cold and bony as a claw, and turned my head from one side to the other.
“You have your grandmother’s eyes,” he said. He dropped his hand to join the other on the top of the cane.
I shivered. I could feel the faint crescent dents of his fingernails in the skin of my cheeks.
“My mother didn’t take me away,” I said to him. “My father left us.”
“That’s what she told you, is it?”
“That’s what happened.”
He shook his head and was about to speak again when Gianelli repeated his question: “Is this Mrs. Baker’s niece?”
“Great-niece,” Mr. Ross corrected. “Beatrice’s brother’s granddaughter. “
“You knew she was coming to visit her here?”
“I suggested we meet in my office, but Beatrice refused to come downtown. She didn’t like the traffic and she didn’t want to leave her cats. Filthy things,” the old man sniffed. He looked narrowly at the house. “They still in there?”
“The Humane Society took them away,” Wilson said.
“Good. Then what are we standing out here in the cold for? Let’s go in.”
THREE
Mr. Ross used his cane to brush the two policemen aside and hauled himself up the stairs. I followed, with Markham, Gianelli and Wilson close behind.
“We should keep out until the coroner is satisfied,” Wilson objected as Mr. Ross pushed the front door open.
“Nothing to find,” the old man grunted. “Accident. Old age. Waste of time looking for anything else. Comes to all of us sooner or later.”
“Now, Uncle,” Markham soothed. “Don’t get yourself upset. Maybe we should call this meeting off and get together another day.”
“We have business here,” Mr. Ross nodded at me. “I’ll miss Beatrice, true enough. Last of a breed, she was, a real lady. Haven’t seen much of her since my dear Anne passed away.” He sniffed. “And since you young fellows have taken over the office. Retirement, they call it,” he said to Gianelli. He made the sound that comic books rendered as “hmmph.” I’d never believed real people did that.
“I’m cold,” he continued. “Beatrice would be mortified to think we were all standing out here on the street, making a spectacle of ourselves for the neighbours. She would want us to come in.”
Mr. Ross knew where to go in the house, turning to the right in the dark hall that was a minefield of litter boxes and bowls. He pushed aside a floor-length velvet curtain which rattled along a brass rod to reveal a room as dusty and still as a museum display. Lace curtains kept out most of whatever light could penetrate the grimy windows that were further darkened by alternating panes of dull red and green leaded glass. After a moment’s fumbling he flicked a switch which turned on a pale yellow globe that hung from the centre of an elaborately plastered ceiling now webbed with a million fine cracks. He stumped across to an oversized wing chair upholstered in red corduroy. When he sat, a fine cloud of dust rose around him. He sneezed.
Besides that chair, the room was stuffed with a matching sofa, two more armchairs, and a footstool; a wooden rocker covered with a frayed quilt; an elaborately carved upright piano; a tall bookshelf filled with books whose spines were so faded their titles were impossible to read; and a bow-fronted china cabinet. Every surface bore a load of knick-knacks: china figurines, gold-rimmed tea cups on lace doilies, painted bowls of dried flowers and even a lithe creature, mink or marten, mounted on a piece of driftwood and glaring at us with its glass eyes. On a black table pushed against one wall was a crowd of picture frames. I headed straight for it.
“Just a minute,” Wilson said. “You’re not to touch anything.”
The three men pushed into the room, Markham edging in front of the two cops. He grabbed my arm. I pulled away from him and in doing so backed into the table. The frames fell like a set of dominoes, one after the other, knocking pictures flat. I grabbed a silver oval disc as it slipped over the edge.
“My goodness,” Mr. Ross exclaimed. “Be careful, Roger. Come and sit down, Mrs. Cairns. That is your name now, isn’t it?”
He pointed with his stick at the sofa. I obeyed, still clutching the photo in my hands. Markham muttered an apology and stood back, almost but not quite leaning against the wall. Gianelli looked at one of the armchairs for a moment, as if tempted to sit, but the dust and the layer of cat hairs that covered it discouraged him. Wilson didn’t mind. He plunked down so heavily on the other end of the sofa that I distinctly heard a spring pop.
Mr. Ross sat on the edge of the huge chair, his hands folded on top of the cane, his chin nearly resting on them. He had taken off his hat and placed it on the floor where it rested, like a contented cat curled by his feet.
Gianelli was determined to take control of the interview. “You claim that this woman is a relative of the deceased?” he asked the old lawyer again.
“Of course, young man. I helped Beatrice locate her. There’s not much of the family left and she felt badly about what had happened. She wanted to make amends.”
“What did happen?” Wilson asked.
“It was long ago,” the old man waved a hand. “Nothing to do with this. An old story.
” “I’d like to know,” I said.
“The point is,” Markham added, “that she will now inherit considerable property.”
“What?” I said at the same moment that Gianelli asked, “This house?”
Mr. Ross shook his head. “No, no. Her grandfather’s summer home. Did your mother never tell you about the Cooks?” he said to me.
I shook my head, staring down at the yellowed photograph in my hand. Posed in front of a draped curtain and Grecian urn were two children, the boy dressed in a sailor suit with knee pants and a white cap, the girl in a lacy dress that reached to her ankles.
“Who are they?” I asked, handing the picture to Mr. Ross.
He studied it, holding it out at arm’s length. “That would be your grandfather and your great-aunt Beatrice when they were children. This must be in the library of the Cook house over on Brunswick Avenue. It’s gone now.”
“Excuse me,” Gianelli broke in. “But what property are you talking about? That she inherits?” He jerked his thumb at me.
“The original Cook claim: one hundred acres of farm land up north. Beatrice wanted Mrs. Cairns to have it. It’s rightfully hers after all, has been for years.”
“That’s not exactly true,” Markham interrupted.
Mr. Ross turned on him. “You, boy, you don’t know the half of it. There’s what’s legal and there’s what’s right. Beatrice wanted to do what’s right and I, as her lawyer and the executor of the estate, am going to carry out her wishes.”
“Other people
