Chapter 18: Heiress

It was another one of those times when there was nothing to do but think. No current cases, no paperwork outstanding, my library books all read and due back that day, but not during office hours – such recklessness might have caused me to miss a client. I never was one for puzzle games and I’d temporarily had enough of playing myself at chess. The trouble there is that you should always get a draw. If you start winning, it’s time for auto-analysis before some shrink comes along to take over. Outwitting oneself isn’t right, right?

To help my thinking, I’d been staring out of my office window, viewing the elements with some satisfaction. There was no weather of note, which suited me nicely. It was just a day, neither hot nor cold, with no sun, rain, wind, snow or ice. I wished every day would be the same. Give me a light high overcast, a middling temperature and no nasty stuff, neither enervating heat, nor bone-crushing cold, and especially no precipitation. Sometimes I think that we aren’t the products of earthly evolution. If we are, why should we be so sensitive to every twist and turn of nature? But such deliberation never gets me far. If we didn’t evolve here, we did so elsewhere, which amounts to the same thing, wouldn’t you say?

Anyway, that wasn’t the main subject of my musing. What I’d really been trying to do was make sense of human history. I wondered why it seemed to be a depressing succession of conflicts. That didn’t make sense to me then and doesn’t now. I’ve lived in three different countries and like to think that the vast majority of people everywhere just want to get on with their lives in peace, neither repressed nor agitated by crackpot leaders – especially those with territorial ambitions. What are you to do with a vanquished foe who has a different culture, language and perception from yours? Why not talk more and fight less? Down with tyrants and up with democracy was my cry. There I go again, digressing – or I would be if I’d made a start. Furthermore, I keep asking questions, which you might be kind enough to regard as rhetorical. What we need here is focus.

I’d just about got all my ducks lined up in these matters of weather and history when I noticed that my waiting chamberette had been invaded by a visitor. Would wonders never cease? Damn, another question. There was a knock at the door of the sanctum. I grabbed my stage-prop work-in-progress file, looked studious and bawled an invitation. The door opened, admitting a most admittable entrant. She was, I guessed, thirtyish, about five-eight, slim, with a bell of smooth black hair. The complexion and facial contours were just so. Though no expert in sartorial matters, I was impressed by the lady’s dress sense. She wore a plain, light-grey jacket, skirt and blouse that I rated at a large chunk of average annual income – mine, anyway – plus accessories which would have accounted for the rest. “Good morning,” she said. “I assume you are Cyril Potts?”

The voice tallied with the appearance – low, dark, smooth, flowing, seventy per cent cocoa-butter content. “Correct,” I said. “Please take a chair.”

She sat, pulling in her legs, leaving the knees slightly aslant and partially covered. I would have preferred a shorter skirt, but that was merely lust. Her hands held a small fortune in deceased crocodile, topped by a thin clasp of what I guessed was real gold. Never mind the wear and tear – she probably didn’t use any handbag more than one day a month. The shoes seemed like other bits of the late reptile. “You appear to be busy, Mr Potts,” she purred. “I wonder if you might have time to investigate the death of my father?”

I closed the file. “Possibly. Who are you?”

“My name is Amanda Thornton.”

Thornton! In this town, that name had some resonance. Could she be connected with the recently deceased Anthony Thornton? If so, I was in socially elevated company. The old boy had left us a few days earlier, apparently as a result of self-administered poison. He’d been quite a figure in the local business world. Not the quintessential tycoon, as he’d inherited his construction company, but a substantial presence and undoubtedly a multi-millionaire. And I seemed to recall he’d been a widower with one child, a daughter.

Still, there was this ‘Amanda’ thing. That troubled me. I once had a ladyfriend who was into names and numbers. She’d told me that I should watch my step when dealing with females whose names were dominated by the letter A. When it’s fifty per cent, be particularly careful, especially as the number of letters increases, was her advice. Offhand, I couldn’t think of anything to beat Amanda. I tried, thinking of Anna (too short), Arabella, Araminta (both under fifty per cent) and one or two others. Later, I came up with Amalia, but wasn’t sure whether that was fair. If you’ve any better offers, please don’t let me know – the above-mentioned lass and I parted after a brief liaison and I don’t want too many reminders of what might have been. Also, I don’t wish to offend any Amandas. I’m simply passing on what I heard, which may have been a baseless assertion.

“Ah,” I said, a little too loudly. Then I stopped, momentarily tongue-tied.

My visitor presented me with a mock-demure smile, plus another welcome half-inch of knee. “What does ‘ah’ mean, Mr Potts?”

“Sorry,” I said. “I was just wondering whether you’re in some way –”

“My father was Anthony Thornton,” she broke in. “I thought it best to tell you that immediately. He died last week.”

“Yes. Yes, of course. I heard that he’d left us. My condolences.”

“Thank you. Now, you indicated that you may be available. Could you start at once?”

She was clearly the no nonsense type. “I’m working on two cases,” I said – may God forgive me – “but I might be able to shuffle things around. However, you have me puzzled. I heard that Mr Thornton died by his own hand.”

She inclined her head a fraction – people in her stratum of society don’t actually nod. She also adjusted her pose – not exactly fidgeting, but showing a little more leg – quite distracting. “That’s correct, Mr Potts. However, the police have been asking some rather pointed questions, for reasons which are clearer to them than to me. As the sole beneficiary of any consequence, I wish to make every effort to dispel whatever doubts the authorities may have. I really can’t imagine why there should be any complication, but I would like to demonstrate that I have taken every step within my power to establish that nothing improper occurred, and I shall not rest until the affair has been examined by an independent party.”

That was original. I mean, why should this woman be seeking my services in what seemed an open and shut case? Somehow, I seemed to detect a whiff of something not quite kosher in the air. Don’t ask me why. It’s just a sense one gets after years of sniffing around in places where the average nose doesn’t venture. “Very well, Ms Thornton,” I said. “Now, I think it’s important to take in the scene. Could we get together at your father’s house?”

“Certainly. I still live there. If you’re ready, we can go now.”

I’m usually presentable, so after I’d done a little tie-straightening and rubbing of shoes against trouser-legs, we left. Ms Cool had arrived by taxi, so we took my car. It was a six-mile drive to the Thornton residence, which I’m pleased to report was not on some ‘Heights’. I know I’ve mentioned this elsewhere, but one gets allergic to places called Heights in a town that has only a few humps, barely worthy of the name. Maybe it’s a social north-south thing.

I’d like to say the house was Gothic, but to me that implies both gloom and isolation, and this place, or rather its garden, fronted onto a main road. Still, it had bags of dark atmosphere and the odd turret, so I maintain that it was as near Gothic as suburban life gets. The huge pile of rough-dressed sandstone looked as if it had been designer-blackened in an English mill town. It was the sort of place to which one expects to be admitted by an elderly retainer, portly yet somehow lugubrious, but Ms Thornton had her own key. She led the way into a sitting room and after inquiring into my taste in drinks, produced an excellent sherry for me – your every need fulfilled – and something short and colourless for her.

She hadn’t bothered to ask about my rates and the clock was ticking, so I thought it best to move things along. “Forgive me, Ms Thornton –”

“Amanda, please,” she interjected.

“Very well, ‘ I said. “Call me Cyril. I was about to say that I’m still at a loss here. You said the police are prying and you don’t know why?”

I’d expected a shrug, but Amanda didn’t oblige. “I don’t pretend to grasp the official mentality,” she said. “However, the butler went to my father’s study to call him for dinner. When there was no response, he went in and found Dad sprawled over the desk, dead. Near his right hand was a small bottle, which it was found had contained cyanide. He was sixty-eight, and even though we’d been together all my life, I won’t try to guess what goes on in the mind of an elderly widower. All I can tell you is that he had been very dispirited since my mother died, three years ago.”

“I see. And as far as you know, the poison is the only reason why the forces of law and order are so interested?”

Now she did shrug, and I understood why she didn’t make a habit of it. Coming from such an elegant creature, it seemed out of character. “So it would appear. There is nothing untoward about the matter, but I wish to demonstrate that I shall not feel comfortable until this matter has been clarified to the authorities’ satisfaction.”