Reginald Hill - The Price of Butcher

“According to her statement she went straight into the hall as soon as the storm began. Also I think she’d hurt her right arm. I think she may have burnt it.”

“Like on the hog roast cage? Okay, she got a burn when they found the body and that’s when she got mussed up, helping to get it off the barbecue pit.”

Pascoe said, “You’re very defensive of the lady, Andy. Not becoming chivalrous in your old age, are you?”

God, he’s getting right cocky! thought the Fat Man. In front of the servants too!

“I think that what with Daphne coming the duchess and her useless brother buggering around in every sense of the phrase, she’s had a lot to put up with,” he said.

“My points exactly. Provoked by her aunt, protective of her brother, I reckon she’d be up for anything. Incidentally, no one reports seeing her around when the body was discovered, and she herself says she stayed in the house when the others went outside again after the storm stopped. Any other comments, Andy? Always glad of your input.”

“Only that with two such desperate criminals to bring in, mebbe I’d better go along with Ivor.”

Watching their faces as he spoke, he savored their reactions to his generous offer of help. Pascoe looked doubtful, Novello looked disgruntled. Her, he could understand. From being the arresting officer, she’d be demoted to junior assist. As for Pascoe, he was probably thinking, Is there no way I can stop this fat bastard from getting in on the act? No, a bit more than that. From pissing on my parade!

He said, “Pete, it’s your call. You’re the man. And it’ll be Ivor’s collar. I’ll just be along as the heavy.”

“Fine,” said Pascoe with sudden decision. “Do it. One thing more. Bring Ted’s watch, big chunky Rolex. If he’s not wearing it, look for it.”

“Without a warrant?” said Dalziel.

“Use your imagination,” said Pascoe coldly.

“Why do we want the watch, sir?” said Novello, as always eager to learn.

“Something had snagged the victim’s blouse, and when I interviewed Sir Edward, he was having trouble with his watch clasp.”

“You don’t break a Rolex catch by snagging it on a bit of silk,” objected Dalziel.

“No. But as clever Miss Heywood pointed out for us, this is a fake, remember?” said Pascoe triumphantly. “Probably you could bend the catch by breathing on it. Now, I’d better get back in there before Wield and Beard come to blows over who’s prettiest.”

He returned to the drawing room where, far from fighting, he discovered the lawyer and the sergeant having an animated conversation about Gilbert and Sullivan.

“Sorry to interrupt,” said Pascoe, “but I’d be grateful if you’d cast your eye over this, Mr. Beard.”

The lawyer took the will form and read through it carefully. He snapped his fingers and Miss Gay passed him a magnifying glass through which he scrutinized parts of the will even more closely.

Finally satisfied, he put down the glass and sat back on the sofa.

“What we have here,” he said, “is a will, simple in purpose and unambiguous in language, revoking all previous wills and appointing myself as sole executor, in which the entirety of the late Lady Denham’s estate is left to the Yorkshire Equine Trust. It is handwritten and I can confirm beyond any reasonable doubt that the writing is Lady Denham’s, as is the signature. It is dated two days ago, and therefore postdates the will in my possession whose dispositions we discussed earlier.”

He paused.

“So, for the avoidance of doubt,” said Pascoe, “you can confirm that the will you read to us is no longer valid and that, unless yet another will surfaces, what we have here is legally the last will and testament of the late Lady Denham?”

“I don’t believe I said that, Chief Inspector,” said Mr. Beard.

“I’m sorry? I thought you said you were convinced the signature was genuine?”

“Indeed I did, and indeed I am. Lady Denham’s signature this certainly is. But then we come to the two witnesses who are given as Mr. Oliver Hollis and Miss Clara Brereton. I have had occasion to see Miss Brereton’s signature only once before, so I cannot be absolutely certain, but it does not accord with memory. As for Mr. Oliver Hollis, he was, coincidentally, or perhaps significantly, along with Miss Gay here”-the secretary bobbed her head in unsmiling acknowledgment-“a witness to the will I have in my briefcase. You may, if you wish, compare his signature there with what I see before me here. Myself, I have no such need. I can affirm beyond all doubt that it was not written by his hand.”

Beard and Wieldy were right to be talking about Gilbert and Sullivan, thought Pascoe. We’re in Titipu!

He said, “So what are you saying, Mr. Beard?”

For the first time the lawyer smiled, white teeth gleaming through black beard, as though he’d been waiting all his life for this.

“I am saying that Lady Denham appears to have forged her own will!”

Dennis Seymour wasn’t good with hospitals. When his twin daughters were born, he’d managed to witness the arrival of the first, but by the time the second emerged, he was lying on the floor, receiving treatment himself. So it was with no great enthusiasm that he’d made his way to the Avalon and asked to be directed to intensive care.

Shirley Novello had shown no reluctance to be relieved. The only hope she could offer of anything to dilute the boredom was a warning that Gordon Godley had appeared and asked if he could have a few minutes with the patient.

“Sounded harmless, but the nuts often do,” said Novello. “I sent him packing, but keep an eye open. Never trust a man with a beard; he’s usually got something to hide.”

“Means I’m there with a chance then,” grinned Seymour, stroking his chin.

“Oh no. Clean shaven’s worse. Means you’ve got nothing to hide. Cheers, Dennis.”

Since then he had sat on a hard chair in the corridor with nothing to occupy him but the beep from the life-support system to which the still figure on the bed was hooked up. The arrival of a nurse to check that all was as it should be came as a welcome relief. She was rather pretty and he tried to flirt with her, but she was young enough to regard a man in his thirties as a lost cause and merely looked embarrassed. When she appeared again some fifteen minutes later, he tried the poor-old-man approach and asked if there was any way of getting a cup of coffee.

She pointed down the corridor and said, “Visitors’ lounge, third on the right, help yourself.”

She went into the room. Based on her previous visit, she’d be in there for several minutes, so Seymour wandered off along the corridor. The visitors’ lounge was unlike any hospital waiting room Seymour had ever been in. His feet sank into a thick piled carpet, a scatter of richly upholstered armchairs invited him into their depths, along one wall ran a rack of up-to-date newspapers and magazines, and on an antique sideboard against the opposite wall rested a plateful of what smelt like freshly baked scones and a state-of-the-art percolator.

Used to pressing a button and watching a plastic cup fill with brown sludge, Seymour was still puzzling over the mechanics of the device when the door opened and the pretty nurse looked in.

“Bet you’re good with cars though,” she said as she made him a cup of delicious coffee.

“Yeah, keep getting head-hunted by Ferrari, but I don’t care for their team colors.”

He reckoned it was quite a good line but he only got a polite, slightly puzzled smile. He helped himself to a scone and made for the door. It opened and Hat Bowler came in.

“Hi, Dennis. Might have guessed I’d find you stuffing your face. My uncle not bothering you, is he, miss?”