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man said. He had rows of badges attached to a black leather jacket and orange spiky hair set with gel. A need to prove he · existed, I supposed.
    “It may be outside his front door,” I said. “Or it may be parked somewhere in Ipswich.”
    “Yeah,” he said thoughtfully. “See what you mean.”
    The telephone rang on the desk beside me, and Annette after a moment’s hesitation came and picked up the receiver. She listened with a worried expression and then, covering the mouthpiece, asked me, “What shall I do? It’s a customer who wants to give an order.”
    “Have you got what he wants?” I asked.
    “Yes, we’re sure to have.”
    “Then say it’s OK.”
    “But do I tell him about Mr. Franklin?”
    “No,” I said instinctively, “just take the order.”
    She seemed glad of the direction and wrote down the list, and when she’d disconnected I suggested to them all that for that day at least they should take and send out orders in the normal way, and just say if asked that Mr. Franklin was out of the office and couldn’t be reached. We wouldn’t start telling people he was dead until after I’d talked to his lawyers, accountants, bank and the rest, and found out our legal position. They were relieved and agreed without demur, and the older man asked if I would soon get the broken window fixed, as it was in the packing and dispatch room, where he worked.
    With a feeling of being sucked feet first into quicksand I said I would try. I felt I didn’t belong in that place or in those people’s lives, and all I knew about the jewelry business was where to find two red stones in a box marked MgAI,O,, Burma.
    At the fourth try among the Yellow Pages I got a promise of instant action on the window and after that, with office procedure beginning to tick over again all around me, I put a call through to the lawyers.
    They were grave, they were sympathetic, they were at my service. I asked if by any chance Greville had made a will, as specifically I wanted to know if he had left any instructions about cremation or burial, and if he hadn’t, did they know of anyone I should consult, or should I make whatever arrangements I thought best.
    There was a certain amount of clearing of throats and a promise to look up files and call back, and they kept their word almost immediately, to my surprise.
    My brother had indeed left a will: they had drawn it up for him themselves three years earlier. They couldn’t swear it was his last will, but it was the only one they had. They had consulted it. Greville, they said, pedantically, had expressed no preference as to the disposal of his remains.
    “Shall I just ... go ahead, then?”
    “Certainly,” they said. “You are in fact named as your brother’s sole executor. It is your duty to make the decisions.”
    Hell, I thought, and I asked for a list of the beneficiaries so that I could notify them of the death and invite them to the funeral.
    After a pause they said they didn’t normally give out that information on the telephone. Could I not come to their office? It was just across the City, at Temple.
    “I’ve broken an ankle,” I said, apologetically. “It takes me all my time to cross the room.”
    Dear, dear, they said. They consulted among themselves in guarded whispers and finally said they supposed there was no harm in my knowing. Greville’s will was extremely simple; he had left everything he possessed to Derek Saxony Franklin, his brother. To my good self, in fact.
    “What?” I said stupidly. “He can’t have.”
    He had written his will in a hurry, they said, because he had been flying off to a dangerous country to buy stones. He had been persuaded by the lawyers not to go interstate, and he had given in to them, and as far as they knew, that was the only will he ever made.
    “He can’t have meant it to be his last,” I said blankly.
    Perhaps not, they agreed: few men in good health expected to die at fifty-three. They then discussed probate