death of their client. In return, he hoped for some much-needed reciprocal information.
In this he was disappointed. Though the name on the plate read Culpepper, Soames and Soames, it transpired that Mr Culpepper had died ten years previously and the elder Mr Soames, with whom, according to his desk diary, Kershaw had had an appointment on Monday morning, had left the following day for a walking holiday in Scotland. Nor was his secretary available, being confined to bed with ‘flu.
Which left Webb little choice but to conduct his interview with Mr Soames junior, a raw young man in his mid-twenties, who was clearly shaken to learn that the man whose murder he’d read about was the son of a client and had, moreover, visited his father on the day of his death.
Under Webb’s prompting, he confirmed that Mrs Evelyn Kershaw of Calder’s Close had died three weeks ago and that they were administering her estate. However, to his embarrassment, he was unable to produce her will. It appeared Mr Soames senior kept his clients’ wills in a small safe in his office, to which his son did not have access.
‘I’m so sorry, Chief Inspector,’ he said, ‘but you see, I deal with a different side of the practice — legal aid and so on. I don’t even know where my father keeps the key.’
Yet another stalemate. Webb considered the position. This was the only lead they had locally; Soames had met Kershaw, who had been killed an hour or so later, and then promptly disappeared ‘on holiday’. Careful questioning, however, revealed that the break had been planned for some weeks and that Soames’s wife had accompanied him.
Could they have been the couple Mrs French saw with Kershaw? It seemed unlikely. Why, after an interview with him that morning, should Kershaw expect Soames at the hotel? Unless he’d invited him and his wife for lunch?
‘Did your father have a lunch appointment on Monday?’ Webb inquired. The young man didn’t know and the diary was no help.
Webb sighed. ‘Are there any other members of the Kershaw family?’ he asked, with a hint of desperation. ‘Brothers or sisters, uncles, aunts, cousins?’
‘No, Mrs Kershaw had no one but her son.’
‘And he lived in France.’ Poor, lonely old woman. ‘What’s happening to the family home?’
‘It’s just been put on the market. I believe that was one of the things they discussed.’
‘Is it empty at the moment?’
‘Yes, the housekeeper-companion moved out last week.’
‘Ah!’ He should have realized there’d be a housekeeper. ‘Do you know where she went?’
‘To her sister’s, I think Father said. He made a note of the address — it might be in the file.’
It was, affording Webb his only piece of luck so far that morning. He wrote down the name and address, slipped his notebook into his pocket and stood up. ‘Thanks for your help, Mr Soames. If you should hear from your father, please ask him to contact me. And I’d be glad to know when his secretary’s back at work — she might know where the key to the safe is.’
As Soames showed him to the door, he added as an afterthought, ‘Did your father make any comment after Mr Kershaw had left?’
‘Yes, he said, “Thank God I’m going on holiday tomorrow!” I asked what was wrong, but he just shook his head and went back into his office.’
Webb nodded and went thoughtfully down the steps to the street.
*
Rankin Close, where the housekeeper was staying, was the other side of town, and Webb returned to Carrington Street to collect Jackson and the car before making his way there. During the drive, he filled him in both with Partridge’s findings and what he’d learned himself that morning.
‘I’ve sent Trent to the station to check on taxis,’ he finished. ‘With luck, someone will remember picking Kershaw up and where he was dropped. No doubt it was either at his mother’s or the solicitors’, but we might as well be sure.
He stared out of the window. The trees in
In this he was disappointed. Though the name on the plate read Culpepper, Soames and Soames, it transpired that Mr Culpepper had died ten years previously and the elder Mr Soames, with whom, according to his desk diary, Kershaw had had an appointment on Monday morning, had left the following day for a walking holiday in Scotland. Nor was his secretary available, being confined to bed with ‘flu.
Which left Webb little choice but to conduct his interview with Mr Soames junior, a raw young man in his mid-twenties, who was clearly shaken to learn that the man whose murder he’d read about was the son of a client and had, moreover, visited his father on the day of his death.
Under Webb’s prompting, he confirmed that Mrs Evelyn Kershaw of Calder’s Close had died three weeks ago and that they were administering her estate. However, to his embarrassment, he was unable to produce her will. It appeared Mr Soames senior kept his clients’ wills in a small safe in his office, to which his son did not have access.
‘I’m so sorry, Chief Inspector,’ he said, ‘but you see, I deal with a different side of the practice — legal aid and so on. I don’t even know where my father keeps the key.’
Yet another stalemate. Webb considered the position. This was the only lead they had locally; Soames had met Kershaw, who had been killed an hour or so later, and then promptly disappeared ‘on holiday’. Careful questioning, however, revealed that the break had been planned for some weeks and that Soames’s wife had accompanied him.
Could they have been the couple Mrs French saw with Kershaw? It seemed unlikely. Why, after an interview with him that morning, should Kershaw expect Soames at the hotel? Unless he’d invited him and his wife for lunch?
‘Did your father have a lunch appointment on Monday?’ Webb inquired. The young man didn’t know and the diary was no help.
Webb sighed. ‘Are there any other members of the Kershaw family?’ he asked, with a hint of desperation. ‘Brothers or sisters, uncles, aunts, cousins?’
‘No, Mrs Kershaw had no one but her son.’
‘And he lived in France.’ Poor, lonely old woman. ‘What’s happening to the family home?’
‘It’s just been put on the market. I believe that was one of the things they discussed.’
‘Is it empty at the moment?’
‘Yes, the housekeeper-companion moved out last week.’
‘Ah!’ He should have realized there’d be a housekeeper. ‘Do you know where she went?’
‘To her sister’s, I think Father said. He made a note of the address — it might be in the file.’
It was, affording Webb his only piece of luck so far that morning. He wrote down the name and address, slipped his notebook into his pocket and stood up. ‘Thanks for your help, Mr Soames. If you should hear from your father, please ask him to contact me. And I’d be glad to know when his secretary’s back at work — she might know where the key to the safe is.’
As Soames showed him to the door, he added as an afterthought, ‘Did your father make any comment after Mr Kershaw had left?’
‘Yes, he said, “Thank God I’m going on holiday tomorrow!” I asked what was wrong, but he just shook his head and went back into his office.’
Webb nodded and went thoughtfully down the steps to the street.
*
Rankin Close, where the housekeeper was staying, was the other side of town, and Webb returned to Carrington Street to collect Jackson and the car before making his way there. During the drive, he filled him in both with Partridge’s findings and what he’d learned himself that morning.
‘I’ve sent Trent to the station to check on taxis,’ he finished. ‘With luck, someone will remember picking Kershaw up and where he was dropped. No doubt it was either at his mother’s or the solicitors’, but we might as well be sure.
He stared out of the window. The trees in
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