CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Cora hadn’t got far when she heard someone walking behind her and turned, without surprise, to see the vicar’s daughter hurrying after her. Once she saw that she’d been spotted, Val slowed down to a more decorous pace, and hailed her cheerfully.

‘Hello again. I just heard from Reggie that you went to university,’ Val said, opening her eyes and giving the other woman her most admiring look. ‘I do wish I were clever enough to have gone too.’ But she knew that her parents wouldn’t have been able to afford to send her, if she were. ‘He said you studied chemistry?’ she began determinedly.

‘Yes,’ Cora said. ‘What would you have liked to study?’

‘Oh, nothing so highbrow as that,’ Val said self-effacingly. ‘Literature perhaps. Or art. But chemistry now, that sounds fascinating.’

Cora nodded vaguely. ‘Is there no way you can apply?’ She liked to see young women forging a path for themselves in the world and she rather liked this strapping competent lady. And if she could offer her encouragement to improve her life, then so be it.

Val sighed. ‘No, I’m afraid not. My parents are anxious that I should find a suitable man and settle down,’ she added, unable to keep a trace of resentment from creeping into her voice.

‘Ah,’ Cora said, diplomatically refusing to be drawn into a family skirmish. ‘But I dare say, you are looking forward to having a husband and children of your own?’

‘I suppose so,’ Val said doubtfully. ‘Mother says children are a blessing.’

‘Not always,’ Cora found herself saying dryly. ‘Just ask Mrs Brockhurst.’ And then told herself off for mischief-making. But she couldn’t help herself. Sometimes, whenever she met ignorance and innocence, especially if they were combined, she felt the urge to drop a little firework of experience or knowledge into the mix and watch the fun.

‘The housekeeper? Oh, but I thought her “Mrs” title was strictly honorary,’ Val said, much surprised.

‘Oh, it is,’ Cora agreed. ‘But you’d be surprised how often unlucky or foolish young girls have to “go away” from their home for five months or so, in order to stop the tongues wagging. Usually with the excuse of visiting a sick relative, I believe.’

For a moment, Val looked at Cora blankly. Then her eyes widened, and a blush stained her cheeks as she caught on. ‘Oh! You mean,’ Val looked around, and then lowered her voice to a whisper, ‘you mean, she had a baby? Out of wedlock?’

Cora, perhaps regretting her impulse, said severely, ‘Now don’t go brandishing that around, young lady. I’m sure Jane Brockhurst has already paid for her sins over and over during the years. Although Amy was a Christian soul and kept her on in employment when most would have turned her out of the house once and for all, she was not always the easiest woman to live with. Mind, she had to insist Jane give the baby up for adoption. Which couldn’t have been easy. So don’t go ruining the poor woman’s reputation.’

‘Oh, I won’t breathe a word,’ Val promised and meant it. Well, except to tell Arbie, of course, she mentally added. But that didn’t count, as she’d only be doing it because it was pertinent to their investigation. Because now they had found someone else at the Old Forge who might have had a reason to kill Miss Phelps.

Cora nodded approvingly, and then bid the young girl a brief farewell. Some would have chided her for shocking the vicar’s daughter, she knew, but in her opinion, the innocent and ignorant needed to be taught a salutary lesson in life now and then.

Val watched Cora Delaney disappear out of sight and then rushed off to find Arbie to tell him about her latest discovery. It was only much later in the day that she realised that she had initially caught up to Cora to try to squeeze more information out of her about how much, as a chemist, she might know about poisons. But the older woman had so quickly and completely distracted her, that she’d never asked a single thing about noxious substances.

Mr Alfred Mulligan was punctual. As one of the more senior partners in Ramsbottom, Mulligan, Mulligan and Trent, Solicitors, it was a point of pride with him that he set a good example to all the juniors. Moreover in over thirty years of service to his clients, he could never recall giving them cause for complaint.

Well, not much.

As he parked his modest but respectable Morris car in a shady spot on the gravelled drive and gathered up his briefcase, he was thinking of one of his clients right now – the late Amy Phelps, naturally.

He had been shocked to his conservative core to be informed by the police that her death had not been natural and had readily agreed to the reading of the will in their presence today. He only hoped that their sobering presence might prevent any fireworks and unseemly displays from the family, but he had to admit to himself that he was not particularly sanguine about this. No indeed.

In his years as a solicitor, Mr Mulligan had overseen many a will-reading, and the behaviour displayed at some of them had been shocking. And it was sad to say, more often than not, the more socially superior the family, and the more money there was at stake, the more uncivilised their behaviour could be.

He climbed a little stiffly from the car, a sombre black-suited, lean figure, with his bowler hat firmly fixed on his head. The afternoon was a scorcher, and with an equally firm grip on the handle of his briefcase, he set off towards the house, not looking forward to the next half an hour or so at all. He most definitely did not like having a murder victim for a client – which alone was so sordid a circumstance that he had no idea what the late Mr Ramsbottom would have said about it all. Even worse, he mused unhappily, he had to face the fact that in talking to the inhabitants of the house, the odds were that he was probably going to have to converse with a murderer too.

It really was intolerable.

Of course, he thought judiciously, it was just possible that someone outside the Phelps family and its immediate social circle was to blame for the lady’s abrupt passing, but Mr Mulligan, who prided himself on being a man of the world, didn’t think so. Not when it was poison. And not when the woman had such a fortune to leave. Poison intimated that somebody must have been close enough to the victim to administer it, and had, at the very least, a good knowledge of his client’s habits and movements. And money – well. People simply went mad when a fortune was at stake. And Miss Phelps had left behind her just that.

As Mr Mulligan neared the front door, he looked about him at the pleasant garden under the benign summer sun and wished that he was trout fishing somewhere far away. But there – a man had to do his duty.

Grimly, he reached out and tugged on the heavy wrought-iron bell pull. The door was opened almost instantly, not by the housekeeper, but by a man he knew immediately to be a police officer.

Inspector Gorringe further surprised him by stepping out, instead of inviting him into the relative coolness beyond, and firmly closing the door behind him. ‘Ah, you must be Mr Ramsbottom?’ he asked, and introduced himself. It was his sergeant who had dealt with arranging this afternoon’s activities with Amy Phelps’s solicitor, and that worthy individual had left him a note with the name of the firm.

‘Mr Ramsbottom died several years ago, Inspector,’ the solicitor informed him somewhat stiffly. ‘I am Alfred Mulligan. At your service.’ He gave a stiff bow.

Meanwhile Val, after her meeting with Cora and Reggie earlier, had lost no time in seeking out Arbie and spilling the beans, and both of them (well, more Val than Arbie, it has to be said) had decided that if they should just happen to be passing by around the time of the solicitor’s visit, and by sheer coincidence also just happened to bump into any member of the household afterwards, that it would be only polite to stop and chat. And perhaps learn an interesting fact or two.

So it was that they came to be loitering, most definitely with intent, in the vicinity. But the unexpected sound of male voices coming from the porch had frozen them in their tracks, just behind the hedge that bordered the main gate. Both recognised the forceful voice of the Inspector, and by unspoken consent agreed that it wouldn’t be much fun if he found them lurking there. Thus, they proceeded to make like mice and tried to melt unobtrusively into the shrubbery.

Blissfully unaware of his audience, the policeman faced the bristling solicitor with a placatory smile. He’d met this sort before, and the last thing he wanted to do now was to get the legal man’s hackles up. He’d be there all day else! ‘I’m so sorry, Mr Mulligan. I hope you don’t mind me waylaying you in this manner,’ he began, not sounding, it had to be said, particularly sorry. ‘But you see, I was hoping to have a word with you before you begin the, er, formal proceedings.’

‘That’s somewhat irregular, Inspector,’ Alfred Mulligan said, eyeing him warily. In his opinion, the rules of etiquette were there for a reason.

‘It’s a somewhat irregular situation, Mr Mulligan, as I’m sure you’ll have to admit,’ the Inspector parried neatly. ‘I have, as you know, the family’s permission to sit in on the reading, but I’d rather know the conditions of Miss Phelps’s dispositions before I enter the library where they are gathered.’ He didn’t elaborate further, but he suspected that, for all his seemingly demure appearance, this dry legal specimen could probably guess his reasons why he wanted things done this way easily enough. If there were any surprises in the will about to be read, he wanted to keep an eye on the expression of those nearest and dearest to the murdered woman. And not to be distracted himself by any bombshells that might be in the offing.

‘I see,’ Alfred said, and put down his briefcase neatly beside his well-shod feet in a mute gesture of acquiescence. ‘What exactly is it you wish to know?’

‘First, I’d like an overview of the family history. I understand it’s somewhat complicated?’ the Inspector said.

In their hiding places, Val and Arbie held their collective breath and hoped that no nosy passer-by would spot them and spoil their chances of learning what the solicitor had to say. Luckily, the sheer force of the heat meant that most people seemed to be staying indoors during the worst of it.

‘It is and it isn’t, Inspector,’ Alfred said patiently, glad that the shadow cast by the porch roof was preventing him from beginning to perspire. ‘The Phelps family, like many of our prominent families, suffered big losses in the Great War, and the Spanish influenza that followed it. They were never a very prolific family anyway, which meant that Miss Phelps was one of the last of the line.’ He paused, removed a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and proceeded to clean his pince-nez.

‘Her own father, Clive, inherited the company from his father, Cuthbert, who was in turn the eldest son of the original founder, and as such, had already inherited the bulk of the estate. However, Cuthbert had a major falling-out with his only brother, Victor, and so took steps to see to it that although the company assets were divided equally among the few male heirs, as he had little choice but to do, the majority of the actual cash and valuables – that is to say, the considerable liquid assets and so forth – passed down only to his favoured son Clive, and thus on to his descendants.’

‘And not to Victor or his descendants?’ Gorringe said a little uncertainly. ‘Yes … but … I’m sorry, sir, I’m not quite sure I’m following this,’ the Inspector said, and he wasn’t alone in that. Arbie couldn’t make much sense of it either. ‘As I understand it from talking to the family, Mr Murray is head of the company. Yes?’

‘Quite correct. As a descendant of Victor, and now the only close male heir to the original founder, he, to all intents and purposes, runs the Phelpses’ commercial businesses. That is, he is the major stockholder. But you must bear in mind that all his holdings relate to the business itself. The plants themselves, the business premises, the machinery, etc. The nuts and bolts, if you will, of their ironmongery and related companies. However,’ the solicitor went on, in best lecturing mode, ‘a lot of these assets aren’t as substantial as an outsider might think. The majority of the plants were obtained with mortgages that are not yet paid off, for instance. The machinery is hired. The business premises, their garages, ironmongery shops and so on are all rented. And so on, and so forth. The company itself actually owns very little. For tax purposes, you understand?’ he added delicately.

‘You’re not telling me that the Phelpses aren’t as wealthy as people think?’ the Inspector asked, sounding surprised. ‘Is the company in danger of going bust then?’

‘No, no, Inspector, you fail to understand me,’ Alfred said patiently if a little wearily. ‘The business is as hale and hearty as it always was. And Mr Murray Phelps is a very respected man of business. He’s run it well, and I can assure you, neither he nor it is in any difficulties with the bank manager. But Mr Phelps’s personal fortune is minor, compared to that of Miss Amy Phelps. It consists, I would imagine, almost entirely of his salary, in fact. Which, although I would imagine is substantial enough, is nowhere near the fortune possessed by his aunt. She, if you remember, was directly descended from Clive, and as such, inherited the bulk of his, er … actual cash. Both Cuthbert and his son Clive were very generous with their wives and children. Just the combined inheritance of all their furs and jewellery alone would stagger the average man on the street. Not to mention the private residences, paintings, etc, etc, etc.’

‘Oh, I get you now,’ Gorringe said, his brow unfurrowing. ‘Whilst Mr Murray inherited the business, Miss Amy was the one with the real wealth.’

‘Exactly,’ the solicitor said with relief, and bent down to pick up his briefcase. ‘Is that all?’

‘Not quite, sir,’ the Inspector said politely but firmly.

The moment Gorringe had been handed the case, he’d set his subordinates all the usual jobs, but no trace of poison had been found in any of the remains of the victim’s last meal, and nobody had yet come up with a feasible explanation for how the dose of poison actually got in the woman’s system, since everyone had stated that Miss Phelps never took a drink or food after dining. Even the promising lead given to him by that interesting young man, Arbuthnot Swift, about a possible source of poison amongst Mr Bickersworth’s photographic paraphernalia hadn’t been of much help.

After going extremely pale and admitting that he had chemicals in his studio, Reggie had been useless as a witness. He couldn’t recall how much, if any of the alarming substances, were missing. Worst still, he admitted almost tearfully that he never locked the doors of his little home-away-from-home, even at night. Why would he? Which meant that literally anyone could have helped themselves to whatever had been there.

The routine questioning of the villagers was still on-going, but so far nothing startling had come to light. Which left the policeman sure that if he was going to find the answer to this crime, it would have to be done the old-fashioned way. That is, by listening and using his old noggin.

And someone like the family solicitor was too good a source to let go without wringing him dry.

‘The impression I’ve got from the family over the last few days is that Miss Phelps was an old-fashioned sort of lady, and a stickler for upholding the family’s good name and traditions. And they were unanimous in their belief that the nephew is likely to be the main beneficiary. Indeed, it seems that the lady herself made no secret of the fact that Mr Murray Phelps was to be her main heir.’

‘I can see how they would have formed that opinion,’ the solicitor said slowly and cautiously.

‘Can you confirm, then, that she’d made out her will under those conditions?’ the Inspector asked, almost perfunctorily, certain of an affirmative answer.

‘I can confirm that the will she made when Mr Murray Phelps reached his twenty-first birthday named him as her primary beneficiary, yes,’ the solicitor confirmed, even more slowly and cautiously.

By the hedge, Val reached out and grabbed Arbie’s arm in excitement. They didn’t need to be standing as close to the man as the Inspector was to tell that he was choosing his words very carefully indeed.

Inspector Gorringe stiffened, like a pointer spotting a pheasant falling from the sky. ‘And does that will still stand, Mr Mulligan?’ he asked sharply.

‘Indeed it does not,’ Alfred Mulligan admitted primly. And with a little pardonable satisfaction. He wouldn’t be human if he didn’t enjoy having the spotlight to himself occasionally, and there was no doubt that he now had the Inspector’s undivided attention.

‘Ah,’ the Inspector said softly, nodding. Now they were getting to it! ‘So, she made out a new will?’

‘Yes, Inspector, she did.’

‘When?’

‘A few days before her death,’ Alfred said, careful to keep his voice free from any inflection.

‘Indeed,’ the Inspector said, breathing out fulsomely. After thinking that this case was in danger of becoming bogged down, he now sensed that things were about to get moving at last. ‘Can you give me the gist of those changes before we go inside and make it formal?’

Alfred Mulligan proceeded to do so.

And behind the hedge, Arbie and Val each drew in a sharp breath.

Inside the house it was several degrees cooler. Mrs Brockhurst, hearing the door, emerged from the kitchen and greeted them formally. ‘Good afternoon, sir, Inspector,’ she said. ‘The family are in the library. As are Miss Cora and Mr Bickersworth. I’ve just served some iced lemonade. There will be plenty if you would like some also?’

‘That sounds delightful,’ Alfred said, meaning it, then caught the housekeeper’s eye. ‘Since you have been left a legacy by your former employer, it would be as well if you were to be present also, Mrs Brockhurst.’

Jane Brockhurst’s mouth opened slightly, either in surprise or maybe to protest, but after a moment, she simply nodded and wordlessly proceeded them to the library, from whence muted voices could be heard.

The moment they walked in, several sets of eyes swivelled towards them. Murray, dressed in a formal dark suit, was standing in front of the unlit fireplace, leaning one arm nonchalantly along the mantelpiece. He was smoking a cheroot and his eyes narrowed on the Inspector, but he said nothing.

On one end of the sofa, Phyllis Thomas sat neatly, her hair severely swept back in a chignon, and wearing a light-weight twin-set in a becoming peach colour. On the other end of the sofa, Cora Delaney regarded them with interest. The older lady was wearing a long summer skirt of sprigged muslin and a neat, plain white blouse with a rounded collar.

Reggie was sitting in a chair near the piano, gazing out of the window, and was the last to notice the arrival of the newcomers.

The housekeeper took a chair at some distance from them all, which was set against the wall, and tried to pretend that she was invisible.

The Inspector moved to one side of the door and leaned against the wall, where he had a clear view of all the room’s inhabitants.

The solicitor, feeling as he sometimes did at times like this, rather like an actor upon a small stage, cleared his throat, walked to a large walnut table and deposited his briefcase on it. He pulled out a chair and in the suddenly tense and expectant silence, the slight scraping noise it made on the wooden floor sounded unnaturally loud and unwarranted.

‘Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,’ he said, smiling briefly around to encompass them all before opening his briefcase and pulling out a document bound with the usual judicial pink ribbon. ‘As you know, we’re here for the reading of the last will and testament of Amy Elizabeth Eleanor Phelps.’ Here he gave the usual preliminary little speech about the validity of the document, it being witnessed by such and such, and with the usual disclaimer that this latest document invalidated all previous wills and such like, then briskly got down to the nitty-gritty.

It didn’t take long for the first of the shocks to penetrate the minds of those present. Indeed, it began with almost his first words, when he read out the date of the will.

Instantly, a little stir spread around the room. So it was true. Amy Phelps had altered her will in some way.

Alfred took a steadying breath and plunged in. Taking a firm grip on the paperwork, he kept his eyes on the print, refusing to look up at those in the room.

‘I, Amy Elizabeth Eleanor Phelps—’

It was Murray, not surprisingly, who interrupted. ‘If you don’t mind, Mr Mulligan, I think I can speak for all of us if I ask you to spare us all the legal language and whatnot. Most of us here wouldn’t understand it anyway,’ he added snidely, making his cousin shoot him a withering glance, suspecting his jibe was aimed at her. ‘If you could just tell us the main gist of it, it would speed things up no end. And again, I think I can speak for all of us when I say we’d rather not prolong things unnecessarily.’

Of all those present, everyone knew that he, most of all, had the biggest vested interest in whatever changes had been made to Amy’s legatees. And although he still felt confident that he was the main heir, he did wonder if his aunt, who liked to have things her own way, mayn’t have added some conditions to his inheritance. Wouldn’t it be a hoot, he thought absently, if the old girl had stipulated that he inherited only on the condition that he didn’t marry Doreen? The thought of his paramour’s fury if that was the case almost made him laugh out loud.

Cora regarded Murray curiously, as she might an ugly centipede that had just crawled across her shoe. Reggie looked away embarrassed. Neither the housekeeper nor the Inspector’s face showed any expression at all. Phyllis merely sighed heavily.

Alfred Mulligan, still with his eyes on his paperwork, said dryly, ‘Very well, if that’s the consensus?’ There was a small silence which he took for acquiescence, and then he nodded. ‘Then I’ll begin with the legacies.’

He could picture his client now, coming into his office, limping a bit from her recent fall, and stating her business. He’d been a little surprised, since her old will had stood for many years, and was slightly perturbed by her request. She was not the sort of person who was constantly swapping and changing her bequests, unlike some he could mention, who seemed to delight in keeping their relations on tenterhooks.

But when she’d stated her wishes, he’d felt most of his unease fade away. Usually when rich older ladies started fiddling unexpectedly with their wills, he suspected the influence of some good-looking, young, or sometimes not so young, man. But when Amy Phelps had informed him of what she had in mind, he was happy that that was not the case here.

Hastily, he pushed his musings aside and got down with the job at hand.

‘To my housekeeper of many years, Jane Brockhurst,’ he began with all due solemnity, ‘I bequeath Tithe Cottage, three hundred pounds, and a lifelong pension, to be administered by my designated executors. I would also like to take this opportunity to thank her for her many years of faithful service.’

Here he broke off and finally looked up, seeking out the housekeeper. ‘Miss Phelps led me to believe that you are familiar with the cottage, I understand, and would have no objection to either living there yourself, or renting it out and living elsewhere?’ He asked this with just a little trepidation, for quite often, he’d found, what the deceased believed to be the case and what the living thought about it could be poles apart.

‘Oh yes, sir,’ the housekeeper said promptly. She looked both relieved and happy, as well she might, having just heard that her future was secure, and the looming spectre of an impoverished old age was forever banished.

The solicitor gave a little sigh of relief and Jane Brockhurst a small, friendly nod and returned his eyes to the document in his hand. ‘To my dear friend, Reginald Bickersworth, I bequeath the painting entitled Church at Evening, currently hanging in the front parlour, my collection of first-edition Thackerays and the sum of five hundred pounds, in the hopes that he will enjoy it thoroughly.’

At this Reggie swallowed hard, and murmured, to no one in particular, ‘Oh, what a dear lady.’

By the fireplace, Murray gave a heavy sigh of impatience and glanced at the clock on the wall opposite. Taking the hint, but in no way hurrying, Alfred returned to the next clause.

‘To my old schoolfriend, Cora Delaney, I leave my peridot suite of bracelet, necklace, earrings and tiara, my garnet and lapis lazuli necklace, and the sapphire and diamond cluster ring she so admired. I know she will wear all the jewellery with far more élan than I, myself, ever managed to do.’

On the end of the sofa, Cora gave a small bark of reluctant spontaneous laughter, shook her head slightly and then relapsed back into a rather brooding silence.

Alfred then sped through the number of charitable donations that she had left to the village church, the Salvation Army and several missionary endeavours in Africa, and some more keepsakes left to servants that no longer served her but had not been forgotten.

He then cleared his throat portentously and took a swift breath.

‘The residue of my estate, including the Old Forge and all my other real estate, all monies currently residing in my various bank accounts along with all my stocks and shares and various investments, the rest of my jewellery, furs and all other personal possessions, I leave in their entirety to my niece, Phyllis Thomas.’

Here Alfred lifted his head to hastily explain that this concluded the last will and testament of Amy Phelps. He turned the last page and began to return the document back into his briefcase.

In the room there was absolute silence.

Inspector Gorringe did his best to look at both Phyllis and Murray at the same time.

Phyllis looked stunned. Her mouth dropped open, her eyes widened a little, and after the shock of the words was assimilated, a huge and happy smile spread spontaneously across her face, as well it might. She was now a very rich woman indeed, and the happiness and glee were unmistakable. The Inspector didn’t blame her for it one bit. It was not every day you learned that your life had changed – for the better – for ever.

That she had also been totally surprised by this, he was reasonably sure. Unless she was an outstanding actress, which was always possible, she had not known about the change to her aunt’s will.

An instant later, the Inspector was watching Murray’s face like a hawk. To begin with, his expressions had almost eerily imitated that of his cousin, in that his mouth dropped open and his eyes widened. But, not surprisingly, what followed was neither glee nor happiness but yet more shock, followed by fury and puzzlement. He straightened up with a jerk and glared disbelievingly at the solicitor.

‘What?’ he all but shouted. ‘That can’t be right. I don’t believe it.’

Over by the piano Reggie shifted uneasily on his chair. Cora too, for the first time, began to look less amused and more disdainful. ‘I think, Reggie, you and I should take a turn in the garden. It’s such a lovely day,’ she said carefully. She hadn’t even finished the sentence before Reggie was eagerly on his feet, his face a picture of dismay. Family ructions and unpleasantness of any sort were things he abhorred.

‘Oh yes, I think so too. Shall we use the French windows?’ he suggested. They were not only the nearest means of exit but using them meant that they didn’t have to tiptoe across the room and out of the door like naughty children caught trying to gate-crash a party.

The housekeeper, seeing them leave and realising that this was also her best moment to escape, simply got up and walked to the door and left.

Alfred continued packing away his briefcase, and the sound of it snapping shut seemed to galvanise Murray.

‘Not so fast, if you please! I want to see that document,’ he said flatly, walking across, hand held out imperiously, staring white-faced at the solicitor, who stiffened.

‘I can assure you, Mr Phelps, that it’s all in order, and …’

‘Let me see it. Now!’ he roared.

Alfred drew his shoulders back. It was abominable that his professional reputation should be traduced in this way, but one look at the irate face in front of him convinced him that discretion was probably the better part of valour.

With a sigh, he reopened his case and extracted the document, which was instantly snatched out of his hand. Murray rifled through it to the last page and stared at the signature.

Then at the signatures of the witnesses.

Then he read it through, from top to bottom.

As he was doing this, the Inspector alternated his gaze from Phyllis to that of her cousin. Phyllis was glowing. Murray was glowering. And that about said it all.

‘I can’t believe she’d do this,’ Murray finally said bitterly, and by doing so, conceding that the document was genuine. ‘When she came to your office, did she give you any reason for her change of heart?’ he demanded, waving the detested document in the air, and turning a now distraught face to the legal man.

‘No, Mr Phelps, she did not,’ Alfred said stiffly, prising the document back from him. Although he felt a certain amount of pity for the man, who had, after all, just received a very nasty shock, he didn’t feel it was his place to offer him false words of comfort.

‘But surely you must have asked her, man?’ Murray huffed. ‘Isn’t it your job to see to the family’s welfare? Your firm has been the family solicitors for long enough! Didn’t you tell her that, as the eldest and only male heir, it was her duty to keep the family fortune together and in my hands?’

Alfred regarded the handsome, irate man in front of him, and summoned up all his patience and forbearance. ‘No, Mr Phelps, I did no such thing,’ he responded stiffly. ‘It is my duty to oversee the wishes of my client. And she was perfectly clear and lucid about those. Now, had she proposed leaving her estate entirely away from the family …’ he paused delicately and gave the slightest of shrugs, ‘then indeed, I might have, er, tried to gently persuade her to reconsider. But since that wasn’t the case …’

Suddenly, behind him, Phyllis rose to her feet. ‘Indeed, it was not the case, cousin, since I’m as closely related to her by blood as you are. A fact you seem to have forgotten,’ she said softly. ‘And it seems that you were not her favourite after all.’

Murray turned on her savagely, but whatever words he meant to fling at her, he strangled them at birth. Instead, he fought for control and won, his quick and clever mind finally beginning to recover from its shock and starting to work ferociously. As he thought, he stared at her long and hard, almost as if seeing her – properly seeing her – for the first time.

And under that stare, Phyllis’s momentary courage seemed to falter.

‘So it would seem,’ he said slowly. ‘And I’m just now starting to wonder, dearest cousin, exactly why that is?’

Inspector Gorringe looked from cousin to cousin with the concentration of a scientist watching a particularly intriguing petri dish. Phyllis, approaching middle age, no great beauty but handsome enough in her way, conservatively dressed, a little flushed, her chin tilted upwards in a probably hitherto unused tilt of defiance. Clearly, this usually unobtrusive member of the Phelps family had hidden depths to her.

And Murray – the businessman, undeniably handsome, dressed in a Savile Row suit and clearly a man used to wielding power and influence – now very much on the back foot. And not liking it one little bit.

Phyllis’s head tilted back even more, but the canny Inspector noted that her hands were clenched into tense fists. For all her bravado, he had the feeling that she was, at that moment, rather afraid of her cousin. ‘You would know that better than I, Murray, surely?’ she said coolly. ‘Just what did you do to upset her so? Whatever it was, it was a bad miscalculation on your part, wasn’t it?’ she said sweetly.

At this ominous parry, Alfred muttered a very hasty farewell and decided to show himself out.

The cousins, totally ignoring his abrupt departure, continued to face each other, like wary, warring cats.

‘Oh, I’m not the only one capable of making miscalculations, cousin of mine,’ Murray warned her softly. ‘I might have been a little slow off the mark but believe me I’m catching up fast. And don’t think for one minute that you’re going to get away with this.’

Phyllis’s gaze faltered a little under Murray’s inimical stare. She might be newly wealthy and already beginning to feel that wonderfully liberating sense of being inoculated from the worst of the world’s slings and arrows by the power that that wealth gave her, but she was by no means immune to bullying.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she said quietly, her mockingly sweet tone of earlier totally deserting her now. She swallowed hard. ‘And I think it’s time you left,’ she added nervously.

‘Oh yes. It’s your house now, isn’t it?’ Murray blazed, making a mocking show of looking around the library. ‘Mistress of all you survey. Or so you think.’ Utterly ignoring the Inspector, he turned and stalked to the door. But once he’d opened it, he turned and looked over his shoulder at her. ‘I can only suggest you enjoy it while you can. Because that will won’t be worth the paper it’s written on by the time I’m through proving just what you’ve been up to.’

A tiny frown of puzzlement marred the otherwise smooth brow of Phyllis Thomas. ‘What on earth are you talking about, Murray?’ she asked anxiously, and Gorringe wasn’t sure if it was anger or fear that ruled her now.

But her cousin merely shook his head. ‘You know, right enough, Phyllis my dear. Ghost my foot!’ he snapped. And with that rather startling – and apparently utterly irrelevant – statement, he walked out, slamming the door mightily behind him.

Phyllis jumped nervously at the sharp sound it made. And only then did she herself seem to recall the presence of the policeman. She looked at him, hands spread out in that universal gesture of helplessness.

‘I really don’t know what he was talking about,’ she said quietly.

The Inspector smiled at her politely. ‘No? Well, I shouldn’t let it worry you. Your cousin was obviously upset. Understandable, under the circumstances, don’t you think?’ he added.

‘Hmmm? Circ— Oh, yes. Yes, of course,’ she muttered. She sank back down weakly onto the sofa, looking thoroughly washed out. Elated but worried. Happy and yet uneasy.

And who could blame her for the turmoil of her emotional state, the Inspector mused. Although those two attractive youngsters had told him all about the legend of the family ghost, even he couldn’t help but wonder why Mr Murray Phelps had dragged that into the proceedings now, or what he meant by those last few words either, except that the threat they held was unmistakable. But what, exactly, had that furious and thwarted individual meant by bringing the Phelps family ghost into the proceedings?

One thing was for certain – the person who had most benefitted by the death of Amy Phelps was her niece, Phyllis Thomas. And for that reason alone, she was now at the top of his list of suspects.