The younger man reached the stairs first. “What’s going on here?” he demanded. His voice was high and thin, the intonation suggestive of a British accent. Or of a Canadian accent which was trying to sound British.
Before any of us could answer, the old man spoke directly to me. “You must be George Cook’s daughter?”
I nodded yes.
“And these gentlemen?”
Gianelli introduced himself and Wilson.
“Detectives!” the younger man exclaimed. He looked up at the house as he asked, “Mrs. Baker?”
“I’m sorry,” Gianelli replied. “She was found this morning.”
“Any sudden unexplained death has to be checked out,” Wilson added.
“Surely it wasn’t unexpected,” the old man said. He swayed on his cane. A small clear droplet hung from the end of his nose, stretched, fell on the high collar. His companion reached out to take his arm, but the old fellow shrugged him off. “Beatrice was ninety-three years old. Her time had come. But murder! I doubt that. She had no enemies.”
“She was found at the bottom of the stairs. With a broken neck,” Gianelli said.
“Accident then.”
“I tend to agree…” Wilson began.
Gianelli interrupted him. “You’re the lawyer? Dufferin Ross?”
“That’s right.” The old man held out a trembling hand which Gianelli gently shook. “How do you know my name?”
“She had your card taped to the wall beside her phone. We called your office …”
“We were on our way anyway.”
“Is that what that call on the car phone was about?” The younger man’s voice rose even higher. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You were too engrossed in the stock market reports,” the old man retorted. I caught the glint in his eye and realized he must have enjoyed not just keeping this small secret from his companion, but also the other’s obvious dismay at finding the police at their client’s home.
Gianelli interrupted their tiff. “And your name, sir?”
“Roger Markham. Of Ross, Armour and Markham. Mrs. Baker is one of my uncle’s oldest clients.”
“Friend, boy,” the old man grunted. “Some of us are friends with our clients. We can see beyond the bills.”
Markham flushed, but continued. “We had an appointment with Mrs. Baker today. To see her great-niece. Putative great-niece,” he added. “I told him I didn’t like this idea from the beginning; that there’d be trouble. And I was right.”
The old man wasn’t listening. His eyes never left my face, eyes of a very pale blue, almost colourless beneath the thick white wings of his brows. His skin was stretched tight over the bones, the only wrinkles in nests at the corners of his eyes and in deep grooves that ran from his sharp nose down to the edge of his lips. Small red patches glowed on his cheeks; his lips were pale and, as I watched him, the small pink tip of his tongue ran out and around them. I looked away.
“So, you know this woman?” Gianelli asked.
“Knew her father. Feckless boy. Knew them all. Not her, though. Mother took her away. Let’s take a look at you, then. Come down here, where I can see you properly.”
I stood up reluctantly and came down the stairs. Markham had to step into the grass to make room for me on the pavement beside his uncle. He grimaced as he stepped in something soft, and began to wipe the sole of his shoe over and over on the edge of the concrete path. The rasp irritated the old man. He spoke over one shoulder.
“Why don’t you wait in the car, my boy? You didn’t have to come with me. I can still do business on my own.”
“It’s all right, Uncle. I don’t mind waiting.”
The old man shrugged. Before I could back away, he grabbed my chin with one hand, cold and bony as a claw, and turned my head from one side to the other.
“You have your grandmother’s eyes,” he said. He dropped his hand to join the other on the top of the cane.
I shivered. I could feel the faint crescent dents of his fingernails in the skin of my cheeks.
“My mother didn’t take me away,” I said to him. “My father left us.”
“That’s what she told you, is it?”
“That’s what happened.”
He shook his head and was about to speak again when Gianelli repeated his question: “Is this Mrs. Baker’s niece?”
“Great-niece,” Mr. Ross corrected. “Beatrice’s brother’s granddaughter. “
“You knew she was coming to visit her here?”
“I suggested we meet in my office, but Beatrice refused to come downtown. She didn’t like the traffic and she didn’t want to leave her cats. Filthy things,” the old man sniffed. He looked narrowly at the house. “They still in there?”
“The Humane Society took them away,” Wilson said.
“Good. Then what are we standing out here in the cold for? Let’s go in.”
THREE
Mr. Ross used his cane to brush the two policemen aside and hauled himself up the stairs. I followed, with Markham, Gianelli and Wilson close behind.
“We should keep out until the coroner is satisfied,” Wilson objected as Mr. Ross pushed the front door open.
“Nothing to find,” the old man grunted. “Accident. Old age. Waste of time looking for anything else. Comes to all of us sooner or later.”
“Now, Uncle,” Markham soothed. “Don’t get yourself upset. Maybe we should call this meeting off and get together another day.”
“We have business here,” Mr. Ross nodded at me. “I’ll miss Beatrice, true enough. Last of a breed, she was, a real lady. Haven’t seen much of her since my dear Anne passed away.” He sniffed. “And since you young fellows have taken over the office. Retirement, they call it,” he said to Gianelli. He made the sound that comic books rendered as “hmmph.” I’d never believed real people did that.
“I’m cold,” he continued. “Beatrice would be mortified to think we were all standing out here on the street, making a spectacle of ourselves for the neighbours. She would want us to come in.”
Mr. Ross knew where to go in the house, turning to the right in the dark hall that was a minefield of litter boxes and bowls. He pushed aside a floor-length velvet curtain which rattled along a brass rod to reveal a room as dusty and still as a museum display. Lace curtains kept out most of whatever light could penetrate the grimy windows that were further darkened by alternating panes of dull red and green leaded glass. After a moment’s fumbling he flicked a switch which turned on a pale yellow globe that hung from the centre of an elaborately plastered ceiling now webbed with a million fine cracks. He stumped across to an oversized wing chair upholstered in red corduroy. When he sat, a fine cloud of dust rose around him. He sneezed.
Besides that chair, the room was stuffed with a matching sofa, two more armchairs, and a footstool; a wooden rocker covered with a frayed quilt; an elaborately carved upright piano; a tall bookshelf filled with books whose spines were so faded their titles were impossible to read; and