lawyer agrees.”
“But it’s a long way,” I pleaded. “And I haven’t got a car. Would it hurt for me just to look around a bit? See her things? There might be pictures of her family. My family, I mean. I won’t take anything, and you can come in with me. Please?”
“Sorry.” Wilson scuffed at a crack in the sidewalk. “We can’t let anyone in until the coroner’s finished with the post mortem. Regulations.”
“Coroner?” I was confused. “I thought she died of a fall.”
“Not exactly.” Gianelli dropped his cigarette butt and rubbed it out viciously with the toe of one shoe. I couldn’t help noticing his footwear: blood-red leather oxfords. Nice. He continued. “It looks like she ran into something. Or something ran into her.”
“The cats, you mean?”
“A bit bigger than that.”
“Are you talking about a burglary?”
“No.” He rubbed his hand over his skull, careful not to rearrange his hair. “I’m talking about murder.”
“Murder?” I leaned back heavily against the maple tree, thankful for the solidity of its rough trunk. I was suddenly very tired. I stifled a yawn. My eyes burned. “I thought it was routine, you being here.”
“Let’s sit a minute.” Wilson cupped my left elbow in his big hand. He tugged gently; I let him lead me to the porch. He made a show of pulling out from his pants pocket a handkerchief as big as a scarf which he spread on the top step before gently pressing me to sit.
Gianelli sauntered up. He stood looking up at us, one foot on the bottom of the four wooden steps, both hands deep in his pants pockets. “You okay?”
I nodded. “It’s a shock. I mean, I was just getting used to the idea of having an aunt, and now she’s dead. Maybe murdered.” I shook my head. “Why me?” My voice rose in a wail of complaint.
The officers exchanged glances. Before they could comment, however, a commotion on the street distracted them.
A long black limousine nosed its way through the thinning crowd of neighbours. It pulled into the driveway, stopped, the engine purring no louder than one of the recently departed cats. The driver didn’t bother looking our way when he got out, but bent to open the back door. He wasn’t exactly wearing a uniform, but the trim cut of his gray overcoat and his formal stance as he gave an arm to the elderly gentleman who was struggling to stand, clearly showed him to be a chauffeur. I’d never met a real chauffeur before. I’d never met anyone who had the means or the need to have one.
The old man steadied himself, his weight borne by a black knobbed stick with a rubber tip and elaborately carved silver handle. He looked rich and cold, the black fur collar of his long cashmere coat pulled high around his face which was small and white under the brim of a lamb’s wool cossack hat. He shook off his servant’s helping hand and hobbled toward us. The driver got back into the car, ignoring the younger man who clambered out of the back seat and quickly overtook his senior. The old man also ignored him, concentrating instead on the cracked sidewalk. We could hear the faint whistling of his breath as he made his way towards us.
The younger man reached the stairs first. “What’s going on here?” he demanded. His voice was high and thin, the intonation suggestive of a British accent. Or of a Canadian accent which was trying to sound British.
Before any of us could answer, the old man spoke directly to me. “You must be George Cook’s daughter?”
I nodded yes.
“And these gentlemen?”
Gianelli introduced himself and Wilson.
“Detectives!” the younger man exclaimed. He looked up at the house as he asked, “Mrs. Baker?”
“I’m sorry,” Gianelli replied. “She was found this morning.”
“Any sudden unexplained death has to be checked out,” Wilson added.
“Surely it wasn’t unexpected,” the old man said. He swayed on his cane. A small clear droplet hung from the end of his nose, stretched, fell on the high collar. His companion reached out to take his arm, but the old fellow shrugged him off. “Beatrice was ninety-three years old. Her time had come. But murder! I doubt that. She had no enemies.”
“She was found at the bottom of the stairs. With a broken neck,” Gianelli said.
“Accident then.”
“I tend to agree…” Wilson began.
Gianelli interrupted him. “You’re the lawyer? Dufferin Ross?”
“That’s right.” The old man held out a trembling hand which Gianelli gently shook. “How do you know my name?”
“She had your card taped to the wall beside her phone. We called your office …”
“We were on our way anyway.”
“Is that what that call on the car phone was about?” The younger man’s voice rose even higher. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You were too engrossed in the stock market reports,” the old man retorted. I caught the glint in his eye and realized he must have enjoyed not just keeping this small secret from his companion, but also the other’s obvious dismay at finding the police at their client’s home.
Gianelli interrupted their tiff. “And your name, sir?”
“Roger Markham. Of Ross, Armour and Markham. Mrs. Baker is one of my uncle’s oldest clients.”
“Friend, boy,” the old man grunted. “Some of us are friends with our clients. We can see beyond the bills.”
Markham flushed, but continued. “We had an appointment with Mrs. Baker today. To see her great-niece. Putative great-niece,” he added. “I told him I didn’t like this idea from the beginning; that there’d be trouble. And I was right.”
The old man wasn’t listening. His eyes never left my face, eyes of a very pale blue, almost colourless beneath the thick white wings of his brows. His skin was stretched tight over the bones, the only wrinkles in nests at the corners of his eyes and in deep grooves that ran from his sharp nose down to the edge of his lips. Small red patches glowed on his cheeks; his lips were pale and, as I watched him, the small pink tip of his tongue ran out and around them. I looked away.
“So, you know this woman?” Gianelli asked.
“Knew her father. Feckless boy. Knew them all. Not her, though. Mother took her away. Let’s take a look at you, then. Come down here, where I can see you properly.”
I stood up reluctantly and came down the stairs. Markham had to step into the grass to make room for me on the pavement beside his uncle. He grimaced as he stepped in something soft, and began to wipe the sole of his shoe over and over on the edge of the concrete path. The rasp irritated the old man. He spoke over one shoulder.
“Why don’t you wait in the car, my boy? You didn’t have to come with me. I can still do business on my own.”
“It’s
