She had appreciated the opportunity to continue at work, and the case had focussed her mind away from her husband’s death. Bridget continued to stay at Wendy’s house, although one son or another was always there. Still, Bridget was female and would understand more than the sons what their mother was going through.
‘Wendy, Wendy.’
‘Yes, Larry. Sorry.’
Wendy, comfortable in Kevin Solomon’s flat, had drifted off, probably fallen asleep for a few minutes. Her sleep pattern had been disturbed since her husband had died, and her regular eight hours had been replaced by short periods of one or two hours, sometimes three, sometimes none.
Severely embarrassed, Wendy apologised.
Kevin Solomon said not to worry.
‘Do you intend to make a legal claim on the estate?’ Wendy asked, pretending to be fully alert, and now sitting forward on the comfortable chair.
‘If there is an issue, although, as you say, Montague Grenfell was an honourable man.’
‘We believe that to be the case, but…’
‘Malcolm Grenfell?’ Kevin Solomon said.
‘What do you know about him?’ Larry asked. Wendy had moved towards the window, aiming to take in the breeze from outside, attempting to wake herself. The toll of the last few weeks was catching up with her, and once everything had settled down, she intended to take a break, sit in the sun somewhere. Hopefully, Bridget would come. If she didn’t, she would go on her own.
‘My mother told me what she knew once I was old enough to understand.’
‘Your mother seems to have no financial problems.’
‘My mother is not concerned about the money, only that she, as the widow of Gertrude Richardson’s son, and I, the grandson, are treated in the correct manner.’
‘And why should Malcolm Grenfell be an issue?’ Wendy asked. She had resumed her seat, confident that she would not embarrass herself again. She knew the answer but wanted to hear it from Solomon.
‘Somehow, the Grenfells and the Richardsons are inexorably linked.’
‘Is there more to the story than we know?’ Larry asked.
‘From what my mother has told me, the aristocracy, or at least, the Grenfells’ version, abide by a different set of values. According to my mother, I should never trust them.’
Wendy could only agree. She had only risen as far as a sergeant in the London Metropolitan Police, but she took pride in that she had benefited society, helped to reunite lost and alienated children with their parents, taken a major part in putting some villains and murderers in jail. Just because someone put ‘Lord’ before their name meant little to her.
‘Your mother is coming?’ Wendy asked.
‘In about an hour.’
‘Are you looking forward to see her?’
‘Yes. I would appreciate some time to prepare.’
‘Fine,’ Wendy said.
Outside in the car, with the heater on, the two police officers evaluated what Kevin Solomon had said.
‘He seems to know a lot about the Grenfells,’ Larry said.
‘At least, his mother does. Did she ever meet any of them?’
‘She never met Gertrude Richardson, although she could have met some of the others. Did she meet Montague Grenfell personally? I suppose we will never know.’
As they sat in the car, they saw Emma Hampshire exit a black London taxi. She waved to the two of them but did not come over to speak. She appeared to be in a good mood, and her son had obviously told her about the two police officers sitting outside.
Larry suggested knocking on the door and questioning the woman. Wendy, sentimental and motherly, was firm in her response.
‘No. Those two have a lot of talking to do,’ she said.
***
Malcolm Grenfell, the newly incumbent Lord Penrith, was up and about by eight in the morning. The lord’s young woman was still sleeping off the effects of the drunken excess from the previous night.
Isaac made sure to give the impression that he had just arrived. His lordship was not pleased to see him, although Isaac was not sure whether that was because of Grenfell’s throbbing head, or whether he was just an arrogant man, or whether acquiring the title had somehow elevated him above the law and probing questions.
Regardless of what the man wanted or thought, Isaac had questions, Grenfell had the answers.
‘Who is going to deal with the reading of the will and the legal and financial matters after your brothers’ deaths?’
‘Which brother? The former lord, or Montague?’ Malcolm Grenfell made the pretence of eating his breakfast, although not in the kitchen with the staff. He was sitting at one end of a large table in a formal dining room. Isaac sat at the other end. He realised that if he had not come with the authority of the London Metropolitan Police, he would be in the kitchen, and would be expected to bow and scrape.
Katrina had forewarned Isaac that Malcolm Grenfell was taking his responsibilities as Lord Penrith very seriously, especially the part where the peasants fawned to their master. She had stated that once the previous lord was in the funeral home, then she was leaving, which was that day.
‘Montague gave executor powers to that woman, Mavis Richardson. Not that she can do much, too old,’ Malcolm Grenfell said.
‘You know her?’
‘Not intimately, as Montague obviously did.’
‘What are you inferring?’
‘I know about Montague and the Richardson sisters.’
‘What do you know?’
‘Don’t be obtuse. The fact that they were screwing each other.’
‘Kevin Solomon?’
‘What about him?’
‘Do you know him?’
‘Never met him, although I went to the same school as his father.’
‘Garry?’
‘If he had only the one father, then Garry. Is there another one?’
The cook came in with a pot of tea. She poured a cup for Isaac, poured another for his lordship. As she left the room, and with Malcolm Grenfell’s back to her, she cocked her nose in
