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By Root 517 0

ushered into a waiting-room which had a bookcase of rather ancient and ponderous-looking law tomes and a round table covered with various financial papers. Tommy sat there and went over in his own mind his planned methods of approach. He wondered what Mr Eccles would be like. When he was shown in at last and Mr Eccles rose from a desk to receive him, he decided for no particular reason that he could name to himself that he did not like Mr Eccles. He also wondered why he did not like Mr Eccles. There seemed no valid reason for dislike. Mr Eccles was a man of between forty and fifty with greyish hair thinning a little at the temples. He had a long rather sad-looking face with a particularly wooden expression, shrewd eyes, and quite a pleasant smile which from time to time rather unexpectedly broke up the natural melancholy of his countenance.

‘Mr Beresford?’

‘Yes. It is really rather a trifling matter, but my wife has been worried about it. She wrote to you, I believe, or possibly she may have rung you up, to know if you could give her the address of a Mrs Lancaster.’

‘Mrs Lancaster,’ said Mr Eccles, retaining a perfect poker face. It was not even a question. He just left the name hanging in the air.

‘A cautious man,’ thought Tommy, ‘but then it’s second nature for lawyers to be cautious. In fact, if they were one’s own lawyers one would prefer them to be cautious.’

He went on:

‘Until lately living at a place called Sunny Ridge, an establishment–and a very good one–for elderly ladies. In fact, an aunt of my own was there and was extremely happy and comfortable.’

‘Oh yes, of course, of course. I remember now. Mrs Lancaster. She is, I think, no longer living there? That is right, is it not?’

‘Yes,’ said Tommy.

‘At the moment I do not exactly recall–’ he stretched out a hand towards the telephone–‘I will just refresh my memory–’

‘I can tell you quite simply,’ said Tommy. ‘My wife wanted Mrs Lancaster’s address because she happens to be in possession of a piece of property which originally belonged to Mrs Lancaster. A picture, in fact. It was given by Mrs Lancaster as a present to my aunt, Miss Fanshawe. My aunt died recently, and her few possessions have come into our keeping. This included the picture which was given her by Mrs Lancaster. My wife likes it very much but she feels rather guilty about it. She thinks that it may be a picture Mrs Lancaster values and in that case she feels she ought to offer to return it to Mrs Lancaster.’

‘Ah, I see,’ said Mr Eccles. ‘It is very conscientious of your wife, I am sure.’

‘One never knows,’ said Tommy, smiling pleasantly, ‘what elderly people may feel about their possessions. She may have been glad for my aunt to have it since my aunt admired it, but as my aunt died very soon after having received this gift, it seems, perhaps, a little unfair that it should pass into the possession of strangers. There is no particular title on the picture. It represents a house somewhere in the country. For all I know it may be some family house associated with Mrs Lancaster.’

‘Quite, quite,’ said Mr Eccles, ‘but I don’t think–’

There was a knock and the door opened and a clerk entered and produced a sheet of paper which he placed before Mr Eccles. Mr Eccles looked down.

‘Ah yes, ah yes, I remember now. Yes, I believe Mrs–’ he glanced down at Tommy’s card lying on his desk–‘Beresford rang up and had a few words with me. I advised her to get into touch with the Southern Counties Bank, Hammersmith branch. This is the only address I myself know. Letters addressed to the bank’s address, care of Mrs Richard Johnson would be forwarded. Mrs Johnson is, I believe, a niece or distant cousin of Mrs Lancaster’s and it was Mrs Johnson who made all the arrangements with me for Mrs Lancaster’s reception at Sunny Ridge. She asked me to make full inquiries about the establishment, since she had only heard about it casually from a friend. We did so, I can assure you, most carefully. It was said to be an excellent establishment and I believe Mrs Johnson’s relative, Mrs Lancaster, spent several years there