The Lodger (28 page)

‘Well, perhaps he's made it,' said Harry, ‘and left some of it to you and the rest of his family.'

‘He didn't have no fam'ly,' said Maggie. ‘He was a larky old bachelor.'

‘Then I think you should go and see these solicitors as soon as possible.'

‘Oh, 'elp,' breathed Maggie, a little flushed, ‘shall I go quick?'

‘You could put your hat on and go now,' said Harry, ‘but keep your feet on the ground in case it isn't a fortune.'

‘Oh, he'd 'ave wrote me if he'd made his fortune, I'm sure he would,' said Maggie. ‘But poor Uncle Henry, I wondered why I 'adn't heard from him recent, not for months. Mum didn't mention him when she last wrote. Uncle Henry was 'er brother. Did I tell you my parents and sister went to Australia the year I got married? My dad thought he'd go and make 'is fortune too, but he's still hardup after fourteen years out there. Harry, d'you really think I should go up to Gracechurch Street now?'

‘I'd take you myself, but I've got to get back on duty at two o'clock. More plod-plod.'

‘You're still tryin' to catch that murderer?'

‘Scotland Yard is,' said Harry. ‘Maggie, you put your hat on and go and find out what something to your advantage means.'

‘You're a dear for comin' to show me that notice,' said Maggie, ‘and you're Trary's hero as well.'

Harry, rising, said, ‘I'm partial to Trary.'

‘She's a bit young for you, isn't she?' smiled Maggie.

‘I didn't mean that kind of partial,' he said. ‘If I did, I think I'd have Bobby on my tail.' He laughed. ‘Good luck at the solicitors, Maggie.'

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Maggie had had her moments of despair but had never thought of giving up. Nor was she a woman to get into a flutter. However, she was in a flutter now, and for the first time in her life. She had put on her best dress and hat, such as they were, and she had her birth and wedding certificates with her, as Harry had advised. She did her very best not to quake nervously on arrival at the solicitors' offices in Gracechurch Street, just across from London Bridge. Since she hadn't made an appointment, she was told by a primlooking woman with severely dressed black hair that it might be a little while before Mr Rouse could see her. It was Mr Rouse who had had the Press notice inserted, and he kept her waiting hardly at all. He entered the waiting-room himself, greeted her courteously and with a very charming smile, and ushered her into his office. It was all brown to Maggie. Brown furniture, brown walls and brown curtains. And Mr Rouse had brown hair. But he wore what looked like a morning suit, with a stiff collar and grey tie. He expressed pleasure at meeting her, and seemed indeed to regard her with approval. Her hat and dress wouldn't have done for Ascot, but Maggie did have a wholly pleasant appearance, and the largeness of her hazel eyes enhanced her looks. Harry always felt he was falling into them.

‘Please sit down, Mrs Wilson,' said Mr Rouse, and Maggie sat down on the far side of his desk. He seated himself, then asked her if she had the means of identifying herself. Maggie produced not only her birth and wedding certificates, but also the last letter Uncle Henry had written to her from Johannesburg. Mr Rouse expressed himself happy, then referred to the matter in hand.

His firm had received a communication from Messrs Williams and Horst, solicitors in Johannesburg, requesting assistance in the matter of locating the niece of their late client, Mr Henry Albert Rushton. They had in their possession a document legally identifiable as his last will and testament, in which he left the whole of his estate to his beloved niece Mrs Margaret Annie Wilson.

‘Estate?' said Maggie, eyelashes quivering. ‘Mr Rouse, what's that? Does it mean a house an' garden in South Africa?'

Mr Rouse smiled. He saw an extremely nice-looking woman with a refreshing lack of artifice. He looked at a letter on his desk. It was a letter of some length, from the Johannesburg solicitors.

‘Not much of a house,' he said. ‘No more than what South Africans would call a shack.'

‘Oh,' said Maggie. ‘Oh, well, never mind, I expect it was quite comf'table, he was a one for comfy things like rockin'-chairs an' sofas. Is that what he's left me, a bit of a house and furniture and stuff? Imagine him thinkin' of me like that, bless him. He was in the Army, you know, and the Boer War. I wrote to him a lot over the years. Of course, I wouldn't be able to do anything with what he left. Is something to my advantage what I could get if they were sold? And 'ow much would I owe you if you arranged for everything to be sold?'

‘Mrs Wilson, would you like some tea?'

‘Tea?' Maggie thought that being offered tea by a solicitor in his City office, where he must have rich clients, was very gracious. ‘Oh, I would, thank you, Mr Rouse.'

Mr Rouse pressed a bell button. The prim-looking woman entered. ‘Miss Wetherby, would you please ask Leonard to deliver to my desk a pot of tea for two? Hot tea. Immediately, if not sooner.'

‘Immediately, if not sooner? Really, Mr Rouse.' Miss Wetherby sniffed and departed. Mr Rouse smiled.

‘I think hot tea's just the thing,' he said. ‘You're a widow, you said. With children?'

‘Yes, four girls.' Maggie, all nervousness gone because Mr Rouse was so kind, opened up to add, ‘Daisy, Lily, Meg an' Trary, and they're all pets. I just wish I was a bit better off for their sakes.'

‘You look remarkably young to be the mother of four,' said Mr Rouse.

‘Oh, aren't you nice?' said Maggie impulsively.

‘I'll tell Mrs Rouse that.'

‘I don't know much about solicitors, I never met one before,' said Maggie. ‘I always thought they'd be ever so grave and solemn. Uncle Henry stayed in South Africa after he come out of the Army, that was when 'e wrote to tell me he was goin' to make his fortune before he came home for good. Still, even if he didn't, I expect he 'ad a rare old time tryin', he was full of adventure. It's sad he died, he was only in his forties, but bless 'im for thinkin' of me.' Maggie smiled reminiscently, and tried to imagine what his shack and his furniture and other things were like. Leonard, the office boy, a young lad with a quiff, brought the tea in, placing the tray on the desk.

‘It's 'ot, Mr Rouse, like you ordered,' he said.

‘You'll get the sack if it isn't, my boy,' said Mr Rouse.

Leonard grinned and disappeared. Mr Rouse poured the golden, steaming tea and placed a full cup, with its saucer, in front of Maggie. He offered her the sugar bowl. Maggie helped herself to a little. ‘Thanks ever so much,' she said. Mr Rouse smiled, noting there was no suggestion of avid interest about her. She simply seemed intrigued. She sipped her tea. It was piping hot, as she liked it. ‘But I really can't 'elp feelin' sad about Uncle Henry, he enjoyed life, even if he never had much. What did he die of, does it say in the letter?'

‘A fever, apparently,' said Mr Rouse. ‘Mrs Wilson, you said you wished you were a little better off for the sake of your daughters. I think you will be. Well, you'll at least be richer than you are now. Five and a half thousand pounds richer. Approximately. That is, give or take a pound or two.'

Maggie put her cup back in its saucer before her shaking hand dropped it. She stared in huge-eyed incredulity at Mr Rouse, a paternal man. ‘How much?' she gasped. Something to her advantage had made her think in terms of, say, a hundred pounds. ‘How much?'

‘Five and a half thousand pounds.'

‘You're jokin'. Mr Rouse, you're jokin'.'

‘I don't think so, Mrs Wilson.'

‘Mr Rouse, it's a terrifyin' lot of money. I wouldn't mind five hundred pounds, but five and a 'alf thousand. Oh, 'eaven preserve me.'

‘Your uncle has done his best in that respect, Mrs Wilson.'

‘It's a fortune,' breathed Maggie. ‘Oh, he did it, after all, he did make 'is fortune, only 'e didn't live to enjoy it. Mr Rouse, I honestly don't know if I'm comin' or goin'. You sure you said the right amount?'

‘Quite sure,' smiled Mr Rouse, delighted for this pleasant and wholly unaffected widow with four children. He glanced at the letter. ‘Actually, I think your uncle expected it to be far more. He opened up a diamond mine, you see, not long before he died. After his death, his Johannesburg solicitors had this new mine investigated by experts. The vein, apparently, was brief. Nevertheless, it means five and a half thousand pounds for you. Messrs Williams and Horst contacted us because they were concerned at not hearing from you or about you. The will was handed to them for execution by a friend of your uncle's, a man who was with him when he died.' Again Mr Rouse referred to the letter. ‘Your address wasn't known, and couldn't be found among your uncle's effects, and his friend, a Mr Jeremy Bates, offered—'

‘Who?' Maggie stared. ‘Who?'

‘Mr Jeremy Bates. He offered to come to England to find you. That was over four months ago. He's a mining engineer, but he seems to have dropped out of sight or given up, without advising Williams and Horst. Certainly, they've heard nothing from him. That was why they contacted us. They knew only that you lived in South London. That information they received from Mr Bates.'

Mr Bates knew more than that, thought Maggie. He knew exactly where she'd been living. ‘Well, I never,' she said calmly, ‘a Mr Jeremy Bates.'

‘Yes. I imagine he lost interest. We'd have put a special investigator onto the task of finding you if our notice in the Press hadn't been answered. I'm delighted you saw it and came to us at once. I'll be cabling Johannesburg. You can, of course, arrange for a solicitor of your own choice to handle all necessary matters for you, perhaps a solicitor near your home.'

‘Mr Rouse, could you please 'andle everything?'

‘With great pleasure, Mrs Wilson. Are you perhaps—' Mr Rouse stopped. ‘H'm,' he said.

‘Am I what, Mr Rouse?' asked Maggie, thinking of Mr Bates, and thinking too of Harry, and how glad she was that she could give Mr Bates his answer.

‘If, perhaps, you are in need of a small advance – you have four children – a widow's circumstances can be very strained – expenses and so on—'

‘Mr Rouse, you're a very kind gentleman,' said Maggie. ‘I've been blessed lately, meetin' kind gentlemen.'

‘We shall be very happy to advance you fifty pounds – a hundred?'

‘Lovely,' said Maggie, ‘I can buy whole new outfits for the girls. Thank you, Mr Rouse, fifty pounds would be like magic. Bless you.'

Mr Rouse smiled. She was a cockney, of course, and quite charming. ‘You're very welcome, Mrs Wilson. Now, there are a few formalities.' He outlined them. Maggie, head in the clouds, hardly took them in. She signed two papers, one concerning herself as the sole beneficiary and another in respect of the advance of fifty pounds. That done, she talked to Mr Rouse for a little while longer.

Nicholas and Chapman were getting no joy from a hopeful interview with Mr Rodney Foster, who was renting rooms on the top floor of a three-storeyed house in Dartford. The man had been cocky and insolent by turn, laughing at the very idea that his old friend, Jerry Bates, could be a possible suspect in a murder case.

‘Yer off yer chump, sergeant. I got to say that. No disrespect intended. He was here all that day and all that night. You see me, don't yer, standin' here livin' and breathin'? You hear me sayin' it, don't yer?' He had a twangy accent and a weasel look, his nose pointed, his eyes beady and his grin a mile wide. It was a grin to ensnare the rabbits of the world.

‘What's your job, Mr Foster?'

‘Don't have one, not right now. Just come back from Down Under, and I'm not on me uppers. I've got a few quid.'

He had a tanned faced. So did Mr Jerry Bates.

‘Did you and Mr Bates come home from Australia together?' asked Nicholas.

‘What's that to do with you?'

‘It's just a question,' said Nicholas, wholly distrusting the man, and still sure that his friend, Mr Bates, was too good to be true. All the same, how did that relate to perverted murder? It didn't relate at all, and Nicholas felt himself to be chasing shadows out of sheer hope. And against the Inspector's strict instructions.

‘Listen, sergeant,' said Mr Rodney Foster, ‘I know me legal rights, I know what's legal and what ain't. Still, you're still wonderin' why I don't have a job, and as I daresay you're lookin' for promotion, I'll tell yer. I'm livin' on me savings, for the time being. I haven't chucked me acquired oof away on wine, women an' song, yer know. I'm careful, I am. You got to be if you don't want to end up in a flamin' workhouse. Me in a workhouse at my tender age? No wonder you're laughin'.'

‘I'm not. Actually, Mr Foster, I'm a bit fed-up.'

‘That's your hard luck', said Mr Foster. ‘Listen, you're wastin' your time. Jerry's a minin' engineer and a good 'un. I've given him a hand on some of his jobs out there.'

‘Out there?'

‘What did I say?'

‘Out there.'

‘Australia. I'm what yer might call a freelance, and a Jack of all trades. Willin' to turn me hand to anything.'

‘Anything?' said Chapman.

‘Give over, sunshine,' said Mr Foster, ‘do I look like a bloke that's aided and abetted? I got mitts that are as clean as yours. You'll want to know about me medical afflictions next, which I don't have, bein' healthy and undiseased. Turn it up, gents, you've got me sworn testimony that Jerry Bates was here with me that Friday night. Don't wear me out, or I might call a solicitor.'

It was a hopeless exercise, another shot in the dark gone wide of the mark. ‘Sorry you've come near to being worn out, Mr Foster,' said Nicholas, ‘but thanks for your co-operation.'