The Graveyard Position (4 page)

 

On the way back to the Crowne Plaza Hotel, where Merlyn was staying, his car, which was hired, got stuck in a traffic holdup around the Headingley cricket ground. He sat, relaxed, waiting for things to unsnarl themselves. Looking at the cars around him he saw faces twisted with anger and impatience. His own face was very different: in popular parlance, he was smiling from ear to ear.

When he got back to the hotel he checked his watch and realized Danielle would be back from rehearsal and preparing for a performance at the Monnaie, whose chorus she belonged to. He rang her at the Brussels flat that was almost, but not quite, as much his as hers.

“It was weird,” he said, when she asked him how things had gone. “Like being sixteen again, when everyone around you then had suddenly aged by twenty-odd years, and had all sorts of experiences only they knew about.”

“But they welcomed you back?”

“Not so you'd notice.”

“But why not?”

“They had their reasons, or thought they did.”

There was a pause.

“Why are you being so secretive about this?”

“Because I don't know the truth myself. When I know the whole truth, when I've got to the heart of the mystery, then you'll know too.”

“It would be good to know what the mystery
is,
even if you couldn't come up with a solution.”

“Believe me, you wouldn't understand the mystery unless you knew the Cantelo family…. Love me?”

“Not when you're in this mood. I'd much rather have the old, open Merlyn back.”

“You will, you will,” he said, more confident-sounding than he felt.

“I am delighted to see you, Mr. Docherty,” said Mr. Featherstone, as he ushered him into his spruce modern office in the would-be-Queen-Anne building in East Parade. “How did you know we were your aunt's solicitors?”

“I remembered,” said Merlyn. Mr. Featherstone's stone wall of a face did not reflect the fact that he had been checkmated.

“Of course, of course. You must forgive me if I am still somewhat surprised.”

A tiny sliver of distaste managed to get into his tones. Harvill, Masters and Featherstone was clearly a firm not used to sudden reappearances from the dead.

“I'm getting used to the surprise,” said Merlyn, sinking into a chair. “Any delight has been well disguised.”

“You can't expect—” began Mr. Featherstone, in response to the implied criticism, then reined himself in: no point in antagonizing a potentially lucrative client. “But I don't know the circumstances, so I'll say no more. I should tell you that I very often advised Miss Cantelo to change her will. This was not to damage your interests, of course. The fact is, the terms as they stood—stand—were bound to cause legal complications.”

“Not ‘bound,' as it's turned out,” said Merlyn quietly.

Mr. Featherstone permitted himself a fractional raising of the eyebrows.

“Well, perhaps not—it remains to be seen. Hmmm. Now, do you know the terms of Miss Cantelo's will?”

“Yes, I do. I talked the terms over with her on the telephone ten days before she died.”

This time Mr. Featherstone's eyebrows shot up, and were hauled down with difficulty. He left several seconds' pause.

“I see,” he said, but in a far-from-confident voice. “Was this a call in which you announced your…continued existence?”

“No, it wasn't,” said Merlyn coolly. “We had been in regular communication since I left Great Britain in 1982. We first discussed the will soon after that.”

This news clearly aggravated Mr. Featherstone enormously. Out-of-the-ordinary events usually did.

“So when she talked to me as if she did not know your whereabouts or your fate, she was…being less than honest?”

“Yes,” said Merlyn, still conspicuously cool. “You should not hold me responsible for that. I don't have to tell you that, if my aunt decided on a course of action, no power on earth was going to argue her out of it.”

“
N
o-o-o.” The lawyer sighed. “No indeed. That I quite understand. So you were in regular communication with Miss Cantelo ever since you left the country?”

“Yes.”

“And you know the terms of her will?”

“I know what she told me. Perhaps it would be sensible if you could run through them with me now.”

That Mr. Featherstone could not dispute. He riffled through a file of papers on his desk and came up with a browning double-sheet of paper.

“There are a number of small charitable bequests, then some bequests to other members of Miss Cantelo's family—”

“Which ones?”

“Rosalind Frere, Emily Fowldes, Edward Fowldes, Roderick Massey.”

“Right. Go on.”

“And the remainder—a considerable sum—is left to you—if indeed you are Merlyn Docherty.” Merlyn bent his head, a small smile on his face. “Pardon me, but I have to say that. It is many years since you have been in Leeds, many years since I or any members of your family have seen you, so—”

“I'm not sure that you have ever seen me, Mr. Featherstone.”

“No. Frankly, I'm not sure myself.”

“Aunt Clarissa being dead, none of the other members has seen me or heard from me in these twenty-odd years. I should add that, apart from Rosalind and perhaps Aunt Emily, no one seems to have any doubts that I am Merlyn Docherty.”

“That is far from conclusive.”

“Oh, certainly. But we're not living in the age of the Tichborne claimant, are we, Mr. Featherstone? It should be a simple matter for everyone to be absolutely sure.”

Mr. Featherstone did a little old-fashioned drop of the head in acknowledgment, then continued, fingering the musty fawn paper of the dead woman's will.

“If you had died, the four recipients already named would have shared fifty percent of the estate. Nominal amounts of two thousand each would have gone to other family members—”

“Which ones?”

“Caroline Chaunteley, Malachi Cantelo, Francis Cantelo.”

“That seems fair and straightforward.”

“And the remainder to go to the National Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children.”

“I see…. I suppose that's a nod toward my neglected state during my childhood.”

“I couldn't say…. You realize that if you were to, er—”

“Drop dead on the floor this minute?”

“Well, yes. If that were to happen, and if you were subsequently proved by the scientific methods you have hinted at to be Merlyn Docherty, then the money would go to your legal heir or heirs.”

“Yes, of course.”

Mr. Featherstone paused impressively.

“What at the moment is your marital status? Have you any—”

“Let's not go into all that. The sensible thing, surely, is for me to make a holding will, leaving everything to the charity Aunt Clarissa named—heaven knows I have reason to think children can need help—with no legacies for the moment to family members.”

“Ye-e-es.”

“No point in providing hostages to fortune, is there? That could of course be changed when or if relations between us all get back to normal.”

“Or, of course, if you acquire a wife and children.”

“Of course. I have a partner in Brussels. But I suggest that the important thing is for the holding will to be signed and sealed now,
and made known.
”

These last words were said with a new seriousness. Mr. Featherstone nodded again.

“The making known will be up to you rather than me,” he said.

“It will. I shall derive pleasure and profit from making it as widely known as possible. Perhaps, now, we could get down to writing this will, and making it legally binding.”

Mr. Featherstone clearly was not used to working at this speed, and not happy to find himself doing it, but his reluctance fought a battle with common sense and prudence, and lost. He murmured, “That should present no problems,” and drafted a will a few sentences long, sent it for typing, went over it with Merlyn (who had been nonchalantly doing the crossword in the office copy of
The Times
), and then called in two of the partnership's staff to witness the document. When it was signed, sealed, and a copy filed away, with the original for Merlyn, Mr. Featherstone unbent sufficiently to seek confirmation of his suspicions.

“I have deliberately asked no questions about this procedure,” he began.

“But now you're going to. And quite right too,” said Merlyn.

“It just occurred to me to wonder if you had any suspicions, any reason to think that anyone in the family—”

“I think, Mr. Featherstone, that you like to be careful, don't you?” asked Merlyn. The lawyer did his accustomed bob of the head. “I'm being careful with the thing I hold most dear. That is my life.”

“I see.” It was said dryly, but Mr. Featherstone seemed satisfied.

“So the first thing now is to get on to the DNA-testing business. That's uncharted waters for me.”

“It's not something that we in this firm have had much to do with,” said Mr. Featherstone, struggling to suppress any suggestion of distaste. Too much scientific certainty could put lawyers out of business. “However, we do, quite naturally, come a lot into contact with the police, and sometimes have what today might be called a relationship with some of the senior people. Perhaps that DNA test is something you would prefer to be responsible for yourself, rather than let us do it?”

“Yes, I think it is,” said Merlyn. “With you in the background to ensure that all the safeguards are in place.”

“Yes, that we could see to. Now, there
is
someone, a totally reliable man. I must find his mobile number.” He slipped out of the room, and when he returned (Merlyn having finished the crossword, all but a nasty little googlie obviously intended to separate the sheep from the goats) he had made all the arrangements, presumably preferring to give his contact some idea of the oddity of the case out of the principal actor's earshot.

“I spoke to Superintendent Oddie, our contact, and he thought the best person for you to talk to would be Sergeant Peace. They often work together and he has a high opinion of him. He's very bright, apparently, and probably will be an inspector before too long. He's more up in these newish developments. Not that the superintendent isn't—he has to be—but he says it all will come more naturally from one who is younger.”

“Of course.”

“He's tentatively made an arrangement for you to talk to Sergeant Peace in the White Horse pub in Temple Street, about five-thirty tomorrow. Is that convenient?”

“Any time is convenient. I'm totally free.”

“Ah—you have leave from your employment—whatever it is?”

“The European Union. Yes—three months' leave.”

“Ah, I see.” Mr. Featherstone was skeptical of what he called the Common Market—Merlyn could always tell. “So I can tell the superintendent that you would be glad to talk to Peace in the White Horse? Oddie felt it better not to involve police headquarters in something that is not a criminal matter.”

“Quite right. Please tell him I'm grateful.”

“Oh, and Sergeant Peace is black.”

“Right, then I'm sure we'll manage to meet up.”

 

The White Horse was totally deserted at five-thirty, so when five minutes later Sergeant Peace arrived meeting up would have presented no problems whatever his color.

“Ah—Sergeant Peace?”

Peace smiled his “I know I stand out” smile, murmured, “Charlie,” and let Merlyn Docherty buy him a pint of bitter. Then the pair of them settled happily onto benches in a far corner.

“I knew it would be empty here after work,” said the sergeant. “I thought there might be delicate matters at issue.”

“I suppose there are,” said Merlyn. “Family matters usually are.” Charlie smiled agreement. He knew all about family ructions and odd modern permutations. “It's a question of whether I am Merlyn Docherty, the long-lost cousin, nephew, whatever, of various members of the Cantelo family. It's a big family, and there are plenty of different viewpoints.”

“I see,” said Charlie. “Long-lost cousin, you say. How long and how lost?”

“Twenty-two years,” said Merlyn, then hesitated before going on: “How lost is more difficult. These people will have heard nothing of me in that time except the rumor of my death. According to family report I went backpacking in India in 1982—as plenty did at that time—and was not heard of after I told my aunt that I was heading for the Kashmir province, state, whatever it is. Troubled then, as now.”

“So you were presumed dead, either in some local dispute, or in a kidnap that went wrong, or whatever? This was the story put out by Clarissa Cantelo, was it?”

Merlyn shot him a glance that showed he was impressed.

“You've been reading up, have you?”

“I usually have a look at the ‘Deaths' column in the
Yorkshire Post.
Dispatches are much more useful to us than hatches or matches. Clarissa Cantelo, so far as I recall, was a part-time spiritualist or clairvoyant who died a couple of weeks ago.”

“That's right. Yes, it was Aunt Clarissa who put the story around.”

“And did you in fact go to India?”

“No. Nothing against India, but I never intended to go there. At the time in question I was in Italy, having my first real love affair, and I stayed there for twelve years, learning the language and getting a degree in law and economics.”

“I see…or I see partially, I suppose. Clarissa Cantelo wanted it thought by the family that you were dead. But in fact you and she were in contact?”

“Oh yes, regularly.”

“And now you've come back, and the family would like to believe that you're not really Merlyn Docherty, is that right?”

“Some of the family. One in particular.”

“Question of a will, is it?”

“Yes. Not riches beyond the dreams of avarice, but a tidy little sum. My view is that Aunt Clarissa intended it for me, never changed her will because she knew I was alive, so I should have it. I've made a temporary will leaving everything to a charity that was also named in her will, by the way.”

Charlie's glance at him was shrewd.

“I see. And this is known in the family, I take it?”