Two men in twenty

'Oh, please don't bother,' France said. 'I'm sure you're busy.'

Cain's voice ended these courtesies. 'Dorrie,' he said. 'Do you know anybody in Granchester?'

Dorrie looked puzzled. 'No, I can't say as I do. Leo comes from up that way, don't he?'

France interposed swiftly. 'Do you and Flo know anybody around Granchester? Any relation?'

'Well, there was Aunt Doris, my dad's elder sister. I can hardly remember her. But I heard it said she'd gone living up that way. That was years and years since.'

'Was she married?'

'No, and she was pretty old even then. At least she seemed so to me. She was a cook. Went working up there, for a family.'

'She's not likely to have left a fortune, then?'

Dorrie laughed. 'I shouldn't think so. Not Aunt Doris.'

'Were you named after her?'

'I was in a way. Little Doris, like.'

Cain was looking thoughtful. 'Some of these cooks do all right,' he said. 'Faithful retainers, and all that. Somebody might have left her a packet, and she might have kept it in the bank till she died.'

Dorrie stared. 'What are you talking about? Has Aunt Doris died?'

Cain showed her the advertisement. Her mouth opened in wonder. 'Ooh. I wonder if it could be Aunt Doris. Fancy if she's remembered us all these years. I wonder what she's left us.'

'If she didn't marry, would she have any other relations?' France asked.

'None nearer than Flo and me, after Dad died.'

'Well, if it's something good, I'm glad for you. I hope it's plenty.'

'Thank you,' said Dorrie. And Cain said absently: 'Nice of you to say that, Ned.' He was frowning in thought. At last he said: 'It must be right. I can't see any catch in it. But we'll go canny on it. Don't say anything to Flo just yet, Ducks. Give me a bit of time to think about it.'

* * * * *

The result of Cain's meditations was a visit to a public telephone box, with Dorrie. They crowded into the box together, and Cain held a fragment of torn newspaper in one hand, and a handful of change in the other. It was not a modernized box, and the call to Granchester had to go through the exchange. It was put through by Dorrie, with Cain holding out the paper to show her the number she wanted, and then holding out an open hand for her to select coins to put in the box.

A woman's voice answered from Granchester, giving the name of the firm of solicitors. Dorrie had been coached. She said: 'My name is Doreen Baker. Could I speak to a member of the firm?'

'One moment, please.' There was a brief silence, and then a man came on the line. 'Hugh Wentworth speaking. What can I do for you?'

'My name is Doreen Baker. I'm phoning from London about an advertisement in The Times. Shall I read it to you?'

'Do, please.' The voice at the other end had changed subtly. Like her husband, Dorrie spoke with the accent of her environment.

She read out the advertisement. The voice of Wentworth said: 'Ah. Just hold the line, please.'

Cain was listening, and this second delay deepened the lines of concentration on his forehead. He was still vaguely uneasy about this business. He glanced to left and right through the windows of the box, as if he feared that some enemy might be watching.

A younger, lighter male voice came on the line. 'Miss Baker? Sorry about this delay. My name is Haw, and I'm dealing with the will of a Miss Doris Baker. Does that convey anything to you?'

Dorrie told the story of Aunt Doris, mentioning also that she had a sister named Florence.

Haw seemed to be delighted. 'It looks as if we're on the right track. What was your father's name?'

'Harold. Harold Baker.'

'That's it, that's it. Will you give me your address, and your sister's address?'

For herself and Flo, Dorrie gave the address of a shop not far from Euston Station, which Cain had used as an accommodation address in the past.

'Good. I have that, just in case. Now, when can you and your sister come to see me?'

'Well,' Dorrie said. 'I'd like to know if it's going to be worth my while. Granchester's a long way, and it costs a lot on the train.'

'Oh, it should certainly be worth a trip to Granchester. In your case especially, Miss Baker. It is Miss Baker, isn't it? You haven't married since your aunt last saw you?'

Dorrie looked at Cain. He shook his head. She said into the phone: 'No, I'm not married. Neither is my sister.'

'Well, there seems to be no doubt that you are the legatees. At any rate, I'll give you some idea of the estate. In cash there is a sum of six hundred and seventy pounds, to be equally divided, but a lot of that will be swallowed by legal expenses, I'm afraid. In property, for you, Doreen Baker, there is a house in Grange Gardens. It is quite a roomy house in good condition, though the district has gone down a bit, I'm afraid. It is fully furnished. Up to her death your aunt kept a boarding house, you see. It is quite untenanted now. All the lodgers and the two maids have left, of course. Your sister's property isn't quite so good. It is two adjoining terrace houses in Naylor Street, Churlham. That is what you might call a working-class suburb. Both houses are quite empty. For some time your aunt had been trying to sell them with vacant possession, but it was a rather hopeless job. The whole area is under a compulsory purchase order obtained by the city council, for road widening and development in the public interest. The houses could be let for a year or so, I daresay, but they couldn't be sold for a reasonable price. Now, Miss Baker, is all that understood?'

'Yes, I think so, Mr. Haw. Thank you very much.'

'Don't mention it. I'm glad you rang me. Now, when can you come and see me?'

Dorrie hesitated. 'Can I ring you again and let you know?'

'But of course. Please do that. And when you come, bring copies of your birth certificates and any other documents you may have. It will help to expedite the matter.'

Dorrie agreed to do that, and apart from civilities that was the end of the talk. As he stepped out of the airless kiosk Cain took a deep breath. 'Phew!' he said. 'It's hot in those places.'

He looked at his watch. 'We've got time for the odd drink. Come on.'

Over gin-and-tonic in a quiet bar they discussed the legacy. 'The best thing to do,' Cain decided, 'is to tell that lawyer to sell everything and send us the cash. Flo won't get much, but she'll get the compulsory purchase money eventually.'

'If I do that, he'll send a cheque to Doreen Baker,' Dorrie objected. 'Why on earth did you make me tell him I wasn't married?'

Cain looked uncomfortable. 'I dunno. It seemed the safest thing to say.'

'I am married, aren't I? You didn't work a swindle with some mate of yours made up like a parson?'

'You're married, all right. If you don't believe me, go and look at the register at St. Hilda's. I guess you'll have to tell him you made a mistake, and show him your birth certificate and your marriage lines.'

'He'll think it funny.'

'It don't matter what he thinks. He'll have to hand over.'

And as he visualized the handing over of a cheque by a man he had never seen, the great inspiration came to Cain. To him it seemed stupendous, unprecedented, and daring. He was an incorrigibly parochial Londoner, inclined to believe that ten miles north of Cockfosters the savage hill tribes still rolled down stones on hapless travellers. Never in his life had he thought of living elsewhere but London. Now, he thought of it, and the wonder of his own idea took his breath away.

'You won't tell him you're married, Ducks. You'll take your birth certificate and your father's death certificate, and that old Bible with the names in it, and anything else you've got. You'll get the keys to that empty lodging house and you'll tell the lawyer you and Flo are going to run it. It'll be just the job. The boys can be the lodgers. We'll fade quietly out of London, one by one, and Scotland Yard 'ull think we've died. In Granchester the cops won't know where to start looking for us, 'cause we'll all be snug in our own little place.'