‘I’m not suggesting anything,’ said Number Twelve, taking a long draught of his beer, ‘but if you had a couple of thousand, or even a couple of pounds, would you leave half of it to Monk?’
There was a pause while the old gentlemen thought about this. Most drank deeply to aid the thought processes. So rapid was the decline in the level of the glasses that Johnny felt obliged to order another round. The barmaid, unaware of the passions she roused in the old men, smiled sweetly at him as she pulled the final pint. Christy Butler, Number Thirteen, a printer in his previous existence, could not take his eyes off her, especially when she leant forward over her work.
‘It’s a mistake, surely,’ said Peter Baker, Number Ten, his hand on top of his head, searching for the few remaining hairs. ‘Warden Monk must be remembering things wrong.’
Number Ten was widely believed to be the most stupid person in the almshouse. There was no reply. Then Andrew Snow, Number Eighteen, whose sight had nearly gone, tapped the table with his fist.
‘My friends,’ he said, with the air of one making a great announcement of state like the Speech from the Throne or the Budget, ‘I have an important statement to make.’ Everybody turned to look at Number Eighteen, the wisps of white hair left on his forehead, the deep lines like a map around his mouth and his forehead, the white shirt he always wore under the silkmen’s coat. Then he looked confused. ‘The only thing is,’ he looked around suddenly, ‘I’m not sure I can tell you.’
‘Why not?’
‘Of course you can tell us.’
‘Don’t be so silly.’
‘You can’t lead us all up the garden path and then not tell, it’s not fair.’
Johnny Fitzgerald wondered how it was going to end. He felt he might be on the verge of discovering something at last. Andrew Snow, Number Eighteen, looked more confused than ever. When he turned to Johnny, an answer to his dilemma seemed to come to him.
‘Mr Fitzgerald,’ he said, ‘you’re a man of the world, I should say. Could you advise me on what I should do?’
‘I can’t really, unless I know exactly what it is you might be going to say. Why don’t we hop outside for a moment and you can tell me all about it, if the company have no objection?’
Hop would not be the first word to spring to mind about the progress of Number Eighteen from the back bar of the Rose and Crown to the road outside. He walked very slowly, holding on to the backs of the chairs as he went.
‘It’s like this, Mr Fitzgerald,’ he began, after Johnny had steered him a few paces away from the pub. He paused briefly. ‘I had a conversation with Abel Meredith, Number Twenty, a couple of months ago. It’s not often I remember conversations these days but I can remember this one very clearly. We were talking about our wills and I said my money, not that there’s much of it, was going to my nephews and nieces. He said — I’m certain of this — that all his money was going to his brother who lived in Canada, Saskatchewan or Alberta, one of those places. What do you think of that, Mr Fitzgerald? Should I tell the colleagues about it?’
‘Of course you should,’ said Johnny cheerfully, sensing that a profitable hornet’s nest was about to open up. ‘They have a right to know, those men. Who knows how many other wills have been changed, if that is what is going on?’
There was an expectant air as the two of them returned to the Rose and Crown. Number Twelve was trying to start a flirtatious conversation with the barmaid, whose blonde hair and pale brown eyes looked particularly fine this evening. Jack Miller, Number Three, who had spent his life working in a bank, was staring expectantly at his empty glass as if it might be refilled by the workings of divine providence. Number Eight’s head was beginning to slip forward as if an evening nap might be about to start only a couple of hours after the afternoon one had ended.
‘Well?’ said Freddie Butcher, Number Two.
‘What’s the news?’ asked John Watkins, Number Fifteen.
They all stared at Andrew Snow, Number Eighteen, as he repeated his moves on the way out, holding on to the chairs as he made his way back to his seat. He took his place with a great sigh and took a long pull at the remains of his pint. Johnny Fitzgerald, always quick to detect the advent of thirst in himself and his drinking companions, offered to buy another round before the news broke. He was duly despatched to the bar, where the barmaid showed off her wares once more to the great delight of the old gentlemen.
‘I was just saying to Mr Fitzgerald here,’ said Number Eighteen, ‘that I remember a conversation I had with Number Twenty a couple of months ago. I’d be the first to admit that I don’t remember all my conversations that well these days’ — there was a general nod of agreement at this point from the company — ‘but I do remember this one. I remember it very clearly. We were talking about wills. I said that I was going to leave all my money to my nephews and nieces, not that there was very much of it. Abel Meredith told me he was going to leave all his money to a brother in Canada, Saskatchewan I think he said, wherever that is. They always told us at school that Canada was a very big country so this Saskatchewan place could be anywhere. He didn’t say anything about leaving money to Monk, not a word.’
The old men stared at him for a moment as if they had been hypnotized. Then, virtually in unison, as if obeying a hidden conductor, they raised their glasses to their lips and drank deeply. Johnny Johnston, Number Nine, beginning a fresh pint from his refill, had a ring of creamy foam round his mouth. Stephen Potter, Number Fourteen, was wiping beer off his moustache with a bright red handkerchief.
‘God bless my soul!’ said Number Twelve, the man from the fish trade. ‘He didn’t mention Monk at all, Meredith, I mean?’
‘He did not,’ said Number Eighteen.
‘Man’s a bounder,’ said Jack Miller, Number Three. ‘Always thought so.’
‘Do you think he robs us every time somebody dies? This has got to be stopped.’ Josiah Collins, Number Seventeen, the man who read his bible every morning, made his first contribution of the evening.
‘What are we going to do?’ said Andrew Snow, Number Eighteen. ‘We can’t let it lie. Mr Fitzgerald, can you give us some advice?’
Johnny had been tying to make a link between forged wills and murder and found the connection difficult. He established, to his great surprise, that some of the old men delivered their wills into Monk’s keeping when they arrived at the hospital. The Warden told them, he was assured, that this way was preferable to the quarters of the recently dead being searched in the quest for a last will and testament.
‘Well,’ Johnny began, ‘the first thing to do, I would suggest, is that all those who have entrusted their wills to his care should ask for them back. Then I think you should take them all to a reputable solicitor close by. That way everybody will know at once where to look for anybody else’s will. More important, I think, is that you need to ask Monk for his version of events. So far we only have a guess, a very intelligent guess, mind you, from Henry Wood, Number Twelve, about what has been going on. I think it might be premature to condemn the Warden as a blackguard without any hard evidence.’
‘How do we do ask him what’s been going on?’
‘I’m sure he’s a blackguard!’
‘The devil! I shan’t speak to him ever again!’
‘What a thing to do!’
The old men were all talking at once. The barmaid popped her head round the corner to see if anything strange was going on. Johnny suddenly felt very sorry for the inhabitants of the Jesus Hospital. Here they were, away from their families, if they had any left, in a strange place, with decay and death waiting for them. That was all that was left. They were like children, he said to himself, too innocent to know what to do in difficult circumstances. But children grow up, they grow wiser, they put away childish things. They grow into maturity, secure in the knowledge that their powers should increase over time and that their future is in front of them. The future had shrunk to a seventeenth-century quadrangle and evenings in the Rose and Crown for the men of the Jesus Hospital. Even the young knew that death would come in the end, but for them death was so far away they never thought of it. Here it could come tomorrow, a stroke in the night, a failing heart, a murderer’s knife.