Days Without Number (9 page)

'She'll be needing her room. I'll move out.'

'Where to?'

'A hotel, I suppose.'

'Wouldn't it make more sense to stay at Trennor?'

It would, of course. Nick could not deny it, intimidated though he was by the prospect, for reasons he preferred not to analyse.

'It'd be good to have one of us in residence, however briefly. So that the place doesn't feel completely abandoned.'

Nick decided against challenging his sister's ascription of feelings to a pile of granite and mortar. That's settled, then,' he said, before finishing his whisky.

Nick did not sleep well that night. He was glad he had pulled back when he had in his conversation with Irene. There was no knowing how she would have reacted had he pursued the logic of his argument. Their father had died as the result of a fall, attributed by Irene to a trip or a slip, which he was undoubtedly prone to. He could equally well, of course, have been pushed. In theory, at least. But if so - theoretically then who might have pushed him? And why? What kept Nick awake was not the difficulty of finding answers to those questions. It was the effort needed to avoid finding them.

Next morning, on his jogging route round Saltash, he dropped the torn quarters of the condolences card into a litter bin he passed.

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CHAPTER SIX

Their appointment with Baskcomb was at four o'clock, timed so as not to interfere with opening hours at the Old Ferry or Anna's shift at the nursing home. Nick was glad of the delay in one sense, since it gave him an opportunity to learn what he could from the only person with any first-hand knowledge of the circumstances of his father's death.

After Irene had opened up for the day, he slipped out and drove north towards Landulph. Trennor was embargoed, he knew. But Pru Curnow's cottage was not. And the old lady was scarcely noted for her reticence.

Rain was falling and had been since dawn. Either side of the main street sloping down through Cargreen towards the river had become a watercourse. Drains were spouting and gutters overflowing. There was no-one about and Nick was hardly surprised. He was actually quite pleased by the weather, since it reduced the chances of Pru being anywhere but in her own home.

He parked as close as he could to the door of Chough Cottage, but that was not close enough to spare him a drenching dash through the rain. Nor did the cottage boast much in the way of a porch. Fortunately, though, Pru responded promptly to his yanks at the bell-pull.

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'Nicholas,' she announced, peering up at him through glasses that made her eyes look like those of some giant deep-sea fish. 'This is a nice surprise. You best ways come in before you drown.'

The front door led straight into the sitting room, which was crammed with a car-boot sale's worth of bric-�-brac. Nick had forgotten just how small the house was. The same applied to its owner. Pru Curnow bustled ahead of him, a tiny figure in a floral housecoat, her white hair recently permed and blue tinted. A West Highland terrier yapped excitedly from its station by the television and cocked a snowy-fringed eye at Nick.

'I'm that sorry about your father, Nicholas. Twas a fearful shock, I don't mind telling you.'

'It must have been.'

'Will you have some tea? Or sherry? I sometimes have a glass around this time. I had to have several yesterday.'

'All right. Sherry. Thanks.'

Pru opened a corner cabinet, setting its contents rattling and tinkling, which drew another volley of yaps from the dog. 'Be quiet, Finlay, do.' The plea had a measure of success. Finlay slowly lapsed into silence as Pru poured the Bristol Cream. 'Here's to your father,' she said, taking a generous sip. 'May he rest in peace.'

They sat down either side of the electric fire, whose glowing bars were emitting a fearsome though narrowly focused beam of heat. Finlay pattered between their feet before settling on the rug.

'We're grateful for everything you did, Pru,' said Nick. 'Not just yesterday, I mean. Looking after Dad can't always have been easy.'

'No more it was. When your mother passed away, 'twas in my mind to leave him to it, being as he didn't have what you'd call an accommodating nature. But as it turned out ... we rubbed along.' She took another sip of sherry. 'I'll miss him, temper and all.'

'We all will.'

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'Have you settled on a date for the funeral?'

'It'll probably be next Monday. We'll let you know when it's confirmed. There are . . . one or two complications. A postmortem, things like that.'

There'd have to be one, of course. I perfectly understand that. Though why I'm not allowed into Trennor to clear things up in the meantime is a mystery to me.'

'It won't be for long, Pru. We're seeing Mr Baskcomb later. He'll sort it out.'

'I do hope so. There'll be a goodly amount of bottoming to do after your party on Sunday.'

'There's no need for you to worry about that.'

'Who else is there to worry about it? I should hope you'll still want me to look to such things. For as long as you keep the house, any rate.'

'Of course, of course. If you're happy to.'

'Least I can do, Nicholas. Your mother was very kind to me. She'd want me to keep an eye on the place.'

'You don't mind going back, then? After what happened yesterday morning?'

'Lord bless you, no. I'm that close to the grave myself that death holds few terrors for me. If your father came back as a ghost, it'd give me the chance to give him a piece of my mind without fearing for my job.' She laughed and Nick joined in. Then she stopped. "Twas no sight for the squeamish, though, and that's a fact.'

'How did you ... I mean . . .'

'How did I come upon him? Well, I let myself in as usual, around ten o'clock, and there was neither sight nor sound of him. I thought he must have gone out for a walk or somesuch, though the weather was scarcely fit for strolling and his car was in the garage. Then I noticed the cellar door standing open, with the light on inside. I popped my head round the door and looked down the steps. And there he was, sprawled on his back at the bottom. I knew he was dead at once, just by the way he was lying. I thought he'd broken his neck, though that young constable who spoke to me yesterday reckoned a

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crack on the back of his head was what did for him. Well, I didn't see that, of course.'

'Poor old Dad.'

'I should say. It only takes one slip at our age, his and mine, and slips are what you grow liable to, take my word for it. He had that fall a few weeks back. It should have been a warning to him.'

'Dad wasn't one to heed warnings.'

'No more he was.' Pru set down her glass and stared thoughtfully at it. 'He'd got a little too fond of the liquor these last few years, which can't have helped.'

'So I gather.'

'That'll be what took him down to the cellar, I dare say. One of those fine wines of his.'

'Did he have a bottle with him?'

'Pardon?' Pru frowned.

'Well, if he went down to fetch a bottle of wine, he'd have had it with him when he left, wouldn't he? It would probably have smashed as he fell.'

'There was no smashed bottle.'

'No?'

'No.'

'You're sure.'

'Definitely. Is it important?'

'Shouldn't think so,' Nick lied, feeling certain in his own mind that it almost certainly did matter.

'Course, if you don't mind me saying, Nicholas, as far as the liquor went . . .'

'Go on.'

'It's not my place to comment on such things, really.'

T'd be grateful if you did.'

'Well, he'd been drinking even more just lately, not a doubt of it. A lot more.'

'Really?'

'Oh yes. I'd know, wouldn't I? He wasn't one to chuck out his own empties.'

Nick grinned. 'I suppose not.'

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'I put it down to all the argufying about selling the house.'

'Ah. You know about that, do you?'

'Couldn't help knowing. Matter of fact, I was at Trennor the day Miss Hartley called round, which was the start of it all, seemingly. I didn't know what they were talking about at the time, of course. I had my work to attend to. But your father told me about the offer later. Came right out with it, he did. Said I had a right to know, seeing as I'd be out of a job if the sale went through.'

'Look, Pru, we'd have--'

'Oh, don't worry about me, Nicholas. If someone's offering you a fair price for the place - and this is more than fair, so your sister tells me - then you should take it. Time I retired, anyhow. Why your father set his face against it I wouldn't know. I don't think he quite trusted Miss Hartley, though. I can say that. And I can see why. There was something, well, strange about her.'

'Was there?'

'Like her mentioning you, for one thing.'

'Mentioning me?'

'When she called at Trennor.'

'She mentioned me - specifically?'

'As she was leaving. I heard them talking at the door from the kitchen. Miss Hartley said, "Are you the father of Nicholas Paleologus?" Like she knew you.'

'But she didn't.'

'No. That's right. 'Cos when your father said yes and asked her if she knew you, she said, "No, but I've heard of him." Peculiar, I thought. Very peculiar.'

'What did Dad think?'

'Well, your father asked her what she meant by it, but she only said, "It doesn't matter," then took herself off smartish. I suppose it doesn't matter really, when you come down to it.'

'Probably not.' But that was Nick's second lie of the morning. It mattered. Oh yes, it mattered all right.

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Nick found himself with plenty to think about over a solitary lunch at the Spaniards, Cargreen's riverside pub. The foul weather had deterred most potential customers and he had the bar more or less to himself. He sat by the fire, listening to the rain beating against the windows, wondering what exactly was going on. How had Elspeth Hartley heard of him? He had certainly never heard of her. The only answer that came to mind was one he very much wanted to disbelieve. And the only way to find out if he could disbelieve it--

Nick's mobile trilled, causing him to jump with surprise. But a bigger surprise followed when he pulled the phone out of his pocket and pressed the button.

'Hello.'

'Nick? Elspeth Hartley here.'

'Elspeth.' His heart missed a beat. 'Hi.'

'I've just been speaking to Irene. I was really sorry to hear about your father. It must have been quite a shock.'

'It certainly was.'

'Please accept my condolences.'

The sentiment was faintly old-fashioned, sowing the fleeting suspicion in Nick's mind that she might already have tendered her condolences - anonymously. 'Thanks.'

Ts this a bad time to talk?'

'No.'

'OK. Good. I phoned Irene to ask if you'd been able to persuade your father to change his mind over the weekend. I never expected-- Well, it's just terrible, what happened.'

'Yeah.'

'Irene couldn't say much. There were a lot of customers in. She suggested I call you and ask . . . well, where we go from here, I suppose.'

'We go to see our solicitor. Then we go to our father's funeral.'

'Sorry. Of course. Look, I--'

'Tell you what. Why don't we meet, later today, after the solicitor's said his piece? I should be able to answer your questions then.'

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'Oh. All right. Great.' She sounded relieved at his change of tone. 'In Plymouth?'

'If that's where you are.'

'It is, yeah. What time would suit you?'

'Six o'clock.'

'That's fine with me. Where do you want to meet?'

'You choose.'

'OK. Do you know the Compton? It's a pub in Manna mead.'

'Can't say I do. But, don't worry, I'll find it.'

'Until six, then.'

'Yeah. Until six.'

Baskcomb and Co. shared a Georgian terrace house with a dental surgery in The Crescent, on the western fringe of the city centre. Maurice Baskcomb, Michael Paleologus's solicitor, was the grandson of the founder of the business. He was in his sixties now, Nick calculated, though he looked about fifty-five, just as he had in his forties, a ruddy-cheeked, bald-pated, plain-mannered man of the law who valued efficiency and economy and attracted clients of like mind.

Elegant accommodation and stylish attire did not figure in Baskcomb's mental landscape. He received the Paleologus siblings in his skew-ceilinged junk-room of an office, dressed in a suit that had seen better days but so long ago that they had passed from memory. The gathering of sufficient chairs seemed to strain the firm's resources of furniture close to breaking point. And Baskcomb's offer of sympathy verged on the perfunctory. But that, Nick bore in mind, was the nature of the man. Michael Paleologus would probably have approved mightily. Maurice Baskcomb was no more an ambulance-chaser than he was a skirt-chaser.

T've been in touch with the police and coroner as you requested, Mrs Viner,' he announced, with a nod to Irene. 'You'll be pleased to know that your father's death is not being treated as suspicious. The postmortem raised no cause for concern and your father's body has now been transferred to

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the care of the undertaker. The coroner will grant a disposal certificate tomorrow, so you may proceed with funerary arrangements as soon as you wish.'

'But there'll still have to be an inquest?' asked Andrew.

'In due course, Mr Paleologus, yes. A mere formality, though. Its only real significance is that it will delay the final settlement of your father's estate.'

'By how long?'

That depends on the coroner's schedule.'

'What my brother is concerned about,' Irene began, 'as I think you're aware . . .'

'Is the offer for Trennor.' Baskcomb grinned at them in that way he had of conferring his blessing on his clients' pecuniary preoccupations. 'I quite understand, Mrs Viner. But the law is hard to hurry. Believe me, I speak from experience. Your father's will is a straightforward document, sharing his estate equally between the five of you and appointing his sons as joint executors along with me, as I believe you know. I gather his financial affairs were uncomplicated. The estate amounts in essence to Trennor, on which there is no mortgage or secured loan, plus a modest amount of savings. I foresee no difficulties. Even so, it will be several months before probate is granted. And that assumes the coroner proceeds expeditiously, which . . .' His grin became a wry smile. 'Which is not invariably the case.'