Linda’s enthusiastic tone seemed to do the trick. They both saw the hint of a smile before, as if by magic, the Brasso reappeared in her right hand and she was gone. Roger looked across the room to where Linda was standing, the huge black dog tucked in right behind her legs for protection.
‘Seems we have the answer to Jasper’s discipline problems.’ They both laughed. Roger’s mirth was tempered by the fact that his sock was sticking now out of a hole in the toe of one shoe. ‘I must have a word with you, my friend.’ The dog affected to look suitably chastened, but fooled neither of them.
Transferring his attention back to the desk, he spotted something propped up right at the back. It was a light-blue envelope. On the top left was the crest, with which he was beginning to become quite familiar. It cropped up all over the manor on plates, ashtrays, books and even toilet seats: McKinnon Marine and the crossed anchors. Then he saw, to his surprise, that the envelope itself was addressed to him, Professor Roger Alastair McKinnon Dalby. He picked it up, noting the insertion of his mother’s maiden name, which he had never used. The paper was stiff, heavy and a bit dusty. It had obviously been waiting there for some considerable time. The handwriting was spidery and untidy. It could have been that of a child, but he felt pretty sure it was that of an old man. He slipped his finger under the flap and tore it open. He was not wrong. There was a single sheet of paper inside, again written by the same shaky hand. It was dated five years earlier.
My Dear Nephew
By the time you read this, I will have succumbed to this damn illness, lost my mind and then passed on. The manor will be yours and I hope you love the place as I have done. Please look after the staff who are all, in their way, loyal and devoted friends. There is but one cloud upon the horizon, about which I should warn you: George Jennings.
My former business partner at MKM is an unmitigated scoundrel and rogue. He cannot contest my will – my lawyers have seen to that – but I would not put it past him to attempt more direct means of obtaining what is without question neither legally nor morally his. He cheated me for more than fifty years and finally paid the price. Do not let him try the same again with you.
I advise you to beware of George Jennings and any of his line. The man is unworthy of trust and a potential threat to any of my family. The company’s solicitor, Adam Heslop, of Heslop Greaves of London will be able to tell you more.
It is my fervent hope that I will meet your dear mother, my beloved sister, where I am going and that you and your family will enjoy a long, happy and trouble-free life.
Yours affectionately
The Black Sheep
Eustace
Roger passed the note across to Linda without a word. As she was reading it in her turn, he considered the implications. This former partner might be a threat – Eustace had been quite clear in his choice of vocabulary. What sort of threat might he pose? Legal, apparently not, but the solicitor in London would no doubt shed more light on that. Financial, it was hard to see how anybody could take away the manor and the houses in London, which were the source of Roger’s now considerable income. Physical, unlikely if he had been in partnership with Eustace for fifty years. That would make him in his eighties, if not older. It would not take Bruce Lee to fend off an assault from an octogenarian.
He looked across at Linda as she picked up the phone. The afternoon sun was shining through her mop of blond hair and even, he tore his eyes away, through the linen of her blouse. He ran his hands through his own hair and collected himself as he listened to her voice.
‘Yes please. Heslop Greaves, solicitors in London. Yes, G R E A V E S, like the footballer. Thank you.’ She glanced at him and, in response to his nod, dialled the number. ‘Hello, would it be possible to speak to Mr Adam Heslop, please? Thank you. Professor Roger Dalby from Toplingham. Thank you.’ She passed the receiver across to him. A lady’s voice at the other end asked him what it was in connection with. He replied with his uncle’s name. A few seconds later, he was put through.
‘Adam Heslop, good afternoon.’ The voice was cordial.
‘Yes, hello.’ Roger collected his thoughts. ‘My name is Roger Dalby and I am the nephew of the late Eustace McKinnon. He, or at least his company, McKinnon Marine, was one of your clients. I have been instructed to contact you.’ He paused, trying to phrase his next words carefully, but the solicitor saved him the trouble.
‘Good afternoon, Professor Dalby. You have just opened your uncle’s letter, I presume.’ Roger murmured agreement. Heslop was clearly very conversant with the case.
‘It was written, to the best of my knowledge, four or five years ago, when the doctors first diagnosed him as suffering from Alzheimer’s. Alas it turned out to be a fairly aggressive form of the disease. He was very concerned to set his affairs in order before the onset of dementia and any undesirable symptoms it might produce. He and I had quite a bit of contact around that time. Our firm has acted for the company almost since its foundation. He was especially concerned about the possibility that his ex-partner might rear his ugly head once more.’
Roger’s ears pricked up.
‘I am pleased to tell you that things have moved on since then. I think a meeting would be in order all the same. Will you come up to see me, or would you like me to come down to the West Country?’
Roger immediately agreed to travel up to London two days later, and a time was agreed. Before hanging up, he could not help asking a final question. ‘You mention that things have moved on with regard to his former partner. Might there still be a risk from him?’ The answer came as a considerable relief.
‘Not unless you believe in spiritualism or reincarnation, Professor Dalby. The gentleman in question died over a year ago, but I’m afraid your uncle’s mental state had deteriorated so badly by then, that he was unaware of it. I look forward to seeing you.’
Roger replaced the phone and smiled at Linda. ‘The other chap has died as well.’ She smiled back, considerably relieved. She then settled down alongside him to go through the remaining contents of the desk in detail. The dog, not to be left out, settled down with the Yellow Pages. By the time they spotted what he was doing, his corner of the room looked like the aftermath of a tickertape parade.
Two miles along the road, Duggie was also relieved. In his case it was because his search for the elusive butler had come to an end.
Henri was easy to spot in the public bar of the Prince William. Not because of a tricolour in his button hole, or an all-pervading reek of garlic, but simply by virtue of the fact that the place was quite empty, apart from this one man. He was sitting on one of the stools at the bar, nursing a glass of some colourless liquid. He was in his mid to late fifties, almost bald, but desperately trying to conceal the fact. His chosen method was to grow the hair at the sides of his head, and curl it onto the bald central part. There, it formed an intricate series of swirls and curls, held in place by a liberal coating of hair cream.
Duggie advanced down the bar towards him. He was almost upon him when the barman appeared from somewhere behind the bar and greeted him.
‘Good afternoon, sir. And what can I get you?’
Duggie had a moment of inspiration.
‘I’ll have what he’s drinking.’ He pointed at the Frenchman and the barman’s face dropped.
‘Very good, sir.’
He didn’t look too happy. Duggie realised why when the glass was placed in front of him. It was full to the brim and quite transparent. His suspicions were confirmed as he raised the glass to his lips. Well, at least he could cross out alcoholism as a reason for absence from work.
‘Henri?’ He slid onto a stool and opened the conversation. The other man raised his head from his water and nodded. Duggie introduced himself.