Deadheads

occupied most mornings, constantly devising new schemes to defeat the evasive tactics of his younger partners.

'He's just lonely, the poor old soul,' said Irish. 'You'd think they could have left him a bit of business to occupy himself with, but it's not like it used to be, is it? When you're old now, you just get pushed aside to make way for the young men. I like the old man myself. Many an hour we talk together, but that's no credit to me. The poor old devil would talk to anyone who'd listen, anyone at all. He's not at all particular. Why don't you just go straight on up?' So Pascoe went on up, hoping to be treated as anyone at all. He was not disappointed, the only trouble being that Mr Masson, who turned out to be a completely bald, completely round and completely rubicund seventy-five-year-old, seemed inclined to talk about anything at all. He was a living proof of the seductive power of verbal association, shooting off tangentially along new lines of thought suggested to him in mid-paragraph, even mid-sentence, as if terrified that his life might end with things yet unspoken. The way to deal with this, Pascoe learned by trial and error, was to ignore all irrelevancies and use key-phrases like Florence Aldermann and Penelope Highsmith as verbal sheepdogs to (drive him back in the required direction.

After twenty minutes Pascoe had learned that there had been a will leaving the majority of Mrs Aldermann's estate to be divided equally between the RSPCA and the Church Missionary Society, with small legacies for various individuals including her niece, Penelope Highsmith. A few days before her death, she had summoned Mr Masson to Rosemont to discuss with him a radical revision of the will which would increase her niece's portion to some forty per cent, mainly at the expense of the RSPCA. This alteration was to be dependent upon the satisfactory conclusion of negotiations with Penny Highsmith for her to stay on at Rosemont as a sort of companion-cum-housekeeper. Nothing definite had been decided on, Mr Masson had left after what were (Pascoe did not doubt) lengthy discussions, with the understanding that Mrs Aldermann would be in touch in a few days. The old lady had retained the will.

Before she could make the promised contact, she had died.

‘In her rose-garden, it appears,' said Mr Masson. 'They say that gardening is a soothing and healthy pastime for old and young alike. I have not found it so. There was a case I recall in which a man sued the manufacturers of a patent garden fork which obviated, so it claimed, the risk of lumber strain . . .'

'Mrs Aldermann,' interposed Pascoe hastily. 'Her will. Her niece.'

'The will was not to be found,' said Masson, who always returned to the path as if he'd never strayed off it. 'Her niece, Mrs Highsmith (Miss Highsmith in truth, but such a nice woman, such a nice woman), said she'd never seen it. She also said she was still thinking over her aunt's offer, but I knew Mrs Aldermann, I knew her well. It wouldn't cross her mind that her invitation could be rejected. No, that had not been a possibility seriously considered when she spoke to me about the will. So it seemed quite clear to me that, certain of her niece's agreement, she had destroyed the old will in anticipation of drafting a new one when we met again in a couple of days' time. Yes, that's what must have happened.'

Pascoe looked at him doubtfully. This seemed an extraordinarily naive assumption for someone deep-versed in so cynical a profession.

'You never suspected that the will's disappearance was, perhaps, a trifle . . . convenient?' he ventured.

'Convenient? For whom?'

Perhaps age had softened his brain, thought Pascoe.

'For those who benefited from the intestacy,' he spelt out. 'That is, for Mrs Highsmith and, eventually, her son.'

'Good Lord no, why should I think such a thing?'

'Well, it's just that it seems a little . . . convenient,' Pascoe repeated.

'If I thought that every time a client died intestate, I'd be suspicious enough to be . . . a . . . policeman!' cried Masson. 'Why, didn't Mrs Aldermann's own husband, dear old Eddie, himself die intestate? And no one went around suggesting it was convenient for Mrs Aldermann!'

Pascoe gave up. 'You continued to act as Mrs Highsmith's solicitor?' he said.

'Of course. She asked me to. Why shouldn't I?'

Why not indeed? thought Pascoe. The missing will had benefited Masson's law firm too. They merely exchanged one rich client for another.

'I believe Mrs Highsmith attempted to sell Rosemont later,' he said.

'Oh yes, but several years later. I managed the sale for her, of course. A fine property, Rosemont. Not everyone's cup of tea, of course, and a lot of people demurred at the asking price. But I advised her to hang on and in the end we found a buyer. Every house has a buyer, of course, if only you can find him. I recall . . .'

'Rosemont,' said Pascoe.

‘It was a great shame. Contracts were on the point of being exchanged, then he died. Had he died after exchange of contracts but before completion the situation would have been most interesting, as in the case of . . .'

'So Rosemont was not sold?' said Pascoe.

'How could it be? To whom? On the basis of what contract? The situation here was quite unambiguous. Even his deposit had to be returned to his estate. It was disappointing for Mrs Highsmith. It was, of course, tragic for Mr Neville.'

'Mr Neville? The purchaser? What exactly did he die of, Mr Masson?' asked Pascoe, crossing his fingers and hoping for a car accident on another continent.

Masson's answer was worse than he would have believed possible.

'Poisoned,' said the old solicitor with relish.

'Poisoned?'

'Yes. Don't you recall? Quite a cause celebre mainly because the Grandison and the Old Brew House were so determined to be clear of blame that they started washing each other's dirty linen in