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- Herausgeber: Liberties Press
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
James Hadfield is a middle-aged solicitor with Timmons & Associates in the sleepy village of Kilcreddin. The death of Lord Barrington, his firm's most important client, is immediately viewed with suspicion in the locality, and a high-profile murder inquiry is soon under way. As more deaths follow, a handwritten note found by Hadfield throws him into the middle of the investigation, along with Hilary, the office manager, Mick, the law clerk, and Lucinda, the new apprentice. Hadfield's friend FitzHerbert, a Senior Counsel specialising in criminal law, quickly finds himself involved as they try to piece together what happened. All the beneficiaries of the Barrington will are suspects, while none have an alibi, and it seems Hadfield may even be in the frame. Love is also in the air, but where exactly that might lead is not entirely clear. Will Hadfield solve the mystery – and help apprehend the guilty party – before he, she or they can strike again? With more twists and turns than an old country road, The File Note is a classic page-turner that offers intrigue and romance in equal measure.
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Seitenzahl: 445
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019
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PRAISE FORTHE FILE NOTE
“An impressive and charming murder mystery which entertains and keeps the reader on edge throughout by combining clever plot twists with witty observations. Its humour and characters, who inhabit delightful corners of Dublin and small-town Ireland, hark back to a gentler time. I enjoyed every word and can’t wait to read about the many more adventures that I am sure are in store for Hadfield, a country solicitor who lives life at his own pace and is the understated hero of The File Note.”
—Rachel Fehily
“Where there’s a Will there’s usually a body, but David Foley manages to serve up a few more for good measure in this thoroughly enjoyable old-style murder mystery. Drawing on his own legal background, the author deftly fashions a tale of family intrigue and village suspicion with a cast of characters as well drawn as some are loathsome, set against the usually unexceptional backdrop of succession law. Part Agatha Christie, part Midsomer Murders, The File Note is a welcome and refreshing throwback to the days of well-crafted and leisurely paced mysteries – which, in the era of high octane and rarely credible thrillers, seemed to be gone forever.”
—Eugene McCague
“Quick, witty, good fun – an excellent debut novel. This page-turner will keep you reading late into the night, and looking forward to its successor.”
—Victoria Browne
“I would happily recommend this book to anyone who likes murder mysteries. It is an enjoyable and entertaining read with a clever and intriguing plot.”
—Richard Bennett
“Hadfield and FitzHerbert are a winning combination in this rural murder mystery.”
—Sinead Farrell
“[David Foley] writes vividly, wittily and easily. I enjoyed every page of it.”
—Simon Hannigan
“A hugely enjoyable, old-school murder mystery romp. Very well-crafted dialogue – Foley’s legal background comes to the fore. Settle in and savour with a good Claret.”
—Raymond Hurley
“Superb. Will keep readers enthralled right to the unexpected finale.”
—Anthony Isturis
“Light-hearted and entertaining, with wonderfully compelling characters.”
—Imogen Kenny
“An intriguing murder mystery that enthralls the reader throughout. A real page-turner.”
—Devin O’Keefe
“A brilliant thriller with an absorbing plot and beautifully crafted characters. I couldn’t put it down, as the storyline kept me intrigued right to the denouement.”
—Grellan O’Kelly
“With a mix of avarice, jealousy, familial infighting and even a little romance, this novel will appeal to those of us who enjoy a clever, insightful and well-crafted tale.”
—Sophie Saunders, Reading Between the Wines Book Club
“A taut legal whodunit in the traditional mould, which will keep you guessing until the final pages”
—Ian Scott
“An intriguing read for fans of detective fiction. Highly entertaining, with a nicely twisted plot.”
—John Walsh
The File Note
David Foley
For Aisling, Stephanie and Charles
CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1
It was a particularly cold day for October as Hadfield pulled up outside the office, where his boss was waiting for him. He hopped out of the car to open the passenger door and take the old man’s briefcase.
‘Damn this arthritis,’ said Mr Timmons, as he eased his way in.
‘Straight to the Manor, then?’ asked Hadfield.
‘Yes, and as quick as you can. I’m running a bit late as it is.’
Andrew Timmons was the principal of Timmons & Associates, a small legal practice in Kilcreddin, and, as a bachelor all his life, was well used to his independence. Hadfield wasn’t entirely sure of the older man’s age, but reckoned he had to be in his seventies. Until recently, Timmons would have driven everywhere himself, including the odd outing on his Harley-Davidson, which was a particular hobby.
As the only other solicitor at the firm, and still an associate, despite the fact that he was approaching forty, it had fallen to Hadfield to assist with transport arrangements as the arthritis worsened.
‘Can’t you go any faster?’
‘I’ll try, but it is quite a tight road’ replied Hadfield.
They were on their way to the family home of the Barringtons, which was situated on a large estate about five miles from Kilcreddin. The route was a winding one, and not without its dangers.
Mr Timmons (or ‘A.T.’, as he was known in the office) was not renowned for his patience. Hadfield reluctantly increased the speed, while keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the road ahead.
‘Terrible business this,’ said Hadfield.
‘Yes, certainly. A terrible business indeed. Poor George.’
Timmons was referring to George Barrington – or Lord Barrington, to give him his proper title – a longstanding client of the office. He had died a few days earlier while visiting his sister, Greta, at the nearby nursing home. Initially it was thought he had suffered a heart attack, but it was not long before rumours began to spread. Poisoning was now suspected, and an arrest was even being talked about.
‘I hear Robert Staunton was arrested,’ continued Hadfield.
‘I’m not sure it was an arrest. Just in for questioning. Apparently he was seen in the nursing home at the time. Hello, what’s this?’
They had arrived at the entrance to Barrington Manor, to find a number of people holding placards. On seeing the car, the crowd began to chant.
‘I think it’s the protesters, over the tree-cutting near Rathbawn,’ said Hadfield.
‘How could they even think of it, at a time like this! And Lord Barrington laid out in the Manor. Scandalous! No doubt Simon Armstrong is behind this. Look, there he is: roll down your window.’
Hadfield stopped the car, and nervously did as he had been asked.
‘What do you think you are at, Armstrong? Have you no respect for the dead?’
‘Did he have any respect for the living?’ came the angry reply, from a skinny bearded youth in scruffy clothes.
‘It’s outrageous. Let’s see what the police make of it.’
‘It’s not us who are breaking the law.’
‘You can explain that at your leisure down at the station. Let’s go, James.’
Hadfield quickly shut the window and passed through the entrance on to the driveway up to Barrington Manor.
The Manor, and the surrounding lands, had been in the Barrington family for centuries. In fact, the estate had originally stretched all the way to Kilcreddin and the neighbouring villages of Rathmore and Rathbawn. The house itself was an imposing structure in the Gothic style, topped off with various turrets of differing heights.
There were a number of cars in the gravelled area to the front of the house. Hadfield parked as close to the arched porch as he could manage. After being helped out of the car, Timmons checked his attire to ensure all was in order. He was a small man, slightly rotund, and quite fussy about his appearance. Only the best three-piece suits would do.
‘Will you need your briefcase?’ asked Hadfield.
‘I’m not sure. You can leave it in the car for the moment.’
‘I’ll wait here, so.’
‘You’d better come in, seeing as you’re here.’
Hadfield had met Lord Barrington briefly on a number of occasions and was on nodding terms with some members of the family, but was not sure that attending the family wake was entirely appropriate. Timmons noticed his reticence, and added: ‘I won’t always be here to handle the Barrington matters. You might as well get to know them a little better – and now’s as good a time as any.’
Hadfield had his doubts, but accompanied his employer up the steps to the large front door, where a person who appeared to be a butler greeted Mr Timmons, enquired as to the name of his companion, and then escorted them across the large, marbled hallway to the wood-panelled library. The room was empty, save for a raised coffin and a woman arranging flowers.
‘Sad day, Mr Timmons.’
‘Yes, Agnes. A very sad day.’
‘Shocking really, isn’t it, Mr Hadfield. To go like that.’
Hadfield nodded his agreement. Agnes Goodbody was the local florist, and supplied flowers to the manor house. She also looked after Timmons & Associates, and was a constant source of information on local matters. The word ‘gossip’ was never too far away when describing her.
Hadfield followed Timmons to the coffin. Lord Barrington looked much as Hadfield remembered him: well built, and with the distinctive handlebar moustache. His complexion was not quite as ruddy as would have been the norm, but that was perhaps to be expected. Thirty seconds was enough for Hadfield, who retreated, to leave his boss alone with his thoughts.
‘Seems he was poisoned …’ whispered Agnes.
‘Yes, I have heard mention of that.’
‘And Rob Staunton the suspect!’
Hadfield nodded, but made no reply.
‘They are like a bag of cats in there,’ she continued, looking towards the adjoining drawing room, from which could be heard the sound of muffled voices.
‘Oh. Why’s that?’
‘His Lordship was supposed to be making an announcement this weekend. They think it was about the wills. Nobody is sure where they stand. Although I’m sure Mr Timmons will know.’
‘What’s that, Agnes?’ enquired Timmons, as he turned away from the deceased. Hadfield noticed that his eyes were a little red, and that he was replacing a handkerchief into his pocket.
‘Nothing, Mr Timmons. Just warning Mr Hadfield that there is a bit of an atmosphere next door.’
‘Hardly surprising, really. In the circumstances. We should join them, James.’
Heads turned as they entered the drawing room. Hadfield himself had quite a striking appearance. He was a tall man, and quite thin, but still athletic for someone fast approaching forty. His sandy brown hair was offset by dark, straight eyebrows and a long, aquiline nose. Most distinctive were his eyes, which were a deep green, with tiny flecks of varying shades of brown. He stood behind Timmons as Lady Barrington approached. She was quite tall herself, and slim, with long black hair, and although she was likely to be approaching seventy, she looked well on it. Indeed, she was very beautiful, with porcelain skin and clear blue eyes.
‘Andrew. Thank you for coming.’
‘Of course, Lydia. You know my colleague, James Hadfield?’
‘Yes. I think we may have met at the office.’
‘My condolences, Lady Barrington.’
As Timmons commiserated with his client, Hadfield looked around the large room, and the various people who were present. Lord Barrington had three children from his first marriage. The eldest was Richard, who was about the same age as Hadfield, followed by Samantha, who was about a year younger, and Jasmine, who was in her mid-twenties. Their mother had died in a horse-riding accident two years previously, and Lord Barrington had married Lydia the following year.
There was a young, good-looking couple, whom he did not know, talking to Jasmine. He did recognise Reverend Devereux, but not the two rather strict-looking women to whom the Reverend was holding forth. One of these women looked somewhat similar to Lady Barrington: she was tall and thin, with long black hair. While she might have been described as beautiful, somehow Lady Barrington appeared to be the more attractive. Perhaps the strictness of the stranger’s demeanour was the difference.
Albert Boyd, the local bank manager, was deep in conversation with Richard’s wife, Margaret. The one other person in the room was Samantha’s husband, Denis Russell, who was now making a beeline towards him. He was considerably shorter than Hadfield but quite dapper, with the little hair he had, sleeked back to such an extent that it created something of a sheen. He wore black-rimmed 1950s-style spectacles. These must have been quite strong, because they made his eyes appear to protrude a little disconcertingly.
‘Hadfield, isn’t it. With Timmons?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Used to dabble in it myself.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes, in Dublin. Corporate, primarily. Gave it up when I married Samantha and moved down here.’
‘You weren’t tempted to go into practice locally?’
‘Not a bit. Found my true vocation in the arts. There’s the musical society, of course: a lot of my time needed for that. You don’t sing yourself, do you? We could always use an extra man. Our next production is The Mikado!’
‘Er … no. Singing wouldn’t be one of my strengths.’
‘Oh well. But you will attend one of the shows. Not long now until opening night.’
‘Er ….’
A raised voice prevented Hadfield from replying. ‘Well, they won’t be here a minute longer, as far as I’m concerned. They’ve long overstayed as it is.’
‘That’s not your decision to make. I can have any of my friends for as long as I like.’
‘Not when the estate comes to me.’
‘Assuming it does. And anyway, Daddy always said I could stay here as long as I wished.’
‘But not with any spongers that happen to be in tow. He was going to give them their marching orders soon enough. Wasn’t too impressed finding the three of you in bed last weekend. I’m sure that was to be part of the “Announcement”.’
‘I explained all that to him. It was ….’
‘Please,’ interjected Lady Barrington. ‘Richard, Jasmine. Really!’
‘I can’t take any more of this!’ exclaimed Jasmine, sinking back into a couch and sobbing loudly. She was a striking young girl who tended to catch attention wherever she went. Her dark bobbed hair, pale visage, full red lips and sparkling blue eyes were difficult to ignore. Although at the moment most of these features were covered with a handkerchief as she dabbed her eyes.
Richard turned away and went to refill his glass. He was similar in appearance to his father: tall, broad-shouldered, and with a ruddy complexion – although he didn’t sport a moustache. His temperament was known to have much in common with his father too, with a tendency to be gruff – not always helped by a short temper.
‘I’ll introduce you to the interlopers,’ said Denis. ‘Actually,’ he added, in a low whisper, ‘before I do: a question. Do you know if George actually signed a new will?’
‘No idea, I’m afraid. You’d need to ask Mr Timmons on that.’
‘No matter,’ he replied, leading Hadfield over to the young couple, who appeared to be the subject of the earlier contretemps.
‘Scott. Penny. Might I introduce you to James Hadfield.’
The couple were of a similar age to Jasmine – in their mid-twenties – but were dressed much more casually than her. In fact, perhaps a little too casually for the occasion. The girl was svelte: she wore her blonde hair in a pony-tail, and had an almost angelic face. Her counterpart was a good-looking, clean-shaven, sallow-skinned fellow. As they greeted each other, Hadfield noted that they did not seem at all put out at being the centre of the squabble between the siblings. He also noted Scott’s distinctly English accent, and enquired about it.
‘Yes, Eton does that. Cambridge too I suppose,’ came the reply.
‘Oh. What did you study there?’
‘This and that. Didn’t finish. Decided to go travelling.’
‘That’s how we met,’ added Penny.
‘And what’s your line of business?’ enquired Scott.
‘The law. I’m a solicitor with Timmons & Associates.’
‘Ah. Did you know anything about the announcement this weekend?’
‘Er … no. What exactly was to be announced?’
‘The old boy’s new will, I gather.’
‘It was supposed to be revealed weeks ago,’ added Penny, ‘but he kept putting it off.’
‘Why was that?’
‘He wanted Lydia to sign a will at the same time. I think they were having a disagreement over that.’
‘George was definitely not in the best of form lately,’ said Denis. ‘Might explain his grumblings about the, er … accommodation arrangements.’
‘He didn’t seem overly fond of you either, old chap,’ retorted Scott.
‘Well, I wouldn’t agree with that. We didn’t see eye to eye over my theatrical career but ….’
Scott sniggered at this – which prompted Penny to have a barely suppressed fit of giggles.
Denis gave the couple a disdainful look. ‘At least I have a career. Come with me, James. I will introduce you to the other temporary residents. Reverend Devereux appears to have abandoned them.’
The similarity of one of these residents to Lady Barrington was soon explained: she was her elder sister, Letitia, having recently arrived from Paris for a visit. She was accompanied by Clarisse, who, although considerably younger, did not quite have the looks of her friend, being short, plump and rather plain. But the grimness was about equal.
‘A terrible tragedy,’ said Hadfield, after the introductions had been made.
‘I dare say,’ came the laconic reply from Letitia.
‘Yes,’ added Clarisse.
Silence descended.
‘You knew Lord Barrington quite well?’ suggested Hadfield.
‘We hadn’t met before. I only really came to see Lydia. He seemed civil enough, the few times we engaged.’
‘I only spoke to him once,’ added Clarisse.
A further pause ensued.
‘It must be a great support to Lady Barrington to have her sister here at such a difficult time.’
‘I’m sure.’
Another lull.
‘You … er … are staying here? At the Manor?’
‘Yes,’ replied Letitia.
Clarisse nodded.
Hadfield felt he had taken the conversation as far as he could, when Denis came to the rescue.
‘I took the liberty of getting you the two first-night tickets we talked about,’ he said, fishing two gaudy pieces of paper out of his pocket.
‘Ah’
‘I expect you will still be here then.’
‘Difficult to say,’ replied Letitia. ‘Nothing has been finalised yet.’
‘Well, take them anyway, and we can fix up as and when.’
‘Very kind.’
‘Hmm …’ was as much as Clarisse had to say to that.
Hadfield decided to move on and join Albert Boyd: the one person present whom he knew quite well. He made his excuses and approached Albert, who was now talking to Samantha, Margaret having joined her husband to start what seemed to be quite a heated discussion.
‘So, if you could organise that as soon as possible, I would be very grateful.’
‘Of course, Samantha. Ah, James, good to see you.’
As the local bank manager, Boyd interacted with Timmons and Hadfield quite regularly. He was a tall, skinny man of about sixty; his usual attire consisted of a brightly coloured suit with contrasting dickie bow. Not very bank-manager-ish, but no longer worthy of comment in Kilcreddin. Today he had dressed more soberly, as befitted the occasion.
Although not unattractive, Samantha had not been blessed with Jasmine’s good looks. Her appearance was of the no-nonsense, businesslike kind. This could be a little offputting for people, but as she was a GP by profession, it was probably no harm. Chatty patients were not always good for business.
Samantha seemed a little startled when Hadfield first joined them, but quickly regained her composure.
‘You’ve met the gruesome twosome then,’ she commented,
‘Er ….’
‘Letitia and Clarisse,’ added Albert.
‘Yes. We had a brief few words. Denis brought me over.’
‘Handing out more tickets, I see. The thing will never make any money.’
Samantha checked herself for a moment, but seemed to be unable to hold back her emotions.
‘Daddy was right all along,’ she said, searching in her bag for a tissue and excusing herself as the tears began to flow.
‘Samantha, dearest,’ exclaimed Denis, rushing over to help her to the nearest couch.
‘All a little fraught today,’ whispered Albert.
‘I can see that,’ replied Hadfield, as he noted Richard knocking back another drink and raising his voice once more.
‘Enough! Can we at least wait until the old fellow has been buried? Everything will be fine!’
Margaret could not be heard, but whatever she was saying seemed to quieten her husband. She was a slight but pretty woman who had done her duty of producing three children – including the male heir to the Barrington dynasty – but it was common knowledge that their relationship was in a little difficulty.
‘Being forced together over this might not be helping matters,’ added Albert quietly. ‘I think I might slip away before there’s any more drama. I’ll just have a quick word with Andrew before I go.’
‘Good Lord! Of all the nerve!’
This exclamation had come from Richard, and seemed to be directed at the two people who had just entered the room, one of whom was in a wheelchair.
‘Outrageous!’ added Samantha, who seemed to have recovered – with the aid of a brandy.
‘Indeed, my dear,’ added Denis. ‘Quite scandalous.’
Jasmine looked up briefly, but then began sobbing once more.
CHAPTER 2
The newcomer in the wheelchair was Greta, Lord Barrington’s sister.
Miss Greta, as she was generally known, was a spinster who had lived at the Manor until Lord Barrington’s first wife arrived. She had then moved to a pleasant cottage in Rathbawn, just outside the Manor. In later years, as her mobility had reduced, she had moved to the nursing home – the scene of her brother’s demise – which was a little further up the road leading to Rathmore, the larger neighbouring village which was due west of the Manor. She was quite frail but well preserved, and still retained a brightness in her eyes and a sharpness of mind. In particular, she was very proud of her long hair, which was always styled immaculately, and she never failed to have her fingernails painted in the latest colour. She was an important client at the Rathmore beauty parlour.
The protestations were not, however, directed at Miss Greta but rather at Robert Staunton, the person pushing the wheelchair. He was of medium height, with close-cut dark hair and an athletic, muscular body: there were few single (and some not-so-single) girls in the locality who did not consider him attractive. He was not a relative of the family but was the son of a couple who had worked for Lord Barrington. They had died quite young, and their employer had to some extent taken their only child under his wing, arranging for his schooling locally and then employing him at the estate. He had very dark eyes which were hard to capture, partly due to being overshadowed by his dark eyebrows, but also due to his tendency to avoid direct eye-contact. He was now looking firmly at the floor of the drawing room.
‘What do you mean, Richard?’ asked Greta sharply.
‘What I mean is perfectly obvious: Staunton has some nerve, coming here to pretend to pay his respects to the person he murdered!’
‘Take that back, Richard!’ interjected Lady Barrington, becoming obviously upset and, aided by Timmons, reaching for a chair. ‘Robert wouldn’t do any such thing.’
‘I will not take it back. And everyone here agrees. Isn’t that right?’
There was a momentary silence as Richard waited for affirmation from those present.
‘Speak for yourself,’ said Letitia, as she lit a cigarette.
‘Well, I agree,’ replied Samantha. ‘Haven’t the police arrested him?’
‘Clearly not. He is here, isn’t he.’
This last remark from Scott produced a giggle from Penny, who turned away to get a fresh drink.
‘It’s no laughing matter, miss,’ came the quick retort from Samantha. ‘The police had him in custody for ages. He was the only one at the nursing home. They are just preparing their case. Isn’t that right, Denis.’
‘I’m quite sure that’s right, my dear.’
‘But I was at the nursing home too. Perhaps I’m the murderer!’ exclaimed Greta. ‘Or Reverend Devereux. Or Albert Boyd. They were there too.’
There was an awkward silence as Albert looked intently at his shoes and the Reverend contemplated the ceiling. Finally, Richard responded in exasperation. ‘Nobody suspects you of anything, Greta. Or the other two. Staunton had a clear motive.’
‘Oh?’ enquired a newly interested Letitia. ‘What was that?’
‘The will, of course. He was afraid that George was going to cut him out because of the new business.’
‘There was a greater chance of him cutting you out,’ replied Greta. ‘What with your great new plans!’
‘Why would he do that? I’m family. Staunton was going to set up in competition with the shoot. The old man was not happy with that, as well you know.’
Robert spoke for the first time. ‘I explained all that to George. It was never going to be in competition with ….’
‘Exactly, Richard,’ interrupted Samantha. ‘And the only way to get his hands on the money was to stop father changing his will by killing him!’
Samantha burst into tears again, and was comforted once more by her husband. ‘There there, my dear. All will be sorted in due course. I am only an ex-member of the junior profession, but I don’t believe the law allows one to profit from their crime ….’
Lady Barrington seemed to recover somewhat, and spoke up again. ‘I don’t know what you are all trying to say, but George would not have cut Robert out. He was more worried about you three.’
‘What do you mean by that?’ Jasmine asked indignantly.
‘You all know very well. George was not happy with how you were conducting your affairs. No financial restraint. No business sense. No work ethic.’
‘That’s not true,’ replied Samantha. ‘I work very hard at my practice.’
‘Perhaps, Samantha, but is it making any money?’
‘And what business is that of yours?’ shouted Jasmine, jumping up from the couch. ‘Who are you to say what we can or can’t do? We all know that you didn’t have a penny before you married Daddy.’
‘I won’t rise to that, Jasmine. I’m just saying that Robert was not necessarily exercising George’s mind when he was changing his will.’
‘I thought it was your will that was exercising his mind ….’
This last comment was from Letitia, whom Lady Barrington now fixed with a steely stare.
‘That’s right,’ piped up Richard, ‘we all know he kept putting off the “announcement” because of you. Whatever it was you were doing.’
‘Or not doing,’ added Samantha.
‘I don’t propose to discuss this with you now. All I am saying is that I don’t believe Robert had anything to do with the poisoning. In fact, I think I know who did.’
This was greeted with various exclamations and outbursts around the room.
‘I am not saying anything further,’ said Lady Barrington, when the hubbub finally subsided. ‘I will see you all at dinner. We’ll say eight – a little later than usual – as I will need to meet with Mr Timmons beforehand. Drinks at seven. Everyone is welcome to stay, or to join us later. Oh, and I’ve decided that this evening would be a good time to make the “announcement” that myself and George had planned. Andrew, you might join me in the study.’
‘Making sure everything is legitimate, I hope,’ said Letitia, as her sister passed by. This received no response from Lady Barrington, but Miss Greta could be heard muttering ‘Really! That woman!’ in the background.
Silence descended on the drawing room as Lady Barrington and Timmons left the room.
‘I say’ said Scott, once the door had closed, ‘does anyone actually know if George did change his will?’
Nobody responded.
‘Well, if he didn’t, where does that leave Lydia? Denis, you’d know.’
Denis looked at him disdainfully. ‘Not my area, really. Perhaps James might.’
Everyone turned to Hadfield, who tried to keep a calm façade as he inwardly cursed Timmons for bringing him here.
‘Well, I’m not sure that … er … it would be appro-’
‘Oh come on,’ interjected Greta. ‘It must be a simple enough question.’ She paused before glancing at Denis and adding, ‘For any solicitor.’
Hadfield thought it better to answer than face further pressing on the subject.
‘Well, the Succession Act would apply, I guess. If there is a will already in existence, she would be entitled to a third of the estate at a minimum.’
‘Good for Lydia!’ chirped Penny.
‘What do you mean “at a minimum”?’ asked Scott.
‘Well, if the will provides for more than a third, she can take that. If it provides for less than a third, then she can still elect to have a third.’
‘Oh, enough of all this,’ said Jasmine. ‘I need some … fresh air. Penny, Scott?’
The three finished their drinks and headed out.
Reverend Devereux coughed and smiled his beatific smile, which was accentuated by his baldness and round, clean-shaven face.
‘Well, I’d better get back. Check on the preparations for the funeral and all that.’ He waited a moment in contemplation, before adding: ‘I will be back for dinner, of course.’
‘It might be best if we headed off ourselves,’ whispered Albert to Hadfield.
‘I have to wait for Andrew. I’m driving him back.’
‘Of course. You could just ….’
‘Albert!’
‘I’ve been summoned. You might join me.’
They walked over to the most recent arrivals.
‘Miss Greta. Rob. You know James Hadfield.’
‘Yes. With Timmons, I think,’ replied Greta.
Hadfield shook hands with Robert, although he felt sure that at least two pairs of eyes were boring into him. He knew Robert to see, and to speak to briefly at social events, but as Robert was about ten years younger than him, their paths rarely crossed. Hadfield was aware that he had become Miss Greta’s minder – which seemed to have grown out of a friendship that had developed between them over the years, rather than due to any imposition from Lord Barrington. Miss Greta had taken an interest in Robert after the death of his parents, and it was likely that she had a significant say in the decisions to have him schooled locally and employed by Lord Barrington on the manor estate. When she left Rathbawn for the nursing home, she had let Robert stay at the cottage she owned in the village for a nominal rent – an arrangement that still continued.
‘My condolences,’ said Hadfield.
‘Thank you. Now, Albert I need to talk further on that matter we last discussed. Perhaps ….’ Greta looked askance at Hadfield.
‘Yes, of course. I was … er … just heading outside.’
*
It was very cold as Hadfield descended the front steps of the Manor, but he felt that it was preferable to the atmosphere inside. He walked around the driveway for a while to keep warm. Eventually, Albert emerged.
‘That was certainly entertaining,’ he said as he approached Hadfield.
‘You could say that. Some interesting characters, for sure. Who are Penny and Scott?’
‘Penny was in school with Jasmine. Arrived a good few weeks back with Scott, and they have stayed at the Manor ever since. George was not too impressed with Scott. In fact, he asked myself and Andrew to make enquiries. Not much of a credit-rating, as far as I could tell. Andrew was waiting to hear back from Dockrell..’
Albert was referring to Superintendent Dockrell of the Special Branch, whose niece, Lucinda, had just joined the office as an apprentice.
‘Nothing yet, then?’
‘Not that I have heard. But I would think Dockrell is a bit busy at the moment.’
Albert raised an eyebrow as Hadfield looked at him a little blankly.
‘Oh. Of course. The murder. Yes. I see. What … er … what’s the story with the “gruesome twosome”, as Samantha called them?’
‘Letitia is Lydia’s elder sister. I’m told they weren’t in touch for years. Lydia marries George and she arrives on the scene from Paris. I don’t know anything about Clarisse except that she’s a woman of few words. And she’s French. Well, I’d better be off and get some work done before the dinner this evening. Tell Andrew I couldn’t wait but we can talk later. Cheerio.’
And with that, he strode over to his vintage VW Beetle, bent his tall frame awkwardly into the car and headed off noisily down the driveway.
Hadfield had to wait a while longer before Timmons came out.
‘Ah! There you are. Didn’t know where you’d got to.’
‘Thought I’d just stretch my legs a bit.’
‘Hmm. Must have been a long walk. They said you left an hour ago. Can’t say I blame you, I suppose: it was a little bit fraught in there. Anyway, let’s go. A lot of work to do, and I need to get changed for the dinner this evening. As good a way as any to see George off, all things considered. He’d have wanted the cellar to be opened in his memory.’
Timmons lived for his practice, but outside the office he enjoyed the finer things in life: food, wine, travel. As a bachelor, he was well positioned to indulge these interests – which possibly explained his rotund figure and convivial, if sometimes irritable, manner.
As Hadfield drove away from the Manor, he could not resist broaching the final comments Lady Barrington had made before she had left the drawing room.
‘I … er … couldn’t be sure but … er … I thought that Lady Barrington seemed to think that she might have an idea who poisoned his Lordship. And that it wasn’t Rob.’
‘She has her suspicions. I might need to look into a few matters for her. Maybe have a word with Dockrell.’
‘Oh, I meant to say. Albert wanted to speak to you but had to head back to the office.’
‘Is he going to the dinner?’
‘Yes. He said he would see you there. Actually, he mentioned that Dockrell was looking into Scott’s background at the moment.’
‘Unsavoury character, that fellow, if you ask me. Seems to have had some brushes with the law. Drugs, I gather. Bernard is checking further into it. Look, those damn protestors are still here. Slow down.’
Timmons rolled down his window.
‘Apart from the complete lack of moral decency, you are trespassing, causing an obstruction and creating a traffic hazard. There are legal means by which you can make a protest, you know.’
‘These are the only means those type of people understand. They think they are above the law. Come on, everyone.’
And with that, Armstrong and his fellow protestors began chanting and waving their various placards around the car, one of them catching Timmons on the shoulder through the open window.
‘And you can add assault and battery to that, Armstrong! Drive on, James.’
Hadfield eventually got out onto the road.
‘Bloody hell. That was a bit much.’
‘Nothing but trouble, that fellow Armstrong.’
‘Straight back to the office?’
‘Yes. A call to the police first thing, obviously. Then I have to prepare Lydia’s will for signing before dinner.’
‘Oh. Is that the “announcement”, then?’
‘Hmm. I will leave that to Lydia. You will find out yourself this evening.’
‘Am I expected to go?’ asked a panicked Hadfield, who had thought his duties as regards the Barringtons had been completed for the moment.
‘Well, Lydia did invite you. It would be rude to refuse. And, as I said, I can’t be their legal advisor forever. You need to build a relationship with them for the future.’
‘Of course. Quite right,’ was the crestfallen reply. Little else was said until their arrival outside the office in Kilcreddin a few minutes later.
‘Thanks, James. I’ll make my own way to the Manor. I said I’d be there for seven thirty, for the paperwork. See you at dinner.’
*
Hadfield left his house at a quarter to eight. He planned to arrive at eight on the dot. And leave as soon as was feasible. He still felt a little uncomfortable being at the Manor at all. And having a grand dinner while Lord Barrington was lying in repose in a nearby room did not sit too well with him either. He was musing that perhaps that was how things were done in these circles, when he heard a loud siren behind him and a police car flashed past.
Ah, he thought, Timmons must have persuaded the guards to remove the protesters. Good old A.T.!
There was no sign of the earlier protest when Hadfield arrived at the entrance to the Manor. He drove straight in and up the driveway to the house. He saw the police car that had passed him parked outside the house. To his surprise, there were two other police cars there as well.
Must have been some job getting rid of Armstrong and his gang, he thought.
He parked his car well away from the activity, and walked towards the front door. He saw Albert sitting on the steps with his head in his hands. As Hadfield approached, he noticed that the bank manager was crying.
‘Albert. Is everything all right?’
‘James. I can’t believe it!’
‘What?’
‘Andrew. And Lydia.’
He started to cry again
‘Tell me, Albert. What is it?’
‘They …. They ….’
‘They what?’
He started to sob even more loudly, before shouting: ‘They’re dead!’
CHAPTER 3
Hadfield was cold and dejected as he approached his offices on High Street. The funeral for Andrew Timmons had been a muted affair, and the continuous drizzle at the graveyard ensured he was wet right through. With no near relatives, it had fallen on Hadfield to say a few words – although he had felt that a more prominent member of the locality might have been appropriate. Lord Barrington could have been relied upon to do the necessary, but that had proved out of the question. Reverend Devereux had done his best to speak to the tragic circumstances, but the imminent joint funeral of George and Lydia Barrington, and the circumstances of the recent deaths, was evidently something of a distraction for him, and the ceremony had been a little low key.
The offices of Timmons & Associates were a small but quaint affair, with a whitewashed front and pretty latticed windows on either side of a fine mahogany door. Hadfield stopped in front of the door and stood for a while reflecting on his fifteen years with the firm, becoming a little uncomfortable as he caught himself considering the brass nameplate to the right of, and just above, the matching doorknob. The old fellow was barely in the grave, and he was already wondering about the signage for the venerable, and indeed only, legal practice in Kilcreddin.
The situation was not how he had wished it. Despite his employer’s impatience and intermittent irritability, Hadfield had been fond of Timmons. However, he had to accept that the reality was that Timmons would have continued as the principal of the business until mental or physical incapacity intervened – and even then he might have tried to struggle on. While his death was undoubtedly tragic, it nonetheless brought with it a significant opportunity for the junior associate. For good or ill, it was Hadfield’s responsibility, as the only solicitor now practising with the firm, to continue the fine tradition of Timmons & Associates. Or possibly ‘Timmons Hadfield & Associates’ – just to make matters clear for clients and colleagues.
Hadfield turned around and faced towards the other side of High Street. The offices were closed for the day, as a mark of respect, and he had arranged to meet Hilary, Mick and Lucinda for a late lunch in the Riverside Inn, just across the road, to raise a glass to Timmons’ passing.
Hadfield entered the inn, trying to look as composed and thoughtful as the circumstances required. People were always interested in others’ business in Kilcreddin, and were certain to have a good gawk whenever the front door sounded. The locals at the bar turned and stared, as usual. Hadfield nodded in their general direction.
The composure with which he had entered the establishment quickly dissipated, however, as he realised that he had forgotten to book a table. He anxiously checked the immediate vicinity for Morton, the proprietor. As a regular for lunch, Hadfield would have no difficulty securing a spot, but he needed a discreet location to discuss the recent extraordinary events without interruption or ear-wiggers. As an old client of the firm, Morton could be relied upon to do the necessary. The same could not be said of the young, and often surly, waiting staff the owner employed.
Morton was nowhere to be seen. This did not bode well, as the lounge was very busy. Hadfield was just on the point of throwing himself on the mercy of Fiona, the nearest member of staff, when he heard his name being called.
‘James! We’re over here.’
He turned around and saw Hilary and Mick in the best corner-table of the lounge.
‘Ah, there you are. I was looking for Morton to organise a secluded little area, but you seem to have managed all right.’
‘I booked it as soon as you suggested the lunch here,’ said Hilary, ‘but we can look to move if you wish.’
‘No, no, this seems fine.’
Hilary Byrne had been Mr Timmons’ personal assistant since Hadfield had joined the firm, and for several years before that, from when old Mrs Roberts retired. Although a few years Hadfield’s senior, she still retained a certain youthful beauty, with her dark black wavy hair, wide sensual lips and clear blue eyes, all helped with the minimum of make-up. She also ran the show at Timmons & Associates, having long since managed most matters for Mr Timmons and, more recently, for Hadfield as well. Michael Flanagan (everyone called him ‘Mick’) was the office clerk: he was younger than Hadfield, and not as long in the job. A loyal sort, but needing minding.
‘Here’s to old Timmons,’ said Mick as he raised his empty pint of Guinness.
Hadfield took the hint, and tried to catch Fiona’s attention. Eventually she wandered over.
‘What can I do for you today, Mr H,’ the waitress asked in the flirtatious manner which she tended to adopt when in his presence – although it was never clear whether she was looking to attract or fluster him.
‘Two pints of Guinness, Fiona, and er …’ – looking at Hilary – ‘a glass of sauvignon blanc?’ Hilary nodded.
‘And some menus as well, please.’
‘Is that all, Mr H?’ the waitress responded, somewhat suggestively.
‘For the moment, Fiona. Thanks.’
‘Here’s to A.T.,’ said Hadfield after the drinks arrived.
They raised their glasses in unison.
‘Poor old Mr Timmons. Such a tragedy,’ said Hilary, wiping tears from her eyes.
‘Yes, a terrible loss.’
‘It’s more than a tragedy, Hilary,’ replied Mick excitedly. ‘It was murder!’
‘Now, Mick,’ said Hadfield, looking around anxiously, ‘nothing has been officially confirmed. Let’s not jump to conclusions just yet.’
‘Mr Timmons and Lady Barrington found dead in the study at the Manor – and all the family around? That seems pretty suspicious to me.’
‘Yes, but ….’
‘And Lord Barrington gone hardly a week: that was murder too!’
‘We don’t know that for sure, Mick.’
‘Rob Staunton was brought in for questioning about him: we know that!’
‘Keep the volume down, Mick. We don’t want to start any rumours. You know what the locals are like.’
‘I think the horse has bolted on that one, Mr H.’
It was true, Hadfield mused, as he drank a little more from his pint. The whole village had been discussing recent events, with the story getting more outlandish with each telling. Very little involving the Barringtons passed unnoticed in the village, and it was usually the subject of considerable gossip. The family were an important part of the community – but they were also an important client of the office, and Hadfield did not want to be involved in any unseemly village chat in relation to their circumstances.
‘Well, what do you make of it all, James?’ Hilary enquired in a low voice. ‘They say all three were poisoned.’
‘I have heard that.’
‘Linda at the station says it looks bad for Rob: he was there at each murder.’ Hilary paused as she noted Hadfield’s frown. ‘Er … if it was murder, of course,’ she added.
‘It does look bad for Robert, I have to say,’ he conceded – although at the same time he was recalling Lady Barrington’s last words in the drawing room. ‘But being in the vicinity of a crime does not make you a criminal.’
‘If crime it be,’ Mick interjected, before taking a long draught of his pint.
‘The police must think there’s been a crime: they have been all over the nursing home, and they are still up at the Manor,’ replied Hilary.
‘But they have released Staunton,’ said Hadfield.
‘For a second time,’ added Mick.
‘The presumption of innocence, Mick; the presumption of innocence. Let the law take its course. Now let’s see what Morton has on the menu for us today.’ Hadfield hoped that referring to the possibility of food might deflect discussion from the amateur detection of murderers.
‘I’ll have the beef,’ said Mick.
‘I’ll have the chicken,’ said Hilary.
‘By the way, where’s Lucinda?’ asked Hadfield.
‘She’s meeting with her uncle for lunch. She said she would try and join us later.’
‘Don’t you think,’ continued Mick, ‘that all these deaths being caused by poison, and Staunton being the only person present each time …. Don’t you think that makes his innocence look a little shaky?’
‘It may, Mick, it may, but can I peruse the menu for a moment, please, before deciding what I am going to have for lunch.’
‘It’s always the same,’ said Mick.
‘I am sure they have a special or two available. I will ask Fiona if I can … er ….’
Hadfield looked around to locate Fiona, but she was not to be seen in the vicinity. He thought he might have to revert to further discussion of the ‘Nursing Home/Manor Murders’, but just then Morton came into the lounge and noted his pained expression.
‘Mr Hadfield. I’ll be with you in one moment.’
‘Ah, good,’ said Hadfield, as he turned back to his fellow diners and took a sup of his pint. ‘Morton will look after us. After all, Timmons & Associates are long-established patrons of the Riverside Inn.’
‘I’ve never noticed that bringing any special treatment,’ replied Mick.
‘Well, perhaps not you, Mick, but ….’
‘A terrible tragedy, Mr Hadfield,’ interjected Morton, as he approached their table. ‘Poor Mr Timmons – and his best years still to come.’
‘Oh, yes, thank you, we were just discussing that before you came.’
‘Our solicitor for many a year. He arranged the conveyancing of this establishment himself when Morton senior decided to hand over the reins.’
‘Yes, I remember it well. I had a hand in the drafting ….’
‘Of course, it got quite fractious in the end. The old bugger didn’t really want to hand it over. Started to claim he should be paid for a freehold title when it was only a long lease. Wasn’t that right, Mr Hadfield? Never quite sure that we got to the bottom of that ….’
‘Well, it all worked out in the end,’ Hadfield quickly responded, trying to move things on.
‘It’s true; I enjoyed the six months we didn’t speak.’
‘He’s enjoying his retirement at the nursing home, I hope,’ said Hilary, with one of her winning smiles.
‘I think so, Hilary, though he would never admit it.’
‘Good. Good. I was …’ started Hadfield.
‘Of course, Lord Barrington’s murder had all the tongues wagging up there.’
‘Now Peter, please, we can’t say ….’
‘They were worried where the finger would be pointed for a while. But the manor murders changed all that. Seems they have their man now. You were there, Mr Hadfield: you probably know more than all of us’.
‘Peter, please. It really isn’t right to be getting into all that at the moment. Mr Timmons is hardly buried a few hours.’
‘You’re right of course, Mr Hadfield. I was at the funeral myself for a short while. Can I get you another round of drinks – on the house. In honour of Mr Timmons.’
‘That would be very kind, Peter ….’
‘You probably have no appetite for a bite to eat with the day that’s in it ….’
‘Well, actually Fiona had left a couple of menus. We were wondering if ….’
‘I’ll send her over to see if there’s anything you need. I’ll organise the drinks.’
Before Hadfield could make any further enquiry on the food front, Morton had turned and headed for the bar.
Eventually Fiona arrived.
‘Have we decided what we’re having?’ she asked, looking straight at Hadfield.
‘Well, before we decide, could we have a quick run through your specials please, Fiona.’
Fiona put on a shocked expression. ‘Mr H., I don’t know what kind of girl you think I am. I just bring the food and drinks.’
‘I meant the food, of course. Your food specials. That you have on today.’
‘Oh,’ she replied, feigning disbelief, ‘the soup’s pea and ham, and the main is lasagne. Apple tart and cream for afters.’
‘I think Mr H. was hoping for something a little more special than that,’ suggested Mick.
‘Not necessarily,’ said Hadfield in a low voice, looking towards the bar. ‘It’s just that I was thinking of something a little different. Beef, or something like that.’
‘There’s plenty of beef in a lasagne,’ said Fiona, smiling coyly.
‘And in roast beef – which is on the menu,’ added Mick, while trying to stifle a laugh.
‘I think,’ said Hilary with a firm voice, ‘that a steak is what Mr Hadfield has in mind. It is always available to regular clients of the inn. So that will be one chicken kiev for me, the roast beef for Mr Flanagan and a sirloin steak, medium, for Mr Hadfield. Mr Morton is bringing us another round of drinks himself, on the house, as a gesture to Mr Timmons’ recent untimely passing. So that should be all for the moment, Fiona. Thank you.’
Fiona left without further ado.
CHAPTER 4
‘Here we go,’ said Morton as he arrived with the drinks. ‘Two Guinness and a white wine. And a snifter for myself to raise a glass to old Mr Timmons.’
‘To Mr Timmons,’ they all said, as Morton knocked back his brandy.
‘I suppose you’ll be in the driving seat now, Mr H.’
‘Well, er, yes, I think that’s likely. Subject of course to ….’
‘You’ll probably have to take on a new solicitor to deal with all the cases. Maybe make a few changes. Put your own stamp on the place.’
Hilary and Mick started to shift in their seats, with Mick looking particularly uncomfortable.
‘We’ll take things a step at a time. A solicitors’ office doesn’t change much over time. Bringing in a new solicitor would be a fairly radical move.’
And an expensive one, thought Hadfield. The reality was that he was quite familiar with the office caseload, and most of it was on his desk. He would have to review Timmons’s files to see what needed to be done there. Hilary could review those and let him know the position. In fact, Hilary could probably run the files herself. Of course, Lord Barrington and his affairs were always handled personally by Mr Timmons. Taking on these matters would very much depend on the attitude of the successors to his interests. He might have to free up some time for a charm-offensive. Maybe a short-term locum would be in order.
‘Will you keep the firm name?’ asked Morton.
‘I, er … I haven’t thought about that at all, Peter. Far too early for those considerations.’
‘You’ll take over his office, though.’
‘I really don’t know. But yes, I suppose that would make sense, with the bigger caseload and everything.’
‘What do you reckon, Peter?’ Mick cut in. He was becoming a little anxious around the topic under discussion. ‘Is Rob Staunton in the frame for the … murders?’ Mick looked at Hadfield, expecting a rebuke, but the latter was more than happy for the conversation to move on.
‘Looks that way. He was the only one there at each murder. And I heard they found some pretty incriminating evidence at his cottage. Seems he’s broke too. He must have been hoping some money might come his way.’
‘But why Lady Barrington? And Mr Timmons as well?’ asked Hilary. ‘What did they have to do with anything?’
‘Maybe he thought they knew something,’ replied Morton, ‘and had to cover his tracks. You spoke to the police, surely. Did they have any ideas?’
This last question was directed at Hadfield. He had indeed been interviewed at the Manor, and had given a full account of everything he had done, seen and heard that day. However, he did not plan to get into that with Morton.
