“Hush! Not a word!” the old lady hissed. “No one must know our secret.”
Harry winked at her and she vanished as swiftly as she had appeared.
“I see you’ve met our princess,” said the plump woman with a smile. “You’re not a relative, are you, love?”
Harry shook his head. “I don’t like to admit it, but no blue blood flows through my veins. My name’s Harry Devlin and I’m a solicitor.” He paused, trying to reconcile the woman’s broad Lancashire vowels with the exotic name on the signboard outside. “You’re not Mrs. Katsikas, by any chance?”
“Guilty,” she said, noting his puzzled look with amusement. “They call me Ada, a good Red Rose name, but my ex-husband was Greek. I met him on a package tour of Corfu. Should have realised that holiday romances don’t last much longer than the average sun tan.”
She gave a laugh and shook him by the hand, her ringless fingers pressing into his flesh. “You’re younger than most solicitors I ever came across. To say nothing of your lady friend. Are lawyers like policemen, getting younger all the time?”
Daunted by her roguish manner, Harry said hastily, “This is my colleague Sylvia Reid. You spoke to her earlier today on behalf of Mr. Routley. I thought it would be helpful if we both came. Firstly, in case there’s a need to make any last-minute changes to the will. Secondly, to provide a couple of independent witnesses. I gather you thought that might be necessary.”
The matron became more serious. “Yes, given that we are very short-staffed this afternoon. The holiday weekend, you know. People like to make it into a decent break. But our guests still need to be looked after, of course, and there is some urgency in this case, in view of poor Mr. Routley’s condition.”
“I understand he may not survive the weekend?”
“That’s right. Dr. Berkeley was pessimistic this morning. Frankly, something could happen at any moment. I think Mr. Routley senses that himself, which is why I needed to call on your services without delay. I hope the instructions were clear?”
“Fine, fine. Is it possible for me to see my client now?”
“Yes, I was with him in his room when your car pulled up outside. He had a sleep after lunch, but he woke up half an hour ago.”
“His mind is still in good shape, I understand?” said Harry.
“Oh yes, there’s no trace of dementia, and the drugs he has been taking make him drowsy at times, but don’t have any damaging effect on the brain. I know he has been thinking for a while about making his will. It preyed on his mind that he hadn’t done so before. But at least it’s not a hasty decision. He’s very much at peace with himself.”
Harry had never been able to grasp the idea of coming to terms with death. His own end would, he felt sure, fill him with terror as it approached. For him, life was something to cling to and fight for, whatever the cost. He and Sylvia followed Ada Katsikas upstairs in silence.
The matron directed them to a room above the front door. Knocking softly, she said, “Leonard, it’s Ada. The solicitor is here at last.” Turning back to them, she whispered, “I’ll just make sure he’s presentable, then I’ll call you in.”
A couple of minutes later she reappeared and gave an encouraging nod. “Yes, I’ve just made him comfy. He’s frail, of course, but able to talk quite clearly. I don’t suppose you want me to sit in, but if you do need me for any reason, please don’t hesitate to press the button by the side of his bed.”
Leonard Routley lay propped up in his bed. He was solidly built with a good head of grey hair; but for the chalky whiteness of his cheeks, Harry would not have guessed he was close to death.
“Mr. Routley, I’m Harry Devlin and this is Sylvia Reid, who works with me. Thanks for instructing us. I’m sorry to hear you’re not so grand.”
The old man waved away the words of sympathy with a flap of his hand. In a wheezing but audible voice, he said, “I know the state I’m in, Mr. Devlin. I’m not long for this world, and all I want is to get things settled.”
“You’re a fellow solicitor, I gather?”
“For my sins,” he grunted. “Have you got the will?”
“Here it is. Do you need me to take you through it?”
“I don’t think there’s any need. If you’ll pass my reading glasses, please.”
He indicated a pair of spectacles lying on his bedside chest alongside a faded black and white photograph. Harry glanced at the blurred image: dark-haired young fellow, tall and erect in mortarboard and gown. The passage of perhaps fifty years had made it hard to recognise the breathless old man from the record of his younger days.
“Your degree ceremony?” Harry asked as he passed the spectacles.
“A long time ago,” mumbled Routley as he began to study the will, tracing his finger along each line as he sought to absorb its sense.
“Leonard Justinian Routley,” said Harry. “Is that right?”
“Afraid so. Damn fool name, never come across it anywhere else. Never understood why my parents ever landed me with it.”
“A family connection with the law, perhaps?”
“God knows. Justin would have been bad enough. What else do we have? Ah yes, small gifts to three of the nicest old crocks here, Raymond, Lavinia, and Charlotte, that’s right. And to the good doctor, as well. He’s done his best for me. With the rest to Parbold, excellent.”
Harry was troubled by something. Absently, he asked, “He’s an old friend of yours?”
“Feel as if I’ve known him all my life,” said Routley. “Though truth to tell, we only met after I moved into this place. First-rate chap, never let you down. Deserves it, I can assure you.”
“I’m sure.”
“Well, everything seems all right. Thank Heaven that’s done at last. I know I shouldn’t have left it so long.”
“We never take the advice we love to give our clients, do we?” said Harry. “There’s just one thing I’d like to ask.”
“Go on.”
“Don’t you think we ought to cover the eventuality that Mr. Parbold might predecease you?”
The old man stared at him. “There’s no question of that. Walter’s as fit as a fiddle. I’m a sick man. Berkeley hasn’t beaten about the bush. He gives me a few days at best. Maybe only a few hours, for all he and I know.”
“I appreciate that, Mr. Routley, but accidents can happen when we least expect them. If by some stroke of fate, Mr. Parbold were the first to die, you’ll know as well as anyone the problems that can arise. No executor, no residuary legatee. Messy. I gather you don’t have any family.”
“None whatsoever.”
“So applying the intestacy rules to your residue wouldn’t achieve anything. The Crown would take the bulk of your estate.”
For a moment Routley bowed his head. He seemed to be dismayed that the point had not occurred to him. “Perhaps you’re right. I suppose I’m not thinking straight. What do you suggest?”
“Is there anyone else you would like to benefit if the worst came to worst and Mr. Parbold did not survive you?”
“I suppose...” said Routley slowly, “the doctor would be as good a man as any.”
“You have his full name?”
“Giles Alexander Berkeley,” said Sylvia unexpectedly. “He happens to be my and my mother’s G.P. I’ve always been rather in awe of him, but there’s no doubt he has an excellent reputation. You couldn’t be in better hands, Mr. Routley.”
“I realise that. All the same, I don’t want any delay.”
“No need for any,” she said. “We can make the necessary alterations in a matter of a few minutes if Mrs. Katsikas will let us use her typewriter.”