Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 103, No. 3 & 4. Whole No. 625 & 626, March 1994

When I’m Dead and Gone by Martin Edwards

© 1994 by Martin Edwards

Martin Edwards resides in Cheshire, England, hut the venue of his Harry Devlin stories is Liverpool and its environs, where his solicitor sleuth occasionally comes up against some mean streets and unsavory opponents. Not so in his latest tale, in which Devlin and his associate visit what seems to be a genteel retirement home...

“I hate to think that he might die on such a beautiful day,” said Sylvia Reid.

Sun was streaming through the office window, but dismay clouded her pleasant features. She had been qualified as a solicitor for exactly one month, not long enough to learn to take each client’s misfortunes in her stride before moving on to the next buff folder and the next troubling tale.

Death, Harry Devlin wanted to tell her, hurt as much in the depth of the darkest night as at the height of an Indian summer. Too often in the past he had come face-to-face with death — the death of those he had loved as well as of those he had good cause to loathe — and he knew that whether sudden or slow, its constant companions were anger, pain, and despair.

But there was work to be done and all he said was: “I hate to think that he might die before we’ve managed to write out his will.”

She frowned. “No need to worry. Lucy has already typed up the engrossment. Would you like to look it over?”

Harry loosened his tie while he thought about it. Making the most of the good weather, his partner Jim Crusoe had taken his wife and children off to Blackpool, leaving Sylvia in charge of the firm’s non-contentious department for the first time since her admission. In truth, she had understood more about the law of property, wills, and probate three months into her traineeship than Harry ever would, but he could not escape the uncomfortable feeling that she still expected him to offer words of wisdom about the legal small print, as well as about how to cope with clients who were despondent, defeated, or about to die.

“If you don’t mind,” he said awkwardly.

Sylvia handed him the crisp foolscap sheets and studied his face for a reaction. She was a serious girl and so anxious to do well in her career that Harry marvelled at her decision to stay on with them rather than moving to a rival firm which could offer more training, prestige, and money than Crusoe and Devlin ever could.

He scanned the will paragraph by paragraph. Leonard Justinian (for Heaven’s sake!) Routley had not indulged in complex testamentary dispositions, but Harry did not want her to think he was simply going through the motions of glancing at her work. And in any event, since Routley was apparently a solicitor, he would expect the will to be word perfect.

“Pass me Ibbotson, please.”

She slid the massive bulk of Ibbotson on Inheritance in front of him. It was the nineteenth edition of a monograph which had first appeared when Victoria was in nappies; within the profession, it was better known as Everything Your Clients Always Wanted to Know About Wills, But Couldn’t Afford to Ask.

Words of warning were uttered on every page. The draftsman of a will is enjoined to manifest the highest standards of professional care... he must regard the desires of the testator as paramount... although before death a misapprehension will be susceptible to correction, thereafter, even where all the beneficiaries are sui juris, ambiguous provisions may need to be the subject of a ruling from the court. The orotund phrasing did not conceal the menace of the message. Harry knew that to err might be human, but it would also expose the firm to a negligence writ. In Jim’s absence, they couldn’t run the slightest risk of making a mistake.

“I was surprised that Mr. Routley hadn’t already made a will,” Sylvia said as he leafed through the precedents with what he hoped was a knowledgeable air. “After all, solicitors know better than anyone else about the problems that can arise on an intestacy. It seems slapdash.”

Harry couldn’t help blushing. “Tell you the truth, I haven’t made one myself.”

She goggled at him. “Why ever not? Superstition?”

“Simply never got round to it.”

He might have added, but didn’t, that he had no one close enough to leave all his things to. Besides, who would thank him for a roomful of dog-eared murder mystery paperbacks and scratched sixties LPs which had never been translated to compact disc? And who exactly would mourn him, a man without a wife or family, when he was dead and gone?

Wanting to change the subject, he reached back in his memory for a scrap of legal trivia. “Anyway, lawyers writing their own wills are notoriously inept. Wasn’t it Sergeant Maynard who decided to benefit the profession with a will that raised most of the problems of inheritance law that had perplexed him during his lifetime?” Sylvia laughed. “At least Mr. Routley’s instructions were easy to follow. He wrote them out for the matron at the old people’s home to read to me over the phone.”

“Why the urgency? What’s the matter with him?”

“Heart trouble, the matron said, complicated by diabetes. Apparently he had a bad do last night. The doctor examined him this morning and says he could go at any time. With the late summer holiday coming up, it’s a long weekend, and the poor old man started to get worried that he might not have a chance to put his affairs in order by the time Tuesday came around.”

Harry glanced at a passage in the textbook cautioning of the dangers associated with intellectual incapacity. He had a nightmarish vision of sitting for hour after hour at Routley’s bedside, trying to take advantage of a fleeting lucid interval. “You’re sure he’s still compos mentis?”

“I did press her about that, especially as we have never acted for him in the past. But she said the doctor was quite definite. And when I go over there later this afternoon to have Mr. Routley sign the will, I’ll talk it through with him, to make sure I’m happy that he knows what he’s doing. In the meantime, his wishes seem clear enough.”

“I see this man he refers to as his good friend, Parbold, pretty well scoops the pool. You know what they say: where there’s a will, there’s a relative. Has Routley no family at all?”

“The matron says not. He’s a bachelor, and when I asked if, nevertheless, he might have any children, she sounded shocked and said that with a gentleman of that calibre, it was absolutely out of the question.”

“Stranger things have happened, but never mind. So there’s no one else who might have a possible claim on the estate?”

“She’s positive from what he has said to her that there are no brothers or sisters, and she isn’t aware of any cousins, however many times removed, let alone nephews or nieces. So that leaves the way clear for Walter Parbold.”

“A bachelor’s old boyfriend, perhaps?”

“Maybe, though the matron was so brisk and businesslike, I didn’t dare to ask.”

“How much is the estate worth?”

“Too little to attract inheritance tax. There are bank and building society accounts, National Savings, and a few privatisation shares. But not more than sixty thousand in total. A tidy sum, but hardly a fortune.”

“The prices some of these homes charge,” said Harry, “he probably went in there a millionaire. So — at least there’s no problem about covering the specific bequests?”

“None at all. You can see there are several small pecuniary legacies to other residents at the home. He intends to leave his gold watch to his doctor, a local G.P. whose name is Berkeley. All rather trivial in money terms, but I suppose the little things matter a great deal when you come towards the end.”

“Parbold’s the sole executor, I notice.”

“Yes, no scope for appointing Jim and yourself, I’m afraid.”

Unspoken was the acknowledgement that a solicitor did not make money out of drawing a will. Profit came with the work on the probate. Routley had no doubt decided that his affairs were easy enough to administer. If Parbold was intelligent and capable, there might be little need to involve a solicitor. And as a lawyer himself, Routley would know better than most what a hole legal fees could make in any estate. On the other hand, if Parbold turned out to be elderly or inefficient, the odds were that he would soon find the burden of executorship too much to cope with alone. The price of professional help was often worth paying. Harry sensed there might still be an opportunity for further business.

“Did you find out whether Parbold is willing to act?”

“Yes, the matron was sure about that. Parbold often pops in to see his pal and he was happy to help.”

“What if Parbold dies before Routley?”

Sylvia flushed. “I–I didn’t ask. I assumed that, since Mr. Routley is in such a poor state, the question simply wouldn’t arise. Do you disagree?”

“Even a sick man may linger on for much longer than anyone would expect,” Harry pointed out, “while a perfectly healthy person can be run over by a bus at any time — especially in view of the way they are driven round the streets of Liverpool.”

“Shall I give the matron a ring?”

“Not a bad idea.”

She checked the number in the book, but a couple of minutes spent listening to the answering tone convinced them both that the Mersey Haven Rest Home was woefully understaffed. Perhaps all the caregivers were sitting outside, soaking up the sun.

“What shall we do?” Sylvia could not conceal her anxiety. In Jim’s absence, Routley’s will had offered a chance for her to shine, and now she was afraid that if the unexpected happened and the residuary gift to Parbold lapsed, it would be her fault.

Harry closed Ibbotson with a decisive smack. “It’s too lovely to stay inside any longer. I don’t have any more appointments this afternoon, and I wouldn’t mind making an early start to the weekend by running over to Otterspool.”

Crestfallen, Sylvia said, “So you’re taking over the file?”

“Not at all. I can scarcely tell a codicil from a cold supper. But if you’re dealing with a retired solicitor, you may find it useful to have me come along. If any last-minute redrafting is necessary, we can retype the will at the home. I presume they must have a typewriter, if not a word processor.”

“And when the poor old man’s ready to sign,” she said, brightening, “we can act as witnesses, if need be. As a matter of fact, the matron did enquire about that.”

Harry got to his feet. He had become interested in this new client, even experienced a certain fellow feeling for him. Maybe when they met, Harry would see in Routley his own reflection in forty years’ time, a retired solicitor with no wife or kids, just a bit of money in the bank, a few mementoes to leave to acquaintances, and a host of memories that would die as soon as he did. But none of this could he explain to the earnest young woman who saw the forthcoming meeting as so much valuable experience.

“Let’s move, then,” he said. “I wouldn’t like the old bugger to breathe his last while we’re queuing at the traffic lights by Jericho Lane.”

In the years when Gladstone reckoned that peace in Eastern Europe and an answer to the Irish Question were just around the corner, the yellow brick villa which now housed the Mersey Haven Rest Home must have belonged to one of his wealthiest fellow Liverpudlians. At that time, the owner could scarcely have imagined the day would dawn when a development of poky semis would encroach upon the wooded grounds of his home and when on the river which it overlooked not a single oceangoing ship could be seen. Now the building seemed an anachronism. So long had passed since a single family lived here in splendour. Its gentility had faded, and it had become simply somewhere people came to live in peace and quiet before they finally died.

As Harry swung his MG into the drive, he slowed to read the Gothic lettering on a garish yellow signboard.

“High-class accommodation for senior citizens,” recited Sylvia, “with nursing care provided by qualified staff, supervised by the resident proprietress and matron in charge, Mrs. A. Katsikas.” She paused and added, “I suppose Mr. Routley’s lucky he can afford it.”

“Not so lucky at the moment,” said Harry, and they both fell silent, contemplating the prospect of advanced years, infirmity, and the black abyss beyond.

He parked on hardstanding at the side of the home, and they headed on foot for the main entrance, past a sun lounge tacked onto the east wing by the kind of builder who would happily have stuck a sauna on the side of the Anglican cathedral. As he walked by the windows, Harry was conscious that he was being scrutinised by an old woman with watery eyes; he saw another half-dozen ancients baking under the glass, fast asleep with their heads lolling on shrunken chests.

At close quarters the building, like its residents, was showing its age. The brickwork needed repointing, and paint was peeling from the woodwork. The front door yielded to Harry’s touch and he led the way inside. A small desk in the hall bearing a notice marked ENQUIRIES was untenanted; Harry rang the bell.

At once a wizened face belonging to the owner of the watery eyes poked around the side of the door from the hall to the conservatory. “Have you any idea who I am?” she demanded.

Harry gave a helpless smile and was forced to admit that he did not.

“I can tell you — in the strictest confidence, mind — that I am Princess Coralie of Monte Carlo,” the old lady said. “Am I right in thinking I have the pleasure of addressing none other than His Royal Highness, Crown Prince Rupert of Eastern Bohemia?”

Harry had been called many things in his life, but he’d never before had the misfortune to be mistaken for royalty. Aware that Sylvia was controlling her mirth with the utmost difficulty, he was saved from the need to reply by the approach of a plump, comfortable-looking woman in a blue uniform. At the sight of her, an expression of truculent dignity crossed the wrinkled face.

“Hush! Not a word!” the old lady hissed. “No one must know our secret.”

Harry winked at her and she vanished as swiftly as she had appeared.

“I see you’ve met our princess,” said the plump woman with a smile. “You’re not a relative, are you, love?”

Harry shook his head. “I don’t like to admit it, but no blue blood flows through my veins. My name’s Harry Devlin and I’m a solicitor.” He paused, trying to reconcile the woman’s broad Lancashire vowels with the exotic name on the signboard outside. “You’re not Mrs. Katsikas, by any chance?”

“Guilty,” she said, noting his puzzled look with amusement. “They call me Ada, a good Red Rose name, but my ex-husband was Greek. I met him on a package tour of Corfu. Should have realised that holiday romances don’t last much longer than the average sun tan.”

She gave a laugh and shook him by the hand, her ringless fingers pressing into his flesh. “You’re younger than most solicitors I ever came across. To say nothing of your lady friend. Are lawyers like policemen, getting younger all the time?”

Daunted by her roguish manner, Harry said hastily, “This is my colleague Sylvia Reid. You spoke to her earlier today on behalf of Mr. Routley. I thought it would be helpful if we both came. Firstly, in case there’s a need to make any last-minute changes to the will. Secondly, to provide a couple of independent witnesses. I gather you thought that might be necessary.”

The matron became more serious. “Yes, given that we are very short-staffed this afternoon. The holiday weekend, you know. People like to make it into a decent break. But our guests still need to be looked after, of course, and there is some urgency in this case, in view of poor Mr. Routley’s condition.”

“I understand he may not survive the weekend?”

“That’s right. Dr. Berkeley was pessimistic this morning. Frankly, something could happen at any moment. I think Mr. Routley senses that himself, which is why I needed to call on your services without delay. I hope the instructions were clear?”

“Fine, fine. Is it possible for me to see my client now?”

“Yes, I was with him in his room when your car pulled up outside. He had a sleep after lunch, but he woke up half an hour ago.”

“His mind is still in good shape, I understand?” said Harry.

“Oh yes, there’s no trace of dementia, and the drugs he has been taking make him drowsy at times, but don’t have any damaging effect on the brain. I know he has been thinking for a while about making his will. It preyed on his mind that he hadn’t done so before. But at least it’s not a hasty decision. He’s very much at peace with himself.”

Harry had never been able to grasp the idea of coming to terms with death. His own end would, he felt sure, fill him with terror as it approached. For him, life was something to cling to and fight for, whatever the cost. He and Sylvia followed Ada Katsikas upstairs in silence.

The matron directed them to a room above the front door. Knocking softly, she said, “Leonard, it’s Ada. The solicitor is here at last.” Turning back to them, she whispered, “I’ll just make sure he’s presentable, then I’ll call you in.”

A couple of minutes later she reappeared and gave an encouraging nod. “Yes, I’ve just made him comfy. He’s frail, of course, but able to talk quite clearly. I don’t suppose you want me to sit in, but if you do need me for any reason, please don’t hesitate to press the button by the side of his bed.”

Leonard Routley lay propped up in his bed. He was solidly built with a good head of grey hair; but for the chalky whiteness of his cheeks, Harry would not have guessed he was close to death.

“Mr. Routley, I’m Harry Devlin and this is Sylvia Reid, who works with me. Thanks for instructing us. I’m sorry to hear you’re not so grand.”

The old man waved away the words of sympathy with a flap of his hand. In a wheezing but audible voice, he said, “I know the state I’m in, Mr. Devlin. I’m not long for this world, and all I want is to get things settled.”

“You’re a fellow solicitor, I gather?”

“For my sins,” he grunted. “Have you got the will?”

“Here it is. Do you need me to take you through it?”

“I don’t think there’s any need. If you’ll pass my reading glasses, please.”

He indicated a pair of spectacles lying on his bedside chest alongside a faded black and white photograph. Harry glanced at the blurred image: dark-haired young fellow, tall and erect in mortarboard and gown. The passage of perhaps fifty years had made it hard to recognise the breathless old man from the record of his younger days.

“Your degree ceremony?” Harry asked as he passed the spectacles.

“A long time ago,” mumbled Routley as he began to study the will, tracing his finger along each line as he sought to absorb its sense.

“Leonard Justinian Routley,” said Harry. “Is that right?”

“Afraid so. Damn fool name, never come across it anywhere else. Never understood why my parents ever landed me with it.”

“A family connection with the law, perhaps?”

“God knows. Justin would have been bad enough. What else do we have? Ah yes, small gifts to three of the nicest old crocks here, Raymond, Lavinia, and Charlotte, that’s right. And to the good doctor, as well. He’s done his best for me. With the rest to Parbold, excellent.”

Harry was troubled by something. Absently, he asked, “He’s an old friend of yours?”

“Feel as if I’ve known him all my life,” said Routley. “Though truth to tell, we only met after I moved into this place. First-rate chap, never let you down. Deserves it, I can assure you.”

“I’m sure.”

“Well, everything seems all right. Thank Heaven that’s done at last. I know I shouldn’t have left it so long.”

“We never take the advice we love to give our clients, do we?” said Harry. “There’s just one thing I’d like to ask.”

“Go on.”

“Don’t you think we ought to cover the eventuality that Mr. Parbold might predecease you?”

The old man stared at him. “There’s no question of that. Walter’s as fit as a fiddle. I’m a sick man. Berkeley hasn’t beaten about the bush. He gives me a few days at best. Maybe only a few hours, for all he and I know.”

“I appreciate that, Mr. Routley, but accidents can happen when we least expect them. If by some stroke of fate, Mr. Parbold were the first to die, you’ll know as well as anyone the problems that can arise. No executor, no residuary legatee. Messy. I gather you don’t have any family.”

“None whatsoever.”

“So applying the intestacy rules to your residue wouldn’t achieve anything. The Crown would take the bulk of your estate.”

For a moment Routley bowed his head. He seemed to be dismayed that the point had not occurred to him. “Perhaps you’re right. I suppose I’m not thinking straight. What do you suggest?”

“Is there anyone else you would like to benefit if the worst came to worst and Mr. Parbold did not survive you?”

“I suppose...” said Routley slowly, “the doctor would be as good a man as any.”

“You have his full name?”

“Giles Alexander Berkeley,” said Sylvia unexpectedly. “He happens to be my and my mother’s G.P. I’ve always been rather in awe of him, but there’s no doubt he has an excellent reputation. You couldn’t be in better hands, Mr. Routley.”

“I realise that. All the same, I don’t want any delay.”

“No need for any,” she said. “We can make the necessary alterations in a matter of a few minutes if Mrs. Katsikas will let us use her typewriter.”

Harry pressed the bedside bell and the matron came running in. “No problems, I hope?”

“A minor alteration, that’s all.”

The plump woman gave her patient a startled look. “I hope I didn’t make a mistake in writing down your instructions, Leonard. We went through them so painstakingly. I can’t believe it’s a good idea to chop and change at the last minute.”

“It’s nothing, Ada. A technicality, that’s all.”

Harry explained the point and asked if Sylvia could type the amendments on the spot.

“Of course, of course. I’m only relieved it’s something minor that can easily be attended to. And Dr. Berkeley’s a good man, even if the point is — shall we say, academic? I know how much Leonard has set his heart on finalising the will this afternoon. Would you like to come this way, Miss Reid?”

“Where did you practise?” Harry asked Routley when they were alone.

“Oh, I was with a small outfit in Greater London,” said Routley. “You wouldn’t have heard of them. And besides, it all seems a long time ago.”

“So you’re not a local man?”

“I was raised in Wigan, but we moved down South when I was in my teens. My widowed sister stayed up here and when I retired I decided to move in with her. She died eighteen months ago and it was then that I decided to come to the Mersey Haven.”

“Have you been happy here?”

“First-class place. The matron talks a lot, but she’s marvellous. And this is where I met Walter Parbold. Listen, would you mind drawing the curtains? The sun is so strong, it’s making me feel faint.”

“Was he in residence when you first arrived?” asked Harry as he moved to the window, but when he turned again, Routley’s eyes had closed. He leaned over the bed and was glad to hear steady breathing from its sleepy occupant.

A couple of minutes later, the matron ushered Sylvia back in. “All done and dusted, Mr. Devlin.”

Harry glanced at the retyped will before passing it to Routley, whose eyes had just begun to open.

“Please make sure you’re happy with it before I ask you to sign.”

The old man read through his final dispositions before giving a satisfied nod.

“It reflects my wishes. You’ve done a good job.”

“Sylvia here did all the work.”

The young woman coloured. “It was very straightforward.”

“At least there were no family complications,” said Harry, “no hotchpot.”

Routley shook his head. “A will’s an important document. I wouldn’t want mine to be a hotchpotch.”

Harry took a fountain pen out of his pocket and watched carefully as his client scratched out his signature with a shaky hand. Then he and Sylvia signed their names underneath and added their descriptions and addresses.

“Do you wish me to keep the original in our archives?”

“Thank you, but no. It will be safe enough here.”

“In that case, if there is a photocopier downstairs, perhaps I could take a copy for my office records?”

“With pleasure,” said Ada Katsikas, beaming. “Now, I rather fancy you’re tired after all this excitement, Leonard. Not used to visitors, are you? I’ll show Mr. Devlin and Miss Reid out, and I’ll bring the will back to you in a few minutes.”

“Goodbye,” said Harry. “I’m always glad to meet a professional colleague. Perhaps I’ll see you again sometime.”

The old man gave a weak smile. “I’m afraid I don’t think I’ll manage that, Mr. Devlin. But thank you both for your prompt help in my hour of need.”

When they were back in the car, Sylvia said, “Are you all right?”

“Any reason why I shouldn’t be?”

“It’s just that you went rather quiet while we were in the rest home and something still seems to be gnawing at you.”

He thought for a moment. “Let’s say I always feel uneasy in the presence of the dying.”

After dropping her off at the station, he did not drive away at once. Rather, he sat in the car park for twenty minutes, letting his thoughts roam. He hadn’t told Sylvia the whole truth, but the things that tantalised him were trivial, and he knew it might be unwise to make too much of them. The sensible course was simply to go home and forget about Leonard Routley’s will until the time came to send in the bill. But he had never been good about taking the sensible courses in life.

Doubts were lurking in his mind; he could not rid himself of them. Past experience had taught him that he would have no peace until he found answers to the questions he found puzzling. Although, if he were mistaken, he faced at best embarrassment, at worst a charge of professional misconduct, he knew that he had to act — and without delay. He could not live with any other choice.

This time he parked half a mile away from the Mersey Haven Rest Home and made his way there on foot. On the earlier visit he had noticed that a footpath and cycle track had been carved between the housing development and the grounds of the home, and he followed its curving course for a couple of hundred yards until he reached a stretch out of sight of both the houses and pedestrians on the main road.

Conveniently, the new featheredge fence which separated the rest home from the path had already been broken down and there were signs that someone had trampled under the horse chestnut trees which fringed the grounds. For once Harry found himself sending up a silent prayer of thanks for juvenile delinquency. He slid through the gap and, with head bowed to avoid the low looping branches, hurried around the perimeter. Soon he realised he had arrived at a point directly behind the central part of the building and perhaps fifty yards distant from it. On this occasion he had no intention of going in by the front entrance; he must check covertly to find out whether his guess was wide of the mark. He could see dustbins and a gleaming Range Rover, which belonged, he guessed, to Mrs. Katsikas. But what caught his eye was a window on the ground floor which someone had left invitingly open.

There was nothing for it but to hope that no one would see him as he broke cover. He dashed to the window, stopping up short of the brick beside it. Panting, he thought ruefully back to his footballing days, when he’d always had the ability to race up from midfield and lose his marker before meeting a cross pulled back from the wing. Nowadays, he would struggle to keep up with the average referee.

No matter. He had reached his destination, and when he stole a quick glance through the window, his luck held. The room was deserted. A moment later he was inside.

Fussy ornaments and knickknacks covered every inch of shelf space and there was a faint whiff of perfume in the air. Even before he heard a light approaching tread in the corridor outside, he realised he’d entered a woman’s bedroom.

He could see nowhere to hide. No convenient cupboard or empty wardrobe. He wasn’t even able to squeeze under the bed: it was a drawer divan. Holding his breath, he hoped the footsteps would pass by the door and disappear into the distance.

Instead, they paused for a second and then the door swung open.

“Crown Prince Rupert! This is a surprise!”

Harry’s heart sank. He would almost rather have been confronted by Ada Katsikas wielding a rolling pin than Princess Coralie of Monte Carlo in coquettish mood.

“Your Royal Highness,” he said, edging round the bed as he tried desperately to remember a chunk of Anthony Hope dialogue, “I must apologise most humbly for this unwarranted intrusion.”

“Rupert, my dear, you don’t have to say sorry to little me!”

“You see, I had hoped to leave my card, suggesting that perhaps we could have a longer conversation later this evening.”

The watery eyes were bright with excitement as he moved closer to the door. “What a marvellous idea!”

He had almost made it. “Shall we say nine tonight — in the sun lounge?”

“Splendid!”

“Until then, let us say nothing!” He placed his finger to his lips and felt like crying with relief when she nodded and waved a delicate farewell as he peered outside and, seeing the coast was clear, made good his escape.

The corridor led him straight back to the main hall. No one was about. He took the stairs two at a time and within seconds he was standing outside Leonard Routley’s door. He listened for a moment, then put his head round and looked inside.

The room was deserted.

He saw that the bed had been remade. There were now half a dozen photographs crammed on top of the bedside table, including the degree picture that Harry had seen on his previous visit. The rest showed a man at different points in his life. There were two studio portraits, one that seemed to have been taken at Ascot, and another where he was shaking hands with a youthful-looking Duke of Edinburgh. The rest were less blurred than the degree photo.

He heard movement and voices outside. No question, they were coming closer. For the second time in five minutes he found himself looking round desperately for a hiding place. Once again he was out of luck.

You would never have made it as an Anthony Hope hero, after all, he muttered to himself.

He had no choice but to brazen it out. Standing by the bed, his arms folded, he watched and waited as the door swung slowly open.

Ada Katsikas was wheeling a frail old man in a chair. For all his pallor, Harry recognised him at once as the man in the photographs. Quite different from the tall chap who had his hand on the matron’s shoulder and who, when his now florid cheeks had been coated in white makeup an hour earlier, had been introduced as Leonard Routley.

The matron and her companion came to a sudden halt, their faces drenched in horror at the sight of Harry. Only the old man in the chair, his head lolling to one side, was unmoved.

“Next time you impersonate a lawyer,” said Harry to the man who was not Leonard Routley, “you ought to mug up more on the jargon we use. As we say in our profession, res ipsa loquitur, Mr. Walter Parbold.”

“Do you think they actually had murder in mind?” asked Sylvia the following Tuesday. They were sitting in Jim Crusoe’s office, with the rain drumming against the windowpanes. The weather had broken in the early hours of Saturday morning and storms had raged the whole weekend long in the best traditions of the British bank holiday.

“Not at all. Both father and daughter were thieves, not killers. Parbold has seen the inside of Walton Jail and Strange ways over the years. Dud cheques, selling dodgy cars, that sort of thing. His daughter doesn’t have a record, but the police found she left one or two of the homes where she’d worked as a nurse with scant ceremony after patients’ money and belongings started to go missing. Presumably Ada’s purchase of the Mersey Haven was funded by their ill-gotten gains.”

“But they couldn’t afford the upkeep?” asked Jim.

“Which was why they had to keep their eyes out for a likely mark. Leonard Routley fitted the bill perfectly, because he had plenty of cash, but no relatives who might turn up and start asking awkward questions once he left his estate to a chap he hardly knew.”

“What made you suspect?” asked Sylvia.

“I imagine that his father was a lawyer, too, as his middle name was that of a great Roman jurist.”

“Justinian? I’ve never heard of him.”

“A sign of the educational times. But I would have expected old Routley to know something about the author of The Institutes. And then he seemed to confuse hotchpot with a hotchpotch.”

“I wouldn’t even have thought you knew anything about hotchpot,” Jim grunted.

“I’m fine on footnote knowledge, but don’t press me for a definition.”

His partner reached for Ibbotson and turned to the glossary. “Hotchpot; a throwing-in to a common lot of property for strict equality of division which requires that advancements to a child be made up to the estate by way of contribution or accounting.”

“Ah yes,” said Harry, “it was on the tip of my tongue.”

“I see that once you realised you were dealing with a fake, you could guess the rest,” said Sylvia. “Ada had cleared out her staff for the afternoon, having arranged for a respectable doctor to confirm that the real Routley was of sound mind...”

“He died yesterday, poor old chap. In Ada’s room, the police found the will he actually made twenty-five years ago. He had no one he cared much about, so he left everything to a worthy charity. The Distressed Solicitors Association.”

“I keep thinking they ought to make me a grant,” said Jim.

“... but why,” Sylvia continued firmly, “were you so sure that illness hadn’t simply caused Routley to forget things that he should have known?”

Harry rubbed his chin. “I’ve had more than my share of dealing with death. It has an awful atmosphere all of its own. Horrible, yet unmistakable. But when we walked into that bedroom, my guts didn’t churn. I felt fine.”

Outside they heard another rumble of thunder and Harry couldn’t help thinking again about the real Leonard Routley and wondering, now that the sad old man was dead, where his soul had gone.