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.'
‘In the event of,' echoed Pascoe. 'So you had hopes it wouldn't come to that and you'd be able to protect the firm's name? Aldermann must have been relieved.'
'I doubt it, Mr Pascoe. I had no intention that my offer to indemnify Mrs McNeil should be seen as an inducement for her not to prosecute. I told Patrick that this interview with Mrs McNeil would take place, at my request, in the presence of her solicitor and he alone would be responsible for advising her legally. Does that satisfy your doubts?'
'I'm sorry,' said Pascoe. 'I meant no disrespect. I just wanted things to be clear in my mind. So the solicitor's advice was not to prosecute?'
'I'm not certain what it would have been,' said Capstick. 'You see, it was never given. When I contacted Mrs McNeil, I discovered that her cold had matured into 'flu and she too was in bed. Again I waited at the convenience of a virus. This time the waiting was in vain.'
'What do you mean?'
'Patrick, in his mid-twenties, quickly recovered. But Mrs McNeil, who was almost eighty, didn't. She died, Mr Pascoe, she died.'
Pascoe sat back and composed his face into a blank screen across the thoughts running madly round his mind.
'Of 'flu, you mean? Did she go into hospital?'
'No. She died at home. It was quite unexpected, though not, I gather, very unusual in people of that age. Which is one of the reasons Mrs Unger is so solicitous to keep me out of these summer zephyrs which she interprets as Siberian draughts.'
'But Patrick Aldermann still wasn't prosecuted?' pursued Pascoe. 'I mean, I should have thought that whatever chance he had of Mrs McNeil letting him off the hook for old times' sake vanished when she died. The howl of defrauded legatees must have been audible throughout the country!'
'It proved not,' said Capstick. 'Yes, there were several specific legacies, to old friends, servants, a couple of charities. There were no close relations, you see. There was plenty of money to pay all these. And the residue of the estate was willed wholly and without condition to Mr Patrick Aldermann of Rosemont. The only defrauded legatee was himself!'
'Well, well, well,' said Pascoe.
'Well, indeed,' said Capstick. 'I spoke to her solicitor, of course. He was a man I knew well and I wanted to put him in the picture before he noticed anything for himself, though whether he would have done or not, I have never been sure. We thought long and hard. In the end, there seemed to be no point in instigating an official investigation.'
No, there wouldn't, thought Pascoe, but this time kept his mouth shut.
'I had been over the rest of Patrick's work with a fine-tooth comb and everything was in order. I had one last interview with him. I told him I expected his resignation on my desk the following day. It was. I also told him that it was my hope and intention that I should never see him again. I haven't. But often as I sit here in the summer and look at those exquisite colours out there in the garden, I regret it. It was the right decision, but I regret it. Those of my contemporaries I haven't outlived are as immobile as I am, Mr Pascoe. Acquaintances of younger generations pay the occasional duty visit and begin to glance at their watches while the sun is still high. But Patrick, I think, would have visited me and complained about my neglect of his roses, and taken tea and sat quietly here till the sun went down.'
He stopped talking and his head dropped slowly on to his chest as if he slept. But when Pascoe shifted his chair cautiously, preparatory to rising from it, Capstick looked up immediately and smiled.
'Off now, are you?' he said.
'Yes. I'm sorry, but I've really got to go.'
'Of course you have. Crime waits for no man, I dare say. Did I help you at all?'
'A great deal, I think,' said Pascoe cautiously.
'And did I hurt Patrick?' he asked sadly.
'I can't say, Mr Capstick,' said Pascoe. 'It's a complicated business.'
He stood up and took a last look down the garden. In the still air it seemed that he heard young voices singing.
'Evensong and choir practice,' said Capstick, catching the cock of his ear. ‘I did not realize it was so late. Old people never do, Mr Pascoe. I hope I have not spoiled your dinner.'
'Of course not. And likewise,' said Pascoe. ‘Is that the church where Mr Aldermann's father-in-law was killed?'
'Patrick's? Yes, it was. Tragic accident.'
'Were you here when it happened?'
'No, I wasn't, as a matter of fact. It was a Saturday. I was away for the weekend. But I recall the whole village was a-buzz with it when I got back.'
'Ah,' said Pascoe, not knowing if he were disappointed or not.
'He was a decent chap, Somerton,' said Capstick. 'A bit serious, perhaps, but decent.'
'You knew him? Of course, your firm looked after some church accounts.'
'You're well informed,' said Capstick. 'But not just the church accounts. We looked after Somerton's own money. A tidy sum, fifty thousand or thereabouts. That's why I thought Daphne would have been able to bolster
