The Price of Butcher's Meat (44 page)

“You saying he killed her?”

“He's high on my list. His first thought was to find and destroy the new will. But it was nowhere to be found. No great cause for panic. If
he
couldn't find it, who could? When he inherited the hall, he'd be able to search at his leisure. The only fly in the ointment was the witnesses. If they spoke up, then a serious search might be instigated. Happily, one of them quickly followed Lady Denham across the great divide…”

“You saying Teddy killed Ollie Hollis as well?”

“He certainly had a motive,” said Pascoe. “Which left Clara, the other witness. Not only did she know about the second will, it occurred
to him, or maybe his sister, that she was the person most likely to know where Lady D had hidden it. On the other hand, she also would lose out if the will surfaced. The sensible thing to do would be nothing, relying on self-interest to keep Brereton quiet. I suspect this is what the sister advised.”

Dalziel nodded. This fit with his reading of Esther too.

He said, “But Ted thinks he can charm the knickers off any woman he meets…”

“Right. And he's not really going to rest easy till he's burnt the will. So he rings Brereton, and chats her up. She says yes, reckons she knows where the will could be hidden, and suggests they meet after she's had a chance to check it out.”

“What for? Why not just say she'll destroy it, if that's the route she's going down? Or she'll hand it over to Mr. Beard, if her conscience is too ticklish.”

“Because,” said Pascoe, “her conscience isn't all that ticklish. She reckons she's earned her inheritance, putting up with Aunt Daph's little ways all these months. But it really gripes her that her reward is going to be just a few thousand while the randy bart and his sister get millions! So she goes to the hall, checks the secret drawer, finds the will, rings Ted and says she's found it and she's on her way to meet him on the beach. However, he's waiting for her on the ledge.”

“And he pushes her over? Why'd he do that before he'd got his hands on the will?”

“Maybe it really was an accident,” said Pascoe. “Or maybe she didn't say she had it in her pocket but that she'd left it in its hiding place where she could lay her hands on it whenever she wanted. He thought, If it's so well hidden, I don't need to worry. And I certainly don't need cousin Clara twisting my balls for a share of my inheritance. So over she goes, then he ducks into the cave when he hears Wieldy coming. That's the way I read it anyway. What do you think, Andy?”

“More loose ends than you'd find at a tinker's wedding,” said
Dalziel. “But I suppose it's worth pulling the bugger. Not sure about Esther, but.”

“No? Well, I think she's implicated up to her swanlike neck,” said Pascoe. “When I interviewed her in the hall, she'd changed her clothes. I know that because of what Charley Heywood says in one of those e-mails Shirley so cleverly got her hands on.”

Dalziel saw Novello wince at the reminder. Or mebbe she was just looking modest at the compliment!

“So she got wet, it were raining.”

“According to her statement she went straight into the hall as soon as the storm began. Also I think she'd hurt her right arm. I think she may have burnt it.”

“Like on the hog roast cage? Okay, she got a burn when they found the body and that's when she got mussed up, helping to get it off the barbecue pit.”

Pascoe said, “You're very defensive of the lady, Andy. Not becoming chivalrous in your old age, are you?”

God, he's getting right cocky! thought the Fat Man. In front of the servants too!

“I think that what with Daphne coming the duchess and her useless brother buggering around in every sense of the phrase, she's had a lot to put up with,” he said.

“My points exactly. Provoked by her aunt, protective of her brother, I reckon she'd be up for anything. Incidentally, no one reports seeing her around when the body was discovered, and she herself says she stayed in the house when the others went outside again after the storm stopped. Any other comments, Andy? Always glad of your input.”

“Only that with two such desperate criminals to bring in, mebbe I'd better go along with Ivor.”

Watching their faces as he spoke, he savored their reactions to his generous offer of help. Pascoe looked doubtful, Novello looked disgruntled. Her, he could understand. From being the arresting officer, she'd
be demoted to junior assist. As for Pascoe, he was probably thinking, Is there no way I can stop this fat bastard from getting in on the act? No, a bit more than that. From pissing on my parade!

He said, “Pete, it's your call. You're the man. And it'll be Ivor's collar. I'll just be along as the heavy.”

“Fine,” said Pascoe with sudden decision. “Do it. One thing more. Bring Ted's watch, big chunky Rolex. If he's not wearing it, look for it.”

“Without a warrant?” said Dalziel.

“Use your imagination,” said Pascoe coldly.

“Why do we want the watch, sir?” said Novello, as always eager to learn.

“Something had snagged the victim's blouse, and when I interviewed Sir Edward, he was having trouble with his watch clasp.”

“You don't break a Rolex catch by snagging it on a bit of silk,” objected Dalziel.

“No. But as clever Miss Heywood pointed out for us, this is a fake, remember?” said Pascoe triumphantly. “Probably you could bend the catch by breathing on it. Now, I'd better get back in there before Wield and Beard come to blows over who's prettiest.”

He returned to the drawing room where, far from fighting, he discovered the lawyer and the sergeant having an animated conversation about Gilbert and Sullivan.

“Sorry to interrupt,” said Pascoe, “but I'd be grateful if you'd cast your eye over this, Mr. Beard.”

The lawyer took the will form and read through it carefully. He snapped his fingers and Miss Gay passed him a magnifying glass through which he scrutinized parts of the will even more closely.

Finally satisfied, he put down the glass and sat back on the sofa.

“What we have here,” he said, “is a will, simple in purpose and unambiguous in language, revoking all previous wills and appointing myself as sole executor, in which the entirety of the late Lady Denham's estate is left to the Yorkshire Equine Trust. It is handwritten
and I can confirm beyond any reasonable doubt that the writing is Lady Denham's, as is the signature. It is dated two days ago, and therefore postdates the will in my possession whose dispositions we discussed earlier.”

He paused.

“So, for the avoidance of doubt,” said Pascoe, “you can confirm that the will you read to us is no longer valid and that, unless yet another will surfaces, what we have here is legally the last will and testament of the late Lady Denham?”

“I don't believe I said that, Chief Inspector,” said Mr. Beard.

“I'm sorry? I thought you said you were convinced the signature was genuine?”

“Indeed I did, and indeed I am. Lady Denham's signature this certainly is. But then we come to the two witnesses who are given as Mr. Oliver Hollis and Miss Clara Brereton. I have had occasion to see Miss Brereton's signature only once before, so I cannot be absolutely certain, but it does not accord with memory. As for Mr. Oliver Hollis, he was, coincidentally, or perhaps significantly, along with Miss Gay here”—the secretary bobbed her head in unsmiling acknowledgment—“a witness to the will I have in my briefcase. You may, if you wish, compare his signature there with what I see before me here. Myself, I have no such need. I can affirm beyond all doubt that it was not written by his hand.”

Beard and Wieldy were right to be talking about Gilbert and Sullivan, thought Pascoe. We're in Titipu!

He said, “So what are you saying, Mr. Beard?”

For the first time the lawyer smiled, white teeth gleaming through black beard, as though he'd been waiting all his life for this.

“I am saying that Lady Denham appears to have forged her own will!”

Dennis Seymour wasn't good with hospitals. When his twin daughters were born, he'd managed to witness the arrival of the first, but by the time the second emerged, he was lying on the floor, receiving treatment himself. So it was with no great enthusiasm that he'd made his way to the Avalon and asked to be directed to intensive care.

Shirley Novello had shown no reluctance to be relieved. The only hope she could offer of anything to dilute the boredom was a warning that Gordon Godley had appeared and asked if he could have a few minutes with the patient.

“Sounded harmless, but the nuts often do,” said Novello. “I sent him packing, but keep an eye open. Never trust a man with a beard; he's usually got something to hide.”

“Means I'm there with a chance then,” grinned Seymour, stroking his chin.

“Oh no. Clean shaven's worse. Means you've got nothing to hide. Cheers, Dennis.”

Since then he had sat on a hard chair in the corridor with nothing to occupy him but the beep from the life-support system to which the still figure on the bed was hooked up. The arrival of a nurse to check that all was as it should be came as a welcome relief. She was rather pretty and he tried to flirt with her, but she was young enough to regard a man in his thirties as a lost cause and merely looked embarrassed. When she appeared again some fifteen minutes later, he tried the poor-old-man approach and asked if there was any way of getting a cup of coffee.

She pointed down the corridor and said, “Visitors' lounge, third on the right, help yourself.”

She went into the room. Based on her previous visit, she'd be in there for several minutes, so Seymour wandered off along the corridor. The visitors' lounge was unlike any hospital waiting room Seymour had ever been in. His feet sank into a thick piled carpet, a scatter of richly upholstered armchairs invited him into their depths, along one wall ran a rack of up-to-date newspapers and magazines, and on an antique sideboard against the opposite wall rested a plateful of what smelt like freshly baked scones and a state-of-the-art percolator.

Used to pressing a button and watching a plastic cup fill with brown sludge, Seymour was still puzzling over the mechanics of the device when the door opened and the pretty nurse looked in.

“Bet you're good with cars though,” she said as she made him a cup of delicious coffee.

“Yeah, keep getting head-hunted by Ferrari, but I don't care for their team colors.”

He reckoned it was quite a good line but he only got a polite, slightly puzzled smile. He helped himself to a scone and made for the door. It opened and Hat Bowler came in.

“Hi, Dennis. Might have guessed I'd find you stuffing your face. My uncle not bothering you, is he, miss?”

The nurse laughed out loud and said, “Is there a police convention here they didn't tell me about?”

“No, I've just been sent to make sure this guy's doing his job. Also I'm looking for someone. Bet those bright blue eyes don't miss much. Ever see her around?”

He put the edited photo into the nurse's hand then made himself a cup of coffee with an ease that even more than the nurse's reaction told Seymour he was getting old.

The nurse said, “I think it could be Miss Bannerjee. She was a patient when I started a year ago, but I didn't really know her, as she moved on not long after I came.”

“Moved on? You don't mean she, you know,
died
?” said Hat, mouthing the last word lugubriously.

“No, of course not. I mean she left,” said the nurse, laughing.

“Thank God for that!” said Hat, laughing with her. “Had me worried for a moment. So she was discharged, everything in working order? That's great. I expect they'll have a forwarding address in the office.”

“I expect so,” said the nurse. “Though there might be a problem. If I remember right, she wasn't discharged as such, more sort of like I said…left.”

“Left? You mean like…disappeared? Here one moment, gone the next? Indian rope trick?”

“No, don't be daft! I think her family decided she should go, there was a bit of bother…. Look, I shouldn't be talking to you about a patient really…”

“You're not, 'cos she's not a patient, is she?” said Hat triumphantly. “Anyway, if you're talking about the rumors about her and Dr. Feldenhammer, no one pays any attention to that sort of thing. Happens all the time with doctors, and with policemen too. I mean, here's you and me talking away, all innocent, but if someone decided to start spreading a rumor that I really fancied you, there's nothing we could do about it, is there? Specially 'cos a rumor like that would be really easy to believe. I've just heard it myself and I'm starting to believe it!”

It was ludicrously corny, but that didn't stop it from working, thought Seymour half enviously. Another couple of minutes of this should be enough for Bowler to have extracted everything she knew about the rumored relationship between Feldenhammer and Miss Bannerjee.

Time to give him a free run.

“Best be getting back,” he said.

He stuck the scone in his mouth to free a hand to pick up a newspaper. That might win him a few precious minutes in the fight against boredom.

As he reached the intensive care unit door, he glanced through the glass panel and suddenly boredom seemed a condition devoutly to be wished.

There was someone in there, stooping over the recumbent figure on the bed, his hands hovering over her head.

It was Gordon Godley.

Dropping his cup and newspaper, and letting out a bellow of, “Hat!” that Dalziel would have been proud of, Seymour pushed open the door and rushed in.

“What the hell are you doing?” he demanded, grabbing hold of the man and dragging him away.

Godley offered no resistance.

“It's okay,” he said. “Really. It's okay.”

“It better had be, you bastard,” grated Seymour, pushing the man up against the wall and holding him there with one hand on his chest, the other ready with clenched fist to deliver a disabling punch if he tried anything.

Hat Bowler burst through the door, followed by the pretty nurse.

“You need any help there?” demanded Bowler.

“No. I've got him,” said Seymour, irritated to realize he was much more out of breath than Godley. “Just check that she's okay, will you?”

He glowered at his unresisting captive till the nurse said, “Everything looks fine. No harm done.”

“Good,” said Bowler. “Well done, Dennis. You got him before he had time to do anything.”

“Thank Christ for that,” said Seymour, shuddering to think of Pascoe's reaction if he'd been too late.

But Mr. Godley was shaking his head.

“No, I don't think so,” he said. “It felt like I had plenty of time.”

“For what, you bastard?” demanded Seymour, alarmed once more. “What were you trying to do to her?”

Then the nurse cried, “Look!”

He turned, fearful of what he might see.

Clara Brereton had opened her eyes. They were moving rapidly, taking in the room, the people there. She brought her fingers up to the tube down her throat as if she wanted to speak.

The nurse said, “I'll get a doctor,” and pressed a button on the wall by the bed.

Seymour looked back at Godley.

The man was smiling and nodding his head.

“There,” he said. “I knew I'd had time.”