Читать книгу Grave Deeds - Betsy Struthers - Страница 9

Mr. Ross used his cane to brush the two policemen aside and hauled himself up the stairs. I followed, with Markham, Gianelli and Wilson close behind.

“We should keep out until the coroner is satisfied,” Wilson objected as Mr. Ross pushed the front door open.

“Nothing to find,” the old man grunted. “Accident. Old age. Waste of time looking for anything else. Comes to all of us sooner or later.”

“Now, Uncle,” Markham soothed. “Don’t get yourself upset. Maybe we should call this meeting off and get together another day.”

“We have business here,” Mr. Ross nodded at me. “I’ll miss Beatrice, true enough. Last of a breed, she was, a real lady. Haven’t seen much of her since my dear Anne passed away.” He sniffed. “And since you young fellows have taken over the office. Retirement, they call it,” he said to Gianelli. He made the sound that comic books rendered as “hmmph.” I’d never believed real people did that.

“I’m cold,” he continued. “Beatrice would be mortified to think we were all standing out here on the street, making a spectacle of ourselves for the neighbours. She would want us to come in.”

Mr. Ross knew where to go in the house, turning to the right in the dark hall that was a minefield of litter boxes and bowls. He pushed aside a floor-length velvet curtain which rattled along a brass rod to reveal a room as dusty and still as a museum display. Lace curtains kept out most of whatever light could penetrate the grimy windows that were further darkened by alternating panes of dull red and green leaded glass. After a moment’s fumbling he flicked a switch which turned on a pale yellow globe that hung from the centre of an elaborately plastered ceiling now webbed with a million fine cracks. He stumped across to an oversized wing chair upholstered in red corduroy. When he sat, a fine cloud of dust rose around him. He sneezed.

Besides that chair, the room was stuffed with a matching sofa, two more armchairs, and a footstool; a wooden rocker covered with a frayed quilt; an elaborately carved upright piano; a tall bookshelf filled with books whose spines were so faded their titles were impossible to read; and a bow-fronted china cabinet. Every surface bore a load of knick-knacks: china figurines, gold-rimmed tea cups on lace doilies, painted bowls of dried flowers and even a lithe creature, mink or marten, mounted on a piece of driftwood and glaring at us with its glass eyes. On a black table pushed against one wall was a crowd of picture frames. I headed straight for it.

“Just a minute,” Wilson said. “You’re not to touch anything.”

The three men pushed into the room, Markham edging in front of the two cops. He grabbed my arm. I pulled away from him and in doing so backed into the table. The frames fell like a set of dominoes, one after the other, knocking pictures flat. I grabbed a silver oval disc as it slipped over the edge.

“My goodness,” Mr. Ross exclaimed. “Be careful, Roger. Come and sit down, Mrs. Cairns. That is your name now, isn’t it?”

He pointed with his stick at the sofa. I obeyed, still clutching the photo in my hands. Markham muttered an apology and stood back, almost but not quite leaning against the wall. Gianelli looked at one of the armchairs for a moment, as if tempted to sit, but the dust and the layer of cat hairs that covered it discouraged him. Wilson didn’t mind. He plunked down so heavily on the other end of the sofa that I distinctly heard a spring pop.

Mr. Ross sat on the edge of the huge chair, his hands folded on top of the cane, his chin nearly resting on them. He had taken off his hat and placed it on the floor where it rested, like a contented cat curled by his feet.

Gianelli was determined to take control of the interview. “You claim that this woman is a relative of the deceased?” he asked the old lawyer again.

“Of course, young man. I helped Beatrice locate her. There’s not much of the family left and she felt badly about what had happened. She wanted to make amends.”

“What did happen?” Wilson asked.

“It was long ago,” the old man waved a hand. “Nothing to do with this. An old story.

” “I’d like to know,” I said.

“The point is,” Markham added, “that she will now inherit considerable property.”

“What?” I said at the same moment that Gianelli asked, “This house?”

Mr. Ross shook his head. “No, no. Her grandfather’s summer home. Did your mother never tell you about the Cooks?” he said to me.

I shook my head, staring down at the yellowed photograph in my hand. Posed in front of a draped curtain and Grecian urn were two children, the boy dressed in a sailor suit with knee pants and a white cap, the girl in a lacy dress that reached to her ankles.

“Who are they?” I asked, handing the picture to Mr. Ross.

He studied it, holding it out at arm’s length. “That would be your grandfather and your great-aunt Beatrice when they were children. This must be in the library of the Cook house over on Brunswick Avenue. It’s gone now.”

“Excuse me,” Gianelli broke in. “But what property are you talking about? That she inherits?” He jerked his thumb at me.

“The original Cook claim: one hundred acres of farm land up north. Beatrice wanted Mrs. Cairns to have it. It’s rightfully hers after all, has been for years.”

“That’s not exactly true,” Markham interrupted.

Mr. Ross turned on him. “You, boy, you don’t know the half of it. There’s what’s legal and there’s what’s right. Beatrice wanted to do what’s right and I, as her lawyer and the executor of the estate, am going to carry out her wishes.”

“Other people have interests here,” Markham objected.

“Other people have no business in what doesn’t concern them,” the old man snapped. “Your job is to manage accounts, not make decisions about my clients. Not that you’ve left me that many. But Beatrice trusted me, and I made sure her will was up-to-date and binding. There’s no question of contest. No question at all.”

“Perhaps you’ll explain what you’re talking about?” Gianelli asked.

“We’ll begin at the beginning,” the old man leaned back in the chair, his voice already slipping into the slight singsong of the raconteur.

Wilson sighed. He patted a pocket as if looking for cigarettes. He shook his head and began to pick idly at a loose hair on the arm of the sofa. He must have just quit smoking. He had that yearning look.

Mr. Ross launched into his story. “The Cooks came over from Belfast in the middle of the last century and took up land in Haliburton. One hundred acres of rock and swamp on the shore of a big lake they named for themselves. The oldest boy left for the city, went into the undertaking business, while the daughter’s husband, a McDonnel, tried to keep the farm going. There were two younger boys, but they went out west and lost touch with the others.”

“So there are McDonnel cousins and other Cooks as well?” I asked.

He ignored my interruption. “The McDonnels fell on hard times while George Cook prospered, as did his son. He paid the taxes while the McDonnels worked the land. Then your grandfather decided to give his new wife a summer home. This was about 1925 or ’26, something in there. He claimed the lake property back.”

“What about the McDonnels? Wasn’t the place theirs?”

The old lawyer shrugged. “Those who pay the taxes own the land. And remember, George had title. The McDonnels threatened to sue, but they didn’t have a leg to stand on. One of them still lives up there somewhere, I believe. He’d be an old man by now.”

Wilson looked at his watch. “What’s this got to do with Mrs. Cairns and the old lady?”

“Ah well,” Mr. Ross said. “It all comes down to family in the end, who belongs, who doesn’t. George, her grandfather,” he jabbed his thumb at me, “hated his son’s English wife, specially after she left him. He almost wrote little Rosalie out of his will. But she was family, and, after young George died, she was the last of the Cooks. So he wanted her to have the property in the end.”

“When?” I asked. “When did he die?”

“In 1961.”

“Then why did no one contact me until now?”

“Let me finish,” Mr. Ross commanded. “Your grandfather hated your mother.” He held up his hand to quiet my objections. “Even after she left young George and wouldn’t take any maintenance from him. Old George couldn’t forgive her.”

“For leaving her husband? But he beat her,” I protested. I squeezed my eyes shut. I would not allow myself to cry in front of these men.

“That’s what she said, but I never saw any bruises. He said he slapped her once, when she insisted on going out instead of taking care of you. Your grandmother never believed he would hurt any woman, not on purpose, not without being provoked. She said your mother never got over the war, the rationing and misery. That she married your father to get out of England and then wouldn’t settle down to be a proper wife and mother.”

“She was a wonderful mother,” I protested. “She worked really hard for both of us.”

“That’s as may be,” Mr. Ross said. “Fact is, she left young George and took you with her, wouldn’t let your grandparents see you. I tried to help. I even got her a job with a friend of mine…”

“Mr. McIntosh? You knew Mr. McIntosh?” I broke in. My mother’s employer had been like an elderly uncle to me. On my rare visits to the office, he always spoke to me about school and friends while offering a choice of biscuits from the tin he kept on his desk. And at Christmas there was always a wrapped present under the tree for me from him.

“When I saw how determined she was, I figured it was best to leave her where we could keep tabs on her. It was a good job she had there; she worked herself up from receptionist to secretary. She made me promise not to tell the family where you lived. She said that if George ever tried to contact her, she’d take you and disappear. He asked me often enough, but I never told.”

“He never visited us.” I remembered my old sorrow, my constant questions when I first went to school and discovered that other children lived with two parents. I wanted a Daddy desperately. I remember once running home in tears, asking my mother what was a bastard and why was being one so bad? She told me that I did have a father and that he was dead. After that, I had a certain cachet at school, being an orphan. I told the other kids that my father had been a fighter pilot and killed in the war. The fact that I was born six years after the war ended was never mentioned.

“For the first two years he kept asking me where you were,” Mr. Ross said. “That man was just eaten with remorse. There was never proof that he ever lifted a hand against your mother. Except that one slap he owned up to. It was her word against his.”

“And she was just a war bride, with no family.”

He bowed his head. “I did what I could.”

“What about me?” I asked. “Didn’t my grandparents ever try to see me?”

“Oh yes. After young George passed away, they tried to persuade your mother to let them adopt you, send you to a good school, give you your proper place in life. They even suggested you both come to live with them. They offered to give your mother rooms in the carriage house. Your mother would have nothing to do with them.”

“Good for her. How dare they treat her like a servant.“

Mr. Ross shrugged. “They were old-fashioned folk. Doesn’t matter now.”

“What about this will?” Gianelli interrupted. “You want to get around to it, please?”

“Well, George couldn’t stand the thought of Maisie getting her hands on the property. He knew he wouldn’t survive another heart attack and the girl was only ten years old. So he left it to Beatrice. He asked her to give it to Rosalie when her mother died.”

“But she didn’t,” I exclaimed. “I never heard from her until last week.”

“Thing is,” said Mr. Ross, “Beatrice loved that cottage. She couldn’t bear to give it up. Legally it was hers to do with what she wanted. She knew you’d never made any effort to contact the family…”

“My mother always told me that my father was an orphan,” I protested.

“Beatrice needed an excuse for hanging on. She kept saying the time wasn’t right to tell you. But last summer she was too frail to go up to the lake. She wanted to make amends. I told her it was about time.”

“I didn’t expect anything like this,” I said. “I just wanted to meet her to find out about my father’s family.”

“So you didn’t know you were an heir,” Gianelli said. He had been taking notes in a small leather book. He turned to the lawyer. “Who else benefits?”

“Really, officer,” Markham interrupted. “This isn’t the time or place to discuss motive, is it? You don’t even know for sure that her death wasn’t accidental. An old lady like that, steep stairs — aren’t you assuming a crime that doesn’t exist?”

“Did you know about the property?”

“It doesn’t have anything to do with me,” Markham protested. “I’ve been administering the estate for my uncle. With his advice. That’s all.”

“What’s the land worth?” Wilson asked.

“A lot of money. One hundred acres of prime cottage country with one thousand feet of pristine shoreline.” Markham’s voice was wistful. “Developers have been after it for years.”

“You know the conditions,” Mr. Ross said. He turned to me, “Your grandfather had a special request for Beatrice to pass on to you. If you don’t want to keep it, the property is to go to the province for a bird sanctuary. He didn’t want to see the land divided up.”

“It’s not written in the will itself,” Markham objected. “It’s just a letter of intent. Ms. Cairns can do what she wants once she has the deed.”

“Not everyone is mercenary,” the old man’s voice dripped acid.

Markham flushed.

“This is all very interesting,” Gianelli said. “But you haven’t answered my question: who else stands to gain?”

“If the old lady was murdered,” Markham said, ”she’s got a pretty good motive.”

“That’s enough, Roger.” The old man struggled to his feet. “I’m tired. I want to go home.”

“And the cottage?” Wilson asked.

“It’s yours, my dear,” Ross took my hand and bowed slightly. “I will make arrangements for the papers to be sent to you. May you long enjoy it.”

“Just a minute,” Gianelli said. “We have an investigation going on here.”

Ross was already at the door. He turned and frowned at the two policemen. “Waste of time, I said. She was old, she fell. It’s simple.”

“A neighbour said the upstairs was blocked off,” Gianelli objected. “She had no reason to go up there.”

“Maybe she was looking for something to show Mrs. Cairns. A keepsake from her brother, perhaps. Who’s to know? Old folk do strange things at times.” He chuckled. “Even me. Let the dead rest. There’s no good in stirring up old bones. The only secret in this house was the ownership of a parcel of land in the wilds. And the only ones who knew the true story of that were Beatrice and I. Mrs. Cairns is innocent. It’s sad, though, my dear, that you never did meet your aunt. A real lady, she was. A real lady.” He pushed aside the curtain and went out.

“He may say so, but it’s not the last you’ll be hearing from the firm,” Markham said. “There are a few questions yet to be answered.” He followed his uncle.

“Well,” Wilson stood up and brushed off his pants. Cat hair fell in a fine shower to the rug. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Shouldn’t you have made them answer your questions?” I asked Gianelli. “Found out who else does benefit? Who else had opportunity? How could you just let them go like that?”

“You read a lot of detective stories?”

I blushed. “My thesis is on women detective novelists.”

“It would be.” Gianelli winked at his partner. “It’s one of the interrogation techniques we’ve perfected. We let everyone else do the talking, and see what comes out. If all the suspects keep blabbing, someone’s going to confess.”

“Easy business, this is,” Wilson yawned. “No glamour. Just sit around listening to a lot of hot air and take notes. Make connections. Regular Nero Wolfes, we are.”

“Yeah,” Gianelli said. He stretched. “Time enough to get down to a real investigation after we hear from the coroner.”

“I wish you wouldn’t be dreaming up work,” Wilson complained. “Always wanting to turn a simple accident into a major murder case. It looks pretty straightforward to me, and I’ve been to a lot more murder scenes than you have.”

“She’s one of the names on my list…” Gianelli began. His glance slid toward me and he stopped.

“What list?” I prompted.

He shook his head. “A case I’m working on. Not murder.”

“A cop I know at home always claims coincidence and accident when he means murder.”

“What cop is that?”

“His name’s Constable Finlay.”

“He’s a friend of yours?”

“Not exactly.” I shrugged. “I’ve met him a few times. It’s a small town.”

Wilson sighed dramatically. “I’m starving, and we still haven’t made it to lunch. This seems to me pretty cut-and-dried. Let’s get going, okay? We’re neither of us Kojak. Even if one of us is a little thin on top.”

“Give me a break,” Gianelli snorted, but couldn’t help smoothing one hand over the strands of hair combed across his scalp. “Good day, ma’am,” he nodded to me. He cocked his finger at Wilson. “You, I’ll see outside.”

The front door slammed behind him.

Wilson grinned. “Would you like a ride home?” he asked me.

“I’ll take the bus.” I went over to the table and began to pick up photographs, staring at the faces who smiled back at me. This one was of a girl who must be my age now. In the picture she was a teenager in a purple paisley shirt dress with long straight hair almost to her waist. She wore white stockings and purple shoes with those big clunky heels that Elton John made so popular. She was standing on the porch of this house. It was freshly painted and the cedars that now overshadowed the roof were small trimmed bushes on each side of the steps. She held a cat in her arms.

“Let’s go, then.” He took the picture and replaced it on the table. One hand on my elbow, he steered me out the door.

Gianelli was standing on the front porch. He locked the door behind us, and put the key in his pocket. “I’ve got your address,” he reminded me. “We’ll be in touch if we need to talk to you again.”

The two men sauntered across the lawn. I heard Wilson laugh again as they reached their car and Gianelli’s explosive curse. I wondered if the younger man was ribbing him this time about his hair or about the cats.

I pulled my jacket tight against the small wind that had sprung up with the setting of the sun. I was now a person of property, though still without family. Shadows lay thickly on the street under streetlights that glowed with faint jaundiced light. More cars were parked along both sides of the street. In many houses the curtains had already been drawn and lamps lit. I could hear quite clearly the grumble of traffic on Queen Street and the shriek of a streetcar’s tired brakes. Far off, a siren whooped. Behind me, the house seemed to hunch itself over its secrets, nursing its empty rooms as a cat worries a flea bite. I shivered. Somewhere nearby a door slammed and the Doberman began to bark, an anxious menace. It was time to go home.

Although the streetcar was packed, I was surprised to see a seat empty except for a bulging green garbage bag. I edged towards it. The other half was occupied by a woman dressed in a tattered gray tweed overcoat, a red polka dot scarf tied so tightly around her head that no hair showed at all. She was bent double, her forehead nearly resting on the bar of the seat in front, her arms wrapped tightly around her middle. She wore gloves without fingers and the scarlet paint on her bitten nails was chipped and worn. I was about to ask her if I could put the bag on the floor when she looked up, her face a mass of wrinkles, her mouth sunken over gums she bared in a vicious grin. I stepped back, nearly colliding with two schoolgirls who were chatting in the aisle.

“Watch out,” one said, pulling her leather knapsack away from my feet.

I looked down at the old woman. She was bent over again, swaying back and forth, singing without words a high-pitched complaint. At least Great-Aunt Beatrice had had her house and

her cats, as well as neighbours who watched her with attention, if not with love, who may have called her a witch but noted her comings and goings. I wondered what fortune she would have told for me.