“I see this man he refers to as his good friend, Parbold, pretty well scoops the pool. You know what they say: where there’s a will, there’s a relative. Has Routley no family at all?”
“The matron says not. He’s a bachelor, and when I asked if, nevertheless, he might have any children, she sounded shocked and said that with a gentleman of that calibre, it was absolutely out of the question.”
“Stranger things have happened, but never mind. So there’s no one else who might have a possible claim on the estate?”
“She’s positive from what he has said to her that there are no brothers or sisters, and she isn’t aware of any cousins, however many times removed, let alone nephews or nieces. So that leaves the way clear for Walter Parbold.”
“A bachelor’s old boyfriend, perhaps?”
“Maybe, though the matron was so brisk and businesslike, I didn’t dare to ask.”
“How much is the estate worth?”
“Too little to attract inheritance tax. There are bank and building society accounts, National Savings, and a few privatisation shares. But not more than sixty thousand in total. A tidy sum, but hardly a fortune.”
“The prices some of these homes charge,” said Harry, “he probably went in there a millionaire. So — at least there’s no problem about covering the specific bequests?”
“None at all. You can see there are several small pecuniary legacies to other residents at the home. He intends to leave his gold watch to his doctor, a local G.P. whose name is Berkeley. All rather trivial in money terms, but I suppose the little things matter a great deal when you come towards the end.”
“Parbold’s the sole executor, I notice.”
“Yes, no scope for appointing Jim and yourself, I’m afraid.”
Unspoken was the acknowledgement that a solicitor did not make money out of drawing a will. Profit came with the work on the probate. Routley had no doubt decided that his affairs were easy enough to administer. If Parbold was intelligent and capable, there might be little need to involve a solicitor. And as a lawyer himself, Routley would know better than most what a hole legal fees could make in any estate. On the other hand, if Parbold turned out to be elderly or inefficient, the odds were that he would soon find the burden of executorship too much to cope with alone. The price of professional help was often worth paying. Harry sensed there might still be an opportunity for further business.
“Did you find out whether Parbold is willing to act?”
“Yes, the matron was sure about that. Parbold often pops in to see his pal and he was happy to help.”
“What if Parbold dies before Routley?”
Sylvia flushed. “I–I didn’t ask. I assumed that, since Mr. Routley is in such a poor state, the question simply wouldn’t arise. Do you disagree?”
“Even a sick man may linger on for much longer than anyone would expect,” Harry pointed out, “while a perfectly healthy person can be run over by a bus at any time — especially in view of the way they are driven round the streets of Liverpool.”
“Shall I give the matron a ring?”
“Not a bad idea.”
She checked the number in the book, but a couple of minutes spent listening to the answering tone convinced them both that the Mersey Haven Rest Home was woefully understaffed. Perhaps all the caregivers were sitting outside, soaking up the sun.
“What shall we do?” Sylvia could not conceal her anxiety. In Jim’s absence, Routley’s will had offered a chance for her to shine, and now she was afraid that if the unexpected happened and the residuary gift to Parbold lapsed, it would be her fault.
Harry closed Ibbotson with a decisive smack. “It’s too lovely to stay inside any longer. I don’t have any more appointments this afternoon, and I wouldn’t mind making an early start to the weekend by running over to Otterspool.”
Crestfallen, Sylvia said, “So you’re taking over the file?”
“Not at all. I can scarcely tell a codicil from a cold supper. But if you’re dealing with a retired solicitor, you may find it useful to have me come along. If any last-minute redrafting is necessary, we can retype the will at the home. I presume they must have a typewriter, if not a word processor.”
“And when the poor old man’s ready to sign,” she said, brightening, “we can act as witnesses, if need be. As a matter of fact, the matron did enquire about that.”
Harry got to his feet. He had become interested in this new client, even experienced a certain fellow feeling for him. Maybe when they met, Harry would see in Routley his own reflection in forty years’ time, a retired solicitor with no wife or kids, just a bit of money in the bank, a few mementoes to leave to acquaintances, and a host of memories that would die as soon as he did. But none of this could he explain to the earnest young woman who saw the forthcoming meeting as so much valuable experience.
“Let’s move, then,” he said. “I wouldn’t like the old bugger to breathe his last while we’re queuing at the traffic lights by Jericho Lane.”
In the years when Gladstone reckoned that peace in Eastern Europe and an answer to the Irish Question were just around the corner, the yellow brick villa which now housed the Mersey Haven Rest Home must have belonged to one of his wealthiest fellow Liverpudlians. At that time, the owner could scarcely have imagined the day would dawn when a development of poky semis would encroach upon the wooded grounds of his home and when on the river which it overlooked not a single oceangoing ship could be seen. Now the building seemed an anachronism. So long had passed since a single family lived here in splendour. Its gentility had faded, and it had become simply somewhere people came to live in peace and quiet before they finally died.
As Harry swung his MG into the drive, he slowed to read the Gothic lettering on a garish yellow signboard.
“High-class accommodation for senior citizens,” recited Sylvia, “with nursing care provided by qualified staff, supervised by the resident proprietress and matron in charge, Mrs. A. Katsikas.” She paused and added, “I suppose Mr. Routley’s lucky he can afford it.”
“Not so lucky at the moment,” said Harry, and they both fell silent, contemplating the prospect of advanced years, infirmity, and the black abyss beyond.
He parked on hardstanding at the side of the home, and they headed on foot for the main entrance, past a sun lounge tacked onto the east wing by the kind of builder who would happily have stuck a sauna on the side of the Anglican cathedral. As he walked by the windows, Harry was conscious that he was being scrutinised by an old woman with watery eyes; he saw another half-dozen ancients baking under the glass, fast asleep with their heads lolling on shrunken chests.
At close quarters the building, like its residents, was showing its age. The brickwork needed repointing, and paint was peeling from the woodwork. The front door yielded to Harry’s touch and he led the way inside. A small desk in the hall bearing a notice marked ENQUIRIES was untenanted; Harry rang the bell.
At once a wizened face belonging to the owner of the watery eyes poked around the side of the door from the hall to the conservatory. “Have you any idea who I am?” she demanded.
Harry gave a helpless smile and was forced to admit that he did not.
“I can tell you — in the strictest confidence, mind — that I am Princess Coralie of Monte Carlo,” the old lady said. “Am I right in thinking I have the pleasure of addressing none other than His Royal Highness, Crown Prince Rupert of Eastern Bohemia?”
Harry had been called many things in his life, but he’d never before had the misfortune to be mistaken for royalty. Aware that Sylvia was controlling her mirth with the utmost difficulty, he was saved from the need to reply by the approach of a plump, comfortable-looking woman in a blue uniform. At the sight of her, an expression of truculent dignity crossed the wrinkled face.