‘Why a calendar?’ Rafferty interrupted to ask.
Metcalfe opened his eyes and gazed at Rafferty. ‘Because Sir Rufus, like a lot of wealthy men, liked his heirs to dance attendance on him. The empty calendar was a reminder to Rufus Junior that he’d failed to visit his uncle with the frequency he expected of him.’
Rafferty’s lips pursed in a silent whistle. ‘A bit tough on Rufus Junior to miss out when the other nephews did so well.’
‘Yes. For young Rufus, the timing of his uncle’s death was unfortunate. Now, if it had happened this time last year, he would have been in and Garth out.’
‘Why? Was Garth remiss on the visiting front at the time?’
‘On the contrary. Garth got removed from the will because he showed his face too often. Even Sir Rufus found the extent of his sycophancy nauseating and told him so. His heirs had a finely judged balancing act to master, Inspector, in order to stay in their uncle’s good books and his will.’
‘What about his employees? Are they down to receive the usual bequests?’
‘No. Sir Rufus always said his staff received salaries that were sufficient recompense for the workload. He didn’t feel they were entitled to anything more on top. Not that he told them that. He always used to say that he got more work out of them when he dropped hints about benefits to come. He even used to send Marcus Canthorpe, his assistant, backwards and forwards with his latest instructions about his will and to collect copies for signature and so on. Claire, my secretary, joked he spent so much time here, often just hanging about waiting for the latest will to be typed up, that he should have his own office. I’m amazed he remained with Sir Rufus as he confided that he’d had several better offers.’ He shrugged. ‘But so many of these tycoons are the very devil to work for. I suppose Marcus Canthorpe probably thought it was a case of better the devil you know.’
‘And this latest will — when was it drawn up?’
‘Two weeks ago. I remember I drafted it on the Monday morning and it went out in that afternoon’s post, but it didn’t come back with Sir Rufus’s signature till the Friday as he was away on business.’
Claire returned with the original will and the photocopy which, at the nod from her boss, she handed to Rafferty before leaving the office.
‘So who else stood to gain substantially?’
‘I’ve given you the names of the principal heirs,’ Metcalfe told them. ‘The rest are mostly charitable bequests.’
This surprised Rafferty. Owing to the problems Seward’s murder was causing himself and his brother, he had perhaps been rather too inclined to view the dead man as a thoroughly nasty piece of work, completely deserving of his brutal sudden death.
He rather regretted the necessity of revising this black opinion of the late Sir Rufus. Of course, no one’s all bad; hadn’t Old Nick himself once been one of God’s heavenly angels before his attempted coup and subsequent demotion to the pit? ‘Much of a charity giver, was he?’ he asked the solicitor.
‘Yes. You might be surprised. Sir Rufus donated some quite substantial sums to his favourite charities. He was a prominent and generous benefactor of several charities, both here in Norfolk where he had his main home and, more recently, since he first heard of the plan to honour him, in his home town of Elmhurst.’
Rafferty nodded. He could understand why this honour bestowed on him by his home town should spark a burst of generosity from Seward. It was good publicity for him. His newspapers had breezed over the hasty nature of his youthful departure from the town, the reasons for it and the fact that his status as benefactor to the place of his birth was a thing of very recent vintage. Instead, the editorial inches had waxed effusive about how deserving was his ennoblement and the ensuing home-town civic reception.
But, given what he knew of Rufus Seward’s character, Rafferty couldn’t help wondering just how much Seward had had to put into the government’s coffers to ‘earn’ his ennoblement.
As Metcalfe expanded on the theme of Seward’s generosity, reading between the lines, Rafferty got the impression that the solicitor shared his own view that Seward had made sure this generosity was widely broadcast. But, perhaps with memories of his early days and those who had shared them with him and who hadn’t done as well as he had in life to encourage him, Seward had also made donations to fund the education of Elmhurst’s and the city of Norwich’s talented but poorer sons and daughters. As Metcalfe told them, these donations were not revealed to the wider public in the way that the other charitable contributions were.
Perhaps, Rafferty thought, this was because they might have given Seward’s lowly origins an unwanted prominence, or perhaps they really had been given from a previously unsuspected fount of true generosity.
Whatever it was that had encouraged the latter benevolences, they were accepted more than gratefully by their recipients, several of whom had been invitees of the celebratory party, although, as their investigation had revealed, all had left early before Seward’s alcohol intake had tarnished the gloss on his benevolent inclinations.
‘Yes, Sir Rufus was pleased to regard himself as a philanthropist, both here in Norwich and in his home town.’
Rafferty detected the tiniest tinge of irony in Metcalfe’s reply. He couldn’t stop himself from commenting, ‘You didn’t like him?’ With his peripheral vision, Rafferty caught the sharp glance Llewellyn directed at him for his blunt question. Oops, he thought, another black mark. He ignored his sergeant’s glance and waited to see if Metcalfe would answer.
Philip Metcalfe smiled, clearly amused rather than offended by the question. Rafferty could only surmise that the solicitor found such straight and to the point bluntness singularly refreshing after dealing every day with the tortuous and dusty verbiage of the legal profession.
‘Is it that obvious?’ the solicitor asked. ‘No, he shook his head, ‘I didn’t like him. I had too many dealings with him, you see. Not an easy man to work for, as, I’m sure, Marcus Canthorpe, the Farradays and the rest of his employees could tell you. I imagine that anyone who had much to do with Seward grew to dislike him intensely.’ The skin at the corners of Metcalfe’s clear, grey eyes crinkled. ‘I suppose I should thank my lucky stars that I didn’t get an invitation to that civic reception in his home town. If I had, I imagine I might rank quite high on your suspect list.’
‘You and half the guests, Mr Metcalfe,’ Rafferty admitted, causing Llewellyn’s lips to purse in disapproval. But then Llewellyn was always tight-lipped and had never grasped that even a policeman had to give a little if he expected to get something in return. ‘At least at first. It was fortunate that Seward drank too much that night. His behaviour became nasty enough for a lot of the guests to leave early, which nicely reduced the numbers of potential suspects.
‘It seems,’ Rafferty continued in revelatory mood, ‘Sir Rufus Seward had another hobby in addition to changing his will: ‘making enemies, some of years’ long duration. A number of them attended the reception.’
‘Sounds like he paid too much attention to that old adage about keeping one’s enemies close.’
Rafferty nodded. And as he bade the solicitor goodbye, he mused that it certainly would have been far healthier for Seward if he’d kept his enemies at something farther than chisel-thrusting distance.
While they were in Norwich, Rafferty decided it would be a good idea to kill two birds with the one stone. He needed to further question Marcus Canthorpe and the Farraday twins anyway, so he might as well do it today and save himself another longish round trip. Not to mention having to endure Llewellyn’s uncongenial company.
Once they’d left McCann, Doolittle and Steel’s premises, Rafferty glanced at his watch. Lunchtime. They’d get something to eat before they made for Seward’s estate a few miles to the north of Norwich. He also wanted to pick up a local Norwich newspaper as it was likely to carry an extensive obituary of Seward. He might even find it contained some juicy revelation that would prove useful to the case.
Marcus Canthorpe and the Farraday twins were all still living and working at Seward’s estate. As Canthorpe told them when Llewellyn rang through to check, Sir Rufus had left instructions in his will, instructions that had been passed on by Metcalfe, that his staff were all to remain in their posts until after his will was proved.
And why wouldn’t they? Rafferty thought. Not only did they all have ‘expectations’, but, with their demanding boss dead, their continued employment was likely now to be more of a comfortable sinecure.
They left their car in the solicitors’ car park — parking in any city was often a nightmare best avoided and Norwich was unlikely to be an exception to this rule. Rafferty hailed a passing taxi and gave instructions before climbing in the back with Llewellyn.
‘I know just the place for a nice lunch,’ he told his sergeant, hoping a good meal would melt the permafrost glinting from his colleague’s countenance. ‘Little pub by Norwich’s market, called the Sir Garnet Wolseley. Run by a London couple. They do a nice selection of dishes and at very reasonable prices.’
It was a beautiful, bright day for December, the air fresh but not too brisk. And as the cabbie dropped them off, Rafferty glanced around with appreciation. With the market stalls and their bright awnings looking even more colourful under the beaming sunshine, and with the sho’s adorned with their Christmas glad rags, Norwich had an air of being en fête. He had always loved open air markets. He supposed it was in his blood, as his Ma had worked in one for some years after she was widowed. He spotted a newsagent and after buying the local paper they headed for the pub.
A short while later they were seated at a table in the Sir Garnet Wolseley. Rafferty opted for the liver, bacon and onions with mashed potatoes and vegetables. It was one of his favourite dishes, one rarely found on the average pub menu. Llewellyn settled on the salmon and broccoli bake in dill sauce. While they waited for their meal Rafferty quickly scanned the headlines in the local paper; but there was nothing that might help him, just the usual burglaries and muggings and a warning about dangerously pure heroin being dealt in the city. Disappointed, he put the paper away.
They didn’t have to wait long for their meal. And after Rafferty had taken the edge off his hunger and worked his way through two- thirds of the tender lamb’s liver, he slowed sufficiently to comment, ‘It’s interesting that Philip Metcalfe should have mentioned that Seward enjoyed disinheriting people. I bet his heirs would have promised Seward’s solicitor a tidy sum in exchange for knowing when they featured winningly in the will.’
Llewellyn finished his salmon, replaced his cutlery neatly, dead centre on his plate, and commented coolly, ‘Unethical, for a solicitor.’
Rafferty shrugged as he finished his own meal. ‘I wish I shared your certainty that legal types and ethics are well-acquainted. Doubt it myself — might get in the way of their income. Look at our members of parliament; more than a few ex-barristers amongst them, not too much evidence of ethics there.’
Llewellyn inclined his head to concede the point. ‘So, what are you saying? That you want Philip Metcalfe’s finances investigated?’
Rafferty shook his head. ‘If he’s been tipping the wink to the would-be heirs, he’s hardly going to leave evidence that he’s on the take lying around for us to find. Anyway, I don’t imagine the heirs would hand over the dosh before they knew they were going to get their mitts on the dibs.’ He raised what remained of his pint of Adnam’s bitter and drained the glass. ’No, all I’m saying is that even though none of Seward’s heirs was at the reception where he died, it might be better for us if we don’t discount them too readily. Any one of them could have found a partner for the murderous end of the enterprise amongst the guests; enough of them had reason to hate Seward. The temptation to murder him and receive a financial reward for the deed might well have encouraged one or two to stray from the “thou shalt not kill” part of the Commandments.’
Rafferty rose to pay the bill. ‘But this is all speculation, of course. We’d better pay a courtesy visit to the local nick before we go and question Marcus Canthorpe and the Farraday twins again. Maybe one or both of the twins will, if they know anything, have decided to snitch to teacher by now.’
Chapter Twelve
After they’d had a brief chat about the case with a DI Apsley, Rafferty’s opposite number at Norwich Police Station, and received directions to Sir Rufus Seward’s estate, they got a taxi back to their car and drove northwards out of the city. The estate was, as Apsley had said, several miles outside Norwich, but it was a short journey as the traffic was surprisingly light.
On their arrival, even from the gate, Rafferty could see Seward’s estate was a sizeable place.
‘The wages of sin,’ he remarked. ‘For sure God’s lot have never shown me much favour. Maybe I should give up on religion and sign up with Old Nick’s crew instead?’
‘I thought you already had,’ Llewellyn coolly remarked, before he got out and pressed the buzzer of the intercom set into the brickwork at the side of the gate. He exchanged a few words with the gate’s guardian, and the gates swung back. Llewellyn returned to the driver’s seat, put the car into gear and headed up the lengthy drive.
Rafferty, uncomfortably conscious of his own many sins, was determined not to rise to the bait. He didn’t want to risk letting another kitty out of the bag. Instead, he gazed about him with interest as they drove past vast expanses of lawns that were still immaculate even in December. He was finding the wages of sin more attractive by the second. But this time he kept his thoughts to himself.
Seward’s house was a priceless gem enclosed within immaculate emerald lawns. It was stunning, an imposing, four-storey, seven-bay, late Georgian mansion, with its central doorway enclosed snugly in its own deep-set canopy. The ground’s acreage surely extended well into double figures.
‘Got to have a Grade One listing,’ Rafferty murmured. He glanced at Llewellyn and tried a second rapprochement. ‘Ever thought we might be in the wrong line of work, Daff?’ He was surprised when Llewellyn thawed sufficiently to meet him halfway, and with more than a single, caustic sentence.