althea was playing dumb.
William shook his head. ‘No, but I can draw up the papers for a small fee. After you’ve given some thought as to what arrangements you’d like, of course. None of us is getting any younger, you know.’
‘I don’t think you could,’ said Althea.
‘Pardon?’
‘You’re very young. Young to be a solicitor. I thought you had to go to university for donkeys’ years for that. How old are you then?’
The man smiled. ‘Older than I look,’ he said. ‘I’ve always had a baby face, my mam says. I’ve been at the solicitors’ office five years now.’ Carol noted the fact he didn’t say he was a solicitor, just that he worked at a solicitors’ office. She didn’t like the fact he was so careful about exactly what he said. It made Carol feel as though he knew he was skating on thin ice.
‘I see,’ said Althea. Carol wondered if she’d picked up on that little nugget too, and suspected she had; she’d admired Althea’s sharpness since they’d first met, and loved the way it mingled happily with moments of utter vagueness.
Carol heard pages turning, and worked out Althea was looking through a brochure. ‘It’s very nicely printed. Big type. I like that.’
‘We do our best.’ Smarmy, thought Carol.
‘Are the people in these photos of Mountain Ash House real residents here, or did you rent them for the day? I haven’t seen any of these people. Do they live here in the basement or something?’
‘The photographs were taken some years ago now. I believe they’ve all … left.’
‘You mean they’re all dead.’
Carol saw the man’s Adam’s apple slide up and down as he swallowed, hard. ‘Some have moved to facilities where nursing care is available. Others have passed.’
‘Passed?’ Althea snapped. ‘Stupid word to use. Passed what? Passed an exam? Passed out? Passed on – to where? When you’re dead, you’re dead. Use the right word. Trust me, when you’ve been a widow as long as I’ve been one you know exactly what “dead” means. It means gone.’
The camera jiggled as the man shifted in his seat. ‘Some prefer the use of the word “passed” and I find I have to be very careful when I speak of death; it’s a delicate matter.’
‘It’s how you make your money though, isn’t it? Wills, bequests, plans for what should happen at a funeral. I bet you milk us for all we’re worth.’
Careful, Althea, thought Carol.
‘I’d hate to have it perceived that way. We provide essential services at a fair price. That’s how I’d put it.’
‘Ah well, there you are then. And if I come to live here, and if you help me with my will, what would you say if I told you I’ve already decided everything’s going to the RSPCA?’
The man smiled. Carol didn’t like this smile. ‘It’s a very wise choice, Mrs Pugh. It’s a well-respected charity doing marvelous things for animals all around the country. Of course, being Welsh, you might want to consider giving your money to something that’s just Welsh – you know, benefitting Wales alone, as opposed to Scotland, or England.’ Carol noted he uttered the word as though he was mentioning Hades. ‘That’s where they spend most of their cash, you see.’
‘Is it?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘I had no idea.’
Neither did Carol, so she allowed her fingers to do some keyboard-digging into the matter. She immediately discovered the RSPCA had no standing in Scotland, there being a Scottish SPCA to do the job there. So he’s prepared to tell actual lies, she thought. Interesting.
‘I’m sure I could find something closer to home that would be ideal,’ he said, smiling. ‘Now let me guess – you’d be a cat person, am I right?’
‘Dogs. Can’t stand cats. Allergic. They have their place, but that’s living outside catching mice and rats. No place for cats, a house.’
Carol looked across her sitting room at her beloved Bunty, fast asleep on a magazine that lay open on the floor. She knew Althea was play-acting, but whispered how much she loved Bunty, just in case she’d heard, despite Carol’s headphones.
‘Dogs then, very good. I could have a check around. There – see? I’m already offering good advice.’
‘I suppose you are. It could be handy having you so close, if I come to live here.’
‘Indeed. I could also talk to you about how you might want your inheritance to benefit humans, as well as dogs. They have an excellent trust fund set up here, for example, to allow for those less fortunate to enjoy the comforts of Mountain Ash House.’
So it’s a real scheme? I wonder who controls the funds within it? Carol began to search for details of the fund, and the trustees.
‘That sounds like a very good idea,’ said Althea brightly. ‘I mean, I love dogs,
but people are nice too. I’m very lucky I’ve got so much, see. Even if I’m here twenty years, there’ll still be a lot left.’
With the camera so close to the man’s mouth, Carol was treated to the sight of William Williams licking his lips. He did it discretely, but on her monitor it looked disgusting. She pulled back from the screen and let out an ‘Eww!’
‘Is that fund thing in this brochure?’ asked Althea.
Things got fuzzy as Carol inferred William was turning pages for Althea. ‘There you are – that bit mentions it.’
‘So is it some sort of charity? This place can’t be a charity, surely? They must make money at it, or why would they do it? So there’s another “bit” is there?’
Carol spotted an insincere smile. ‘It’s all rather complicated – trust funds, escrow accounts, trustees, legatees, beneficiaries … and I could go on. That’s what I do, you see, I streamline everything. All you do is tell me what you want, I write it up in plain English – or Welsh, if you prefer, our services are bilingual – and then you just sign it, get it witnessed and you’re all sorted. Simple. You don’t want these decisions hanging over your head. Best to do it, then forget about it, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Maybe. I’ll think about it. Can I keep this?’
‘But of course. You don’t happen to have any other legal or financial advisors you’d like another copy for, do you?’
Clever way to find out if a person has other advisors he has to work around, thought Carol.
‘There’s no one. All my money’s in a bank, safe, not floating about all airy fairy on the stock exchange, thank you very much. It’s real money, in a real bank. And there it will stay.’
‘Ah yes, the power of cash. You’re right, it’s a challenge to find safe places to invest one’s money so it can grow safely. Mind you, if we meet again, there are a few people I could put you in touch with who specialize in just that sort of thing; investments that are as safe as houses, with an excellent, guaranteed rate of return – and it wouldn’t hurt to know you’d be leaving even more behind, while not risking your present-day comfort.’
