‘No. Hardly.’
Gerald looked at him, puzzled. He didn’t like being in a position of ignorance on any subject, and started probing. ‘Whoever it goes to, there’s a lot.’
‘Yes.’
‘Steen did all right. Even with estate duty, it’ll be worth having.’
Charles nodded, determined not to give anything away.
Gerald tried another tack. ‘You want to find this out for yourself?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’ll be public knowledge soon. If you can only wait a few-’
‘I want to know as soon as possible.’
‘Well, Charles, you are a dark horse.’ Gerald sat back in his chair and sipped his Cognac. It was amusing for Charles to see him in this state, his usual poise unbalanced by childlike curiosity. ‘Charles, is it a crime?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Are there any suspicions about the will? Surprise heirs in Australia, forgery, skulduggery with birth certificates, secret codicils?’ Gerald threw out the ideas like baits, hoping to catch some reaction. Charles smiled in a way that he knew was infuriating.
Gerald was suitably infuriated. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Charles. You can tell me. Look, if I know the circumstances, it’ll make my enquiries much easier.’ Charles continued to smile. Gerald was reduced to infantile tactics. ‘Listen, if you don’t tell me why you want to know, then I won’t find out for you.
‘Oh dear. Then I’ll have to ask someone else.’
Gerald looked rattled, but controlled himself, smiled and said, ‘Charles, if there’s anything suspicious, I want to know. Look, I’m a sucker for that sort of thing. Always reading detective stories. I don’t know, it’s a fascination. It’s my hobby, if you like.’
‘I thought your hobby was money.’
‘That’s my main one, but I can’t resist suspicious circumstances. It’s been a life-long ambition of mine to be involved in something mysterious, a crime. I don’t mean the sort of official crime I deal with as a solicitor. I mean real cloak-and-dagger investigation stuff.’ Charles remained silent. ‘Listen, if you are involved in crime, from whatever side of the law, you need a solicitor. Oh, Charles, do tell me!’ he burst out petulantly, but still got no reaction. ‘Listen, if you are investigating a crime-’
‘And what on earth makes you think I am?’
‘I don’t know. Something about the way you’re behaving. Listen, if you are, I won’t charge you anything.’
‘You what?’
‘I will undertake any investigations free…’
‘Gerald, are you feeling all right?’
‘… so long as you let me in on all the details.’
‘Hmm.’ Charles was circumspect. It was a very good offer, an amazing offer, considering who it came from. But he himself felt so far from convinced there was any crime to investigate, that he had no desire to spread ill-founded suspicions. ‘Gerald,’ he began slowly, ‘if there were something fishy, and I were to tell you, could I trust your discretion?’
‘Of course.’ Gerald was affronted. ‘I am a solicitor.’
‘That’s what I mean. All right, I accept your offer.’
‘So there is a crime?’
‘Maybe.’
‘All right, give me the dirt.’ Gerald made no pretence of maturity now. He was an eager child. Charles remembered that Gerald had always been like that. It was the same quality that made his fascination with money so inoffensive. Not for the first time Charles reflected that growing-up is a myth; getting older is just an intenser form of childhood. ‘I’ll give you the dirt,’ he said, denying the child his treat, ‘when you tell me about the will.’
‘You bugger,’ said Gerald. But he agreed to the deal.
When the bill was brought to Charles, it was enormous. It was a long time since he’d eaten out in this style and he was shocked by the escalation of prices and VAT.
‘Think yourself lucky,’ said Gerald, as Charles counted out the notes. ‘If we hadn’t come to an agreement, you d be paying for my time as well.’
Charles didn’t tell Jacqui about their new ally in investigation when they met up that evening to report progress. He just said he’d met his solicitor friend who reckoned he could find out the details of the will.
Jacqui was in quite a state. She’d been down to Goring for Marius’ funeral, (having found out the time by ringing Morrison at Orme Gardens). At the church she’d ended up in the cliche situation of being frozen out by Marius’ relatives. It was the stereotyped picture beloved of cartoonists-the family (Nigel and a few cousins), trim in their black on one side of the grave, and the floosie (Jacqui), in an unsuitable black cocktail dress and purple fur-collared coat, weeping on the other. The burial had been a small affair. Marius was against cremation; he wanted to lie in an English grave with a marble headstone. A memorial service in St George’s, Hanover Square, was to follow, for Steen’s theatrical and business acquaintances. No one spoke to Jacqui or even acknowledged her, except for Morrison. By the end of the ceremony she was so upset that she hadn’t the nerve to go to the house with the small party of mourners, and caught a train straight back to London.
However, she had managed to have a few brief words with Morrison and questioned him about Nigel’s movements over the weekend of his father’s death. (She assured Charles she had been subtle in her questioning, but he dreaded to think what she meant by subtlety. If there were any alarms to start, he had no doubt she’d set them jangling.) From Morrison she had found out a significant fact, which would have deterred anyone less prejudiced in their conviction of Nigel Steen’s guilt. The young man’s car, a Jensen Interceptor was out of action at the relevant time. It had had brake trouble and Morrison, who was an expert mechanic, had offered to mend it over the weekend. He’d attended to the brakes on the Saturday, but then, feeling unhappy with the alignment of the wheels, had started work on them. He was a perfectionist, and the job took a long time. When he left the vehicle on the Saturday evening, all four wheels were off, and they were in that state when he returned to the job on the Sunday morning. He didn’t finish work until the evening, and it was then that Nigel drove off down to Berkshire, and found his father dead. In reply to the question as to whether Nigel could have used the Datsun, Morrison couldn’t say. Miss Menzies had filled it with petrol on the Friday afternoon and used it on the Monday morning. No doubt she would have noticed if it had been used in the interim.
‘Who’s Miss Menzies?’ asked Charles.
‘Joanne. Marius’ secretary.’
‘Oh yes. I’ve met her. Hmm. And you actually managed to get all that information without Morrison getting at all suspicious?’
‘Yes. Anyway, what if he did get suspicious? He doesn’t like Nigel any more than anyone else.’
It seemed to be a feature of the case that no one had a good word to say for Nigel Steen. Not having met the man, and basing his conclusions on other people’s prejudices, Charles decided that young Steen’s main offence was that he was not his father. From all accounts he didn’t sound as if he had the spunk to be a murderer.
‘Where does Nigel live?’
‘I think he’s got a flat near Knightsbridge, but he’s never there. Spends all his time in Orme Gardens or at Streatley.’
‘Father’s boy?’
‘I wouldn’t say that.’
‘How did they get on, Jacqui?’
‘I don’t know. I hardly ever saw them together, and Marius never talked about Nigel. But you’ve seen the letter.’
‘Yes. And did Joanne like him?’
‘Did she like who? She liked Marius.’ Was there a hint of jealousy there?
‘No. Nigel.’
‘I don’t think she liked him.’
‘Hmm. Then I think perhaps she’s due for a visitation.’
Charles was making-up next morning in Hereford Road when the phone rang.
‘Hello. Oh, Maurice, I was just making-up.’
‘What for? You working and not telling me?’