Dark Side of the Street - Jack Higgins [45]
Which was as it should be. This was, after all, the last earthly resting place for so many people. Strange that its fortunes should have been founded on murder, morally at least, although a court of law would probably have found that there was no case to answer.
Poor Alice Tisdale, on the other hand, might have thought otherwise. A lonely old widow of seventy with a pension and PS13,000 in the bank, she had been captivated by the considerate stranger who had offered her his umbrella one rainy morning on the front at Brighton.
Once installed as chauffeur and general handyman at the house in Forest Hill, Harry Marks had put into operation a programme scientifically designed to break first the old woman's spirit and then her health. She had died of the combined effects of malnutrition and senile decay leaving faithful Harry all she possessed and the two cousins and a nephew who had attempted to contest the will got nowhere.
But Harry Marks belonged to another world. Now there was only Hugo Pentecost and Long Barrow, had been at least until the arrival of Smith the previous year with his quiet, cultured voice and distressingly accurate knowledge of Harry Marks and his past activities. So, when the whip cracked, he had to jump. Still, one could only be philosophical about these things and life had an interesting habit of turning full circle. His chance would come and when it did . . .
As he went down the beautiful marble staircase he was thinking of the new incinerator, installed only the previous week, which could consume a human body in fifteen minutes. Not like the older ones which took up to an hour and a half and were so inefficient that it was usually necessary to pound up the skull and pelvis afterwards. Come to think of it, Smith wasn't particularly big. It would probably take no longer than ten minutes in his case.
As he crossed the foyer at the bottom of the stairs and walked towards his office, he became aware of a young woman standing at the reception desk.
She turned awkwardly. "I'm looking for Mr. Pentecost."
"I am he. What can I do for you?"
Pentecost's habitually soft tones carried a sharper edge than usual. The young woman was plain--in fact, rather ugly. He could have forgiven her for that, but the shabby coat and poor quality shoes, the scarf bound round the head peasant-fashion, reminded him too much for his peace of mind, of a childhood spent amidst the poverty of Whitechapel. And then there was her voice with its broad northern vowels--an accent which had always offended him.
"It was a relative I really wanted to see you about. My great aunt."
"She has just passed on?"
"This morning. I'd like to arrange for her to be taken care of. You are Mr. Hugo Pentecost?"
"Yes, I am he." Mr. Pentecost sighed. "My dear child, you have my deepest condolences, but I must point out that we offer a very specialised service here and one that is rather expensive."
Searching desperately for an answer to keep the conversation going, Molly remembered her own mother's recent death and something Crowther had mentioned.
"There was an insurance."
"May I ask how much?"
"Two hundred pounds. Would that be enough?"
Pentecost warmed to her, his voice deepening appreciably and he placed an arm around her shoulders. "I'm sure we can manage something. Perhaps you could return in the morning."
"I'd hoped to settle things tonight. Is it too late?"
"My staff have all gone home. I'm completely alone here." He hesitated and greed won. "But why not? It won't take long to settle the essential details. Come into my office."
He opened the door and showed her inside. It was furnished in excellent if rather sombre taste and he motioned her to a chair and sat down behind his desk.
He opened a large desk diary, produced a black and gold fountain pen. "Just a few details--your name?"
"Crowther--Molly Crowther."
"Address?"
"I'm not sure." He looked up with a frown and Molly said hesitatingly, "It's on the road that leads to Babylon."
In the silence which followed, he sat staring at her, his slight polite