‘All this may be circumstantial and irrelevant,’ Larry said.
‘Moving out of the house in 1986, a body placed there in 1987? It must be tied in to the women,’ Isaac said.
‘Agreed, sir. That is what Wendy and I thought.’
***
Bridget soon busied herself with finding out what she could about the husband. It was proving to be difficult as there were no recorded marriages in the period before 1986 for Mavis Richardson, which indicated a wedding outside the country.
However, there was a clear record of marriage in 1952 for Gertrude Richardson, which surprised Wendy. Although, Wendy realised, the woman had denied she had a sister, so why would she not deny a marriage, and now there was the question of where her husband was, although records clearly showed that he would be in his nineties now, so possibly deceased. Too many unknowns, too many instances of intrigue and subterfuge, to not believe that somehow, someway, the sisters were not involved directly or indirectly with the body.
Until the body was formally identified, Wendy and the rest of the team realised they were chasing possible red herrings. It was clear that another visit to the old woman in the mansion was required. Wendy did not relish the task.
As there was no phone at the mansion, it was a drive in heavy traffic out to Richmond. The same procedure: ring the doorbell, wait for five minutes, receive verbal abuse about her being an old woman and the cats needed feeding, and then a reluctant entry through to the kitchen.
‘I contacted my lawyer about you coming here all the time. He said it was police harassment, and if it continued, then I was to register an official complaint.’
‘Miss Richardson, that is your prerogative. I am only doing my job. By the way, how did you contact your lawyer? I wasn’t aware you had a phone.’
‘I had no intention of giving the number to you.’
‘Why?’
‘You’re knocking on my door every five minutes. I didn’t want you ringing as well.’
‘There is a record of you being married back in 1952, is that correct?’
‘I prefer to forget about it.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘He was a scoundrel.’
‘When did you last see him?’
‘Thirty to forty years, I suppose.’
‘Why did you deny that you had been married, when I asked before?’ Wendy could see some softness appear in the old woman.
‘It’s my business, no one else’s.’
‘What was he like?’ Wendy held a cup of tea that the old woman had given her. It was cleaner than the last time.
‘A lovable rogue, charm the birds out of the trees.’
‘He charmed you?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you’ve not seen him for thirty to forty years?’
‘That’s correct.’
‘Any idea where he is now?’
‘He went overseas. Apart from that, I have no idea. He could be dead.’
Although not senile, Gertrude Richardson was, nevertheless, old and frail, and excessive questioning would have achieved little more. Wendy had noticed that the woman’s initial disdain at her space being invaded had subdued, and her manner, though still disarmingly blunt, was agreeable.
Realising that no more was to be gained, Wendy bid her farewell, promised to come and see her in a few days. The response was as expected, but it did not have the harsh undertone that had been present on previous visits.
***
Montague St John Grenfell did prove to be aristocratic when Isaac met him in his office. He was, Isaac knew, a man in his late seventies, but surprisingly fit and agile. He was as tall as Isaac, over six feet in height. His handshake was firm and vigorous, his manners impeccable. Isaac was impressed.
‘Please take a seat,’ the lawyer said. ‘I only have Earl Grey. Is that fine by you?’
‘Fine,’ Isaac replied. As the lawyer prepared the tea, it gave Isaac the opportunity to look around his surroundings. He had to conclude that it was a good office, certainly better than his at Challis Street, but then, his was the office of a policeman, clean and functional, lacking in any charm. Grenfell’s office showed the look of age, as though it had been occupied by the one person for many years. Not far from Paddington, the third-floor office was situated on Bayswater Avenue in an office building which Isaac assumed had been built over seventy years earlier. There was no lift which had given him some much-needed exercise. He wondered how Grenfell managed every day, as he noticed that the man limped.
An impressive bookcase stood to one side of the office, overflowing with legal books and assorted memorabilia. Isaac sat on a comfortable chair, Grenfell on a leather chair, a walnut desk separating them. It was clear that the man was busy as legal files littered the desk. Isaac saw no computer which seemed incongruous in the modern age. He wondered how anyone could conduct business without email and access to the internet.
Montague Grenfell returned holding two cups of tea. Isaac noticed the man’s hands did not tremble as he carried them. ‘You’ve been looking around my office,’ he said.
‘It’s certainly more impressive than mine,’ Isaac replied, aware that he had been seen.
‘I’ve been here for over forty years. More like a home for me than an office.’
‘Is it?’ Isaac asked.
‘Just a figure of speech, but I’d rather be here than at home.’
‘May I ask why?’
‘Here, I have my books and my studies. At home, there is no one.’
‘Your wife?’
‘I’ve been a widower for five years.’
‘Sorry about that.’
‘No need to be. People get old, people die. None of us is immortal.’
Isaac knew there were questions to be asked, and as congenial as the current setting was, he needed to redirect their conversation. ‘Gertrude and Mavis Richardson, what can you tell me about them?’
‘I’m not sure there is a lot. Gertrude is
