Mosaic Deceptions

Chapter 2

Chapter 2Wimborne, DorsetI was surprised by the number of church and university

dignitaries in attendance. There were many more friends and acquaintances

than I had expected. In contrast, the number of family members was modest.

They occupied half the first row in the chapel and clustered thinly around

the grave when Julian Makepeace was interred.

I saw three or four tutors from my university days and

several erstwhile fellow students. No one glancing in my direction showed

any sign of recognition – hardly surprising, as I used to have a

beard.

Daniel Horne was there, standing next to a tall, young

woman whose white outfit was in stark contrast to the more formal black worn

by most mourners. On his other side, a smattering of residents from the Home

for Retired Clergy and Their Dependents were gathered. Prominent among them

was Mrs Linden, a tiresome individual, forever set on making her presence

felt. She had invariably been the first to complain about my heated

exchanges with Julian.

In the churchyard I stood to one side, observing the

scene. The local vicar was precise and quick in his delivery of the service

as Julian was lowered into his final resting place. Mrs Linden ensured she

had a good view by indecorously elbowing her way to the front. The

obligatory grains of sod were tossed into the grave – and it was over.

I was turning away when Horne materialised by my

side.

“Doctor Clements, I wonder if I might have a

word?”

“Can’t it wait, Mr Horne? I was about to slip

away.”

“That’s why I came over. Look – I would very much

like you to join us at Compton Place. It’s really quite important.”

We strolled through the graveyard. The prospect of

sipping warm sherry and exchanging words of sympathy was decidedly

unappealing. The annoyance I’d felt at my last meeting with Julian was now

outweighed by a gnawing sense of guilt at having rejected his last request.

I was about to decline, when Daniel Horne added:

“The police inspector saw me shortly after the

incident, you know. He said they were still awaiting the final results, but

all the signs indicated that it was suicide. Apparently, it’s not unusual

for alcoholics to end it this way.”

I stopped abruptly. “Julian Makepeace was not

an alcoholic! He liked a drink; he liked to drink whiskey… but never to

excess.”

Horne shrugged. “I’m just repeating what the police

told me, Doctor Clements. Personally,” he hesitated, “I have my own

thoughts on the matter… which is why I wanted to speak to you. But not

here…” He touched my arm. “Doctor Clements, please do me the favour of

coming back to Compton Place.”

Unlocking my car, parked in the lane by the church, I

thought about the troubled expression on Daniel Horne’s face. Although

there was little reason to return to Compton Place, it seemed churlish to

ignore his request.

The gravel parking area was full. Fortunately, there was

a space near the kitchens at the rear of the building. In the crowded

drawing room, I was handed a glass of white wine and two of the staff made

their way over to me, expressing their sorrow at Julian’s death.

Mrs Linden drifted by, sniffing in disapproval. I moved

onto the terrace, and standing apart from the others, leaned on the

balustrade overlooking the grounds. The gentle hubbub of polite conversation

washed over me. It was a few minutes later that a softly-spoken voice

murmured.

“I was sorry to learn of Reverend Makepeace’s

death… he meant a great deal to you, didn’t he?”

The woman in white was at my shoulder.

I half-turned in her direction, but hastily resumed my

unseeing stare at the gardens as the words choked in my throat. The silence

lasted a few moments while I pulled my emotions into line.

“When did you first meet?” the woman asked.

“At Oxford… he was my tutor.”

“You were close?”

“Yes, he was something… someone special… we loved

to talk, loved to argue.”

“I’ve heard you… once or twice.”

“Sorry, I – I tend to get carried away.”

Now I was able to look in her direction and consider the

woman beside me more closely. Her blonde hair was short and framed an

attractive face. I couldn’t help but notice her bright blue eyes –

although six foot two – she was tall enough to look at me directly.

“Tell me, when everyone else is wearing black, what

prompts someone to wear something the opposite side of the spectrum?”

“Wearing a uniform is not something I subscribe to.

Anyway,” she smiled, “black doesn’t suit me.”

I couldn’t help but smile back. “Tell me, how did you

know Julian?”

“My mother is a resident here… you’ve probably

come across her. I’m Leah Linden.”

She must have seen the uncertainty on my face. How could

this tall, attractive young woman possibly be the daughter of the short,

dark creature that was Mrs Linden. She read the questioning in the

involuntary tilt of my eyebrows.

“I take after my father, so I’m told…” She

smiled. “By the way, have they discovered what might have caused his

death?” So, she was here at her mother’s bidding, to gather a morsel of

gossip.

“Haven’t you heard? All the signs were he committed

suicide. He took a knife from the kitchen and, in a frenzy, slashed both his

wrists. When they found him, he was bleeding all over the carpet!” I

snapped.

She simply nodded. “How upsetting. It must be very

difficult–”

Instantly, I was ashamed of blurting out the stark,

uncaring truth. But then suddenly, Daniel Horne was bearing down on us.

“Doctor Clements! There you are! I need to talk to

you. Will you excuse us, Leah?”

We made our way around a crowd on the terrace, crossed

the expanse of tiled flooring in the entrance hall, and opened tall,

mahogany double-doors to enter the administration suite. Horne offered me a

chair, then slumped into his own behind the desk. For a brief moment he

steepled his hands and leaned forward. Then, he rose to stand in front of

the window, sinking his hands deep into his pockets.

He began hesitantly. “I’m not certain how I should

tackle it.”

“I’m not sure I follow you… tackle what?”

Horne retraced his steps to stand by the desk. The

manager of the home had always reminded me of the White Rabbit. Forever

peering at his wristwatch, eyes never still, always rushing to this or that

corner of Compton Place.

“The police think that Reverend Makepeace committed

suicide. They may well be right in their assumption… but –”

“But–?” The question hung in the air.

“But somehow… it just doesn’t add up.”

I leaned forward in my seat.

“You see, there was no suicide note. Being the

meticulous man he was, I would have thought he would want people to know why

he was taking his life.”

“Is that it? You’re questioning the verdict because

he didn’t leave us a message?” It was the flimsiest of reasons to doubt

the official findings. I started to rise from the chair.

“Well… that and the fact that some of his papers had

been moved.”

“Sorry, Mr Horne, you’ve lost me. Julian was forever

consulting his books and papers. They were never in one place for long. They

moved from bookcase to boxes, or lay on his desk.”

“I’m well aware of that, Doctor. Most often they

were scattered all around the room,” said the manager. “But that night,

just before he retired, Reverend Makepeace asked me to countersign a letter.

I sat at his desk to sign it and couldn’t help noticing several books and

maps of the Middle East laid out. His parting words were to inform me that

he would put the letter on the hall table for the postman in the

morning.”

Daniel Horne sat in his chair, elbows resting stiffly on

the arms, hands clasped in front of him. He stared at some distant point on

the carpet before continuing. “I thought nothing more about it until

yesterday, when the caretaker and I were packing up his things. I found all

the items that had been on his desk that night stuffed in a cardboard box,

including the document he urgently wanted to post.”

I sat there, digesting what the manager had said, unsure

what to make of his comments.

“Have you told the police?” I said, at last.

“No… not yet. My… interpretation might be thought

unhelpful. After all, he was becoming slightly forgetful. He might well have

swept everything into a box for safe-keeping and decided against posting the

letter.”

I nodded, trying to think it through. Daniel Horne was

suggesting, albeit obliquely, that someone could have been in Julian’s

room, moved his things, even been instrumental in his death.

“And this letter, who was it addressed to?”

“Why, to you, Doctor Clements. The letter gives

permission to remove his library, documents and papers into your keeping, in

the event of his death. His personal effects go to his family.”

I stared at the manager, unblinking.

“Incidentally, I almost forgot. There’s a solicitor,

a Mr Stokes who wants you to call him. If you wait a moment, I’ll find the

number.”

*

Stokes, the solicitor, was about my age, in his

mid-thirties. He had the sort of features that suggest he rarely had to

shave and would always appear to enjoy eternal youth. Only his eyes,

magnified by rimless glasses, displayed more clearly the passage of time. He

took them off in a well-practised gesture, wiping them on a handkerchief

tucked in his sleeve.

“It would seem, Doctor Clements, that other than a few

family bequests, the bulk of Reverend Makepeace’s estate comes to you. Not

that it comprises much. His investments and other funds total no more than

£200,000.”

I was stunned. I had no idea he had amassed such a

sizeable sum, nor why he should have left it to me.

Stokes went on. “And, of course, you now know you are

to be the recipient of his books and papers at Compton Place. I’ve had a

word with Daniel Horne and they can be removed as soon as you wish. I’m

afraid there will be some delay in making available the residue of his

estate. It will take time for the monies to be released in your favour.”

He coughed that dry cough solicitors seem to acquire along with their

diplomas.

“Then there is the question of the will being

contested. Are you aware that one of the Reverend’s nephews is bringing a

complaint against you for opportunism and unseemly coercion? I don’t think

it will hold much water. Reverend Makepeace was in full command of his

faculties. But it will have to be answered.”

I left the offices of Lord, Wylie and Stokes in partial

shock. At that point, I had no idea why Julian would leave me any money but

part of me rejoiced in the good fortune of acquiring his library, papers and

memorabilia. Typical of the old man though – to bring me round to his way

of thinking by passing on the many sources he had quoted in our

disagreements.