‘What about?’ asked Arno.
‘Doesn’t say.’ May crossed to the open window and held the letter out, facing the sun. After a few moments her arm began to tremble. She brought the paper back in and laid it against her cheek, breathing deeply. ‘Well, the news is certainly good. I should ring up, Arno, and make an appointment.’
Arno was not able to speak with Mr Pousty who was now on holiday in the Cairngorms, but was told that Hugo Clinch would be delighted to see them at two-thirty p.m. that very afternoon.
A man in his mid-thirties, Mr Clinch wore a beautifully cut electric-blue suit, a lighter blue silk tie and a dove-grey waistcoat. His shirt was pale canary yellow as were the crimped and crinkled high waves of his hair. He had an awful lot of large, very clean teeth.
The office was light and airy with a reproduction of Annigoni’s ‘Queen’ on one wall and long narrow photographs of various cricket elevens on the other three. There was a bag of golf clubs resting against the filing cabinet and a silver-framed photograph on the desk, showing Mr Clinch with a fencing guard under his arm and a rapier in his hand.
Arno, who would have felt happier with a few old-fashioned proficiency certificates, saw May settled then sat down himself. No sooner had he done so than the door opened and a lady wearing a hat like a varnished mushroom and looking old enough to be Mr Clinch’s grandma, staggered in with a tray of tea things. Arno sprang up and assisted her. She croaked gratefully at him and tottered off, leaving a niff of lavender in the air.
After refreshments had been dispensed - Lapsang Souchong and Lincoln biscuits - Mr Clinch commiserated with his visitors on the unfortunate occasion of their friend’s demise. This brief legal obsequy accomplished, he drew towards him a grey metal box with ‘Craigie’ stencilled in white letters on the side and smiled. All the teeth sprang to their stations. Arno marvelled at the pushy thrust of sparkling white enamel and wondered how on earth he ever managed to close his lips.
The Will was brief and simple. It concisely described the property known as the Manor House, Compton Dando, Buckinghamshire, then stated that this property was left jointly to Miss May Lavinia Cuttle and Mr Arno Roderick Gibbs. The solicitor waited a discreet moment, eyes tactfully on his green tooled blotter, then looked up expecting to see joyful rapacity wrestling with a more seemly expression of respectable mourning as was usual under such circumstances.
He saw Mr Gibbs pale as death, gripping the wooden arms of his chair obviously within the grip of some devastating emotion. In sharp contrast, Miss Cuttle’s countenance, already vivaciously embellished, blushed deeper by the minute. She cried out, and began to weep copiously.
Mr Clinch, momentarily shocked into a natural human response, fumbled in his desk cupboard and brought out a box of tissues. Eventually, when his wastebasket was half full of brilliantly coloured wet paper and a rose or two had returned to Arno’s cheeks, the solicitor offered some more tea. When this was refused, he passed an envelope over to Arno whom he regarded as being slightly less distraught than his companion. It was inscribed to them both in the Master’s writing. Arno rose saying, ‘Do we have to read it now?’
‘Of course not. Although there may be matters arising you might wish to discuss. It would possibly save making another appointment.’
‘Even so, I think we need time to absorb all this. Certainly Miss Cuttle ...’ He looked anxiously across at May who still appeared rather swimmy. Even the green cockade on her little red tricorne hat looked limp.
‘No Arno,’ she said. ‘Mr Clinch is right. More sensible to read it now.’
‘Then perhaps - if you wouldn’t mind?’ Arno passed the letter back, not trusting his voice to repeat the dead man’s words. The solicitor drew out a single sheet of paper and began.
‘My dear May and Arno, You will know by now the contents of my Will and the burden I have placed upon you. My greatest wish is that the work of the community, the healing, the offering of refuge and the sending out of the light continues and I believe that I can safely leave this matter in your hands. I regret I am unable to bequeath any monies to assist you in this enterprise. Should the difficulties of running and maintaining such a large and elderly property become insurmountable, then I would suggest that it is sold and a smaller one purchased. You might then consider investing the difference, thus assuring some sort of future income. I commend to you, also with feelings of complete confidence, the safety and welfare of Tim Riley. My love to you both. God bless you. We shall meet again. And it is signed,’ concluded Mr Clinch, ‘Arthur Craigie.’
There was a long silence. Both legatees knew the absolute impossibility of finding an adequate response. Mr Clinch, forewarned, whipped out a fresh box of Kleenex. He then stared tactfully out of the window as the silence continued and was miles away when Miss Cuttle sprang to her feet. A dramatic gesture of affirmation brought her cape into vigorous play. Blinded by whirling arcs of pleated amber silk, Mr Clinch grabbed at his inkstand and the framed picture of himself en garde.
‘We will keep the truth alight. Won’t we, Arno?’ she demanded, turning damp and shining eyes on her companion.
‘... oh ...’ Arno could hardly speak. At this linking ... this official linking from beyond of his name with May’s, he felt quite incoherent. Then, in case she doubted even for a moment his full and loving support, he managed to choke out, ‘Yes, yes.’
Mr Clinch promised the deeds of the house in due course, saw them through the outer office where the lady in the mushroom hat was feeding some goldfish and, with a final dazzling smile, waved goodbye.
Driving down Causton High Street, May said, ‘Do you think we should drop into the police station?’
‘Hum?’ Arno was still not really back to earth.
‘They said to let them know if there were any developments. I suppose finding the Will could be said to come under that heading.’
‘Well ...’ The truth was Arno wished to keep May to himself for as long as possible. Just the two of them snugly enclosed in her noisy little Beetle. May, declaiming behind the wheel, himself absorbing all like a happy sponge.
‘Next on the left, isn’t it?’
‘I’m not sure.’
It was. May parked neatly in a place marked ‘visitors only’ and climbed out. Arno said, ‘Will you leave your bag?’
‘Good heavens, no. We’re always being warned about that.’ May removed her embroidered hold-all and locked the door. ‘Some policeman is bound to see it and then I’d get ticked off.’
‘Perhaps he won’t be here - Barnaby,’ said Arno as they pushed the big glass door marked ‘Reception’. ‘He might be out on a case.’
‘Then we’ll leave a message,’ said May. There was a white button next to a card saying Please Buzz for Attention. May buzzed loudly and at length. ‘One thing I’m not up to is talking to that youth with the frazzled aura. One gets pulled down by people like that for days.’
A constable strode up, glaring crossly at May’s gloved digit. She released the button, stated their errand and they were taken over to the CID block and shown into Barnaby’s office. Troy, Arno was pleased to note, was absent. Declining any sort of refreshment, May told him their news. The chief inspector, once he had recovered from the shock of being faced with a walking traffic light, asked if either of them had anticipated such a bequest.
‘Indeed not.’ May appeared shocked, almost offended.
Arno said, ‘Such a thought never crossed our minds.’
Barnaby thought that was probably true. They really seemed the most artless pair. Quite without the usual insincere smiles and false declarations of concern wherewith the human race is wont to oil the wheels of daily commerce. May produced the letter and sat watching as he read it. When he had finished, Barnaby thanked her, noted the telephone number and handed it back. They waited on his comments. May, ingenuous and calm, her face momentarily smoothed of emotion. Arno, proud but slightly awkward beneath his unsought mantle of authority.