Days Without Number (11 page)

Despite the mildness, it felt clammily cold at Trennor. The house had been unheated for a couple of days, though not unvisited, as the muddy footprints of policemen and morticians confirmed.

Nick, Basil and Irene stood at the top of the cellar steps, looking down at the place where their father had died. There was nothing to mark or draw their eye to the exact spot. Dusty sixty-watt light fell on the concrete treads and wooden handrail, shone back dully from the grey-painted floor and gleamed dimly on the racked necks of hard-bargained-for clarets.

'What's the name of the policeman you spoke to, Irene?' Nick asked.

'DC Wise. He's based at Crownhill.'

'Maybe I should ask him about the bottle.'

'What bottle might that be?' asked Basil.

'The one Nick thinks Dad should have dropped when he fell,' said Irene with a sigh. 'He's like a dog with a bone about it.'

'Pru says there was no bottle.'

'And DC Wise never mentioned one,' Irene responded. 'So, why go on about it?'

'Because Dad came down here to fetch a bottle of wine.

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That's obvious. What's not obvious is why he should leave without one.'

'Perhaps he changed his mind,' said Basil. 'Perhaps the telephone rang. Perhaps he remembered something.'

'Exactly,' said Irene. 'There's absolutely no reason for you to speak to DC Wise, Nick. He'll only be confused by you querying the circumstances.'

'And confusion is not a condition we should wish upon the constabulary,' murmured Basil. 'It can so often be transmuted into suspicion.'

Irene flashed a glare at both of them, then said, 'Why don't you two start looking for the papers Baskcomb wants while I turn on the heating and vacuum up the worst of the dirt that's been tramped into the house? We have work to do. Remember?'

Nick and Basil set to, though with little enthusiasm. The study was their father's sanctum, a place of refuge as well as cogitation. In life, he would have been apoplectic to find them rifling through the drawers of his desk and filing cabinet. And if it was possible to be apoplectic in death, Nick felt sure he would be that as well.

They were thwarted at the outset on discovering that one of the desk drawers was locked. The unlocked drawers contained only stationery, so it was clearly important to find the key. Basil began a hunt for it, while Nick worked his way through the filing cabinet. He soon came upon bundles of bank statements and receipted bills. These he took out and put to one side. As far as he could see, most of the remaining space was devoted to academic correspondence - letters to and from assorted archaeological journals and institutions concerning articles, surveys and expeditions the old man had written or undertaken. Most of it was many years out of date, of course. But Michael Paleologus had devoted too much of his life to retrieving the past to discard the records of his own.

That was one reason why Nick persisted in the search. He

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was looking for something more than financial records and reckoned he would find it. Properly speaking, he should have moved on to the computer and checked through its files, but what he sought lay much further back in time than his father's relatively recent conversion to modern technology. Besides, Basil's hunt for the desk key had now taken him out of the study, so for the moment Nick had the room to himself. Doing his best to avoid the flinty gaze of its former occupant from one of several framed photographs around the walls, Nick pressed on.

In the bottom drawer of the cabinet, he found it: a bulging manilla file with his name written in faded black felt-tip on the leading edge of the folder. He heaved the folder out on to the desk and leafed apprehensively through the contents. As he had feared, it was all there: letters to and from his college and the hospital he had been sent to, tracking his breakdown and subsequent treatment over a five-year period. There were bills too, substantial ones, from his psychiatrist.

But they were one tranche of financial documentation Baskcomb had no need to see. Nick closed the folder and leaned forward, his hands pressing down on the cover as he shut his eyes and winced at the sudden rush of memories. Then they were past and behind him. It was a sensation he had at one time experienced frequently and now realized he had almost succeeded in forgetting altogether. It was foolish to have supposed it would never recur. In the wake of his father's death, it was bound to, even without Elspeth's unintentional prompting. He opened his eyes and pulled open one of the unlocked desk drawers in search of an envelope large enough to hold the contents of the folder. They would be leaving with him and reaching no other hands.

In his haste, he yanked the drawer out as far as it would come. A slew of paperclips, rubber bands, pencils, stray strands of tobacco and assorted envelopes slid forward with the momentum, leaving the rear of the drawer empty. Except, Nick noticed, for a short strip of black insulating tape, stuck to the base. There was an object held beneath it. He stretched

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out his hand and ran his fingers over the small bulge. It felt like what it undoubtedly was: a key.

Nick prised the tape loose with his thumbnail, picked up the key and slid it into the keyhole of the locked drawer. The lock released at the first turn. He sat slowly down in his father's worn old leather swivel-chair and pulled the drawer open.

Inside there was just one object: a large white envelope, bearing the words, written in his father's hand, Last Will and Testament. Nick lifted the envelope out. The flap was folded in, but not sealed. He raised the flap and slid the contents out. There was a single sheet of paper. It was certainly his father's will. But it was not the one lodged with Baskcomb. And the date on it was much more recent.

The document was handwritten, succinct but legalistically worded, and utterly shocking.

This is the last will and testament of me Michael Godfrey Paleologus of Trennor Landulph Cornwall which I make this fifteenth day of January 2001 and whereby I revoke all previous wills and testamentary dispositions.

I hereby appoint my cousin Demetrius Andronicus Paleologus of Palazzo Falcetto San Polo 3150 Venezia Italy to be the sole executor of this my will.

I give my house the aforementioned Trennor Landulph Cornwall and all its contents to my cousin the aforementioned Demetrius Andronicus Paleologus absolutely.

I give the remainder of my property real and personal in equal shares to my children.

Nick stared at the words, transfixed. His father had written them. There was no doubt about it. And he had signed his name beneath them. Two witnesses had also signed.

Signed by the testator in the presence of us both present at the same time who at his request in his presence and in the presence of each other have hereunto set our names as witnesses.

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Frederick Davey of 3 Butcher's Row Tintagel Cornwall retired quarryman.

Margaret Davey of 3 Butcher's Row Tintagel Cornwall housewife.

Nick had never heard of a cousin Demetrius, nor of retired quarryman Fred Davey and his wife. They were strangers to him. But one of those strangers, if this will was valid and genuine, as it certainly appeared to be, was now the rightful owner of Trennor.

'Keyless in Trennor isn't a lot better than eyeless in Gaza,' said Basil, re-entering the study. 'But such is our--' He stopped, the stillness of Nick's posture behind the desk seizing his attention. Ts something wrong?'

'I found the key,' said Nick.

'Splendid.'

'You won't think so when you read this.' He held up the will.

Basil walked across to the desk and took the sheet of paper from his brother's hand. As he read it, the sunlight beyond the window vanished behind a cloud and the room seemed to fill with darkness.

'My, my,' said Basil when he had finished.

'What do we do?' Nick asked.

'What do we do?' Basil smiled. 'We ask Irene, of course.' The vacuum cleaner was roaring somewhere in the house. 'I'll fetch her.'

Basil dropped the document on the blotter and hurried from the room. Nick sat where he was, studying the copperplate loops and uprights of his father's handwriting. Then, suddenly, he noticed the dog-eared folder with his name on it lying on the desktop just to his left. For a moment, he did not know what to do with it. He knew only that there was little time to do anything. He jumped up, carried the folder to the cabinet he had taken it from and dumped it back in its pocket. Then he noticed the silence. The vacuum cleaner had stopped.

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A moment later, Irene bustled into the room, Basil lagging a few yards behind. 'What's this about a will?' she demanded.

'See for yourself.' Nick passed her the sheet of paper.

It took no more than two or three seconds for Irene to grasp the significance of what she held in her hand. In those seconds Nick saw her expression move from irritation to something midway between fear and anger.

'The will Baskcomb has dates from a few months after Mum died. This is ... far more recent. It's dated . . . just last week.'

'Quite,' said Basil.

Ts it valid?'

'Signatures of the testator and two witnesses are all that's required, I believe. And there they are. It's clearly not a forgery. So, the answer to your question must be yes.'

'But it's not been drawn up by a solicitor.'

'It doesn't have to be.'

T've never heard of a cousin Demetrius.'

'Nor have I,' Nick joined in.

'Which makes three of us,' said Basil. 'Three of us who had not heard of him. Until now.'

'Who are these people?' Irene continued. T've never heard of the Daveys either.'

'No doubt we shall find out in due course.'

' "The remainder of my property real and personal". What will that amount to?'

'Without Trennor, very little.'

'I don't believe it.' But what Irene really meant was that she did not want to believe it. 'Why would Dad do this to us?'

'To prevent us selling the house to Tantris,' said Nick.

'And to punish us for trying to force him to,' concluded Basil. 'It seems the only thing we talked him into doing . . . was disinheriting us.'

'You think so?' Irene glared down at the will, as if she could somehow wish its contents out of existence. 'Well, we'll see about that.'

'What do you have in mind?' asked Nick.

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'It's handwritten. So, there's no copy. And no solicitor's involved. The only living people who know of the will's existence are we three plus the Daveys. And the Daveys may not even know what's in it.'

'Are you suggesting what I think you're suggesting?' enquired Basil.

'What do you think I'm suggesting?'

'Something deeply criminal. Besides, how can you be sure no-one else knows? Dad may well have advised cousin Demetrius of his intentions.'

'But cousin Demetrius isn't here. We are. As is the will.'

'Even so--'

'Call Andrew and Anna.' Irene was much calmer now, Nick noticed. She had absorbed the blow and already was preparing to strike back. 'I think a family conference is in order.' She dropped the will back on to the desk in front of him. 'There's a great deal to discuss . . . before we do anything.'

Anna's shift did not end until mid-afternoon and Andrew was likely to be out and about on the farm until dusk, so the conference Irene had decided to convene could not feasibly take place before early evening. She went back to Saltash to open up for lunchtime at the Old Ferry, confident that she would be able to arrange for Moira and Robbie to cover for her later. Nick engineered a solitary moment in which to stuff the contents of the file about his breakdown into an envelope and take it out to his car. Then he accompanied Basil into Cargreen on foot. They were to call on Pru and tell her she could resume cleaning duties at Trennor whenever she wished.

There was an ulterior motive for their visit, of course. That was to tap the old lady for information about their father's activities on 15 January, the date he had recorded on the will. The fifteenth was Monday of the previous week, recent enough for Pru to remember the Daveys of Tintagel calling round.

But they had not called round. Persuaded to review her

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employer's activities for the week on the grounds that they might yield signs he had been doing too much, Pru was adamant that he had had no visitors from outside the family circle and had gone out only on Monday . . . the fifteenth.

'He left not long after I got there and hadn't got back by the time I left. He didn't say where he was going, but there was nothing out of the ordinary about that. Twas no concern of mine, when all's said and done.'

'Which means,' Basil soundly reasoned after they had adjourned to the Spaniards, 'that he took the will up to Tintagel for the Daveys to witness. Irene's idea that they might be unaware of the contents strikes me as even less plausible now.'

'But who are the Daveys, Basil?'

'I don't know. Dad used to take us to Tintagel quite often during the holidays, didn't he?'

'Yes. We'd get long lectures on archaeology when all we wanted to do was scramble around the ruins.'

'Quite. But I don't remember those lectures ever including mention of a quarryman called Fred Davey. Could he have been employed on the dig, do you suppose? Quarrying's a similar line of work.'

'In the 'thirties, you mean? If so, he must be at least as old as Dad, possibly older.'

'Yes.' Basil stared thoughtfully into his cider. The same generation. Like cousin Demetrius.'

'Grandad was obsessed with genealogy. Why didn't he know about Demetrius? He must have been his cousin too, right?'

'Or nephew. Except that Grandad was an only child, so he didn't have any nephews. He had uncles, though. One of them could be Demetrius's grandfather. Or he could be a more distant cousin. Who knows?'

'Dad did, apparently. Why did he never tell us about him?'

'Perhaps he only found out about him recently.'

'And was so bowled over by the experience that he decided to leave him the house? It doesn't make sense.'

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'But it did make sense, Nick. Oh my word, yes. It made very good sense to Dad. The question is: why?'