He returned to his chair by the open door. Without further preamble, the old man began to talk.
'Patrick Aldermann was articled with my firm in 1968 or it might have been 1969. He was not outstanding in accountancy terms, but he was quiet, respectful, attentive and once you got beneath the rather bland shell, interesting and likeable. At least I found him so. Also I had known his uncle, or rather his great-uncle, Edward Aldermann. He had also been an accountant and a very successful one. He made the money which reconstructed Rosemont where young Patrick now lives. He was a quiet man too, but very pleasant when you got to know him. His wife drove him, of course. She drove him to make more money and she drove him to buy that rambling place which was far too large for the two of them. Well, he had her there, of course. He rebuilt the house for her but he rebuilt the garden for himself, and it was big enough for him to hide in. Still, she got him in the end, they usually do. But when his heart gave out, he was in his garden, thank God, pruning his roses. So, by one of life's curious ironies, was she. Interesting, that. Perhaps his ghost appeared to her and frightened her to death! I've often speculated!
'Patrick, now, he loved to talk, and listen to me talking, about old Eddie. It was funny. I don't suppose he'd met him more than a dozen times and then only on short visits. But he loved the old boy as if he'd been his own father. You know he changed his name, of course? He was articled with us when he attained his majority and it was almost the first thing he did. I am no longer Highsmith, he announced. The name is Aldermann. It was all legally done, deed-poll, the lot. Some people thought it odd, I found it rather touching. There are relationships of the spirit, don't you think, as real as those of the blood. Certainly, however you explain it, young Patrick had inherited Eddie's love of gardens and his way with them, especially with roses. You know, I've got roses here planted by both the gardening Aldermanns. You see that Mrs Sam McGredy over there?'
Pascoe followed the pointing finger. It seemed to be aimed at a rather angular and emaciated bush which nevertheless had several rich coppery pink blooms glowing on it like gemstones on a dowager's neck.
'Eddie planted that there more than thirty years ago, and another half-dozen too, brought on from cuttings in his own garden. It's old now, far too old. Roses age too, Mr Pascoe, just like humans. It was old and weak a dozen years ago. I doubt if I ever tended them properly, I'm a looking gardener rather than a working one. Also I'm a sentimentalist. I don't much like pulling up things that have given me pleasure over such a long time. But when I showed them to young Patrick, he had no such inhibitions. A lot of these ought to go, he said. And go they did. He dug them out, then prepared the earth. I would have just bunged the new ones in the hole left when I dug out the old ones, but he dug and raked and added God knows what and left it to settle. The old must give way to the new, he said, but the new has to deserve it. And it did, wouldn't you agree? Look at those Pascalis and Peer Gynts, those Ernest Morses and King's Ransoms. There's consolation there for all life's failures, wouldn't you say?'
Again Pascoe looked. The names meant little to him but the rainbow of blooms round the margin of the garden certainly thrilled the eye. And behind it at the bottom, the dark, sharp-cut shape of the cypress hedge with the churchyard beyond. Suddenly he had a moment of strange empathy with the old man, sitting here gazing out on this last blaze of colour with the knowledge that it would fade, but the cypress would always be there, unchanging and waiting.
Again Pascoe looked. The names meant little to him but the rainbow of blooms round the margin of the garden certainly thrilled the eye. And behind it at the bottom, the dark, sharp-cut shape of the cypress hedge with the churchyard beyond. Suddenly he had a moment of strange empathy with the old man, sitting here gazing out on this last blaze of colour with the knowledge that it would fade, but the cypress would always be there, unchanging and waiting.
'But you kept one of the old roses?' he said 'Whose idea was that?'
'What? Oh, the Mrs Sam. Both of us, I think. There was no argument. My sentimentality and Patrick's I don't know what. Reverence, perhaps? Eddie would have been amused, perhaps even embarrassed, by the status Patrick accorded him. I believe that's why the boy went in for accountancy, you know. He had no gift for it, no real talent. But he wanted to do what his great-uncle had done.'
Pascoe who had been glancing surreptitiously at his watch saw the opening and moved swiftly in.
'Was that the reason that he had to leave the firm? Inefficiency?'
Capstick smiled and shook his head.
'Oh no. He was never inefficient. He'd have done very well, been a partner now. No, Mr Pascoe. I will not, of course, repeat this before witnesses, but he proved to be dishonest.'
He pursed his full lips as though the word had a sour taste.
'It was totally unexpected,' he went on. 'He was doing well. He had married a charming young girl, they had a child, he gave the impression of being perfectly happy. My only slight concern for him was the upkeep of that huge house. The rates alone must have been crippling to a young man still on a modest salary. And he kept it and the gardens immaculately. I'd talked to him about it when he was living there alone, but he just smiled and changed the subject. At least now, with a wife and child, and perhaps more to come, the place would begin to fill up and serve its function. Also, of course, it seemed likely the girl would have a bit of money of her own and that would help keep them going till he reached his own full earning capacity. Look, there goes your tea!'
Startled, Pascoe looked round to see an undulation of birds, ranging from sparrows and tits to starlings and blackbirds, feeding off the buttered scones.
'Patrick made a good impression on clients too,' resumed the old man. 'That quiet, undemonstrative manner of his inspired confidence. He was managing various minor accounts more or less by himself and a couple of our customers had asked specifically if he could deal with their business, which is always rather flattering. One of these was an old lady, Mrs McNeil, a widow who lived on a substantial pension and made a hobby out of worrying about the investment of her capital, and very tedious it was dealing with her constant demands to take her money out of this and put it into that, with none of it ever staying anywhere long enough for it to do much good. I pushed her off on to Patrick as often as I felt able and I was quite delighted when she asked if young Mr Aldermann could take over the account altogether.
'Well, I suppose I glanced over his shoulder a couple of times in the first eighteen months, then I glanced no more. Whenever I bumped into old Mrs McNeil, she sang his praises. Nothing was too much trouble for him, she said. Her investments had never been in such a healthy state. She bought Patrick birthday and Christmas presents, I recall, the kind of presents old ladies buy for young men, thick sweaters to protect him against the draughts in our chambers, and rubber galoshes to keep out the damp. It was quite an office joke. Then one day, ironically, because despite Mrs McNeil's best efforts he had caught the 'flu, he was not in the office when the old lady called. She was full of concern for Patrick and wondered whether she ought to call to see him. I shuddered at the thought of the poor boy lying defenceless in bed with Mrs McNeil trying to minister to him, and put her off mainly by the argument that she seemed to be full of cold herself and really ought not to risk aggravating young Mr Aldermann's condition. And to divert her further, I obtained her file from Patrick's office and began to discuss her investments with her, giving her the chance to sing Patrick's praises.
'Now as she talked and I looked, I began to sense there was something not quite right. Nothing specific, and nothing, I believed at that moment, very serious; the result probably of inexperience and being constantly badgered by Mrs McNeil. I had on occasion myself blinded her with science to give the impression I was doing the stupid thing she wanted me to do while in fact doing something else, or nothing at all. So after she'd gone, I went through the whole file very carefully with a view to doing Patrick a favour, nothing more.
'What I discovered devastated me. The whole thing was a charade. As he'd moved her monies hither and thither, he'd dropped off various amounts in the process, never very large individually, but over the three or four years he'd been managing the account amounting to about two-thirds of the whole. It was ingenious, but it was insane. Discovery was inevitable sooner or later. His only hope would have been if he'd had expectations of acquiring the money elsewhere and replacing it.'
Capstick paused and shook his old lion's head gloomily. As if she had been waiting near by for such a hiatus in his speech, Mrs Unger appeared, nodded approvingly at the empty plate, and removed the tea-tray.
After she'd gone, Pascoe said to the old man, 'And what did you do when you realized what had been going on?'
Capstick sighed and said, 'For a couple of days, nothing. I wanted to think, and Patrick was on his sick bed, remember. But on the third day, having ascertained by telephone that he was out of bed, I went to see him. I put it to him bluntly that I knew he'd been embezzling Mrs McNeil's money. He offered neither denial nor excuse, but sat regarding me with that air of quiet, controlled interest I knew so well. I told him that the first step I proposed was to inform the client, Mrs McNeil, of what had taken place. I would also assure her that the firm would indemnify her against however much of the loss proved unrecoverable. And I would offer her my full cooperation in the event of a police investigation.'