Harry pressed the bedside bell and the matron came running in. “No problems, I hope?”
“A minor alteration, that’s all.”
The plump woman gave her patient a startled look. “I hope I didn’t make a mistake in writing down your instructions, Leonard. We went through them so painstakingly. I can’t believe it’s a good idea to chop and change at the last minute.”
“It’s nothing, Ada. A technicality, that’s all.”
Harry explained the point and asked if Sylvia could type the amendments on the spot.
“Of course, of course. I’m only relieved it’s something minor that can easily be attended to. And Dr. Berkeley’s a good man, even if the point is — shall we say, academic? I know how much Leonard has set his heart on finalising the will this afternoon. Would you like to come this way, Miss Reid?”
“Where did you practise?” Harry asked Routley when they were alone.
“Oh, I was with a small outfit in Greater London,” said Routley. “You wouldn’t have heard of them. And besides, it all seems a long time ago.”
“So you’re not a local man?”
“I was raised in Wigan, but we moved down South when I was in my teens. My widowed sister stayed up here and when I retired I decided to move in with her. She died eighteen months ago and it was then that I decided to come to the Mersey Haven.”
“Have you been happy here?”
“First-class place. The matron talks a lot, but she’s marvellous. And this is where I met Walter Parbold. Listen, would you mind drawing the curtains? The sun is so strong, it’s making me feel faint.”
“Was he in residence when you first arrived?” asked Harry as he moved to the window, but when he turned again, Routley’s eyes had closed. He leaned over the bed and was glad to hear steady breathing from its sleepy occupant.
A couple of minutes later, the matron ushered Sylvia back in. “All done and dusted, Mr. Devlin.”
Harry glanced at the retyped will before passing it to Routley, whose eyes had just begun to open.
“Please make sure you’re happy with it before I ask you to sign.”
The old man read through his final dispositions before giving a satisfied nod.
“It reflects my wishes. You’ve done a good job.”
“Sylvia here did all the work.”
The young woman coloured. “It was very straightforward.”
“At least there were no family complications,” said Harry, “no hotchpot.”
Routley shook his head. “A will’s an important document. I wouldn’t want mine to be a hotchpotch.”
Harry took a fountain pen out of his pocket and watched carefully as his client scratched out his signature with a shaky hand. Then he and Sylvia signed their names underneath and added their descriptions and addresses.
“Do you wish me to keep the original in our archives?”
“Thank you, but no. It will be safe enough here.”
“In that case, if there is a photocopier downstairs, perhaps I could take a copy for my office records?”
“With pleasure,” said Ada Katsikas, beaming. “Now, I rather fancy you’re tired after all this excitement, Leonard. Not used to visitors, are you? I’ll show Mr. Devlin and Miss Reid out, and I’ll bring the will back to you in a few minutes.”
“Goodbye,” said Harry. “I’m always glad to meet a professional colleague. Perhaps I’ll see you again sometime.”
The old man gave a weak smile. “I’m afraid I don’t think I’ll manage that, Mr. Devlin. But thank you both for your prompt help in my hour of need.”
When they were back in the car, Sylvia said, “Are you all right?”
“Any reason why I shouldn’t be?”
“It’s just that you went rather quiet while we were in the rest home and something still seems to be gnawing at you.”
He thought for a moment. “Let’s say I always feel uneasy in the presence of the dying.”
After dropping her off at the station, he did not drive away at once. Rather, he sat in the car park for twenty minutes, letting his thoughts roam. He hadn’t told Sylvia the whole truth, but the things that tantalised him were trivial, and he knew it might be unwise to make too much of them. The sensible course was simply to go home and forget about Leonard Routley’s will until the time came to send in the bill. But he had never been good about taking the sensible courses in life.
Doubts were lurking in his mind; he could not rid himself of them. Past experience had taught him that he would have no peace until he found answers to the questions he found puzzling. Although, if he were mistaken, he faced at best embarrassment, at worst a charge of professional misconduct, he knew that he had to act — and without delay. He could not live with any other choice.
This time he parked half a mile away from the Mersey Haven Rest Home and made his way there on foot. On the earlier visit he had noticed that a footpath and cycle track had been carved between the housing development and the grounds of the home, and he followed its curving course for a couple of hundred yards until he reached a stretch out of sight of both the houses and pedestrians on the main road.
Conveniently, the new featheredge fence which separated the rest home from the path had already been broken down and there were signs that someone had trampled under the horse chestnut trees which fringed the grounds. For once Harry found himself sending up a silent prayer of thanks for juvenile delinquency. He slid through the gap and, with head bowed to avoid the low looping branches, hurried around the perimeter. Soon he realised he had arrived at a point directly behind the central part of the building and perhaps fifty yards distant from it. On this occasion he had no intention of going in by the front entrance; he must check covertly to find out whether his guess was wide of the mark. He could see dustbins and a gleaming Range Rover, which belonged, he guessed, to Mrs. Katsikas. But what caught his eye was a window on the ground floor which someone had left invitingly open.
There was nothing for it but to hope that no one would see him as he broke cover. He dashed to the window, stopping up short of the brick beside it. Panting, he thought ruefully back to his footballing days, when he’d always had the ability to race up from midfield and lose his marker before meeting a cross pulled back from the wing. Nowadays, he would struggle to keep up with the average referee.
No matter. He had reached his destination, and when he stole a quick glance through the window, his luck held. The room was deserted. A moment later he was inside.
Fussy ornaments and knickknacks covered every inch of shelf space and there was a faint whiff of perfume in the air. Even before he heard a light approaching tread in the corridor outside, he realised he’d entered a woman’s bedroom.
He could see nowhere to hide. No convenient cupboard or empty wardrobe. He wasn’t even able to squeeze under the bed: it was a drawer divan. Holding his breath, he hoped the footsteps would pass by the door and disappear into the distance.
Instead, they paused for a second and then the door swung open.
“Crown Prince Rupert! This is a surprise!”
Harry’s heart sank. He would almost rather have been confronted by Ada Katsikas wielding a rolling pin than Princess Coralie of Monte Carlo in coquettish mood.
“Your Royal Highness,” he said, edging round the bed as he tried desperately to remember a chunk of Anthony Hope dialogue, “I must apologise most humbly for this unwarranted intrusion.”
“Rupert, my dear, you don’t have to say sorry to little me!”
“You see, I had hoped to leave my card, suggesting that perhaps we could have a longer conversation later this evening.”