No Comebacks

A CAREFUL MAN

Timothy Hanson was a man who approached the problems of life with a calm and measured tread. He prided himself that this habitual approach, of calm analysis followed by the selection of the most favourable option and finally the determined pursuit of that choice, had brought him in the prime of middle age to the wealth and standing that he now enjoyed.

That crisp April morning he stood on the top step of the house in Devonshire Street, heartland of London's medical elite, and considered himself as the gleaming black door closed deferentially behind him.

The consultant physician, an old friend who had been his personal doctor for years, would have been a model of concern and regret even with a stranger. With a friend it had been even harder for him. His anguish had evidently been greater than that of his patient.

'Timothy, only three times in my career have I had to impart news like this,' he had said, his flattened hands resting on the folder of X-rays and reports before him. 'I ask you to believe me when I say it is the most dreadful experience in any medical man's life.'

Hanson had indicated that he did indeed believe him.

'Had you been a man different from that which I know you to be, I might have been tempted to lie to you,' said the doctor.

Hanson had thanked him for the compliment and the candour.

The consultant had escorted him personally to the threshold of the consulting room. 'If there is anything… I know it sounds banal… but you know what I mean… anything…'

Hanson had gripped the doctor's upper arm and given his friend a smile. It had been enough and all that was needed.

The white-coated receptionist had brought him to the door and ushered him through it. Hanson now stood there and drew a deep breath. It was cold, clean air. The northeast wind had scoured the city during the night. From the top steps he looked down at the street of discreet and elegant houses, now mostly the offices of financial consultants, chambers of expensive lawyers and surgeries of private practitioners.

Along the pavement a young woman in high heels walked briskly towards Marylebone High Street. She looked pretty and fresh, eyes alight, a pink flush on her chilled cheeks. Hanson caught her eye and on an impulse gave her a smile and an inclination of grey head. She looked surprised, then realized she did not know him, nor he her. It was a flirt she had received, not a greeting. She flashed a smile back and trotted on, swinging her hips a mite more. Richards, the chauffeur, pretended not to notice, but he had seen it all and looked approving. He was standing by the rear of the Rolls, waiting.

Hanson descended the steps and Richards pulled open the door. Hanson climbed in and relaxed in the interior warmth. He removed his coat, folded it carefully, placed it on the seat beside him and put his black hat on top. Richards took his place behind the wheel.

'The office, Mr Hanson?' he asked.

'Kent,' said Hanson.

The Silver Wraith had turned south into Great Portland Street, heading for the river, when Richards ventured a question.

'Nothing wrong with the old ticker, sir?'

'No,' said Hanson. 'Still pumping away.'

There was indeed nothing wrong with his heart. In that sense he was as strong as an ox. But this was not the time or the place to discuss with his chauffeur the mad, insatiable cells eating away in his bowel. The Rolls swept past the statue of Eros in Piccadilly Circus and joined the traffic stream down the Hay market.

Hanson leaned back and stared at the upholstery of the roof. Six months must seem an age, he mused, if you have just been sentenced to prison, or sent to hospital with two broken legs. But when that is all that is left to you it does not look so long. Not so long at all.

There would have to be hospitalization during the last month, of course, the physician had told him. Of course; when things got very bad. And they would. But there were anodynes, new drugs, very powerful…

The limousine pulled left into Westminster Bridge Road and then onto the bridge itself. Across the Thames Hanson watched the cream bulk of County Hall moving towards him.

He was, he reminded himself, a man of no small substance despite the penal taxation levels introduced by the new socialist regime. There was his City dealership in rare and precious coins; well established, respected in the trade and owning the freehold on the building in which it was housed. And it was wholly owned by him, with no partners and no shares.

The Rolls had passed the Elephant and Castle roundabout, heading for the Old Kent Road. The studied elegance of Marylebone was long past now, as also the mercantile wealth of Oxford Street and the twin seats of power in Whitehall and County Hall, straddling the river at Westminster Bridge. From the Elephant onwards the landscape was poorer, deprived, part of the swathe of inner-city problem areas between the wealth and the power of the centre and the trim complacency of the commuter suburbs.

Hanson watched the tired old buildings pass, cocooned in a £50,000 motor on a £1,000,000-a-mile highway. He thought with fondness of the lovely Kentish manor house to which he was heading, set in twenty acres of clipped parkland beset with oaks, beeches and limes. He wondered what would happen to it. Then there was the large apartment in Mayfair where he occasionally spent weekday nights rather than face the drive to Kent, and where he could entertain foreign buyers in an atmosphere less formal than that of a hotel, and usually more conducive to relaxation and therefore to a beneficial business deal.

Apart from the business and the two properties there was his private coin collection, built up with loving care over so many years; and the portfolio of stocks and shares, not to mention the deposit accounts in various banks, and even the car in which he now rode.

The last-mentioned came to a sudden stop at a pedestrian crossing in one of the poorer sections of the Old Kent Road. Richards let out a clucking noise of exasperation. Hanson looked out of the window. A crocodile of small children was crossing the road under the guidance of four nuns. Two were in the lead, the others bringing up the rear. At the end of the queue a small boy had stopped in the middle of the crossing and was staring with undisguised interest at the Rolls Royce.

He had a round and pugnacious face with a snub nose; his tousled hair was surmounted by a cap set askew with the initials 'St B' on it; one stocking was rumpled in creases around his ankle, its elastic garter no doubt performing a more important service somewhere else as a vital component of a catapult. He looked up and caught sight of the distinguished silver head staring at him from behind the tinted window. Without hesitation the urchin wrinkled his face into a grimace, placed the thumb of his right hand to his nose and waggled the remaining fingers in defiance.

Without a change of expression, Timothy Hanson placed the thumb of his own right hand against the tip of his nose and made the identical gesture back at the boy. In the rear view mirror Richards probably caught sight of the gesture but after the flicker of one eyebrow stared straight ahead through the windscreen. The boy on the crossing looked stunned. He dropped his hand, then grinned from ear to ear. In a second he was whisked off the crossing by a flustered young nun. The crocodile had now reformed and was marching towards a large grey building set back from the road behind railings. Freed of its impertinent obstacle, the Rolls purred forward on the road to Kent.

Thirty minutes later the last of the sprawling suburbs were behind them and the great sweep of the M20 motorway opened up, the chalky North Downs dropped away and they entered the roiling hills and vales of the garden of England. Hanson's thoughts strayed back to his wife, now dead these ten years. It had been a happy marriage, indeed very happy, but there had been no children. Perhaps they should have adopted; they had thought about it enough. She had been an only child and her parents were also long dead. On his own side of the family there remained his sister, whom he heartily disliked, a sentiment only matched by that he bore towards her ghastly husband and their equally unpleasant son.

Just south of Maidstone the motorway finally ran out and a few miles later, at Harrietsham, Richards pulled off the main road and cut south towards that box of unspoiled orchards, fields, woods and hop gardens that is called the Weald. It was in this tract of lovely countryside that Timothy Hanson had his country house.

Then there was the Chancellor of the Exchequer, master of his country's finances. He would want his share, thought Hanson, and a substantial share it would be. For there was no doubt about it. One way and another, after years of delay, he was going to have to make a will.

'Mr Pound will see you now, sir,' said the secretary.

Timothy Hanson rose and entered the office of Martin Pound, senior partner in the law firm of Pound, Gogarty.

The lawyer rose from behind his desk to greet him. 'My dear Timothy, how good to see you again.'

Like many wealthy men in middle age, Hanson had long established a personal friendship with his four most valued advisers, lawyer, broker, accountant and doctor, and was on first-name terms with them all. Both men seated themselves.

'What can I do for you?' asked Pound.

'For some time now, Martin, you have been urging me to make a will,' said Hanson.

'Certainly,' replied the lawyer, 'a very wise precaution, and one long overlooked.'

Hanson reached into his attach^ case and brought out a bulky manilla envelope, sealed with a large blob of red wax. He handed it over the desk to the surprised solicitor.

'There it is,' he said.

Pound handled the package with a frown of perplexity on his usually smooth face. 'Timothy, I do hope… in the case of an estate as large as yours…'

'Don't worry,' said Hanson. 'It was indeed prepared by a lawyer. Duly signed and witnessed. There are no ambiguities; nothing to provide any ground to contest it.'

'I see,' said Pound.

'Don't be put out, old friend. I know you wonder why I did not ask you to prepare it, but went instead to a provincial firm. I had my reasons. Trust me, please.'

'Of course,' said Pound hastily. 'No question of it. Do you wish me to put it in safekeeping?'

'Yes, I do. There is one last thing. In it I have asked you to be the sole executor. I have no doubt you would prefer to have seen it. I give you my word there is nothing in the executor's duties that could possibly trouble your conscience, either professional or personal. Will you accept?'

Pound weighed the heavy package in his hands.

'Yes,' he said. 'You have my word on it. In any case, I've no doubt we are talking about many years to come. You're looking marvellous. Let's face it, you'll probably outlive me. Then what will you do?'

Hanson accepted the banter in the spirit in which it was made. Ten minutes later he stepped out into the early May sunshine of Gray's Inn Road.

Until the middle of September Timothy Hanson was as busy as he had been for many years. He travelled several times to the Continent and even more frequently to the City of London. Few men who die before their time have the opportunity to put their many and complex affairs in order, and Hanson had every intention of ensuring that his were exactly as he would wish them to be.

On 15 September he asked Richards to come into the house and see him. The chauffeur-cum-handyman who, with his wife, had looked after Hanson for a dozen years found his employer in the library.

'I have a piece of news for you,' said Hanson. 'At the end of the year I intend to retire.'

Richards was surprised, but gave no sign of it. He reasoned there was more to come.

'I also intend to emigrate,' said Hanson, 'and spend my retirement in a much smaller residence, somewhere in the sun.'

So that was it, thought Richards. Still, it was good of the old boy to let him have over three months' forewarning. But the way the labour market was, he would still have to start looking at once. It was not just the job; it was also the handsome little cottage that went with it.

Hanson took a thick envelope from the mantelpiece. He extended it to Richards, who took it without comprehension.

'I'm afraid,' said Hanson, 'that unless the future occupants of the Manor wish to continue to employ you, and even Mrs Richards, it will mean looking for another post.'

'Yes, sir,' said Richards.

'I shall of course provide the most favourable references before I depart,' said Hanson. 'I would, however, for business reasons, be most grateful if you would not mention this in the village, or indeed to anyone at all until it becomes necessary. I would also be happy if you would not seek further employment until, say, November the 1st. In short, I do not wish news of my impending departure to get about just yet.'

'Very well, sir,' said Richards. He was still holding the thick envelope.

'Which brings me,' said Hanson, 'to the last matter. The envelope. You and Mrs Richards have been good and loyal to me these past twelve years. I want you to know I appreciate it. Always have.'

'Thank you, sir.'

' I would be very grateful if you were to remain as loyal to my memory after my departure abroad. I realize that asking you to seek no further employment for another six weeks may impose hardship. That apart, I would like to help you in some way in your future life. That envelope contains, in used and untraceable twenty-pound notes, the sum of ten thousand pounds.'

Richards' self-control broke at last. His eyebrows went up.

'Thank you, sir,' he said.

'Please don't mention it,' said Hanson. 'I have put it in the unusual form of cash because, like most of us, I have an aversion to handing over large chunks of my earned money to the tax people.'

'Too right,' said Richards with feeling. He could sense the thick wads of paper through the envelope.

'As such a sum would attract a large forfeit in gift tax, payable by you, I would suggest you don't bank it, but keep it in a safe place. And spend it in amounts not large enough to attract attention. It is designed to help you both in your new life in a few months' time.'

'Don't worry, sir,' said Richards. 'I know the score. Everyone's at it nowadays. And thank you very much, on behalf of both of us.'

Richards crossed the gravel yard to continue polishing the new Rolls Royce in a happy frame of mind. His salary had always been generous, and with the free cottage he had been able to save quite a bit. With his new windfall there would perhaps be no need to go back to the ever-shrinking labour market. There was that small boarding house at Porthcawl in his native Wales that he and Megan had spotted that very summer…

On the morning of 1 October Timothy Hanson came down from his bedroom before the sun had fully cleared the horizon. It would be a full hour before Mrs Richards came across to prepare his breakfast and start the cleaning.

It had been another terrible night and the pills he kept in his locked bedside drawer were steadily losing their battle against the shafts of pain that tore through his lower stomach. He looked grey and drawn, older than his years at last. He realized there was nothing more he could do. It was time.

He spent ten minutes writing a short note to Richards apologizing for the white he of a fortnight earlier and asking that Martin Pound be telephoned at his home immediately. The letter he laid ostentatiously on the floor at the threshold of the library where it stood out against the dark parquet. Then he rang Richards and told the sleepy voice that answered that he would not need Mrs Richards for an early breakfast, but that he would need the chauffeur, in the library, in thirty minutes.

When he had finished he took from his locked bureau the shotgun from whose barrel he had sawn ten inches of metal to render it more easily manageable. Into the breech he loaded two heavy-gauge cartridges and retired to the library. '

Meticulous to the last, he covered his favourite buttonback-leather winged chair with a heavy horse blanket, mindful that it now belonged to someone else. He sat in the chair cradling the gun. He took one last look round, at his rows of beloved books and the cabinets that had once housed his cherished collection of rare coins. Then he turned the barrels against his chest, fumbled for the triggers, took a deep breath, and shot himself through the heart.

Mr Martin Pound closed the door to the conference room adjacent to his office and took his place at the head of the long table. Halfway down the table to his right sat Mrs Armitage, sister of his client and friend, and of whom he had heard. Next to her sat her husband. Both were dressed in black. Across the table, seeming bored and indolent, sat their son, Tarquin, a young man in his early twenties who appeared to have an inordinate interest in the contents of his oversized nose. Mr Pound adjusted his spectacles and addressed the trio.

'You will understand that the late Timothy Hanson asked me to act as sole executor of his will. In the normal course of events I would, in this capacity, have opened the will immediately upon learning of his death, in order to ascertain whether there were any instructions of immediate importance concerning, for example, preparations for the burial.'

'Didn't you write it anyway?' asked Armitage senior.

'No, I did not,' replied Pound.

'So you don't know what is in it either?' asked Armitage junior.

'No, I do not,' said Pound. 'In fact the late Mr Hanson pre-empted such an opening of the will by leaving me a personal letter on the mantelpiece of the room in which he died. In it he made a number of things plain, which I am now able to impart to you.'

'Let's get on with the will,' said Armitage junior.

Mr Pound stared at him coldly without speaking.

'Quiet, Tarquin,' said Mrs Armitage mildly.

Pound resumed. 'In the first place, Timothy Hanson did not kill himself while the balance of mind was disturbed. He was in fact in the last stages of terminal cancer, and had known this since the previous April.'

'Poor bugger,' said Armitage senior.

'I later showed this letter to the Kent county coroner and it was confirmed by his personal physician and the autopsy. This enabled the formalities of death certificate, inquest and permission for burial to be hurried through in only a fortnight. Secondly, he made plain he did not wish the will to be opened and read until these formalities had been completed. Finally, he made plain he wished for a formal reading, rather than any correspondence by mail, in the presence of his only surviving relative, his sister Mrs Armitage, her husband and son.'

The other three in the room looked round with mounting and less than grief-stricken surprise.

'But there's only us here,' said Armitage junior.

'Precisely,' said Pound.

'Then we must be the only beneficiaries,' said his father.

'Not necessarily,' said Pound. 'The attendance here today was simply according to my late client's letter.'

'If he's playing some kind of joke on us.. said Mrs Armitage darkly. Her mouth adopted, as of much-practised ease, a thin straight line.

'Shall we proceed with the will?' suggested Pound.

'Right,' said Armitage junior.

Martin Pound took a slim letter opener and carefully slit the end of the fat envelope in his hands. From it he withdrew another bulky envelope and a three-page document, bound along the left-hand margin with narrow green tape. Pound placed the fat envelope to one side and opened out the folded sheets. He began to read.

'This is the last will of me, Timothy John Hanson, of…'

'We know all that,' said Armitage senior.

'Get on with it,' said Mrs Armitage.

Pound glanced at each with some distaste over the top of his glasses. He continued. 'I declare that this my will is to be construed in accordance with English law. Two, I hereby revoke all former wills and testamentary dispositions made by me…'

Armitage junior gave vent to the noisy sigh of one whose patience has been too long tried.

'Three, I appoint as executor the following gentleman, a solicitor, and ask that he administer my estate, and pay my duty payable thereon, and execute the provisions of this my will, namely: Martin Pound of Pound, Gogarty. Four, I ask my executor at this point of the reading to open the enclosed envelope wherein he will find a sum of money to be used for the expenses of my burial, and for the settlement of his professional fees, and of any other disbursements incurred in the execution of my wishes. And in the event that there be any monies remaining from the enclosed sum, then do I direct that he donate such monies to any charity of his own choice.'

Mr Pound laid down the will and took up again his letter knife. From the unopened envelope he extracted five wads of £20 notes, all new and each encircled by a brown paper band indicating that the sum in each wad amounted to £1000. There was silence in the room. Armitage junior ceased exploring one of his cavities and stared at the pile of money with the indifference of a satyr observing a virgin. Martin Pound picked up the will again.

'Five, I ask my sole executor, in deference to our long friendship, that he assume his executive functions upon the day following my burial.'

Mr Pound glanced again over the top of his glasses.

'In the normal course of events I would have already visited Mr Hanson's business in the city, and his other known assets, to ensure that they were being well and properly run and maintained, and that no financial damage would accrue to the beneficiaries by neglect of the assets,' he said. 'However, I have only just formally learned of my appointment as sole executor, so I have not been able to do so. Now it appears I cannot begin until the day after the funeral.'

'Here,' said Armitage senior, 'this neglect, it wouldn't diminish the value of the estate, would it?'

'I cannot say,' replied Pound. 'I doubt it. Mr Hanson had excellent assistants in his City dealership and I have no doubt he trusted in their loyalty to keep things running well.'

'Still, hadn't you better get weaving?' asked Armitage.

'The day after the funeral,' said Pound.

'Well then, let's get the funeral over with as soon as possible,' said Mrs Armitage.

'As you wish,' replied Pound. 'You are his next of kin.' He resumed reading. 'Six, I give to…'

Here Martin Pound paused and blinked as if he had trouble reading what he read. He swallowed. 'I give to my dear and loving sister the rest and residue of my estate absolutely, in the confidence that she will share her good fortune with her lovable husband Norman and their attractive son Tarquin. The same being subject to the conditions of paragraph seven.'

There was a stunned silence. Mrs Armitage dabbed delicately at her eyes with a cambric handkerchief, less to wipe away a tear than cover the smile that twitched at the corner of her mouth. When she removed the handkerchief she glanced at her husband and son with the air of an over-age hen who has just lifted one buttock to find a solid gold egg reposing beneath. The two male Armitages sat with open mouths.

'How much was he worth?' demanded the senior one at last.

'I really couldn't say,' said Pound.

'Come on, you must know,' said the son. 'Roughly. You handled all his affairs.'

Pound thought of the unknown solicitor who had drawn up the will in his hand. 'Almost all,' he said.

'Well…?'

Pound bit on the bullet. However unpleasant he found the Armitages, they were the sole beneficiaries of his late friend's.will. 'I should have thought, at current market prices, assuming all the estate is called in and realized, between two and a half and three million pounds.''

'Bloody hell,' said Armitage senior. He began to have mental images. 'How much will death duties come to?'

'Quite a large amount, I'm afraid.'

'How much?'

'With such a sizable estate, the bulk will be adjusted at the highest rate, seventy-five per cent. Overall, I suppose something like sixty-five per cent.'

'Leaving a million clear?' asked the son.

'It's a very rough estimate, you understand,' said Pound helplessly. He thought back to his friend Hanson as he had been: cultured, humorous, fastidious. Why, Timothy, for heaven's sake why? 'There is paragraph seven,' he pointed out.

'What's it say?' demanded Mrs Armitage, breaking off from her own reverie concerning her social take-off.

Pound began to read again. 'I have, all my life, been possessed by a great horror of one day being consumed beneath the ground by worms and other forms of parasites,' he read. 'I have therefore caused to be constructed a lead-lined coffin which now reposes in the funeral parlour of Bennett and Gaines, in the town of Ashford. And it is in this that I wish to be committed to my last resting place. Secondly, I have never wished that one day I might be dug up by an excavator or anything else. In consequence of this I direct that I shall be buried at sea, specifically twenty miles due south of the coast of Devon where I once served as a naval officer. Finally, I direct that it shall be my sister and brother-in-law who shall, out of respect for their lifelong love for me, be the ones who impel my coffin towards the ocean. And to my executor I direct that should any of these wishes not be fulfilled, or any impediment be placed before the arrangements by my beneficiaries, then shall all that has gone before be null and void, and I direct that then my entire estate be bequeathed to the Chancellor of the Exchequer.'

Martin Pound looked up. Privately he was surprised to learn of his late friend's fears and fancies, but he gave no sign of it.

'Now, Mrs Armitage, I have to ask you formally; do you object to the wishes of your late brother as expressed in paragraph seven?'

'It's stupid,' she replied, 'burial at sea, indeed. I didn't even know it was allowed.'

'It is extremely rare, but not illegal,' replied Pound. 'I have known of one case before.'

'It'll be expensive,' said her son, 'much more than a cemetery burial. And why not cremation anyway?'

'The cost of the funeral will not affect the inheritance,' said Pound testily. 'The expenses will come out of this.' He tapped the £5000 at his elbow. 'Now, do you object?'

'Well, I don't know…'

'I have to point out to you that if you do, the inheritance is null and void.'

'What does that mean?'

'The state gets the lot,' snapped her husband.

'Precisely,' said Pound.

'No objection,' said Mrs Armitage. 'Though I think it's ridiculous.'

'Then as next of kin will you authorize me to make the arrangements?' asked Pound.

Mrs Armitage nodded abruptly.

'The sooner the better,' said her husband. 'Then we can get on with the probate and the inheritance.'

Martin Pound stood up quickly. He had had enough.

"That constitutes the final paragraph of the will. It is duly signed and witnessed twice on every page. I think therefore there is nothing more to discuss. I shall make the necessary arrangements and contact you in respect of time and place. Good day to you.'

The middle of the English Channel is no place to be on a mid-October day unless you are an enthusiast. Mr and Mrs Armitage contrived to make perfectly plain before they had cleared the harbour mole that they were definitely not.

Mr Pound sighed as he stood in the wind on the afterdeck so as not to have to join them in the cabin. It had taken him a week to make the arrangements and he had settled on a vessel out of Brixham in Devon. The three fishermen who ran the inshore trawler had taken the unusual job once they were satisfied over the price and assured they were breaking no law. Fishing the Channel provided slim pickings these days.

It had taken a block and tackle to load the halfton coffin from the rear yard of the Kentish undertakers onto an open-backed one-ton van, which the black limousine had followed throughout the long haul down to the southwest coast that morning. The Armitages had complained throughout. At Brixham the van had drawn up on the quayside and the trawler's own davits had brought the coffin aboard. It stood now athwart two beams of timber on the wide after-deck, waxed oak and polished brass gleaming under the autumn sky.

Tarquin Armitage had accompanied the party in the limousine as far as Brixham, but after one look at the sea had elected to stay within the warm confines of a hostelry in town. He was not needed for the burial at sea in any case. The retired Royal Navy chaplain whom Pound had traced through the chaplaincy department of the Admiralty had been happy enough to accept a generous stipend for his services and now sat in the small cabin also, his surplice covered by a thick overcoat.

The skipper of the trawler rolled down the deck to where Pound stood. He produced a sea chart which flapped in the breeze, and pointed with a forefinger at a spot twenty miles south of start point. He raised an eyebrow. Pound nodded.

'Deep water,' said the skipper. He nodded at the coffin. 'You knew him?'

'Very well,' said Pound.

The skipper grunted. He ran the small trawler with his brother and a cousin; like most of these fishermen, they were all related. The three were tough Devonians, with nut-brown hands and faces, the sort whose ancestors had been fishing these tricky waters since Drake was learning the difference between main and mizzen.

'Be there in an hour,' he said, and stumped back forward.

When they reached the spot, the captain held the vessel with her bow into the weather, holding station with an idling engine. The cousin took a long piece of timber, three planks bolted together with crosspieces on the underside and 3 feet wide, and laid it across the starboard rail, smooth side up. The chipped timber rail took the plank almost at the mid-section, like the fulcrum of a seesaw. One half of the planks lay towards the deck, the other jutted out over the heaving sea. As the captain's brother manned the davit motor, the cousin slipped hooks under the coffin's four brass handles.

The engine revved and the davits took the strain. The great coffin lifted off the deck. The winchman held it at a height of 3 feet and the cousin manoeuvred the oaken casket onto the plank. He pointed it headfirst towards the sea and nodded. The winchman let it down so it came to rest directly above the supporting rail. He slackened off and the coffin creaked into position, half in and half out of the trawler. While the cousin held it steady, the winchman descended, cleared away the shackles and helped lift the inboard edge of the planks to the horizontal. There was little weight on them now, for the coffin was evenly balanced. One of the men looked to Pound for guidance and he summoned the chaplain and the Armitages from their shelter.

The six people stood in silence under the lower clouds, occasionally dusted by a misty spray blown from the crest of a passing wave, steadying themselves against the heave and pitch of the deck. To be fair to him, the chaplain kept it as short as decently possible, as well he might, for his white hair and surplice flayed about him in the breeze. Norman Armitage was also bareheaded, looking sick as a parrot and chilled to the bone. What he thought of his late relative, now lying a few feet from him encased in layers of camphor, lead and oak, could only be surmised. Of Mrs Armitage nothing could be seen between fur coat, fur hat and woollen scarf save a pointed, freezing nose.

Martin Pound stared at the sky as the priest droned on. A single gull wheeled on the wind, impervious to wet, cold, and nausea, unknowing of taxes, wills and relatives, self-sufficient in its aerodynamic perfection, independent, free. The solicitor looked back at the coffin and beyond it the ocean. Not bad, he thought, if you are sentimental about such things. Personally he had never been caring about what happened to him after death, and had not known that Hanson had been so concerned. But if you did care, not a bad place to lie. He saw the oak beaded with spray that could not enter. Well, they'll never disturb you here, Timothy old friend, he thought.

.. commend this our brother Timothy John Hanson to Thy everlasting care, through Jesus Christ, Our Lord, Amen.'

With a start Pound realized it was over. The chaplain was looking at him expectantly. He nodded to the Armitages. One went round each of the fishermen holding the planks steady and placed a hand on the rear of the coffin. Pound nodded to the men. Slowly they eased their end of the planks upwards. The other end dipped to the sea. At last the coffin moved. Both Armitages gave a shove. It scraped once, then slid fast off the other end. The boat rocked. The coffin hit the side of a wave with more of a thud than a splash. And it was gone. Instantly. Pound caught the eye of the skipper in the wheelhouse above. The man raised a hand and pointed back towards the way they had come. Pound nodded again. The engine note rose. The large plank was already inboard and stowed. The Armitages and the chaplain were hurrying for cover. The wind was rising.

It was almost dark when they rounded the corner of the mole at Brixham and the first lights were flickering in the houses behind the quay. The chaplain had his own small car parked nearby and was soon gone. Pound settled with the skipper, who was happy to make as much in an afternoon as in a week after mackerel. The undertaker's men waited with the limousine and a worse-for-wear Tarquin Armitage. Pound elected to let them have the car. He preferred to return to London by train and keep his own company.

'You'll get on with the calculation of the estate immediately,' insisted Mrs Armitage shrilly. 'And the filing of probate. We've had enough of all this play-acting.'

'You may be confident I shall waste no time,' said Pound coldly. 'I shall be in touch.' He raised his hat and walked towards the station. It would not, he surmised, be a long business. He knew already the extent and details of Timothy Hanson's estate. It was bound to be in perfect order. Hanson had been such a very careful man.

It was not until mid-November that Mr Pound felt able to communicate with the Armitages again. Although as sole beneficiary it was only Mrs Armitage who was invited to his office off Gray's Inn Road, she turned up with husband and son none the less.

'I find myself in something of a quandary,' he told her.

'What about?'

'Your late brother's estate, Mrs Armitage. Let me explain. As Mr Hanson's solicitor, I already knew the extent and location of the various assets comprising his estate, so I was able to examine each of them without delay.'

'What are they?' she asked brusquely.

Pound refused to be hurried or harried. 'In effect he had seven major areas that constituted his estate. Together they would account for ninety-nine per cent of what he owned. First there was the rare and precious coin dealership in the City. You may know it was a wholly-owned private company with himself as sole proprietor. He founded and built it up himself. He also owned, through the company, the building in which it is situated. He bought this, with a mortgage, shortly after the war when prices were low. The mortgage was long since paid off; the company owned the freehold and he owned the company.'

'What value would all this have?' asked Armitage senior.

'No problem there,' said Pound. 'With the building, the dealership, the stock, the goodwill and the unexpired portions of the leases of the other three tenant companies in the building, exactly one and a quarter million pounds.'

Armitage junior whistled through his teeth and grinned.

'How do you know so exactly?' asked Armitage.

'Because he sold it for that sum.'

'He what…?'

'Three months before he died, after brief negotiations, he sold the company lock, stock and barrel to a rich Dutch dealer who had wanted it for years. The sum paid was what I have mentioned.'

'But he was working there almost until he died,' objected Mrs Armitage. 'Who else knew about this?'

'No one,' said Pound. 'Not even the staff. In the sale deal the conveyancing of the building was performed by a provincial lawyer who quite properly said no more about it. The remaining part of the sale was a private treaty between him and the Dutch purchaser. There were conditions. The staff of five keep their jobs; and he personally was to remain on as sole manager until the end of this year or his death, whichever should be the sooner. Of course, the buyer thought this was a mere formality.'

'You have seen this man?' asked Mrs Armitage.

'Mr de Jong? Yes, a reputable Amsterdam dealer in coins. And I have seen the paperwork. It is all perfectly in order, absolutely legal.'

'So what did he do with the money?' asked Armitage senior.

'He banked it.'

'Well, then, no problem,' said the son.

'His next asset was his manor in Kent, a lovely property, set in twenty acres of parkland. Last June he took out a ninety-five per cent mortgage on the property. At the time of his death he had only paid off one quarterly instalment. On his death the building society became a primary creditor and now has taken possession of the title deeds. Again, perfectly legal and proper.'

'How much did he get for it, the manor?' asked Mrs Armitage.

'Two hundred and ten thousand pounds,' said Pound.

'Which he banked?'

'Yes. Then there was his apartment in Mayfair. He sold this by private treaty about the same time, employing yet another lawyer for the deed of sale, for a hundred and fifty thousand. This too was banked.'

'That makes three assets. What else?' demanded the son.

'Apart from the three properties he had a valuable private coin collection. This was sold piecemeal, through the company, for just over half a million pounds, over a period of several months. But the invoices were kept quite separate and were found in his safe at the manor house. Perfectly legitimate and every sale carefully noted. He banked each sum of money following each sale. His broker, on instruction, realized his entire portfolio of stocks and shares before the first day of August. Last but one, there was his Rolls Royce. He sold it for forty-eight thousand and leased another one instead.

The leasing company has repossessed this vehicle. Finally he had various deposit accounts in various banks. His total estate as I have been able to trace it, and I am convinced there is nothing missing, amounts to a shade over three million pounds.'

'You mean,' said Armitage senior, 'that before he died he called in and realized every single asset he possessed, converted it to cash and banked it, without telling a soul or raising any suspicions in those who knew him or worked for him?'

'I couldn't have put it better myself,' conceded Pound.

'Well, we wouldn't have wanted all that junk anyway,' said Armitage junior. 'We'd have wanted it realized. So he spent his last months doing your job for you. Tot it all up, settle the debts, assess the revenue and let's have the money.'

'I'm afraid I can't,' said Mr Pound.

'Why not?' There was a shrill edge of anger in Mrs Armitage's tone.

'The money he deposited for all these assets …'

'What about it?'

'He withdrew it?'

'He what…?'

'He put it in. And he took it all back out again. From a score of banks, in tranches, over a period of many weeks. But he got it out all right. In cash.'

'You can't withdrew three million pounds in cash,' said Armitage senior in disbelief.

'Oh, yes, you can,' said Pound mildly. 'Not all at once of course, but in sums up to fifty thousand pounds from major banks, with prior notice. Quite a lot of businesses operate with large floats of cash. Casinos, betting shops for example. And dealers in the second-hand market of almost anything…'

He was cut off by the growing hubbub. Mrs Armitage was pounding the table with a plump fist; her son was on his feet waving a forefinger down the table; her husband was seeking to adopt the posture of a judge about to deliver a particularly severe sentence. They were all shouting at once.

'He couldn't get away with this… he must have put it somewhere… you had just better find it… you two were in this together…'

It was the last remark that finally snapped Martin Pound's patience.

'Silence…' he roared, and the outburst was so unexpected/that the three fell silent. Pound pointed a finger directly at young Armitage. 'You, sir, will retract that last remark immediately. Do I make myself plain?'

Armitage junior shuffled in his seat. He glanced at his parents who were glaring at him. 'Sorry,' he said.

'Now,' resumed Pound, 'this particular ploy has been used before, usually to avoid payment of taxes. I am surprised at Timothy Hanson. It seldom ever works. One may withdraw a large amount of cash, but disposing of it is entirely a different matter. He might have banked it on deposit with a foreign bank, but knowing he was going to die, this does not make sense. He had no desire to enrich already rich bankers. No, he must have put it somewhere, or bought something with it. It may take time, but the result is always the same. If it has been deposited, it will be found. If some other asset has been acquired, that too will be traced. Apart from anything else, there are capital gains tax and estate duties payable on the sales of assets and on the estate itself. So the Inland Revenue will wish to be informed.'

'What can you do personally?' asked Armitage senior at last.

'So far I have contacted every major bank and merchant bank in the United Kingdom, empowered as I am by the terms of his own will. Everything is computerized nowadays. But no deposit at all in the name of Hanson has turned up. Also I have advertised in the nation's major newspapers for information but there has been no response. I have been to visit his former chauffeur and valet, Mr Richards, now retired to South Wales, but he cannot help. No large quantities — and believe me they would have to be very large quantities and volumes — of notes has he seen anywhere. Now, the question is: what more would you wish me to do now?'

There was silence as the three of them pondered the issue.

Privately, Martin Pound was saddened by what his friend had evidently tried to do. How could you think to get away with it? he asked the departed spirit. Had you so little respect for the Inland Revenue? It was never these greedy, shallow people you had to fear, Timothy. It was always the tax men. They are inexorable, untiring. They never stop. They never run out of funds. However well hidden it is, they will, when we have given up and their turn comes, seek it. So long as they do not know where it is, they will go on and on with the hunt, and until they know, they will never, never cease. Only when they do know, even if it is outside Britain and beyond their jurisdiction, will they close the file.

'Couldn't you go on looking?' asked Armitage senior with a degree more courtesy than he had yet shown.

'For a while, yes,' agreed Pound. 'But I have done my best. I have a practice to run. I cannot devote my whole time to the search.'

'What do you advise?' asked Armitage.

'There is always the Inland Revenue,' said Pound mildly. 'Sooner or later, and probably sooner, I shall have to inform them of what has happened.'

'You think they will trace it?' asked Mrs Armitage eagerly. 'After all, they are beneficiaries too, in a sense.'

'I am sure they will,' said Pound. 'They will want their cut. And they have all the resources of the state at their disposal.'

'How long would they take?' asked Armitage.

'Ah,' said Pound, 'that's another matter. My experience is that they are usually in no hurry. Like the mills of God, they grind slowly.'

'Months?' asked Armitage junior.

'More likely years. They will never call off the hunt. But they will not hurry.'.

'We can't wait that long,' shrilled Mrs Armitage. Her social take-off was beginning to look like a cold start. 'There must be a quicker way.'

'Hey, what about a private detective?' suggested Armitage junior.

'Could you employ a private detective?' asked Mrs Armitage.

'I prefer the term private inquiry agent,' said Pound. 'So do they. Yes, it is possible. I have in the past had occasion to use a very respected such agent in tracing missing beneficiaries. Now it appears the beneficiaries are present but the estate is missing. Still …'

'Well, then get on to him,' snapped Mrs Armitage. 'Tell him to find where the damned man put all his money.'

Greed, thought Pound. If only Hanson could have guessed how greedy they would turn out to be.

'Very well. There is however the question of his fee. I have to tell you that of the five thousand pounds that was allocated for all expenses, rather little remains. The outgoings have been heavier than usual… And his services are not inexpensive. But then, he is the best…'

Mrs Armitage looked at her husband. 'Norman.'

Armitage senior swallowed hard. He had mental images of his car and the planned summer holiday being forfeit. He nodded. 'I'll… er… take care of his fees when the remaining money from the five thousand pounds is exhausted,' he said.

'Very well, then,' said Pound rising. 'I shall engage the services of Mr Eustace Miller and him alone. I have no doubt he will trace the missing fortune. He has never failed me yet.'

With that he showed them out and retired to his office to ring Eustace Miller, private inquiry agent.

For four weeks there was silence from Mr Miller, but not from the Armitages, who bombarded Martin Pound with their ceaseless clamours for a quick location of the missing fortune to which they were entitled. At last Miller reported to Martin Pound to say that he had reached a watershed in his inquiries and felt he should report his progress to date.

Pound was by this time almost as curious as the Armitages so he arranged a meeting at his office.

If the Armitage family had expected to confront a figure in the mould of Philip Marlowe or any other popular conception of a tough private eye, they were doomed to disappointment. Eustace Miller was short, round and benign, with tufts of white hair round an otherwise bald head, and half-moon glasses. He wore a sober suit with a gold watch chain across the waistcoat, and he rose to his not very great height to present his report.

'I began this inquiry,' he said, surveying them all in turn over the top of His half-moons, 'with three assumptions in mind. One was that the late Mr Hanson had gone through his extraordinary performance in the months before he died with complete deliberation and a firm purpose. Secondly, I believed, and still do, that Mr Hanson's purpose was to deny his apparent inheritors and the Commissioners of Inland Revenue any access to his fortune after his death.

'The old bastard,' snapped Armitage junior.

'He need not have left it to you in the first place,' interposed Pound mildly. 'Do proceed, Mr Miller.'

'Thank you. Thirdly, I presumed that Mr Hanson had neither burned the money nor undertaken the considerable risks of trying to smuggle it abroad, bearing in mind the enormous volume that such a large sum would occupy in cash form. In short, I came to the view that he had bought something with it.'

'Gold? Diamonds?' asked Armitage senior.

'No, I examined all these possibilities and after intensive inquiries ruled them out. Then I found myself thinking of another kind of commodity of great value but relatively small bulk. I consulted the firm of Johnson Matthey, dealers in precious metals. And I found it.'

'The money?' chorused the three Armitages together.

'The answer,' said Miller. Enjoying his moment he drew from his attache case a wad of pieces of paper. 'These constitute sales documents for the purchase by Mr Hanson from Johnson Matthey of two hundred and fifty fifty-ounce ingots of high-grade 99.95 per cent pure platinum.'

There was a stunned silence round the table.

'It was not, frankly, a very clever ruse,' said Mr Miller with some regret. 'The buyer may have destroyed all record of his purchases, but obviously the vendor would not destroy his records of the sales. And here they are.'

'Why platinum?' queried Pound faintly.

'That's interesting. Under the present Labour government you need a licence to purchase and hold gold. Diamonds are instantly identifiable within the trade and not nearly as easy to dispose of as one would gather from some ill-informed thriller fiction. Platinum does not need a licence, is presently about the same value as gold, and apart from rhodium is one of the most valuable metals in the world. When he bought the metal he paid the free market price of five hundred American dollars per fine ounce.'

'How much did he spend?' asked Mrs Armitage.

'Nigh on the whole three million pounds he had secured for all his worldly goods,' said Miller. 'In US dollars — and his market is always calculated in US dollars — six and a quarter million dollars; twelve and a half thousand ounces in all. Or, as I said, two hundred and fifty ingots each of fifty fine ounces weight.'

'Where did he take them all?' Armitage senior demanded.

'To his manor in Kent,' said Miller. He was enjoying his moment and was aware with anticipatory pleasure that he had more to reveal.

'But I have been there,' protested Pound.

'With a lawyer's eye. Mine is that of an investigator,' said Miller. 'And I knew what I was looking for. So I did not start with the house, but with the outbuildings. Are you aware that Mr Hanson had an extremely well-equipped carpentry workshop in a former barn behind the stables?'

'Certainly,' said Pound. 'It was his hobby.'

'Precisely,' said Miller. 'And it was here I concentrated my efforts. The place had been scrupulously cleaned; vacuum-cleaned.'

'Possibly by Richards, the chauffeur/handyman,' said Pound.

'Possibly, but probably not. Despite the cleaning, I observed stains on the floorboards and had some splinters analysed. Diesel fuel. Pursuing a hunch, I thought of some kind of machine, an engine perhaps. It's small enough market and I found the answer within a week. Last May Mr Hanson bought a powerful diesel-fuelled electric generator and installed it in his workshop. He disposed of it for scrap just before he died.'

'To operate his power tools, no doubt,' said Pound.

'No, the ring main was strong enough for that. To operate something else. Something that needed enormous power. In another week I had traced that too. A small, modern and very efficient furnace. It too is long gone, and I have no doubt the ladles, asbestos gloves and tongs have been dumped at the bottom of some lake or river. But, I think I may say I was a little more thorough than Mr Hanson. Between two floorboards, jammed out of sight and covered by compacted sawdust, no doubt just where it had fallen during his operations, I discovered this.'

It was his piece de resistance and he drew out the moment. From his case he took a white tissue and slowly unwrapped it. From inside he held up a thin sliver of congealed metal that glittered in the light, the sort of sliver that must have dribbled down the side of a ladle, coagulated and dropped off. Miller waited while all stared at it.

'I have had it analysed of course. It is high-grade 99.95 per cent pure platinum.'

'You have traced the rest?' whispered Mrs Armitage.

'Not yet, madam, but I shall. Have no fear. You see Mr Hanson made one great mistake in selecting platinum. It has one property that he must have underestimated and yet which is quite unique. Its weight. Now at least we know what we are looking for. A wooden crate of some kind, apparently innocent to look at, but — and this is the point — weighing just under half a ton…

Mrs Armitage threw back her head and uttered a strange raucous cry like the howl of a wounded animal. Miller jumped a foot. Mr Armitage dropped his head forward into his hands. Tarquin Armitage rose to his feet, his spotty complexion brick red with rage, and screamed, 'That bloody bastard.'

Martin Pound stared unbelievingly at the startled private investigator. 'Good Lord,' he said. 'Oh, my goodness me. He actually took it with him.'

Two days later Mr Pound informed the Inland Revenue of the full facts of the case. They checked the facts and, albeit with an ill grace, declined to pursue.

Barney Smee walked happily and with a brisk pace towards his bank, confident he would just get there before they closed for the Christmas holiday. The reason for his pleasure was tucked inside his breast pocket: a cheque for a quite substantial sum, but only the last of a series of such cheques that over the past few months had ensured him a much higher income than he had ever managed to earn in twenty years in the risky business of dealing in scrap metals for the jewellery industry.

He had been right, he congratulated himself, to take the risk, and it had undeniably been a high one. Still, everyone was in the tax-dodging business nowadays and who was he to condemn the source of good fortune simply because the man had wished to deal only in cash? Barney Smee had no difficulty in understanding the silver-haired investor who called himself Richards and had a driving licence to prove it. The man evidently had bought his 50-ounce ingots years before, when they were cheap. To have sold them on the open market through Johnson Matthey would beyond doubt have secured him a higher price, but at what cost in capital gains tax? Only he could have known and Barney Smee was not one to probe.

In any case, the whole trade was rife with cash deals. The ingots had been genuine; they even bore the original assay mark of Johnson Matthey, from whom they had once come. Only the serial number had been blazed out. That had cost the old man a lot, because without the serial number Smee could not offer him anything near fair market price. He could only offer scrap price, or producer's price, about 440 US dollars an ounce. But then, the serial numbers would have identified the owner to the Inland Revenue, so maybe the old man knew his onions after all.

Barney Smee had got rid of all fifty eventually, through the trade, and had made a cool ten dollars an ounce for himself. The cheque in his pocket was for the sale of the last of the deal, the ultimate two ingots. He was blissfully unaware that in other parts of Britain another four like himself had also spent the autumn filtering fifty 50-ounce ingots each back into the market through the second-hand trade, and had bought them for cash from a silver-haired seller. He swung out of the side street and into the Old Kent Road. As he did so he collided with a man descending from a taxi. Both men apologized to each other and wished each other a merry Christmas. Barney Smee passed on his contented way.

The other man, a solicitor from Guernsey, peered up at the building where he had been dropped, adjusted his hat and made for the entrance. Ten minutes later he was closeted with a somewhat mystified Mother Superior.

'May I ask, Mother Superior, whether Saint Benedict's Orphanage qualifies as a registered charity under the Charities Act?'

'Yes,' said the Mother Superior. 'It does.'

'Good,' said the lawyer. 'Then no infringement has taken place and there will be no application in your case of the capital transfer tax.'

'The what?' she asked.

'Better known as the "gift tax",' said the lawyer with a smile. 'I am happy to tell you that a donor whose identity I cannot reveal, under the rules of confidentiality governing business between client and lawyer, has seen fit to donate a substantial sum to your establishment.'

He waited for a reaction, but the grey-haired old nun was staring at him in bewilderment.

'My client, whose name you will never know, instructed me quite specifically to present myself to you here on this day, Christmas Eve, and present you with this envelope.'

He took an envelope of thick cartridge paper from his briefcase and held it out to the Mother Superior. She took it but made no move to open it.

'I understand it contains a certified bank cheque, purchased from a reputable merchant bank incorporated in Guernsey, drawn on that bank and made out in favour of Saint Benedict's Orphanage. I have not seen the contents, but those were my instructions.'

'No gift tax?' she queried, holding the envelope, irresolute. Charitable donations were few and far between, and usually hard fought for.

'In the, Channel Islands we have a different fiscal system to that of the United Kingdom mainland,' said the lawyer patiently. 'We have no capital transfer tax. We also practise bank confidentiality. A donation within Guernsey or the Islands attracts no tax. If the recipient is domiciled or resident within the UK mainland, then he or she would be liable under mainland tax law. Unless already exempted. Such as by the Charities Act. And now, if you will sign a receipt for one envelope, contents unknown, I will have discharged my duty. My fee is already settled and I would like to get home to my family.'

Two minutes later the Mother Superior was alone. Slowly she ran a letter knife along the envelope and extracted the contents. It was a single certified cheque. When she saw the figure on it she scrabbled for her rosary and began telling it rapidly. When she had regained some of her composure she went to the prie-dieu against the wall and knelt for half an hour in prayer.

Back at her desk, still feeling weak, she stared again at the cheque for two and a half million pounds. Who in the world ever had such money? She tried to think what she should do with so much. An endowment, she thought. A trust fund, perhaps. There was enough to endow the orphanage forever. Certainly enough to fulfill the ambition of her lifetime: to get the orphanage out of the slums of London and establish it in the fresh air of the open countryside. She could double the number of children. She could…

Too many thoughts flooding in, and one trying to get to the front. What was it? Yes, the Sunday newspaper the week before last. Something had caught her eye, caused a pang of longing. That was it, that was where they would go. And enough money in her hands to buy it and endow it for always. A dream come true. An advert in the property columns. For sale, a manor house in Kent with twenty acres of parkland…