Who the hell’s Gilbert Bartholomew?
6
When Black arrived back at the office, he telephoned the firm of Raeburn Collins and Co. He checked them first in the Law Directory. A medium-sized firm located in Drumsheugh Gardens in the centre of Edinburgh. Twenty partners. Conveyancing, wills, estates. Mostly chamber practice, but high-end. Based in the money-side of the city, populated with lawyers, accountants, surveyors, insurance agents, mortgage brokers, merchant banks. All tucked away behind two-hundred-year-old townhouses of brown and blond sandstone, gleaming balustrades, marble steps, high peaked slate roofs.
He got through to the lawyer who had telephoned – Fiona Jackson. Miss Jackson. She sounded young. Maybe an assistant. Or associate.
“You phoned my office. My name is Adam Black.”
“Thanks for coming back to me. It’s about Gilbert Bartholomew. First of all, please accept my condolences. It must have come as a shock. It certainly came as a shock to me.”
“And me.”
“I only saw him a couple of weeks ago, to prepare his will. Now he’s passed away.” Her voice faltered. “It’s very sudden.”
“I’ll bet. And here we are. Listen, Miss Jackson. I think you have the wrong person. I have no idea who this man is. And it’s not an instantly forgettable name. Gilbert Bartholomew doesn’t spring to my mind.”
A short silence followed.
“That’s very strange. He said you were old friends. He said he hadn’t spoken to you for some time. He’d forgotten where you lived, but he knew where you worked. Hence the phone call.”
“And you met this man?”
“Of course. He made an appointment. I took his instructions.”
“Doesn’t he have next of kin? A wife? Kids?”
A pause on the phone, then, “He has no one, so far as he told us. No family. And he was most specific. You’ve been named as his sole beneficiary. He’s also made you his executor.”
“This is crazy. I honestly have no idea who he is.”
“It’s not the only thing that’s crazy. The will itself is… bizarre.”
Black was intrigued. “Bizarre? An interesting word to describe a will.”
“But accurate. It’s not something I can discuss on the telephone. Can we arrange a meeting at our offices?”
“When?”
“How about tomorrow, three o’clock?”
“Suits me fine.”
“You know where we are?”
“I’ll find you.”
Black hung up.
Strange times.
7
Black decided he would travel by train. Minimum fuss, straight into Edinburgh centre. The train left every half hour, from Glasgow Queen Street station to Edinburgh Waverley. Regular as clockwork. The journey took about an hour on average. It passed without incident, the train pulling into Waverley Station at the allocated time.
Black disembarked, made his way to the offices of Raeburn Collins and Co., a ten-minute walk away. A short distance from bustling Princes Street. It was a Wednesday afternoon, hot, and the place was packed. Black veered off the main thoroughfare, emerging into a quieter section; cobbled streets, elegant Georgian townhouses, pockets of miniature public gardens, all bright flowers and manicured lawns and shiny blue park benches.
He arrived at the main entrance. A nondescript glass door, no different from a hundred others. A small silver plaque fixed on the wall was the only advertising feature. This was an old firm, with old wealth for sustenance, not relying on gimmicks or sales pitches – clients, descendants of clients, word of mouth referral. A hundred years of legal services, and after a while, maybe thirty years or so, the client bank took care of itself, becoming a source of self-perpetuating business.
Black entered a foyer. Two young women sat behind a reception desk. He announced himself. He was gestured to a waiting room. High ceiling, smooth white walls. In a corner, a complicated looking coffee machine. Black sat on a sumptuous leather couch. He picked up a magazine, Country Living, and flicked through the pages.
Within five minutes a woman entered.
“Mr Black?”
She was maybe approaching thirty – twenty years younger than Black – dressed in a pale-blue suit, hair tied back. Severely so. Clasped in one hand was a manila folder. She was all business. She gave Black a weary smile. An associate, he thought. Trying to get that elusive partnership. Probably working a seventy-hour week. Permanently exhausted. Black felt a momentary twinge of pity. Back-breaking work without gratitude and a pay bordering on derisory. It wasn’t worth it. But it was a choice you made.
Black smiled back, nodded. They shook hands. The handshake was firm, reassuring.
“Hi. I’m Pamela Thompson. I’ll be taking care of you, Mr Black.”
“Taking care of me?”
“Just a manner of speaking.”
“Where’s Fiona. Fiona Jackson? She phoned me yesterday.” Black smiled. “Shouldn’t she be taking care of me?”
The woman who had introduced herself as Pamela Thompson reacted with a slight twitch of her shoulders.
“Follow me, please.”
She led him out of the waiting room, past the reception desk, and up a flight of wide carpeted stairs to the first floor, to a hallway with doors on either side. She took him into an impressive room, long and wide. An entire wall was devoted to rows of law books, from floor to ceiling. Two sets of bay windows allowed the sunshine to stream through. The carpet felt thick underfoot. In the centre was a rectangular desk, polished dark wood, a coffee pot and white porcelain cups sitting in the centre on a silver tray. Around it, at least twenty chairs.
At the far end of the table, sitting solitary, was a man sipping coffee. On a chair nearer to the door sat another man, who immediately stood when they entered. Pamela introduced him. “Mr Black. This is Donald Rutherford, our new Estates partner.”
Rutherford stood. A big man, the same height as Black, but could have done with losing thirty pounds. A full head of luxuriant blond hair, swept back off his forehead. His face was deeply tanned and baby smooth. Heavy chin. Sleek jowls. Lots of fine wine and fine dining, thought Black. The air was scented with his cologne. He wore a £2000 navy-blue three-piece suit, bespoke. The light glinted on a gold, bloodstone signet ring on his right index finger. A vague tingle of recollection pricked
