An Open Window Read online

  I realised I’d forgotten to ask Philip Carne whether it was he who had sent Nancy Rafton with her enquiries. But of course…stupid of me…she had died a week before Amelia’s uncle Walter’s death. So how could the two enquiries be related?

  2

  Armed with my power of attorney and all the other documents, I set out alone for Boreton-Upon-Severn early on Friday morning. It turned out to be 152 miles, across country so without the dubious benefit of motorways, and took me four hours. Amelia was in good hands, Cindy was too, and the caravan was safe until the end of the month. I had time to relax, time for thought.

  Amelia had not seen her uncle Walter for well over twenty years. All she could remember of him was a sad smile and untidy hair. She was aware that he’d started a small business, and she vaguely remembered that he had three children, Paul, Clare and Donald. For some reason she hadn’t been able to rationalise, she thought of Walter as a lonely man. There had, she recalled, been trouble with the children after their mother had died. A sad and lonely man. Well, he was dead now, and he hadn’t forgotten his niece.

  Boreton is one of those towns that have grown up because of the river, and before it was decided to throw across a bridge. Early settlers had built along both banks, using locations best suited to their purposes; the water-mills where the water ran fierce, the woollen mills where it was more placid. On neither side had there been an urge to cross the river and say hello. Therefore, when a bridge became an absolute necessity, it could be sited only where the approaches were already dictated. The result is that you drive in from the west by a steep descent, made more gradual by a few vicious corners, to a short stretch of road following the river bank, turn right sharply on to the bridge, which you cross only to find a similar obstacle course the other side. Eventually, the town centre being on the east bank, you straighten out for a hundred yards or so of main street, only to be confronted by a timbered Tudor town hall arching across the street, with narrow driveways either side. Each is one-way, so you get no choice. You keep going, eyes searching for the magic P sign, so that you might stop and get out before you find yourself out in the country the other side of town. Only the most brave and the noblest would have towed a caravan through Boreton.

  I found a car park. There was time for a quick snack, then I hunted out the office of Mantell & Carne. This was also on the east side, in a narrow street parallel to the river and above it, its door reached by a tight run of steps sideways against the wall, guarded by a black iron rail. Below, in half basements, were two tiny shops, one selling leather goods, the other woollens, both probably made locally. The leather smell persisted inside the offices. The receptionist wore one of the sweaters, which seemed to have shrunk badly. Mr Carne was expecting me, she told me. Would I go right in? I did.

  The bay window of his office overlooked the river. His desk was located so as to present a placid view, if he so wished. He had one visitor’s chair, an ancient swivel monstrosity with red leather-studded upholstery. There was no other furniture, apart from the books, files, boxes and dusted briefs scattered everywhere and lining the walls. He’d probably inherited it in this condition, and left it as it was for effect. Certainly, he was as young, brisk and efficient as he’d sounded, as tall as me but slimmer, pink and shining and clean. He was probably sufficiently meticulous as to be able to work in this clutter and know exactly where everything was.

  ‘You brought the gubbins?’ he asked, after we’d shaken hands. ‘Good. Let’s have a look.’

  Then, while I took the swivel chair and marvelled how it accommodated itself to my bulk, he demonstrated his efficiency by carefully scrutinising every word of every item I’d brought with me.

  ‘So,’ he said, slapping his hand on them. ‘Fine.’ He flashed me a smile. ‘Have to be dead sure, you realise, the way things are. Yes.’

  I took out my pipe and moved it around in my fingers. ‘I’m a little confused…a residual beneficiary…you understand…’

  ‘Smoke if you like,’ he told me. ‘A good fugg. Nothing like it.’ But he didn’t, himself, offer to help it along. ‘I’ll be brief.’

  I sighed. When they say that!

  ‘Walter Mann,’ he said, ‘died nearly a week ago. Saturday. There had been a long-standing will, nothing out of the ordinary about it, leaving his property and assets divided equally between his three children, Paul, Clare and Donald, plus one or two other bequests. But on the Tuesday prior to his death he called me in to draw up a new will. Against my advice. I want to make that clear. But he insisted. The new will, which was signed and witnessed on the Thursday, left ten thousand pounds each to his three children, ten thousand plus a few minor details to Mary Pinson, his housekeeper for many years—little change there—and the residue of his estate to his niece, Amelia, the daughter of his sister Jean. There, you see, I told you I’d be brief.’

  He smiled again, then barked a short laugh at me. But I noticed that his eyes—clear blue—were keen and his gaze steady.

  ‘Your man,’ I said, ‘did a quick job of tracing us.’

  ‘Yes. A good chap.’

  ‘And was it you who sent the other person, making similar enquiries a week before?’

  He’d steepled his hands and was tapping his teeth with his thumb nails. ‘It was not.’ The tapping stopped. I could almost hear his brain working away. ‘I understand…Walter and your wife were rather out-of-touch?’

  ‘My wife hadn’t seen her uncle for over twenty years.’

  ‘There. You see. He’d naturally want to know she was alive, before mentioning her in his will. It was probably Walter who was making his own enquiries.’

  I nodded. It seemed logical. ‘Everything’s happened at once.’

  ‘Hasn’t it!’ he agreed.

  ‘But tell me…you spoke as though Walter Mann changed his will in some way to the detriment of his children. But—ten thousand each—that’s not to be sneezed at.’

  ‘In this context it is, I can assure you.’

  ‘Even so…’ didn’t want to pursue that point at the moment.

  As an ex-CID inspector, I found my mind playing with the implications. ‘Even so, if this was a virtual disinheriting, it was done on the Thursday. What you’d call a fait accompli. So surely, the children—Paul, Clare and Donald, was it?—would have known.’

  ‘It was not part of my duties as a legal adviser—’

  ‘But they did know?’ I persisted.

  ‘Don’t try to bully me, Mr Patton,’ he said gently. ‘I know you’ve been a police officer, but not here. Not here.’

  ‘Sorry. Got carried away.’

  ‘Yes. A bit confused I’m sure. But I can see the way your mind’s working, and I’m quite certain Walter would have let them know that he’d made a new will. He couldn’t wait to tell them, in fact. Oh yes, he’d have pounced on his phone.’ There was just a hint of distaste in his voice.

  I took a few seconds to re-light my pipe. New will on the Thursday, died on Saturday. It was too…well…uncomfortable.

  ‘And how did he die?’ I asked, following the words with a casual puff of smoke.

  ‘He fell from a third-floor open window at his home, through the conservatory roof.’

  ‘Hmm!’ I said.

  ‘An obvious accident.’

  ‘I’m sure it was.’

  ‘As you’ll see for yourself.’

  ‘Shall I?’

  ‘When you go round to the house.’

  ‘Why should I do that?’

  ‘Because it is now your property, your wife’s rather, but yours as long as this power of attorney operates.’

  I drew on my pipe. It was all coming at me too fast. ‘But the words used were: residual beneficiary,’ I ventured.

  ‘Yes. All the word residual means is that once the other legacies are cleared and the duties are paid, the rest—the residue—is your wife’s. In toto, as we say.’

  I cleared my throat. ‘Which would be? This residue of yours.’

  ‘The house th
at I mentioned, in two acres, furniture and motor vehicles in situ, 51 per cent of the shares in Walter’s factory, and his very interesting portfolio of investments.’

  I had to grab at something solid. ‘Factory?’ Amelia had spoken of a small business.

  ‘They make photographic equipment. Estimated capital value of around half a million. I have still to value the investments he had, and realise on part of the portfolio for legacies and death duties, but the balance should work out at between a hundred and a hundred and fifty thousand pounds. Less, of course, my fees.’ I inclined my head. With a thin smile he went on. ‘So you see, disinheriting isn’t such an incorrect word for what Walter Mann did to his children. If you’ll come over to the window, you can see the factory.’

  Awkwardly, almost blindly, I moved to the window. He pointed it out, though you could hardly miss it. On a rise the other side of the river, and a little farther to the south, was a glittering array of glass, with a square column of concrete at one end. It dominated the town. Across the facade, in letters that must have been ten feet high, was the legend: MANN OPTICS.

  I returned to my seat. There seemed nothing to say that wouldn’t have sounded paltry.

  ‘Such a complex estate,’ he was saying, ‘will naturally take some months to probate, but if there is anything…As executor, I can advance a certain amount of cash from Walter’s private account, and the house—I see no reason why it should not be made available…’

  I looked up. His keen eyes were watching me carefully. I said: ‘Would there be room, in the drive for instance, to park our caravan?’

  He laughed, then was at once intent. ‘You’re not serious?’

  ‘Couldn’t be more so. Just at this time, it’s our home.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ he said. ‘Oh dear me. Would I be correct in saying that your situation is difficult—your wife in hospital and your home a caravan? Towed, I presume.’

  ‘It would be correct to say that.’

  ‘Then I don’t see why you shouldn’t move into The Beeches at once. I’ll just warn Mary Pinson.’ He reached towards his phone.

  ‘No,’ I said sharply. Too sharply, judging by the lift of his eyebrows. But how could I explain to him what the past five months had done to me? After a lifetime of work in the police force, which had trained me into a certain amount of self-confidence, I had felt it all draining away after only five months of fighting with a mere caravan. I was into my fifties, but only recently feeling it. That, I resented. With the culmination of Amelia’s accident, I was undermined, and yes, in the background there had grown a muttering uncertainty. I no longer knew where I was heading. Now, fate had thrust this excess of fortune under my nose, and I couldn’t help feeling that there was a catch somewhere, and it would turn out to be another facet of the trap. Relax enough, allow confidence to trickle back into my consciousness, and surely it would be snatched away. That would be a crippling blow, and I’d be lost.

  I eased my way cautiously into it. ‘There could be a protest. The will hasn’t even been read. It could be opposed, sure to be.’

  ‘Contested. No. A man’s not allowed to disinherit his wife. Jus relictae. Children, yes. He can disinherit his children. On that score, there’s no ground for contesting it.’

  ‘Insanity,’ I murmured. ‘He couldn’t have been completely right in his head.’

  ‘Now there…’ He paused. His chair, too, was a swiveller. He swivelled it, a pencil dangling from his fingers and oscillating gently, illustrating the pendulum of my uncertainty. ‘I tried to dissuade him, of course. I felt it was my duty. But he was adamant. He felt he had a valid reason for changing his will, and there could be no question that at that time he knew exactly what he was doing and understood it. On that score, he was sane. As to the validity of his reason…there could well be a psychiatric word for it.’

  ‘There. See what I mean?’

  ‘A persecution complex, manic perhaps. But there was no question of insanity. He knew what he was doing.’

  ‘This reason of his…’ I left it hanging.

  ‘He believed his family were trying to kill him. Nonsense, of course. But he sincerely believed it. Given time, I was convinced he would have changed his mind, and we’d have had a fresh think about the will.’

  ‘But he wasn’t given time.’

  ‘Accidents are unpredictable. That is the legal definition.’

  ‘Was that the inquest verdict?’

  ‘We haven’t had it yet. It’s to be on Monday. Morning. On Sunday afternoon, I shall acquaint his family with the contents of his will.’

  ‘Which you’re certain their father will already have told them?’

  ‘Exactly. I can see no grounds for it to be contested.’

  He seemed a bit complacent about that. I was still cautious. ‘But there’ll certainly be opposition—unpleasantness—disappointment?’

  He shrugged. ‘Not disappointment; they already know. But the rest…A man makes a will, and then dies. It happens. We can’t change anything.’

  ‘You’ll read it…’ I gestured around his office. ‘…here?’

  ‘At the house, I thought.’

  ‘Ah! Then it’s obvious I’d better do nothing about anything until then.’

  He smiled. I’d let him off the hook. ‘Perhaps you’re right. But at least, you ought to go and look at The Beeches. As a former policeman, you’ll be interested in the scene of the—er—of Walter’s death.’

  He had managed to give me a hint that he, too, wasn’t happy about Walter’s death, and at the same time had achieved another objective, agreeable to both of us: I was to look, but not to stay.

  I levered myself to my feet. I would have to get away from the dry and soulless dust of the law, and think. I would have to phone Amelia…or perhaps not. On that point I was undecided.

  ‘I’ll keep in touch,’ I said.

  ‘You must certainly do that.’

  ‘The address?’ I asked. ‘The Beeches.’

  ‘Of course.’ It seemed to surprise him. This was the first sign he’d given that he wasn’t completely in control of the situation, even well ahead of my thoughts and wishes. For a second his mind had not been on the matter in hand. He was, indeed, uncertain.

  He drew me a map. The house was on this, the east side of the river, about two miles upstream. I thanked him and left, standing for a few moments at the top of the steps as I collected my thoughts.

  I allowed it all to trickle back.

  The air seemed different, the afternoon sun more kind. The light had changed, softer and warmer. My own weight was less, my steps lighter as I ran down to the cobbled street. My mind was suddenly clear. I reached to the future, and with relaxed anticipation.

  For half an hour I walked the town, exploring the main shopping area. The narrow side streets, which were almost completely pedestrian only, were quaint and precipitous, using steps to accommodate the steep inclines. The town had grown on the high banks of the river each side. There seemed to be nowhere you could walk on the level for more than a few yards, and always there were inviting corners, alluring dead ends, and forever surprising discoveries of enchanting shops. Amelia would love it. She would take it to her heart, if this became her town. Here, the motor vehicle would never become dominant. They’d either have to drive on through, or park on the outskirts. The town would survive. Amelia would like that thought. If this should become our town.

  It was not until I reached the car and sat inside, strangely unwilling to drive away, that I faced the source of my uneasiness and analysed it. Philip Carne hadn’t voiced it, but I was sure it had been in his mind. Walter Mann had made a new will, because he felt his life was in danger. Whether or not this was valid was not relevant—he had believed it. Carne had not been too concerned at the time, because he thought Walter would change his mind—and this new will—given time. He hadn’t been given time. Two days, that was all he’d been given. The coincidence hit me between the eyes. If a man lets it be known he is going to disinherit
his close relatives, he stands in mortal danger until he has done it. That danger would have been removed as soon as he made the new will known, as Carne had seemed sure he would. But had he? And was the fall necessarily an accident? Carne had realised this uncertainty. As a solicitor probably specialising in the civil side of the law, he would be reluctant even to think of the word: murder. But it had sat there between us in his office, almost shouting itself aloud.

  It seemed that a visit to The Beeches was necessary, as Carne had hinted, though I’d have preferred to keep my head down until after the will was read.

  But, for my own peace of mind if for no other reason, it would be comforting to prove that Walter’s death had been an accident, as Carne described it. This I set out to do.

  3

  The road from Boreton turned away from the river a mile north of the town, then a little farther on there was a left turn, back towards the water, signposted: Knightsford. It was a narrow lane, so that the ford could never have been significant. The collection of buildings alongside the river confirmed this, the water here being narrow and swift, but shallow enough for the shingle bottom to be visible. The lane headed straight to it, and stopped. On the opposite side of the river there was a similar approach, so perhaps it was still fordable. On a horse, maybe, knights in armour clanking across on their way to Worcester. But now, no knights, and the four tiny cottages seemed deserted, though I saw a lace curtain here and there. A lane to my right was signposted: The Beeches. Its surface was rough shale and gravel. This was the approach drive. Each side there were high hedges, encroaching closely, as though resenting this narrow slice through the stretch of pastureland.

  The hedge to the left fell away abruptly, and I was aware that I was now on the actual drive. Beyond a group of beeches, the house waited. The drive swept across its front, and curved away around the far corner, out of sight. I drew up in front of the house, got out, and absorbed it.