Whilst the reporter pursued his vendetta downtown, Alice Wilcox anxiously set about making the lounge in her Headington home as welcoming as possible. Mrs Greaves had come in an hour earlier than her usual time and had ‘obliged’ by vacuuming and dusting everywhere, and now Alice set about arranging the bronze chrysanthemums she’d bought that morning into a large glass vase, and setting it in the centre of the coffee table.
In another hour, the solicitor, that nice Mr Bough, would be coming over to read the will, and she felt a shiver of excitement lance through her. No doubt Godfrey, Matthew and his family, and Auntie Mary would all start to arrive within the next half an hour or so, and she wanted the place to look nice. Caroline had refused to come.
She paced a little, walking to the window every now and then, anxiously looking out to see if Kenneth had come back from the shop. She wished he hadn’t insisted on going in. It hardly seemed worth it, when the solicitor was due to arrive at ten-thirty.
She paced, straightened up an undistinguished landscape painting that hung on one wall and made sure that all the antimacassars were straight on the backs of the chairs and sofa.
She felt unbearably nervous. It was one thing to know what her father had said was in his will. But her father was a born liar.
At the police station, Trudy got on with her usual duties, but was also impatiently watching the clock. Dr Ryder was meeting his old colleague for lunch in order to learn the facts about Mildred Hughes’s final illness, but after that, they were going to interview Godfrey and perhaps Matthew Hughes, time permitting. The minutes seemed to be dragging. More than once she felt the sharp edge of Sergeant O’Grady’s tongue for not paying attention to the ringing telephone.
But she found it hard to concentrate on typing up shoplifting reports. Round about now, for instance, the Hughes family would be learning about the terms of their father’s will and she couldn’t wait to find out how the two men especially had taken the news. One, that he was now worth a fortune free and clear, with money to spend whenever and however he wished; the other that, although he could rely on a pension, it would be meted out to him in a set amount for the rest of his life by executors bound to follow his father’s strict orders.
Catching PC Rodney Broadstairs grinning at her cheekily, she reluctantly dragged her mind back to her typewriter, and her witness statement from a woman who’d had her handbag snatched by a young hooligan in New Inn Hall Street.
Then her mind was back in Headington again. How would Alice feel about only inheriting the house? Would Caroline really not care that she hadn’t even been mentioned …?
An hour and a half later, Dr Ryder signed the last of the letters in his ‘In’ tray, and sat back with a sigh. His fingers and wrist hurt slightly and he rubbed them impatiently, looking down at his digits with a scowl. It was probably just the usual writer’s cramp – or maybe even a touch of arthritis.
But any weakness in his hands and feet worried him.
He reached into the bottom right-hand side drawer of his desk and withdrew a tube of strong mints. He popped one into his mouth and began to suck it, the gesture all but automatic now. Halitosis was one of the symptoms of Parkinson’s disease and it had become second nature to him to consume a breath mint whenever he was due to socialise.
He was looking forward to seeing his old friend, and was interested in learning more about Mildred Hughes’s case. Like all doctors, he found rare conditions fascinating.
But he was very much aware that his old friend was still a practising physician, and would have a doctor’s sharp eye, so he knew he would have to be careful during lunch. It was one thing to keep his condition a secret from laymen. Hiding his symptoms from someone who had no medical knowledge or experience was relatively easy. But it would be a different story when it came to his former colleagues.
With a grim smile, he reached for his favourite Trilby hat, shuffled into his raincoat, cheerfully informed his secretary that he would be out for most of the rest of the day and stepped outside to walk the short way to the pub in the High Street.
Fortunately it wasn’t raining, but the streets were still damp from an earlier downpour and once or twice he felt his feet slide on the sleek pavement.
He told himself it meant nothing, yet he had to concentrate on making sure he lifted his feet with every step. Shuffling was another dead giveaway of his condition.