Nicholas laid the envelope on the solicitor’s leather-covered desk and watched as the man opened it and quickly scanned the document within.
‘Thank you, Mr Lyon. The letter simply contained a codicil to James Freeman’s will; a small bequest to a charity. Nothing too important. I had intended to get in touch with you once I became aware of the Sheriff’s death. Pressure of business I’m afraid…’ He looked up apologetically before continuing. ‘You and I are to be his executors, in terms of his will, I mean. And, as you probably know, you’re also the Sheriff’s principal beneficiary. His estate is being left, almost in its entirety, to you.’
‘But what about his brother, Christopher?’ Nicholas asked.
‘Provision has been made for Major Freeman. He’s to have a legacy of twenty thousand pounds, together with certain of the contents of Moray Place. Let’s see… he’s to get…’ Mr McKay fingered the Sheriff’s will, ‘Mmmm. Well, in essence, most of the regimental stuff and a few of the family portraits.’
‘James left me the land?’ Nicholas enquired in wonderment.
‘Yes, he did. And Moray Place and his half-share in Geanbank. Who owns the other half-share?’
‘I do.’
Alice’s reception at Frogston Road was cool. She had phoned earlier to arrange a meeting, but on arrival she was informed by Mrs Freeman that her husband had just left and was not now expected back until one o’clock. Evidently, the couple had squabbled and the woman could not conceal her anger. Alice sat at the kitchen table awaiting the man’s return as his wife smouldered, banging cupboard doors shut and clanging knives onto the table, making the forks on it vibrate and jump. In the ten minutes before his return Mrs Freeman consumed three cigarettes, one lit by the stub of the other, as she prepared a meagre lunch of cold ham and chips.
A strange yodelling sound mixed with strains of ‘Some Enchanted Evening’ announced Christopher Freeman’s entry. He glided speedily into the room, blew a theatrical kiss at his wife and slumped wearily into a chair, a miasma of whisky fumes surrounding him. Without waiting for his wife to join him he picked up his cutlery and began to eat. After his first mouthful he turned his attention to his guest.
‘So, Sss… ergeant, what exactly can I do for you?’ he asked.
‘I’ve been talking to your brother’s partner and…’
‘Sorry, sorry,’ a look of exaggerated disbelief passed across her host’s face. ‘Stop right there, please. My brother’s what?’
‘Your brother’s partner…’
‘What on earth are you talking about? My brother had no “partner”. He was partnerless.’
‘Er… the Sheriff did have a partner. A male partner, called Nicholas Lyon. You must have seen the stuff in The Scotsman and the Evening News, surely?’
‘Bloody hell!’ Mrs Freeman sniggered, ‘so he was still at it, eh? Still at it after all those years!’
‘Quiet, Sandra,’ Christopher Freeman barked. ‘We’ve been away-down south. Partner… how do you mean, partner? Presumably just a pick-up? That’s how those kind of people operate isn’t it? Nothing permanent in their world, eh, Sergeant?’
‘Well, your brother and Mr Freeman have been together for over forty years.’
‘That’s bb… bollocks! Bull’s bollocks!’ Christopher Freeman said, dropping his knife and fork onto his plate. ‘I’d have known. He was my brother, for Christ’s’s sake! They don’t mate for life, you know, they are not like us or… eh… ducks, swans. I always knew that James had had a predilection for men but… this just has to be nonsense!’
‘No, sir, it’s not, and it’s also not what I came to talk to you about. Your brother was receiving threats. Well, threatening letters…’
‘Never mind that, Sergeant. I’ve not finished. This Nicholas Lyon man, are you saying that he was a ff… fixture, that he’d-well, that they were married or whatever?’ Major Freeman’s words were slurred.
‘I don’t think they’d been through a Civil Partnership ceremony if that’s what you mean, Major, but they seem to have been as married, in effect, as any heterosexual couple. Now, going back to the letters. Your brother was receiving threatening letters…’
‘About being a poof?’ Sandra Freeman giggled, putting her hand over her mouth.
‘No, Mrs Freeman. Not about that. The letters seemed to be concerned with the Scowling Crags wind farm. Someone didn’t want it to go ahead. Have you received any letters, threatening or otherwise, about the wind farm, Major Freeman?’
‘No. Not a dickie bird from anyone about it. Should I have? Mind you, I don’t suppose anyone much knows that I have any involvement in it.’
‘Why’s that, sir?’ Alice asked.
‘Because James does everything. To do with Blackstone, I mean. My only contribution was the idea. The tenants have been there forever, and I mean forever; there are no written leases or anything. If something had to be done then James saw to it. Actually, he didn’t exactly trust me, but that was fine by me. As it happens, I didn’t exactly trus… sst him either, but he’s… efficient.’
Christopher Freeman turned his attention to his wife. ‘Are you not going to eat, my honey? You’ll fade away!’ he said smiling, patting a chair and beckoning her to sit beside him. Her resentment visibly dissipated, she sidled across to him, pecked him on the cheek and began to eat her meal.
‘Perhaps,’ Alice said, ‘I could show you a copy of one of the letters in case you recognise the handwriting?’
‘On you go, but we won’t, will we, darling?’ the man said, winking at his wife.
‘No, we won’t,’ Mrs Freeman answered, inspecting the copy letter with no real curiosity.
‘Could I borrow the material that Vertenergy produced in support of their planning application, please, sir? I understand that you’d get copies of most of it from the company.’
‘You’d be welcome to it if I had any, but I don’t. I told you I’ve had nothing to do with the scheme. It was just my idea. James organised everything with everybody, including the company.’
Mrs Freeman placed her knife and fork neatly side by side on her plate before gathering it and her husband’s crockery up and depositing them both in the sink. From the fridge she extracted a highly coloured trifle and showed it, lovingly, to her husband.
‘Sweetie,’ he purred, ‘my favourite.’
She laid it on the kitchen table, returned to her seat and lit up a cigarette. ‘Light one for mm… me, eh, love?’ her husband pleaded, dipping his spoon in the trifle and scraping off a layer of cream. She pouted at him, extracted one from its packet and lit it from her own. Major Freeman leant back on his chair, stretched an arm around her and inhaled deeply. Alice lifted up the box and prepared to leave.
‘One more thing, Sergeant,’ Christopher Freeman drawled.
‘Yes?’
‘The poof. Nicholas… whatever. I never saw him in Moray Place. Did he…’ the man’s question tailed off as he started on his pudding again.
‘Did he… what, Sir?’
‘Oh never mind, Sergeant. I forget.’
‘Have you been to Moray Place recently, Major?’
The man shook his head, still savouring his mouthful.
Tears coursed down the old man’s face, slipping off his jowls and tainting the coffee that he was trying unsuccessfully, with a trembling hand, to drink. Nothing he did seemed to staunch the flow and his eyes felt gritty, an ache in their very sockets. Twice the kind waitress had approached him to check that he was all right, and twice he had tried to allay her anxieties with a silence and a nod of his head.
I never wanted money, land, anything, he raged to himself. Just James. And I would lose every penny I ever had for him to stay here with me. That bloody motor neurone disease. Without it he would never have chosen to die. I know, he told himself, I know that the disease forced it on him, but what about me, left on my own?