At this Coffield laughed. It was nearly as unexpected as the smile of his severe little assistant out there in the reception area. Perhaps knowledge of the old university tie had softened him a bit.
“Our best customer. One might think it was in the nature of a game he liked to play, this constant fiddling with his will. He did like to torment his family with it, or at least use it as a stick. But he was, I always thought, deadly serious about this ‘game.’ He was determined that no one who had won his disfavor would be permitted to gain from the sweat of his brow, as he liked to put it. Unfortunately, that left almost no one to leave anything to. At one point-this was probably the first will I made out for him-he’d left the bulk of his estate to some home for wayward girls. Rather as a joke, I think.” He shrugged, palms upward, in a “Who knows?” gesture.
“Personally, I was amazed to learn there was such a thing in this day and age,” Coffield went on. “It was a convent school in London. St. Drudmilla’s or some such, I believe. But he couldn’t be talked out of it. He believed in his heart of hearts-as we all do, I daresay-that he would live forever, so he could put anything he damned well liked in his will and it wouldn’t matter. At the same time, as I say, he was quite serious about it all. Worried, would be a better word. I think it really tormented him that-well, that his family had turned out the way it had. That he had no one he trusted or liked enough to leave it all to. Rather sad, when you think of it.”
But Mr. Coffield didn’t look sad, thought St. Just. Puzzled, yes, but not sad.
“You didn’t like him?” he asked.
“It was neither here nor there whether I did, and after our first encounters I gave up trying. For his part, he was confident I was competent to draw up something airtight and incontestable and that’s all he cared about. But no, I can’t say I did-like him, that is. My father-well, he spoke of him infrequently, but he indicated once that Sir Adrian had greatly changed over the years. That success had changed him, is what I suppose he meant.”
“How did they meet, Sir Adrian and your father?”
“In Paris, he told me. In a café, most likely, while my father was doing the Grand Tour. That would be about ten years after the war, when Sir Adrian was establishing himself as a writer. No doubt hoping to get in with some remnant of the Hemingway/ Fitzgerald crowd. I doubt he had much success at that. Didn’t have a pot to piss in, for one thing, until his marriage, and even then, Sir Adrian was so… competitive, he wasn’t likely to be welcomed by any group of writers, cutthroat as they themselves may have been. My father rather took him under his wing, and may have given him a pound here and there to keep body and soul together. At least Sir Adrian wasn’t entirely ungrateful, we must say that for him. More likely, he saw my father’s potential usefulness. In any event, he maintained the relationship for all the decades that followed, and, of course, became a favored client.”
“I see.” St. Just made a concerted effort not to shift about in the leather chair, which protested like an old saddle with his every movement. “For the moment, let’s go back to your most recent meeting with him. He always visited your offices, did he? You weren’t invited out to the house?”
Again, that brief, harsh laugh. “Tony Blair would have been more welcome. No. It may have been partly that I was regarded more as hired help. But beyond that, I think he liked his little visits here kept secret-until he was willing to announce them to fullest effect himself.”
“Was there any one beneficiary who seemed to be in favor more often than the others?”
“I think Sir Adrian rather regarded Ruthven as a chip off the old block,” Coffield answered obliquely. “For the most part, yes, he had stayed at the top of Sir Adrian’s personal honors list more often than the rest of them. But his last will and testament-his very last-changed all that. The estate was divided equally, this time, among his new wife and his lawful issue, excepting Ruthven-a new wrinkle. The wife gets the use of the house, which is then to pass to George. The staff were well done by, as always. Yes, surprising, what?
Oh, and that secretary chap of his was made literary executor of his most recent manuscript-something about Scotland. The royalties from that were left to his ex-wife. Interesting also, I felt. But it all didn’t matter, in a way. He’d probably have just changed it again, before too long.”
“Given the chance. But… how peculiar. For a start, I didn’t gain the impression he was on the outs with his eldest son.”
“It’s not really peculiar. At least, not by Sir Adrian’s standards, not peculiar at all. He’d done similar things before. The last will but one, his daughter was cut out completely; I forget why. Something about Middle Eastern foie gras. Before that, George, when he got involved with a rock group or something of which I gather Sir Adrian disapproved. It was all quite feudal. They none of them knew at any given time who was in, who was out of favor. And somewhat akin to Russian roulette, as it turns out, for Sir Adrian himself.”
Ignoring the question behind Coffield’s last words, St. Just said, “He sounds like the kind of man who’d enjoy making a tontine.”
Coffield cocked a brow in amused appreciation.
“Quite illegal these days, you know. It creates too much temptation for people to bump each other off in the hope of being the only remaining beneficiary. Sir Adrian sailed very near the wind on that score on several occasions, or tried to. It quite suited his proclivity for promoting fierce competition amongst his heirs. Fortunately, I was able to talk him out of it. As I say, tontine schemes are illegal in this country, although I understand they survive in some limited way in France.”
“Could any of them have gotten hold of a copy of the will?”
“Highly doubtful. Sir Adrian was most particular about that. Of course, I tried to give him a copy in the usual way. He declared he would just burn it like he’d burned all the rest-he didn’t want it lying about for prying eyes to see. No, the will was lodged with us here, on the premises, with a further copy kept at the bank for safekeeping. “
“It’s not impossible someone could have broken in here to have a look?”
Coffield’s reply was chilly. “It’s not completely without the realm of possibility, of course, but I would say it’s highly unlikely. Extremely. We’ve never had a burglary of any kind.”
“I meant no criticism of your care in handling your clients’ affairs,” said St. Just evenly. “But you must see that this will, especially the… peculiar… way Sir Adrian messed about with it, may be vital to solving the case. This marriage, for example-”
“I was the last to know about that, apart from his family. He slipped off to Gretna Green, mind made up on that score. I doubt I could have talked him out of it, even had I been given the opportunity to try.”
“And now, weeks later, his new wife inherits a large share of- What sort of amount are we talking about, Mr. Coffield?” He didn’t expect an answer, and so was all the more surprised when Coffield said:
“Upwards of seventeen million pounds. And that’s just the ready cash.”
Off St. Just’s look, he said equably:
“Sir Adrian was a canny investor. Quite a lot of motive to go around, perhaps you’re thinking. Yes, indeed. Except for Ruthven, of course. Not that any of that matters now. To him.”
“No, Ruthven won’t mind any more, will he?”
17. DOWNSTAIRS
ST. JUST STOOD ADMIRING Mrs. Romano’s gleaming stainless steel kitchen, which at first glance blinded the eye much like an operating room. Row upon row of pans and kettles; several enormous restaurant-caliber ranges, and a refrigerator large enough to store cadavers, should that become necessary. The way this case was going, he thought, it just might.
He had stopped by the station to see how Sergeant Fear was progressing. Fear handed him a stack of files: coroner’s reports, background checks, and further downloads from Ruthven’s computer, heavily annotated by Fear with exclamation marks and star ratings in the margins. The tracks in the snow had led nowhere, litera
lly.
“The weather was changeable that night,” said Fear. “It mucked the tracks enough they can’t be sure, but the person wearing the wellies may have ‘borrowed’ them from someone with a larger foot. Nothing helpful on the carpet or floor, either. They could say more, they tell me, if the person had helpfully stepped in mud.”
“On the telly, they’re always sure.”
“Real life is more ambiguous-like, don’t you think, Sir?”
“I do. What’s all this?” asked St. Just, peering closely at a sheaf of faxes.
“Ruthven’s research on this Violet Winthrop, as she was, Sir. We’ve done a bit of research of our own. She inherited a bucketful of money from Husband No. 1, since she got off scot free for that.”
“Please, no puns, Sergeant. Even though, as I understand it, scot free has nothing to do with Scotsmen.”
“Sir? Oh, right, the Winthrop murder: Scotland. Sorry, Sir. But she seems to have run through the cash over the years. Sir Adrian came along just in time, in her view, you ask me. This Ruthven had a lot of the old files about the Winthrop murder on that computer. You ask me, there’s plenty of motive there.”
“Thank you, Sergeant. I was just about to ask you.” He flipped through more of the pages. “Get on to this Agnes person, the cook who testified way back when. Assuming she’s alive, still.”
“On it already. This Violet, Sir-she’s in this up to her tiara, I think.”
“You don’t think she’s being a bit… obvious? Killing him so soon, in what is nearly a stunning replay of her first supposed crime? She must have realized she’d be the first person we’d look at. More likely, it seems to me, that someone wanted to put her in the frame. Still, I’ve just come from the solicitor’s. She made a nice income for her brief time with Sir Adrian. Neatly enough, they all did, except Ruthven, who isn’t around to collect, in any event.”
“He was cut out of the will, was he? His lady wife won’t be pleased about that.”
“No. And if she knew about it, it certainly would remove one of her motives-the profit motive. But not all of them. There’s revenge, for a start. As to Ruthven’s death-Could anyone be as indifferent to a husband’s affairs as she pretends? But there’s no sign any of them had a clue what was going on with that will.”
“‘Who profits?’”
“All of them, except Lillian. We’re back to square one.”
“Not quite, Sir. Here’s the background on that Paulo fellow. I took his statement and all, after both the killings. No better than he should be, was my impression.”
St. Just flipped through the report, again bleeding red in the margins with Fear’s commentary.
“He’s been involved in the usual town-and-gown fracas. Broke a bloke’s nose once in a fight over a woman. Mostly seems to specialize in receiving stolen goods, with a little small-time drug dealing thrown in for good measure. Clean the last few years. Still…”
“Yes, I rather thought we might find something there,” said St. Just. “I think it’s time I had a chat with the staff, don’t you? Meet me over at Waverley Court when you’ve done here. My apologies to Emma, but we’ll be working late.”
***
Mrs. Romano and Watters were seated at what appeared to be customary positions at a large wooden table in the center of the kitchen.
Murder in the manor house seemed to have had a rejuvenating effect on Watters. His rheumy eyes strained to twinkle, like stars behind a cloudbank, as he sat bolt upright, hands folded expectantly. He looked like a wizened schoolboy awaiting a question to which he might have the correct answer.
Mrs. Romano, on the other hand, seemed less delighted to see St. Just: perhaps wanting to be of use in catching whoever was responsible, but fearing-or so St. Just interpreted her nervousness- her son’s involvement. Had she or he any idea of the kind of money they would enjoy with Sir Adrian out of the way? Was it enough for Mrs. Romano herself to do the old man in?
Looking at her handsome, still-youthful face, he somehow didn’t feel money would be an overriding motive. Passion, yes. Killing to defend her young. That type of crime. Cold-blooded killing for money was a different crime, and a different type of murderer. Still, three hundred thousand pounds-a total of six, for both her and Paulo…
She looked at him warily. It was Watters who seemed to have something he wanted to get off his chest.
“Them boots,” he said. “I told that young copper, someone else used them boots of mine. Put them back wrong, too. He took ’em away. You want to see?”
More out of politeness than anything, for he had seen Sergeant Fear’s meticulous report on them boots, he followed Watters into a utilitarian mud-cum-storage room between the kitchen and the kitchen garden. Here among the raincoats, scarves, and assorted outdoor gear stood several well-worn pairs of green, black, and bright yellow wellies.
“I left them just here,” he said, pointing to an empty spot in the row of shoes, evidently a collection of paired sizes and colors that had gathered in no particular order over the years. “When I came to use them the next day, after Sir Adrian was killed, they was mixed in-tossed in, like-with the others. I would never of done that. Mrs. Romano is most particular. I put them boots away careful like and then the next day they was all tossed about.”
Watters peered up at him to make sure he was taking all of this in. St. Just nodded.
“Right there, they was.”
“Yes, Mr. Watters. That was really most helpful of you to notice that. It would seem whoever killed Sir Adrian borrowed your boots, to obscure his or her own tracks. The ice makes it impossible to say for certain who might have borrowed the boots, and there were no prints on them, but forensics are still running tests.”
“That’s what I thought,” said Watters, pleased at the acknowledgement of how he, single-handedly, was helping solve the case, but at the same time deeply affronted. “Pure evil, ’tis, whoever done that. Trying to make it look as if I had sommat to do wit’ it.”
“Or just finding the boots handy to cover their own shoeprints. You, yourself, heard or saw nothing on the night of either murder- leading up to either murder-that would help us?”
“I was snug at home, thank the Lord. Mrs. Romano didn’t hear nothing either, did you?” He turned to her. “Not until she found him, Sir Adrian. She ain’t been right since, have you, Mrs. R.?”
“For the love of God, Watters. Do be quiet.”
“Yes, well, thank you so much, Mr. Watters. I can’t tell you what it means to us to have the active cooperation of the public. If you wouldn’t mind, I’ll have a word with Mrs. Romano alone.”
It took Watters a moment to realize he was being asked to leave.
“She had nothing to do with it, no more than I done,” he said.
“I just have a few questions. Mrs. Romano was in the house more often than you were.”
While that was patently untrue-from what he could tell, Watters spent most of his time hanging about the kitchen-the old man gathered his things and with a supportive little wave at Mrs. Romano, took his leave.
“He means well, Inspector. And it was a nasty trick to try to involve him, whoever did this. Watters wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
He had to agree, it was difficult to picture Watters worked up to a murderous fury. He sat down in Watters’ place across the table and regarded her.
“You’d worked for him a long time, Sir Adrian, hadn’t you?”
“I knew him for years. Decades. I never thought I would live to have such a shock, finding him like I did. Poor man, he did not deserve this. No one does. Ruthven, either. Whoever did this is wicked and cruel. I will not believe…”
She stopped, evidently fighting back tears, her mouth working.
“Not believe what, Mrs. Romano?” he asked gently, willing her to look up from the tea cup that held her enthralled.
She raised her fine eyes to look at him squarely.
“I’ll not believe any of them did this,” she said evenly. “It’s monstrous. Col
d-blooded. And what did it gain them? He was an old man; he would have died soon enough, anyway.”
“Maybe someone just couldn’t wait.”
She nodded. Clearly she had been thinking along the same lines.
“Were you aware that both you and your son were mentioned in the will?”
“Paulo? Paulo, as well? No. No, I had no idea, no expectations. Not for either of us. That would have been wrong, to even think of it. Paulo had no idea either,” she added, staring at him unblinkingly, willing him to believe.
“Three hundred thousand pounds. Each.”
“Buon Dio.” Her hand flew to her heart. “No.”
“Not as much as was left to his family, of course.”
“Of course,” she said hastily. “Of course. Of course not. Three hundred thousand? Six hundred thousand for us? Are you sure?”
“He was a wealthy man, Sir Adrian.”
“Wealthy. Sì,” she said. “In some ways. He had so much, but… Inspector, I have something to ask of you.”
“Go on.”
“I would ask you this: Do not tell Paulo about this money. Money like that, it can ruin a man, but especially-Let me be the one to tell him.”
Nodding, not even knowing why, St. Just saw no harm in agreeing.
As if making the decision as she spoke, she said slowly:
“I will return to my country. Sir Adrian, he must have known: That is what I most wanted. To be with my family, to live my old age where it is warm.”
She might have been speaking of her people or the weather. As he watched, the tears in her large almond-shaped eyes escaped. She made no attempt to wipe them away, crying as openly as a child.
She turned away toward the kitchen window. Outside was the iced-over garden, fallow until spring. Suddenly, everything around her seemed foreign; Sir Adrian had been the only anchor holding her here. She thought of her pre-Paulo days and traveled in her mind the long road back to where she had met her feckless young husband: he a handsome footman with big dreams, she a girl in service. It was he who had convinced her to move south to Cambridge, believing it would be warmer. Sciocco, she thought, fondly.
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