There was an Old Woman (2 page)

“I'd bring over something to eat and sometimes she'd let me in.”

“Why were the cops involved?”

“I told you! I called them. Lizzy starved to death as sure as I'm sitting here. She had lots of money in the bank, but she couldn't get at it. They wouldn't let her have a cent of her own money to buy a litre of milk with. When she was so weak she couldn't get up, I went to the bank and begged them! But they wouldn't give me a brass thumbtack. Then they got an injunction so I couldn't even go near her house without getting arrested.”

“Did you have power of attorney, Kogan? They couldn't legally let you touch her money.”

“Yeah? Well, when she was well enough, they wouldn't let
her
touch it either. How do you like them apples?”

“Had she been certified incompetent or something? There has to be an explanation.”

“That's why they're holding an inquest into her death right now over at the new court-house. I just come from there.”

“Well, they'll get to the bottom of it. If there's been a slip-up, the coroner will discover it and we'll read all about it in the paper tomorrow or Monday.”

“I guess,” Kogan said.

“There's no way, Kogan, that an old woman can starve to death in Grantham. We've got all sorts of social agencies: municipal, provincial, federal. There has to be a better explanation than what you've just told me.”

“I guess,” Kogan said.

“You've been over there all morning?” Kogan nodded and added that he'd been there for the opening session the
day before. He began to look twice as hopeless as I'd ever seen him. I forgot that he had a black belt in manipulation. “Maybe I'll wander over there after lunch to se what's going on,” I said.

“I was hoping you'd say that, Mr. Cooperman, but it may be all over by then. I'd get right on it if I were you.” Feeling he had perhaps overplayed his hand, he added, “Which of course I'm not.”

“I'll take a look, Kogan. They don't usually rise until one. I've got lots of time.”

“You understand I'm not in a position to hire you, Mr. Cooperman? I'd like to, but I'm a poor man.”

“Get lost, Kogan. I'll talk to you when I get back.”

“You ain't going to bill me for this afterwards?”

“Kogan, go fix the toilet! Please fix the toilet!”

“You know the way some of these sharp operators work: you think you've won a trip for two to Paris, France, and you end up with a subscription to a dozen magazines.” I handed him a bent coat-hanger, which was as close to a set of plumbing tools as I had handy.

“You do your job, Kogan, and I'll do mine. You'll hear nothing about Paris from me.”

He took the wire and gave me a grin. We had an understanding. Or at least I thought we had one, which, as I reflected later, wasn't the same thing at all. I know that he hadn't yet emptied his bag of tricks. Kogan, when his blood is up, is quite a manager. I only hope he didn't suspect how little I had in my office to occupy my time.

Kogan moved off, forgetting to take the mop with him. I didn't follow to see whether he was now restoring the plumbing to its rightful use. Let the public library serenade the literate and illiterate alike with the soothing sounds of bubbling fountains; a washroom should have more practical ambitions.

TWO

The new court-house replaced the parking lot that had replaced the old Carnegie Library at the corner of James and Church. We all hated to see the library go, but we had to admit that the new one, across the street next to the police station, was bigger and better. But the old courthouse hadn't done so well. It had been turned into a shelter for a bunch of boutiques and cafés serving Italian coffee. It wasn't a fair ending for a building that had heard the dread sentence of death pronounced in its courtrooms. The selling of candles that smell like soap and soap that smells of sandalwood tends to trivialize a structure that is approaching its hundred and fiftieth year in the public service. How do you put a building out to stud?

Courtroom D was an L-shaped room with pews running down to face the coroner from one direction and, at right angles, to face the jury from another. A piece of dark railing, probably rescued from the old building, formed the bar that separated those with business for the court from the rest of us. There were microphones attached to the coroner's high bench and others to pick up what the witnesses and lawyers had to say. The provincial flag hung limply to the left of the coroner,
Dr. Geoffrey Chisholm, a man with steel grey hair and a gnarled red nose. Behind him, the wall was decorated with oak battens of wood running from floor to ceiling at two-inch intervals. Between these, the orange wall reminded you that this was the new court-house not the old one.

I moved into a back seat, beside a bailiff I knew, and listened. My neighbour Jimmy Dodds leaned over and identified the witness. “That's Thurleigh Ramsden,” he said, looking up at me to see if that meant anything. It did, but the bell was so faint, I couldn't identify the sound. Jimmy read my face and supplied a few missing facts. “Lawyer,” he said. “Ran for mayor three years ago. Stands to the right of the Tories.” I nodded my thanks and began to tune in on the proceedings.

Ramsden was being questioned by Jack Webley, a lawyer I'd seen in action before, about the finances of Lizzy Oldridge. From his answers, I got the impression that Ramsden wanted to show that he had kept his distance from the affairs of Kogan's friend. His answers were brief and vague, as though he had important business awaiting him outside the courtroom. He kept trying to score social points with the coroner.

“She was, ah, not sartorially in the same class with Dr. Chisholm, for example,” he said with a smile directed at the bench.

“She was a sloppy dresser?” Webley asked.

“She was a poor dresser. Personal hygiene was never one of her strong points.” Webley, who was wearing a
polyester shirt, looked like he wanted to move on, but we both caught another attempt to get a smile from the coroner.

“How did you come to have joint signing authority over her accounts at the Upper Canadian Bank?”

Ramsden let a slow smile reveal his large, beaver-like front teeth. He sucked in air, and seemed to expand. His small eyes looked like they were about to be popped from the stretched skin of his face. His wispy moustache waved as he exhaled.

“I don't know where you got that idea. I never had any authority over any of her bank accounts.”

“Yes, but she kept the bulk of her money in her safety deposit box. You had joint signing authority there, didn't you?”

“Yes, but her bank accounts were her own business.”

“Do you know how much was in her savings account?”

“I have no idea. I have a great many things pressing upon my attention. I don't pretend to know everything.”

“Would you be surprised to learn that Miss Oldridge had less than ten dollars in her accounts?”

“If you say so, I suppose I'll have to take your word.”

“How did you become the executor of Miss Oldridge's estate?”

“Quite simply: she asked me.”

“Under what circumstances?”

“It was after a meeting of a society I founded, the Guild of the Venerable Bede. Miss Oldridge was a member,
a member of long standing, if I remember aright. She used to sing the national anthem at our meetings. When she was younger, she had a remarkably beautiful voice.”

“And?”

“And she took me aside and asked if I would act as executor in the will she was having drawn up.”

“You were one executor among several?”

“No, young man, Miss Oldridge trusted me. I was the sole executor.”

“You weren't by any chance her lawyer too, were you?” Webley asked in what appeared to be an offhand way.

“No, sir, I was not!” Ramsden shot back. The coroner frowned at Webley, but did nothing with the gavel he was holding.

Ramsden was sweating under his black-and-white striped shirt. You could see his undershirt through the damp fabric. His blue blazer with a yacht club crest made him look quite the confident man about town.

“Was it at that time that she asked you to enter into an agreement whereby it took both of your signatures to gain access to her safety deposit box?”

“No. That came later, when she felt that her physical and mental powers were overtaxed. I reluctantly agreed, but only after convincing her to arrange to draw a regular allowance from her funds. She had the habit of turning all of her loose cash into term deposits, you see. She left herself short more than once. By my plan, she would have living money every week.”

“Do you remember what amount?”

“She liked to economize. She was a frugal woman.”

“Please answer the question.”

“I think the amount was set at sixty dollars a week. But she had the power to alter that at any time.'

“Did she alter it?”

“I have no information on that point, young man.”

“If she had changed the amount, you would have had to come down to the bank, isn't that correct?”

“Yes.”

“And did you?”

“I went to the bank several times, as I remember, and once to her lawyer's when she signed her will.”

“What bank and branch did she deal with?” Webley asked, pretending to look at a piece of paper. It was a trick he should have saved for a real trial. Here it didn't mean anything.

“We're talking about the central branch of the Upper Canadian Bank on St. Andrew Street.”

“Do you know the manager at that branch?”

“Clarence Temperley has been the manager since Egerton Garsington died back in the late 1960s. I have my own accounts at that branch. Naturally, I know Mr. Temperley quite well.”

“It would have been a help if Mr. Temperley could be reached to assist us in this inquest, Mr. Ramsden. Can you think of any reason why he has not come forward?”

“Are you asking me to speculate, Mr. Webley?”

“You needn't answer that,” the coroner directed, giving Jack a dirty look.

“This is the beginning of the holiday season, Mr. Webley,” Ramsden said. “Many people who have the means flee the inclement weather to warmer climes. And who can blame them?”

I listened to a few more minutes of this, drawing an unpleasant picture of the witness from what he said himself, and then I went out the double back doors for a cigarette break. Of course, since I no longer smoke, it's difficult to figure out what to do during a cigarette break. Chewing on cough candies is something one does in private with the knowledge of consenting adults. It's a private vice and the less said about it, the better.

I was crunching a Halls between my molars when I heard a voice calling me. “Cooperman! Benny Cooperman! What in hell's name are you doing here?” I turned around and found myself staring into the worried little eyes of Stan Mendlesham of Newby, Boyle, Weaver and Mendlesham. They had an office across from St. Thomas's Church on Ontario Street. The word on the street was that Mendlesham was a sham Mendlesham, that his name was simply Mendle. But I don't know about that. If he was Jewish, he was even less observant than I was, which was going some. I thought I took the prize in non-attendance and un-belonging.

“Benny! What brings you to coroner's court on a cold, wet day like this?” Stan was a short, round man, with pear-shaped tones to match his figure. He fancied himself
an orator, loved to make love to a jury. In fact, his whole approach to law was like courtship. He wooed jurors with winks and nods from the defence table, sent bouquets of lacy words over the crown attorney's head to fall gently into the lap of each juror. He wore gold cufflinks and an expensive watch.

“Just killing an hour, Stan. How about you?” Stan coughed into his fist and avoided my eyes.

“I worked with Thurleigh Ramsden when I got my call to the bar,” he said. “That's when Thurleigh made his big bid in politics. I kept his clients happy while he attended rallies and made speeches. I just came to see that he was well represented, that's all. Call it curiosity.”

Stan was showing stains under his arms that didn't go with the weather. He was nervous about something.

“Tell me, Stan, who drew up this will they were talking about?”

Mendlesham shrugged. “Search me,” he said evasively.

“What are the chances of criminal charges being laid after the inquest, Stan?” It was a naïve question on my part. It was just intended to keep the conversation going. I was surprised by his answer:

“Who the hell tipped you off about this, Benny? What's your game? What the hell do you think you know?” Stan glared at me like I had just corrected his grammar.

THREE

The weather was still spitting at me when I came out. For some reason it wouldn't just rain; it had to play at being fog. There was a perversity about it that chilled my innards as I crossed the street at the light. I looked up
Oldridge
in the remaining shreds of a telephone book shackled to a pay-phone in the market behind City Hall. There she was:

Oldridge E B 3 Brogan…..960-3829

I tried to place Brogan Street and couldn't. I'd look it up back at the office, I thought, as I continued up James Street. There was a crowd of people outside the seed store on King Street. A pre-Christmas special in tulip bulbs? I didn't investigate.

There were plywood hoardings nailed in front of the glass windows of the hardware store part-way down the next block. After more than one hundred years in business, Foley Bros. had closed its doors. Everybody had been shocked. There had never been a time within living memory when you couldn't buy a bag of three-inch nails or dry paint mix at Foley Bros. On a post next to the
hoarding stood a sign I'd never noticed before: Brogan Street. It began just south of the empty hardware store. I worked less than a block away, but I'd never noticed.