‘Who were the previous executors?’
‘The firm who drew up the will.’
‘Might I have their details please? And the address Mr Hadleigh gave at that time.’
Mr Jocelyne produced a pewter-coloured fountain pen from an inside pocket. He unscrewed the top, fitted it neatly but firmly on to the other end and produced a piece of scrap paper from a neat folder. After checking that it had already been used on one side he cleared his throat as if preparing to speak rather than write and scribbled a few lines. Then he doubled the note, doubled it again and handed the tiny square over.
‘Could I ask, Mr Jocelyne, how well you knew your client?’
‘I didn’t. He was here for the business I have just described and I haven’t seen him since.’
‘I see. His investments make up quite an elaborate portfolio. Do you happen to know if he used a financial adviser?’
‘No idea.’ Mr Jocelyne, apparently pleased with this unhelpful response, looked kindly on them both.
‘We understand, from what Mr Hadleigh himself gave out, that he moved here from Kent—’
‘Hardly my business where he came from, chief inspector,’ responded Mr Jocelyne happily. Then, in case there should be the slightest doubt, ‘No concern of mine.’
The less helpful he was able to be the warmer the solicitor’s manner became. After being compelled to answer several further questions with a brief negative he bordered almost upon the radiant. When the time came to bid farewell he positively beamed and a flash of silver, bright but well within Mr Jocelyne’s chosen colour range, sparkled between his front teeth.
As Barnaby opened the door he noticed a large framed photograph of three youngsters, two boys and a girl, dressed in vivid colours, laughing, full of beans. The girl was swinging upside down. They were so obviously having such a wonderful time that the chief inspector took a moment to look, for the sheer pleasure of it.
‘Your grandchildren, Mr Jocelyne?’
‘No.’ A trace of colour finally showed itself, a delicate bloom upon the bloodless cheeks. ‘That is my family. Taken on my daughter’s fifth birthday. Last month.’
‘What a goer.’ Troy was chuckling as the two men once more hobbled across the slush-covered pavement. ‘No wonder he looks as old as the century. Back to the car now is it?’
‘I could do with a warm-up. Let’s grab some coffee at Bunter’s.’
‘Bunter’s?’ Troy stared in surprise.
‘Why not?’
He knew why not but went just the same. They sat down in the genteel snug surrounded by copper kettles and hunting horns and horse brasses suspended from leather straps. The waitresses wore mid-calf length black dresses with aprons like white exclamation points and pleated, pie-crust headbands low on the forehead. But their faces were young and skilfully painted and they moved with just as much speed and efficiency as their confrères at McDonald’s.
The room was crowded and very warm, smelling of damp clothes, toast and freshly ground coffee. There was no truck in Bunter’s with all that fluffed-up nonsense sprinkled with grated chocolate. Proper EPNS pots, milk jugs and sugar basins with flowered cups and saucers and apostle spoons.
Troy poured for them both, adding three sugars to his cup before warming his fingers round it. Then he sat back, glancing with deep satisfaction over the pleated, half-mast cretonne curtains into the street. For what could be nicer than sitting comfortably in the warm and dry watching one’s fellows trudge, pinched and shivering, on their weary way. Not much, Troy conceded, though driving past a bus queue in torrential rain came pretty near. Especially if you could get really close to the gutter.
The waitress came up, said ‘’kyew’, placed an old-fashioned three-tier china cakestand on their table and departed. Barnaby closed his eyes, realised at once that he could hardly stay that way for the duration of his visit and opened them again, swearing he wouldn’t look.
Cakes. Great fat profiteroles oozing cream. Slices of neat chocolate, alternately white and dark, held together with the merest scattering of liqueur-soaked ratafia crumbs. Cauliflowers of green marzipan, the curd made from ground almonds bound with honey and rose water. Squares of rich shortbread studded with almonds and smothered with fudge. Millefeuilles layered with freshly puréed raspberries instead of jam, and crème pâtissière. Lemon and orange jumbles drenched in powdered sugar. Vanilla meringues supreme, moist little curls of chestnut purée peeping out. Frangipanes.
‘Yum, yum,’ said Sergeant Troy. He helped himself to what looked like a small raft of shiny pastry coated with coffee icing and supporting two large swirls of soft, toffee nougat. ‘Do you want some more coffee, chief?’