Lexie said, I dont rightly know, Mr Eden.
Come now! I have a better opinion of your intelligence. Why do you think I asked you to take Miss Dickinsons place?
Im not sure, she said ingenuously. To tell the truth, when you sent for me, I half thought, what with Great Aunt Gwen dying
She let the sentence fade and Thackeray burst out indignantly, My God, you didnt imagine I was going to sack you, did you?
Well, I thought, maybe, as I only got the job because of Aunt Gwen in the first place
A phenomenon often observed by Thackeray in his clients was the greater the guilt, the greater the indignation. It was a reaction he understood now, for there was no denying that without her great-aunts influence, Lexie Huby would never have done for Messrs Thackeray etcetera. Not that she lacked qualifications, but she was awkward of manner, careless of appearance, spoke what few words she managed to get out with a strong Yorkshire accent, and looked like a twelve-year-old. But when old ladies of great wealth pronounce, old lawyers of good sense take heed, and Lexie had been taken on and hidden away in the nethermost reaches among the storage cabinets and deed boxes so that she would not besmirch the Messrs Thackeray etcetera image.
That had been three years ago. Only a month after she joined the firm, old Mrs Huby had had her first stroke. Had it proved fatal, there was little doubt in Thackerays mind that after a decent interval, little Lexie might well have been urged to seek a job more suited to her taste and talents.
But the three years that passed had seen a change, not so much in the girl herself who seemed almost indistinguishable from the odd little creature who had first arrived, but in Thackerays conception of her. Observation and report had slowly convinced him there was genuine intelligence here. Checking back, he had seen that her school references all said she could have stayed on after O-levels, but family pressure had been brought to bear. That awful man Huby! Thackeray shuddered every time he thought of him. It was partly as an anti-Huby gesture, partly because he liked to toss the occasional cat among the complacent office pigeons, but mainly on the basis of true desert that he had elevated this little sparrow to Miss Dickinsons perch.
Lexie, I wont deny your aunts influence helped you get the job, but its your own abilities that will keep you in it, he said rather tartly. Now, what do you think of these letters?
Well, theyd all like the money sooner rather than later, but from the sound of the letter and from him coming all this way to see you, this Mr Goodenough at PAWS is the one wholl do something about it.
Excellent. Yes, even before he telephoned, I guessed that Mr Andrew Goodenough was going to be the focus of action.
You dont seem bothered, Mr Eden, said Lexie in a puzzled voice.
Bothered! Im delighted, Lexie. Merely administering the estate until 2015 would be very dull. Not unprofitable, of course, but dull. But if we have to act on behalf of the estate against an attempt to overturn the will, that could be both lively and extremely profitable. Instant money too, always welcome. So, bring on the lawsuits I say!
He sat back, pleased at being able to show this naïve young thing what a sharp and worldly fellow he really was.
The naïve young thing, far from looking impressed, was glancing at her watch.
Am I keeping you from something, Lexie? he said sharply.
Oh no. I mean, Im sorry, Mr Eden, its just that Ive got an appointment in my lunch hour and its nearly half past twelve
She looked so distressed, his sternness dissolved instantly.
Then you must run along, he said.
She left, darting from the room with the swiftness of a wren. An appointment? Hairdresser perhaps, though that close crop of indeterminately brown straight hair didnt look as if it owed much to the coiffeurs art. Dentist, then. Or boyfriend? Alas, least likely of all, he suspected. Poor little Lexie. He could see her growing old in the service of Messrs Thackeray etcetera. He must do what he could for her. Getting her out of the Old Mill Inn and away from the influence of that awful father of hers would be the first step. But how to manage it?
He sat quietly, applying his mind to the task. It was a good mind and it enjoyed the business of manipulating other peoples destinies.
He heard the building emptying. His nephew and junior partner, Dunstan Thackeray, stuck his head round the door.
Coming to the Gents, Uncle Eden? he asked.
This was not the odd inquiry it sounded. The Gents was the familiar abbreviation of The Borough Club For Professional Gentlemen, the prestigious Victorian institution which had had a Thackeray on its founding committee and of which Eden was the president-elect. As a liberal modernist, he deplored and detested it. As a senior partner in Messrs Thackeray etcetera he had to keep his mouth shut. But he was not in the mood for the usual Gents diet, conversational as well as culinary, of traditional stodge.
Later. I may be in later, he said.
He heard his nephews feet descend the stairs. Then all was silence. He fell into a reverie which a casual observer might have mistaken for a doze.
When he opened his eyes, it took him a few seconds to realize there actually was a casual observer to make the error.
Seated before him where Lexie had perched a little earlier was a man. There was something familiar about him, and not very pleasantly familiar either.
Suddenly it came to him. This was the same sunburnt intruder who had disturbed Gwendoline Hubys funeral.
He jumped up, alarmed.
Who are you? How did you get in? What the devil do you want?
The man stared at him as if looking for something in his face.
You are Eden Thackeray? he said.
He spoke with a certain hesitancy, like a man reassembling old ideas, old words.
Yes, I am. And who are you? repeated Thackeray.
Who am I? said the man. In my passport and in my life for the past forty years, it says that I am Alessandro Pontelli of Florence. But the truth is that I am Alexander Lomas Huby and I have come to claim my inheritance!
Chapter 5
Whats up with Wield? said Dalziel.
I dont know. Why?
Hes been sort of distant these last few days, like hes got something on his mind. Perhaps hes decided on plastic surgery and cant decide whether to go for the blow-lamp or the road-drill.
I cant say Ive noticed, said Pascoe.
Insensitivity, thats always been your trouble, said Dalziel. He belched, then raised his voice and cried, Hey, Wieldy, bring us another of them pies, will you? And ask Jolly Jack if its my turn to have the one with the meat in this month.
No one paid any heed. Dalziel and his CID squad were lunchtime regulars in the Black Bull and familiarity had bred discretion. A minute later Wield returned from the bar with two pints of beer.
Youve not forgot my pie?
The sergeant put the glasses down and reached into his jacket pocket.
Christ, said Dalziel. Im glad I didnt ask for the lasagna. Cheers.
Pascoe sipped his pint with a sigh. It was his second and hed been promising both himself and Ellie to cut back on the calories for a few days. At least hed only had one pie.
Whats up with you then, Sergeant? Not having another?
Dalziel had just noticed Wield had not bought himself a drink.
No, Ill just finish this, then Ive got to be off.
Off? Its your lunch hour! expostulated Dalziel with the same note of exasperation he sounded if any of his flock showed the slightest sign of demur when told they were working till midnight or had to get up at four A.M.
Ive some catching up to do, said Wield vaguely. This shoplifting. And that Kemble business.
Anything new there, Wieldy? asked Pascoe.
Not much. Ive been researching back through the old information sheets. Theres this National Front spin-off group, works a lot through university students, bit different from the usual Front lot in that they keep their heads down, infiltrate Conservative student groups, that sort of thing. Not like your usual Front bully-boy who wants the world to admire his jackboots.
Wield was sounding quite heated for him.
What makes you think there could be a link here? asked Pascoe.
They call themselves White Heat, said Wield.
White Heat. That rings a bell, said Dalziel.
James Cagney. Top of the world, ma! said Pascoe.
Wield was sounding quite heated for him.
What makes you think there could be a link here? asked Pascoe.
They call themselves White Heat, said Wield.
White Heat. That rings a bell, said Dalziel.
James Cagney. Top of the world, ma! said Pascoe.
The other two looked at him blankly, clearly not sharing his passion for old Warner Brothers movies.
One of the things sprayed on the Kemble was White Heat Burns Blacks, said Wield, glancing at his watch.
He finished his beer, stood up and said, Best be off. Cheerio.
Pascoe watched his departure with a feeling of faint concern. He hadnt been lying when he told Dalziel he had noticed nothing odd in the sergeants behaviour recently, but now his mind had been steered in the right direction, he realized that there were a number of minor variations from the norm which, crushed together, might make a small oddity. It was annoying that Dalziel should have proved more percipient in this than himself. He wouldnt call Wield a friend, but a bond of respect and also of affection had developed between the men, a closeness signalled perhaps by his growing irritation at Dalziels ugly jokes.
His mind was diverted from the problem, if problem there was, by the landlords voice from the bar.
Sorry, love, but you dont look eighteen to me, and its more than me licence is worth to sell you alcohol. You can have a fruit juice, but.
It was, of course, a stage-loudness for their benefit, thought Pascoe. Though indeed Jolly Jack Mahoney, the licensee, might well have objected even without a police presence to serving this customer, a small bespectacled girl who didnt look much above thirteen.
Mahoney leaned over the bar and said in a quieter voice, If its grub youre after, love, go through that door, theres a bit of a dining-room, the girlll slip you a glass of wine with your meal, no bother. Them gents over there are the police, so you see my trouble.