They all knew that their mother made a new will almost every week, depending on how she was feeling at the time—adding codicils, removing beneficiaries, thinking of new bequests, settling old scores—but no one had ever actually had sight of any of these documents, in fact they sometimes wondered if they weren’t invented by Nellie to keep them all on their toes. Kitty, for example, was told on a regular basis that she would be disinherited.
And now here was one of these mythical wills, on open view, unguarded. Was it a trap? Ramsay had heard Nellie go out earlier, but that didn’t mean she hadn’t left the will here to tempt him and the minute he looked at it she wouldn’t jump out from a hiding place and catch him red-handed.
“Draft,” it announced on the cover page, so presumably it had been brought to Hanover Terrace today for her final approval. Very cautiously, he lifted the page and turned it.
The clubs were to be divided between Niven and Edith, while Betty and Shirley were to receive a sum of ten thousand each and Ramsay and Kitty to have a meagre one thousand. （He was lumped together with Kitty? As if they were equal in his mother’s eyes?） The injustice floored him. Was that really how she ranked her children? She demanded absolute fealty from them, yet gave none in return! He grabbed a handful of cigarettes from the alabaster box and stomped out of the room.
“This egg is cold,” Edith said.
Still seething, he returned to the Remington and took a large swig from the bottle of Dr. Collis Browne’s chlorodyne medicine that he kept next to it.
It was night and the gas lamps flickered. The menace of evil lay on the streets like a dark veil. （Actually, this was really rather good.） Suddenly
Ting, ting, ting!
Oh, dear God. He could strangle Edith, but although it would be interesting to find out what it was like to murder someone, Ramsay wasn’t prepared to face Nellie’s wrath, let alone the “long drop”—as Jones would have called it—if he was convicted of it.
He shut the door to his room. Shut his ears as well. Let the invalid be damned.
Jones realized he must return to Taunton if he was to find out more. He checked the clock on the wall. If he hurried and the traffic was light he could make the quarter past four train. It would be
God, this was boring. Would it matter that he hadn’t checked the train timetables? How many people would know whether or not there was a four-fifteen train to Taunton? Only people who lived in Taunton, and there surely weren’t enough of them to trouble anyone. When The Age of Glitter was published, he might, he supposed, be deluged with letters from “Concerned of Taunton” correcting him, but they could probably be safely ignored. His publisher, whoever he was going to be, would probably deal with any complaints.
He took out his cigarette case and filled it with the new cigarettes. The sight of the expensive gold case prompted the memory of the spieler again. It was causing a continuous low-grade hum of distress in Ramsay’s brain.
Jones was on the hunt for one of Reggie Dunn’s henchmen, a mongrel of dubious breed called Gresch. The way to find Dunn was through Gresch and the way to find Gresch, he reckoned, was through his paramour, a lady of somewhat easy virtue who went by the name of Lily Benson and was usually to be found at home in the flat she had above the Coach and Horses in Old Compton Street.
He had made Gresch a Maltese. He may as well make use of Azzopardi.
Kitty threw herself into the room and started dancing around, cackling like a malevolent spirit.
“Haven’t you got anything better to do?”
“No.” She read over his shoulder, “？‘Chief Inspector Jones was not averse to the charms of a good-looking woman.’ Not like you, Ramsay, you’re averse—”
“Shut up, Kitty.” Ramsay threw a pencil at her. He missed of course and she danced out of the room.
Jones had to ring the doorbell several times before it was eventually opened by Lily. She pretended surprise. “Cor blimey, if it ain’t Mr. Jones, haven’t seen you in a while, not since this morning.” Lily was blonde, with an attractive baby face, marred by the hardness of her eyes. She was all curves and dressed in a way that emphasized every one of those curves. Her voice was coarse, however. （This was good!）
“What can I do for you, Inspector?”
“It’s Detective Chief Inspector to you, Lily.”
“Then it’s Miss Benson to you. What d’you want?”
“Seen your friend Gresch lately?”
“Not in an age, Inspector. We’ve not been getting on.”