aunt’s jewellery to various members of the family. Only a few trinkets, really.
‘I suppose that strictly speaking there ought to be a probate inventory before anything’s actually taken,’ said Michael Sallis. ‘But that’s your terrain, more than mine. I do know that it’s only the bricks and mortar that are left to us, though.’
Well, of course Edmund knew there should be aprobate inventory, but he had not bothered to get one because he had assumed everything was coming to him. But he could not actually say this, so he merely said, frostily, that if Sallis would leave a card, they could be in touch in the next week or so. After probate was obtained.
‘Yes, certainly. I’ll give you our legal department’s direct number, as well.’
So it was not such a tinpot set-up after all. This annoyed Edmund even further, and he remarked that it was all very unexpected of his aunt. Of course, elderly widows were given to such enthusiasms, most people knew that.
Sallis looked at him thoughtfully for a moment, and then said, ‘Mrs Fane asked a lot of very searching questions about our work. About exactly how we would make use of the house if she decided to leave it to us. It was all quite carefully tied up.’ He paused, and then said, ‘I wish I had known her better than I did; she was a remarkable lady. It must have been an immense shock to you when she died so suddenly.’
Edmund said, in his silkiest, politest voice of all, ‘Yes. Yes, it was a great shock. But everyone has to die some time.’
Everyone has to die some time.
Even though Deborah had been over seventy, Edmund was very glad to know that he had not fumbled or bungled things. A swift, painless death, it had been. Anything else would have felt almost discourteous.
‘Of course you wouldn’t have fumbled it,’ Crispin had said, afterwards. ‘A gentleman to the last,’ he had added,smiling the secret smile that Edmund always found so fascinating, and that he thought – hoped! – no one but himself ever saw.
Nobody had suspected anything wrong about Deborah’s death, and even if they had, they would not have dreamed that respectable Mr Fane would have…
Go on, say it.
Would have committed murder.
Murder. An old, old word that had smeared its bloody pawprints on the history of humankind. A word whose dark origins derived partly from the Middle English word, murther, taken from the Old English morthor . Akin to the Old High German word, mord .
No one would have suspected trustworthy, reliable Edmund Fane capable of committing mord.
The post-mortem on Deborah Fane had been held within a couple of days – that was one of the advantages of living in such a small place, of course – and the conclusion was a myocardial infarct. Sudden and fatal heart attack. Perhaps there had been a slight puzzlement on the part of Deborah’s GP, who had told Edmund that apart from the angina which they were controlling well with the medication – oh, and a touch of arthritis – Mrs Fane had been in fairly good general health. But then he had said, oh well, you could not always predict when a heart was about to give way. Still, she would be a great loss to everyone who had known her.
‘She’s a great loss to me,’ said Edmund sadly. ‘I shall miss her very much.’
CHAPTER FOUR
Short of the occasional domestic disaster – ‘Water pouring through all the bedroom ceilings, Edmund, and I cannot get a plumber to come out before Thursday !’ – Aunt Deborah had hardly ever phoned Edmund at the office.
‘I don’t believe in intruding into business hours, Edmund, dear,’ she had always said. ‘It’s important to respect a person’s place of work, and you have clients to consider.’
It had been a surprise, therefore, to hear her voice, shortly after nine fifteen one morning. Edmund had been engrossed in the complexities of a boundary plan relating to a right-of-way dispute for a farmer, and he had just been brought his coffee; he liked a
‘I suppose that strictly speaking there ought to be a probate inventory before anything’s actually taken,’ said Michael Sallis. ‘But that’s your terrain, more than mine. I do know that it’s only the bricks and mortar that are left to us, though.’
Well, of course Edmund knew there should be aprobate inventory, but he had not bothered to get one because he had assumed everything was coming to him. But he could not actually say this, so he merely said, frostily, that if Sallis would leave a card, they could be in touch in the next week or so. After probate was obtained.
‘Yes, certainly. I’ll give you our legal department’s direct number, as well.’
So it was not such a tinpot set-up after all. This annoyed Edmund even further, and he remarked that it was all very unexpected of his aunt. Of course, elderly widows were given to such enthusiasms, most people knew that.
Sallis looked at him thoughtfully for a moment, and then said, ‘Mrs Fane asked a lot of very searching questions about our work. About exactly how we would make use of the house if she decided to leave it to us. It was all quite carefully tied up.’ He paused, and then said, ‘I wish I had known her better than I did; she was a remarkable lady. It must have been an immense shock to you when she died so suddenly.’
Edmund said, in his silkiest, politest voice of all, ‘Yes. Yes, it was a great shock. But everyone has to die some time.’
Everyone has to die some time.
Even though Deborah had been over seventy, Edmund was very glad to know that he had not fumbled or bungled things. A swift, painless death, it had been. Anything else would have felt almost discourteous.
‘Of course you wouldn’t have fumbled it,’ Crispin had said, afterwards. ‘A gentleman to the last,’ he had added,smiling the secret smile that Edmund always found so fascinating, and that he thought – hoped! – no one but himself ever saw.
Nobody had suspected anything wrong about Deborah’s death, and even if they had, they would not have dreamed that respectable Mr Fane would have…
Go on, say it.
Would have committed murder.
Murder. An old, old word that had smeared its bloody pawprints on the history of humankind. A word whose dark origins derived partly from the Middle English word, murther, taken from the Old English morthor . Akin to the Old High German word, mord .
No one would have suspected trustworthy, reliable Edmund Fane capable of committing mord.
The post-mortem on Deborah Fane had been held within a couple of days – that was one of the advantages of living in such a small place, of course – and the conclusion was a myocardial infarct. Sudden and fatal heart attack. Perhaps there had been a slight puzzlement on the part of Deborah’s GP, who had told Edmund that apart from the angina which they were controlling well with the medication – oh, and a touch of arthritis – Mrs Fane had been in fairly good general health. But then he had said, oh well, you could not always predict when a heart was about to give way. Still, she would be a great loss to everyone who had known her.
‘She’s a great loss to me,’ said Edmund sadly. ‘I shall miss her very much.’
CHAPTER FOUR
Short of the occasional domestic disaster – ‘Water pouring through all the bedroom ceilings, Edmund, and I cannot get a plumber to come out before Thursday !’ – Aunt Deborah had hardly ever phoned Edmund at the office.
‘I don’t believe in intruding into business hours, Edmund, dear,’ she had always said. ‘It’s important to respect a person’s place of work, and you have clients to consider.’
It had been a surprise, therefore, to hear her voice, shortly after nine fifteen one morning. Edmund had been engrossed in the complexities of a boundary plan relating to a right-of-way dispute for a farmer, and he had just been brought his coffee; he liked a
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