‘I understand you knew Mr Fitzsimmons.’
‘Who told you that?’
‘Ah, Mr Bentley.’ Ben risked an ingratiating beam. ‘A good journalist never reveals his sources, haven’t you heard?’
The solicitor folded his arms. Ben had seldom seen anyone looking less ingratiated. All of a sudden the man seemed almost formidable. ‘I think you’d better leave.’
‘However, an excellent journalist,’ Ben said smoothly, ‘knows when to share information with a trustworthy individual, such as a representative of your distinguished profession. As a matter of fact, I was told by Gregory Jepson. He was in the Admiral Byng car park when you arrived there. I gather you’ve acted for his parents for some years.’
Bentley assumed what Ben thought of as a Finnegans Wake expression: impossible to read. ‘Buying their bungalow was one of my first jobs after I qualified. I’ve made their wills, I’ve… but tell me, why on earth have you spoken to Gregory?’
‘As I say, it was in connection with the Admiral – Mr Fitzsimmons – and his untimely death while I was working on a documentary about his pub.’
‘If your programme has been ruined because the Admiral killed himself, it can’t be helped.’ The solicitor’s smug smile suggested that such an outcome would be very welcome news to him. ‘But I’m sure it wasn’t your fault. Now if you’ll excuse…’
‘I hate to say it,’ Ben said, aiming for a bashful expression and not entirely succeeding, ‘but the death of the man who was the star of the show is bound to boost our ratings out of all recognition. Especially given that the Admiral didn’t commit suicide. He was murdered.’
‘Murdered?’ The solicitor glared at him. ‘Is this some kind of joke?’
‘For once in my life,’ Ben said, with slightly uncharacteristic sincerity, ‘I couldn’t be more serious. Someone killed Fitzsimmons, and I’d like to find out why. Preferably before we finish filming.’
Bentley blinked. ‘You’re not recording this conversation, are you?’
‘Goodness me, no.’ Ben gazed sorrowfully at Bentley. Anything rather than glance at his bag. It had worked all right with Greg Jepson. He hoped he hadn’t lost his knack of telling barefaced lies while wearing a mask of innocence. Years ago, in the school sixth form, that same expression had prompted a perceptive careers teacher to recommend a future in politics. ‘This is just between ourselves. A private conversation.’
‘Hm. Why should I believe you?’
‘Please, Mr Bentley. I’m sure you’re just as interested in getting to the truth of what happened to Fitzsimmons as I am.’
‘What on earth makes you say that? And why do you maintain the man was murdered? It’s utter nonsense.’ The solicitor waved at the newspaper. ‘I have it on the authority of the editor of the Clarion that the police are satisfied that foul play wasn’t involved. I’d advise you to be very careful about what you—’
‘Thanks,’ Ben said, ‘but I’m not seeking free advice. I simply want to know who murdered the Admiral.’
‘You haven’t answered me.’ Bentley’s manner had hardened. He no longer seemed awkward, but sinewy and focused. Was the impression of inadequacy that he conveyed so effectively on first acquaintance no less a charade than Ben’s protestations of good faith? ‘Why do you say it was a case of murder? And why should I care, even if it was? Let alone wish to discuss the wretched business with a complete stranger?’
Like Amy, Ben didn’t feel at this time inclined to mention the printed suicide note. Instead, he argued, ‘There was no reason for the Admiral to kill himself. On the contrary. On the last day of his life, he was in high spirits.’
‘Suicides don’t necessarily flag up their plans to all and sundry.’ Bentley’s expression darkened. ‘Believe me, I know.’
Ben made a note of this rather unusual remark, but didn’t pick up on it. ‘Things were going well for him.’
Bentley shook his head. ‘Everyone in Crabwell was aware that the pub was losing money hand over fist. He didn’t have too many reasons to be cheerful, I can assure you.’
‘You’d have inside knowledge about that, naturally? Being his solicitor, I mean?’
‘I did act for him, yes. He and I… went back a long way.’
‘Oh really?’
‘Crabwell is a small village, Mr Milne. Only a handful of solicitors practise in the area. And I am…’
‘The cheapest?’
Bentley’s smile lacked any hint of genuine mirth. ‘“Well known for offering good value” is how I prefer to put it.’
‘Of course.’ Ben decided to launch a belated charm offensive. ‘People trust you, I’m sure. To be perfectly honest, you and I have more in common than you might imagine.’
‘I doubt it.’
‘Hear me out. My business requires me to win people’s confidence, just like yours.’
‘The difference is that you promptly betray it,’ Bentley snapped. ‘When I heard about this documentary, I looked you up. Found out the details of your Skeletons in the Cupboard programme – huh. The internet is positively awash with scandalous stories that have your fingerprints all over them.’
‘I’m interested in finding out the truth, Mr Bentley. Believe me, I’m determined to discover exactly what happened to that poor bastard Fitzsimmons, and who was responsible for drowning him.’
‘That poor bastard?’ Bentley repeated, with a ham actor’s over-emphasis. ‘Is that the impression you had of the Admiral?’
‘I’m more interested in your impression of him. You’ve said you’d known him for years. What did you make of the chap?’
A curious glint came into the solicitor’s eyes. ‘He was an intelligent man, Mr Milne. Some people thought him an overbearing fool, but not me. There was more to the Admiral than met the eye.’
‘How much more? Please, I find this fascinating.’
Bentley gave a dismissive shrug, as if irritated that he’d said too much. ‘Don’t misunderstand me, Mr Milne. We didn’t socialise. Ours was a… purely professional relationship.’
‘And that professional relationship led you to visit the Admiral a few hours before he died?’
Bentley frowned. ‘Certainly. Why else?’
‘Isn’t it a little unusual for a solicitor to visit his client, rather than the other way around? Surely most people come to this office to consult you, rather than insisting that you call on them?’
‘The Admiral was a special case,’ Bentley snapped. ‘Eccentric, some might say. Unorthodox, certainly. He asked if I would come and see him on Monday afternoon, and my diary was clear, so I was happy to oblige. Client service, you see, takes many different forms.’
‘Evidently,’ Ben said, although the solicitor’s explanation was as clear as the mud in Crabwell harbour. ‘So what did he want to speak to you about?’
‘That I can’t divulge, I’m afraid. You’ll appreciate that solicitors need to observe client confidentiality. We have professional rules, quite apart from the implications of the Data Protection Act…’
Ben gave a dismissive wave of the hand. He’d never read the Data Protection Act, and he guessed that was true of almost everyone who claimed to be complying with it. He suspected its principal function was to provide people who had something to hide with a fig leaf that discouraged investigative journalists from seeking out inconvenient truths.
‘Your client is dead. He won’t complain if you happen to talk to me about your meeting with him.’
‘Even so.’ Arms folded again. ‘I’m afraid I can’t help you.’
‘I’m sorry about that. I was hoping to present your visit to the pub in a very positive light.’
‘There’s nothing more to be said about it. It would be of no interest whatsoever to your viewers.’
Ben smiled. A friendly smile tinged, he hoped, with menace. ‘On the contrary, a touch of mystery enlivens any television programme. Until just now, I’d presumed the truth about your dealings with the Admiral would be rather banal. But suppose we sa
y something like… “lawyer Griffiths Bentley visited Fitzsimmons only hours before his client was murdered, but refused to disclose what they talked about…” People will be fascinated.’
The solicitor scowled at him. ‘Absurd. You must appreciate, it’s a serious matter to defame a member of my profession.’
‘Of course I appreciate that, just as you will realise that there’s nothing in the least defamatory about what I said.’
‘The innuendo is that I have something to hide.’
‘I can’t prevent mischief-making. Thankfully, my programmes attract a discerning audience. Our viewers are deeply interested in reality, to say nothing of reality TV shows. I’m sure they will be sympathetic to the constraints you labour under, especially given the rigours of the Data Protection Act.’
‘This really is intolerable.’
‘I’m so sorry to have taken up your time.’ Ben rose from his chair with a throwaway glance at the telephone on the solicitor’s desk. It hadn’t rung once during their meeting. ‘I realise you’re a busy man, and of course you want to get home for the weekend. Who knows? This whole affair may prove a blessing in disguise. You know what they say? No publicity is bad publicity.’
One or two of Ben’s lawyer friends were, it was true, as keen on publicity as he was, but he’d calculated that Griffiths Bentley’s attitude would be very different, and a glance at the man’s pallid complexion proved the point.
‘Please, Mr Milne.’ Bentley sounded agitated. A spasm crossed his face and he put his hand on his chest as if to wipe away some inner pain. ‘I don’t think there’s any need for you to…’
The solicitor’s voice faltered, and Ben found himself secretly hoping that he would be accused of blackmail, giving him the pleasure of a classic rejoinder: ‘Blackmail is such an ugly word, Mr Bentley. Shall we just say… you scratch my back and I’ll…?’
‘… be unduly hasty.’
Disappointed by the anticlimax, Ben murmured, ‘So what do you suggest?’
‘I am my client’s sole executor.’ Bentley spoke rapidly; he seemed to be making up what he said as he went along. ‘The question is, what would the Admiral wish me to do? I am bound to bear in mind that he was ready and willing to co-operate with you in the making of your programme.’
‘Correct.’
‘It follows that I can best respect his wishes by affording you a similar courtesy. We could, perhaps, reach an agreement that, if I were to share with you certain information, you would keep my name out of your documentary. I should make it clear that I abhor personal publicity of any kind.’
‘A gentlemen’s agreement?’
‘Absolutely.’ Bentley extended his hand; as they shook, it felt as damp as ever.
Ben settled back in his chair. Privately, he believed that a gentlemen’s agreement is something made between people who aren’t gentlemen, and which is not an agreement. He felt under no duty to voice such an opinion. This man was a solicitor; he must know he was skating on thin ice.
‘So what was the purpose of your visit to the Admiral?’
‘He had summoned me as a matter of urgency. He wanted to change his will.’
Ben leaned forward. ‘Really? Was it out of date?’
‘By no means. I drafted the existing will only three years ago.’
‘And did Fitzsimmons say that he needed to change his will because his circumstances had changed?’
‘No.’ The bewilderment with which the solicitor answered meant he didn’t know about Fitz’s sudden acquisition of two million pounds. And Ben wasn’t going to share the information with him.
‘Who were the beneficiaries of his previous will?’ he asked.
‘There was a modest legacy to myself.’ Bentley coughed. ‘I should say, that was to remain unchanged under the new disposition of his estate.’
‘And?’
‘The residuary estate was originally divided into two parts. Half of it went to the Reverend Victoria Whitechurch.’
‘Really? I had no idea he was a religious man.’
Bentley pursed his lips. ‘I’m afraid I never saw any evidence of a spiritual side to Geoffrey Horatio Fitzsimmons, though to my surprise I’ve discovered that up until his death he did act as a churchwarden at St Mary’s. He said to me that he wanted the vicar to have something put away for a rainy day. “In case she’s ever defrocked”, he said, with a rather impudent laugh. Of course, I didn’t include that phrase in the will. It was simply one of those coarse jokes in which he liked to indulge.’
‘And the other beneficiary?’
‘His cook, Meriel Dane. “For services rendered”.’ Bentley shuddered. ‘He did insist on that phrase being included in the will. Given the years she had worked for him, I did not think I could object.’
‘Were there any other legacies?’
‘A thousand pounds to a Mrs Rosalie Jepson. “A la recherche du temps perdu” was the explanation he gave me. Once again, it was a mark of his peculiar sense of humour to insist on inserting that phrase in the will. A trifle irregular, and undoubtedly otiose, but the client is always right. Or so they must be allowed to think.’
‘I see,’ Ben savoured ‘otiose’. Did anyone other than a lawyer ever use such a word? ‘And may I ask – is the “Mrs Rosalie Jepson” mentioned in the will any relation to Greg Jepson, the hedge fund manager?’
Bentley shrugged. ‘That I wouldn’t know.’
Ben felt sure he was lying. ‘But it’s a rather unusual surname.’
The solicitor shrugged again. Recognising he wasn’t going to get any further on that line of questioning, Ben made a mental note to ask Greg if he was related to a ‘Rosalie Jepson’ and moved on. ‘What instructions did the Admiral give you about drawing up a new will? Was anyone cut out?’
Bentley hesitated. ‘No, not exactly. But the bequests to the vicar and to Ms Dane were reduced to the same sum as that for Mrs Jepson.’
‘Really?’ Well, well. ‘Who was to inherit the bulk of the estate?’
‘It was utterly extraordinary,’ the solicitor said softly. ‘The Admiral insisted that he wanted to give it all away to a woman I’d never heard him mention before.’
‘Who was that?’
‘Her name was Greta Knox.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
On the Saturday morning, Ianthe Berkeley sat in her bedroom at the Admiral Byng, looking out over the slate-grey expanse of the North Sea, and assessed her situation. The death of Geoffrey Horatio Fitzsimmons had certainly changed things, but not necessarily for the worse.
Ianthe was, at least in her own eyes, a ‘serious’ editor of ‘serious’ books. She was not exactly an intellectual – she affected to despise academics – but she had a degree of sorts. At least she had not ended up editing silly crime novels like her only friend in the office, Mary Drew. Of course, crime fiction sold very much better than her books, as Barry Featherstone, her boss, would often remark. He seemed to enjoy needling her and emphasising that Mary was in line for a bonus. Ianthe had a feeling that without a ‘bestseller’ her own future in the old-established publishing firm of Bone and Spittle might end in tears – her tears.
That was why she had decided it was worth driving all the way down to Crabwell to see her potential star author being interviewed on camera by Ben Milne for the documentary he was filming about the Admiral Byng public house. She knew Ben from way back when they had both been at uni. She couldn’t quite remember, but she had the feeling she had slept with him once or twice, but then she had slept with a lot of her fellow students, and some of her tutors, which perhaps explained her rather disappointing degree – a poor second, when she had been expecting a first.
However, it had been good enough to get her into publishing, even if she had to settle for one of the small firms, not one of the big ones with names people had heard of where no one spoke of books but of ‘units’. Mind you, she liked money as much as the next person. She was not ‘ditzy’, as one of her authors had hurtfully described her to her boss in
her hearing, but she was impulsive. She had an idea that – unlikely though it was – the book Fitz told her he had ‘found’ in a cellar of the Admiral Byng might be her passport to fame and fortune.
Her original thought had been that if she could get it puffed on Ben’s programme to ‘encourage the others’, as she muttered to herself, that would be a great way to launch the book. She patted herself on the back, metaphorically of course – for ‘encourage the others’. As she remembered it, the historical Admiral Byng had been backward when he should have been forward, and had been executed for his lack of initiative. Some French philosopher had made the joke first she seemed to recall, in French naturally, that he had been shot by firing squad… ‘pour encourager les autres’. Who said she wasn’t an intellectual? Anyway, no one would ever accuse her of lacking initiative like the unfortunate Admiral Byng.
The one benefit of working for Bone and Spittle was – certainly not her salary, which was ridiculously inadequate – but the car park where she laid her battered Beetle to rest every morning. Her parking skills were rather hit-and-miss though. She thought about the dent she had left in the passenger door of Barry’s Prius when she had started out on her journey to Crabwell. He would be furious when he saw it, and he would know who was responsible, but if the book ‘went viral’ as she believed the expression was, he would have to forgive her. Ianthe claimed to be a good driver, but reverse gear was one direction too far in her manual. She had heard it said by one of her flirtatious male authors that men could reverse park because they had learned to direct their pee into the toilet as soon as they could stand upright – a skill like riding a bike once learned, never forgotten. Whatever the truth of this, she had never been able to navigate her precious Beetle backwards, and it galled her as though it were a stain on her scabbard.
Scabbards were rather on her mind at the moment. The book she had in her neat leather briefcase in the form of an advanced proof was all about scabbards and swords, most with names she could not pronounce like Pendragon and Tintagel, wielded by Arthurian and Templar knights in ‘shining armour’.
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