“Who’s the opposition?”
“Well, Porter and Merriman look after the nobs. I mean, people like Sir James Carway and Admiral Fairlie and old Mrs Summers. R. and L. Sykes handle most of the litigation. That’s the local bench and the County Court at Brighton. Bledisloes do the commercial and company work, such as it is.”
“I don’t suppose that I shall cross swords with any of them,” said Jonas. “My specialities are Bills of Exchange, Copyright and Patents. And Church property. Particularly Welsh Church property. A curiously complicated field since Disestablishment.” Thinking that he detected a look of relief in young Mr Clover’s eye, he added maliciously, “Of course, nowadays one must be prepared to tackle anything. My partner, Mrs Mountjoy, seems to revel in the run-of-the-mill stuff.”
After Christopher Clover had left, Claire put her head round the door and said, “I may have got a client for you.”
“What sort of client?” said Jonas cautiously.
“He’s a young man – not all that young really – youngish. I met him at the tennis club. When I first joined he was new too, so we arranged a few singles.”
“Very natural,” said Jonas.
Claire looked at him suspiciously, then she said, “He’s not the sort of man who talks a lot, but I gathered that he’s down here for the summer, living in a caravan. He was in that big caravan park beyond the golf course, out on the Portsmouth Road. But he had to get out two or three days ago. There was some trouble.”
“What sort of trouble?”
“The person who told me about it didn’t really know. But the police turned up, and there was a bit of an argument. When I next saw him at the club I said if he needed a lawyer he’d better come and see you.”
“Has he a name?”
“His name’s Rowe. Dick Rowe.”
“And did he say when he proposed to call?”
“I think,” said Claire, who was looking out of the window, “that that’s him coming now.”
“Then we had better admit him.”
He wrote on the pad in front of him, ‘Rowe’, ‘caravan’ and ‘Trouble?’.
At the moment when Claire opened the front door and ushered Mr Rowe into the reception room, the door on the far side opened also, and Mrs Mountjoy came out, followed by her bad-tempered rough-haired Scots terrier, Bruce. ‘Like owner, like dog,’ Jonas used to say, which was unfair to Sabrina. True, she favoured an untidy hairstyle, but she was more abrupt than bad-tempered.
Bruce growled at the newcomer, and then made a dart for his ankles. Instead of retreating, Mr Rowe bent down and scooped Bruce up with a firm hand under each of his forelegs. Bruce looked disapproving. This was not the reaction he had expected. Mr Rowe held him for a moment, moving the fingers of his left hand. Then he said, “Yes. I thought I noticed a slight stiffness. There’s a lump under his right foreleg.”
“Oh dear,” said Mrs Mountjoy. “You don’t mean—”
“Not serious. Not yet, anyway. But you ought to have it cut out. A vet would do it with a local anaesthetic.”
He put down Bruce, who scuttled back behind Mrs Mountjoy and glared at the newcomer through the tangles of his hair. Claire said, “Better come in, Dick, before he changes his mind.” She ushered Mr Rowe into Jonas’s room, and closed the door behind him.
“And who in the world is that?” said Mrs Mountjoy.
“That,” said Claire, “is our first client.”
The description which occurred to Jonas when he saw Rowe was ‘average’. He was of average height, of average build, and had a very average face. He saw what Claire had meant when she had first said ‘young’ and then corrected it to ‘youngish’. Rowe certainly gave a general impression of youth, but where a young man’s face is open, and lit with the joyful expectation of what life has to offer, this face was closed. It was more than closed. It was sealed.
“Sit down, please,” said Jonas. “My secretary tells me that you had some problem.”
“Problem?” said Rowe. He sounded surprised. “Not that I’m aware of. I just wanted to make a will.”
“That shouldn’t be too difficult.” Jonas ran over in his mind the details he needed. “First I’d better have your full names.”
“Richard Athelston Rowe.”
“And address.”
“Since my movements are uncertain, it had better be my London bank. The London and Home Counties Bank.”
“Right.” Jonas scribbled busily. “Executors?”
“The bank has agreed to act as my executor.”
“Splendid. Then the next thing is, who are to be the beneficiaries?”
“I wish to leave everything to Claire Easterbrook.”
Jonas had almost written this down before the impact of it struck him.
He said, “You mean, my secretary?”
“Yes.” And, as Jonas paused, “Is there some difficulty?”
“If you had wanted to bequeath your estate to me,” said Jonas with a smile, “there would have been considerable difficulty. Solicitors aren’t supposed to draw up wills in favour of themselves. But members of their staff? I suppose there’s no objection.”
“Good.”
Jonas still hesitated. Then he said, “You mustn’t think me impertinent, but I gather that you have only known Miss Easterbrook for a month. Are there not other people, members of your own family . . .?”
“I have no family.”
“None at all?”
“None at all. I am unmarried. My father and mother are dead. They were only-children. I have no brothers or sisters. I understood that if I died without a will my property would go to the state. That seemed to me to be one good reason” – a very slight smile twitched the corner of his mouth – “for making a will.”
The accent was puzzling. There was the faint suspicion of a brogue, allied to a broadening of the vowels which Jonas associated with educated Americans. He said, “You must excuse me for having been startled by your proposal. In the way you put it, it seems quite logical. Might I ask if Miss Easterbrook is aware of your intentions?”
“No. And I see no reason to inform her. Unless” – again that very slight smile – “my will should become effective. If that happens, of course, she’ll have to know.”
“Then it will take a little longer, because I shall have to type it myself. When it’s ready, where shall I get in touch with you?”
There was a slight pause before Rowe said, “As I mentioned just now, my future movements are a bit uncertain. Could I call on you to sign the will in three days’ time? Say Thursday morning, about midday?”
“That should be sufficient time even for an inexpert typist like myself,” said Jonas.
Later that day he discussed their client with his partner Sabrina Mountjoy, from whom he had no secrets.
“He’s certainly got his wits about him,” she said. “I mean, noticing that Bruce was limping, and diagnosing what was wrong with him. I saw the vet at lunchtime, and he’s going to operate this evening.”
“He struck me as a remarkable man altogether,” said Jonas. “A man with no family, no face, and a curious reluctance to disclose his present address. Although, as it happens, I think I know it.”
“How come?”
“When old Major Appleby, of St Oswald’s, came to see me last Thursday, he mentioned that a stranger had called on him and asked permission to park his caravan for a few weeks in the spinney at the far end of their football field. From his description I think it was Rowe. He liked him and was prepared to say ‘yes’ but was worried about local authority repercussions.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I said that out of sight was out of mind.”
“That doesn’t sound to me like legal advice.”
“I didn’t charge him for it,” said Jonas.
As Mrs Mountjoy was going she said, “I’ve just realised it. Of course, your new client doesn’t exist.”
“What on earth do you mean?”
“He’s a legal fiction. Don’t you remember? John Doe and Richard Roe.”
She departed, cackling. Jonas started to type.
That was on Monday.
On Tuesday night Jonas slept badly. This was something that happened about once a month. Jonas thought that it might be something to do with the weather. The first heavy storm since their arrival had swept up the Channel that afternoon, and it had been raining on and off ever since. After a few hours of dozing he was jerked back to wakefulness by the feeling that something was wrong.
The rain had stopped, the clouds had blown off, the stars were showing, and the night was very still. What he had heard had been a sharp crack, and it had come from somewhere below him. He looked at his watch. Half past two. He got up and sat for a moment on the edge of his bed, thinking. Then he pulled on a sweater, pushed his feet into a pair of old slippers and started downstairs.
His living quarters were on two floors, bedroom and bathroom above, dining room, kitchen and living room below. He went into the dining room, which was immediately above his own office. There was no repetition of the crack which had woken him, but he could hear a succession of much smaller noises which suggested that someone was moving about. He hesitated no longer. He had no great opinion of burglars – mostly they were cowardly people whose one idea, if disturbed, was to get away. There was a poker in the fireplace. Jonas picked it up and made his way down to the hall.
Definitely there was someone in his office. Now he could hear a desk drawer being opened and shut. The crack which had woken him must have been made when the intruder forced the front of the desk. He threw open the office door, and clicked down the switch.
No result. Bulb taken out? In the half-light through the bow window he could make out the figure of a man, who was behind the desk and had been using a torch, which was switched off as Jonas appeared. For a moment nothing happened. Then, to his relief, he heard steps coming up from the basement. Sam was joining the action.
Jonas said, “You’d better come quietly. There are two of us.”
The man was out from behind the desk by now. He advanced towards Jonas steadily and without speaking. As Jonas swung the poker, something hit him with a horrid force in the muscle of his right arm. He dropped the poker. A knee drove into the bottom of his stomach. As he went down, crowing for breath, the door at the back of the room opened and Sam appeared, outlined against the light from the passage behind. The intruder hurdled Jonas, reached the hall door three steps ahead of Sam, jerked it open and made for the front gate, where a car stood, parked without lights. At the gate he paused for a moment.
Jonas, who had crawled as far as the open front door, croaked out a warning. Whether Sam heard it, or would have heeded it if he had heard it, is an open question. In fact, at that moment he slipped on the wet flagstones and went down.
There was a soft but unpleasant sound as the gun went off. The bullet went over Sam, who was on his back, through the open door, over Jonas who was on his knees, and smacked into the barometer which hung at the end of the hall.
The next moment the intruder was in the car, which was already moving. By the time Sam had got to his feet and lumbered to the gate it was thirty yards away and going fast.
Jonas said, “Watch it, Sam. Don’t let him get another shot at you.” He had got some of his breath back. The car was disappearing round the far corner.
Sam said, “I wanted to see if I could get his number, but it’s covered with mud. Crafty sod.”
“We’d better telephone the police.”
The policeman who arrived on a bicycle ten minutes later was large and red-haired. He told them that his name was Roberts, and it was clear from his manner that he was out to be reassuring. Jonas did not want to be reassured. He wanted the intruder caught. Roberts said, sure and they were probably tough lads from Brighton. People did shoot other people in Brighton. Not in Shackleton. Had anything been taken?
An examination of the office showed that the contents of the desk had been disturbed. Drawers had been opened, and papers scattered.
“It’s quite mad,” said Jonas. “I don’t keep money in my desk. I keep it in the bank.”
“Maybe he was after looking for the key of the safe.”
“It’s possible. He’d have been out of luck. I keep it in my bedroom. Hello!”
“Is something missing, then?”
“The only thing that seems to be missing,” said Jonas as he sorted out the mess, “is three sheets of paper. They were my third effort at typing out a will.”
“That’s a curious thing to steal, sir. However, there doesn’t seem to be a lot we can do about it tonight. Why don’t you come along in the morning and have a word with the skipper?”
Jonas looked at the pleasant, not over-intelligent face of PC Roberts, and agreed that it might be well to have a word with the skipper.
Detective Superintendent Queen listened patiently to what Jonas told him. He said, “It’s true that we get a few tough characters in here from Brighton and Portsmouth from time to time.”
“But what possible interest could they have in the papers in a solicitor’s desk?”
“I believe Roberts suggested they might have been looking for the key of the safe.”
“Then why did they steal three pieces of paper?”
“Yes,” said Queen thoughtfully, “that does seem odd. I didn’t quite follow about that. Were they valuable at all?”
“Their only value was that they’d taken me an hour to type out. It was a will.”
“Very odd. For a local person?” Seeing the look on Jonas’s face he added, hastily, “I wasn’t wanting to know what was in the will, you understand. Just the name. I thought it might give us a lead.”
“I suppose there’s no harm in mentioning his name. It was a Mr Richard Rowe. And he’s not local. Just a visitor.”
As Jonas noted the reaction of Superintendent Queen to this he suddenly remembered Claire telling him that there had been trouble involving the police at the caravan site. He had not been clear, from what she had said, if the arrival of the police and Rowe’s departure had been connected.
Queen said, “Would you excuse me for a moment, sir,” and went out, closing the door behind him. It turned into a long moment. Jonas could hear the rumble of voices from a nearby room. He was beginning to get impatient when Queen reappeared. He said, “I wonder if you would mind coming along and having a word with the boss.”
The boss, he gathered, was Chief Superintendent Whaley, head of the uniformed branch at Shackleton. He had already heard a number of things about Whaley, not all of them complimentary. He was a big man, with a strong black moustache and a colour in his cheeks that might have indicated short temper or high blood pressure. Or both, Jonas reflected. However, he seemed genial enough and waved Jonas to a chair.