Reluctant Detective (4 page)

6

As soon as Anne left Dit's shop, she knew what she wanted. Uncle Billy's business was hers. That was clear from his will. What she did
with it was her business. So why throw it away? It made no sense. She knew the business, for the most part. She wasn't a crusty old hand at it, but she wasn't exactly a novice either. Also, she needed
a job. She had a family to support and, if that took a bit of sacrifice,
what the hell
, she thought. And, most of all, Jacqui seemed okay with it.

Anne dropped Jacqui at her friend's house and promised to pick
her up at nine. In the meantime, she returned to the office and made
the call to Mrs. Murphy, telling her that the agency would take the
case and begin the investigation immediately.

Mrs. Murphy was relieved at the news, and, when she hung up
the phone, Anne was relieved as well. She had begun her first case. She was on her own. And with those thoughts she felt a small thrill
of excitement course through her body and slowly shrink into an anxious resolve to make it all work. But even that, she perceived,
was a good feeling.

During her afternoon consultation with Mrs. Murphy, Anne had taken careful notes. She liked Mrs. Murphy. She appeared to be a
woman of great compassion and quiet civility. She was a widow, too,
and that made Anne feel even more sympathetic to her concerns of vulnerability. In fact, Anne had decided that this case, her first
one, would be pro bono, partly in honour of Billy, partly because it involved protecting the charitable work of Mrs. Murphy, and partly
because, deep down, Anne still didn't think of herself as a profes
sional. If she screwed it up somehow, at least the client wouldn't be out of pocket.

Anne sat before her office computer, sorted notes, typed up some personal information on Mrs. Murphy, printed it out, and inserted
it in a fresh case file folder. Then she began a second document,
this one detailing Mrs. Murphy's concerns about Robert Somerville.
She questioned his credibility. She wanted a background check
conducted, and she wanted it done confidentially.

Ironically, Mrs. Murphy had no reason to suspect him of anything – other than her belief that he was too good to be true. This amused Anne.

I should have such problems
, she thought to herself.

Frances Murphy had met Robert Somerville at a Rotary Club
dinner meeting. The guest speaker had been Dr. Sanje Kwa'hnu, a
representative of Doctors Without Borders, who'd spoken about
the work of that volunteer group in Central Africa. Gary Phelan, a real estate agent, had introduced Somerville to Mrs. Murphy as his client. Somerville had been viewing shore properties. Apparently, he had some vague ancestral connection with the Island. Murphy
and Somerville had hit it off immediately. They shared interests in
philanthropy and had similar tastes in art and music. Most of all,
they seemed to share an instant liking of one another. Since then, there had been no intimacy between them – Somerville had been
a perfect gentleman – but they'd grown quite close in just a few
weeks and saw each other almost daily. Somerville had admitted
that he was divorced, his wife having been unfaithful, and he
gave the impression of being wealthy, although he rarely spoke of money or work. He had mentioned having helped negotiate the
development of some oil-rich land in Cameroon, and that he had
grown sympathetic to a local tribe, which had been displaced to a more remote, dry region because of that oil development. He also
carried the title
Lord
Robert Somerville. Mrs. Murphy had received this information not from Robert but from a mutual friend of Gary
Phelan, the realtor, who had boasted about his chumminess with
the aristocracy. Apparently, Somerville had written him a cheque
on a London bank as deposit for land near historic Fort Amherst.
The personalized data on the check read “Robert Somerville, Lord of Briarsley, Cambridge.”

This is starting to read like a Harlequin Romance
novel, thought
Anne,
the not-so-smutty kind
.

Anne typed the last comment from her consultation: Somerville
wants to rebuild an eastern Cameroon village, to make it self-
sustaining, and to serve as a model for African reconstruction. He seeks $100,000 in charitable contributions, and says he will match, dollar for dollar from his personal funds, whatever can be raised locally.

Anne entered a few more keystrokes, and the printer on a side
table buzzed. She leaned back in her chair, locked the fingers of both hands behind her head, and stretched. Anne had to admit it. Frances Murphy's concern had merit.

The red flag may not be up, but it's clipped to the halyard and fluttering,
she thought.
The elements of a scam are all there. If this guy is running a con, then he has to convince Mrs. Murphy of two things: that she really needs something and that he's the only one that can supply it.

What does she need? Well, she's a widow. No doubt lonely. If she had close friends or family, she would have gone to them first, not to me. She's a warm, kind woman, but she also has a kind of reserve which keeps would-be friends at a comfortable distance. Somerville seems to have breached that wall quite handily.

And she's wealthy. Not a need, really. But she seemed almost embarrassed by it. Maybe the dead Mr. Murphy acquired it by questionable methods. The money could be a burden. Hence the philanthropy obsession.

And Somerville, if that's his real name, is well on his way to becoming her kindred spirit. Maybe even the next Mr. Murphy. If nothing else, at least he has a great plan for spending a lot of her money… and that of her charitable friends as well.

“This guy is a con. No doubt in my mind,” she said out loud, and
somehow that seemed to make it more true. “Now I just have to
prove it,” she added with disdain.

The phone rang.

“Oh! I'm sorry, baby.” She looked at her watch. It was nine-thirty. “I'll be right there. Bye.”

She shut down the office, bounded down the stairs and into the street. It was dark. Light from the street lamps cast soft shadows
on the brick. She passed The Blue Peter. The last strains of a guitar and a rollicking Irish song faded into peals of laughter and shouts and hands clapping. She wondered if Dit and Ben were still there.
She could guess what they might think, but she wondered what
they would say when she told them that she was officially a private investigator.

There was a lilt in her step as she rushed to her car.

7

“Good morning, Frances.”

Frances Murphy looked surprised, and her surprise transformed itself into a bright smile.

“I… I wasn't expecting you,” she said. Her hand involuntarily rose to smooth down a curl of hair.

Robert Somerville's face shone softly in the morning light. He was
simply but fastidiously dressed: polo shirt, sharply creased cotton
trousers, leather belt with a family crest imprinted on its buckle. He
had impeccable posture, yet always looked relaxed. Nothing about him, however, was more endearing to Frances than the warmth of
his smile. It seemed to envelop her. It made her feel like a school
girl. And that made her feel just a little bit afraid of him.

“I'm terribly sorry, Frances. I thought I might tempt you to come
for a walk along the boardwalk. It's such a beautiful morning.”

“I guess I'm not accustomed to spontaneity,” she said, “and I never
thought of you British types as being so, either. But, yes, I think a
walk is a wonderful idea. Give me a minute.”

Robert Somerville waited outside the door for Frances to return.
The Murphy home stood among many other stately wood frame
residences near the harbour and west of the business district. The small enclave of streets which surrounded it had been, and still was,
one of the finest areas of Olde Charlottetown. It had been home
to several of the fathers of the Canadian Confederation, and it still possessed a quiet, distinguished air. Most of the homes were two-and-a-half storeys. Broad verandas overlooked the approaches, and carriage houses, now converted to garages, stood below fifty-foot
elms and oaks. At one time, any important government office or
significant place of commerce would have been only a ten-minute stroll.

Victoria Park, too, was only a few minutes' walk from Mrs. Mur
phy's home. The park consisted of several patches of tennis courts,
wooded groves, picnic areas, nature trails, and a boardwalk running along the shore of Charlottetown Harbour from Beaconsfield House to the lighthouse at Old Battery Point.

Robert loved to talk, and Frances loved to listen to him. He spoke of London, where he lived, and of his ancestral home in Cambridge.
His accent was upper-class – posh, some would call it. Frances found it mellifluous and comforting.

“What an extraordinary day!” he suddenly exclaimed with a sweep of his arm toward the bay. Two sailboats were making for the mouth
of the harbour. The water was deep blue; a small cruiser cut a wake up the North River past the lighthouse on the point. “And such good
company to share it with,” he added, taking Frances by the arm.

“Good company? Why I couldn't have inserted three words into your monologue with a garden fork. You do go on, you know. Not
that I mind, of course.”

“If not good company, then a good sport?”

“That compliment I will gladly accept.”

“By the way, have you had time to consider my proposal?” he asked.

“You mean the project in Cameroon?”

“Yes. I had planned to write the mission manager today. He's
experiencing some difficulties, and he would welcome some good news.”

“What difficulties?”

“Local corruption. The police in Douala insist upon special gratu
ities on whatever passes through the port. Charitable organizations are no exception. We've had little choice but to pay them. If we don't,
the supplies are damaged or they're misdirected and disappear
somewhere. Now, it seems, the cost of doing business with them has gone up.”

“Such a cruel practice.”

“That's the way of the world in most of Africa, I'm afraid.”

“I suppose it's easy to blame them for adding to the misery in their own land. But I suspect that they've learned as much cunning from
their old colonial masters as they have from their own kind. Who
was it? The French?”

“The French… and the Portuguese and the Germans. And I daresay
even the British might have taken advantage if they weren't so
preoccupied with ‘civilizing' elsewhere.”

Robert guided Frances toward the edge of the boardwalk. A fat man wearing gym pants approached from the opposite direction. He led a tiny white dog with a pronounced underbite. The dog
wandered into Frances's path, and its leash tangled on her shoe.

“Oh!”

“Sorry about that, Missus.”

A jogger coming quickly from behind nearly collided with them, but broke stride, sidestepped around them, and resumed a steady sprint on the grass. Frances bent down, let the pup catch the scent
of her hand, gently scratched its head, and untangled the leash.

“No harm done,” she said. There was a composed cheeriness in her
voice. Then she and Robert continued on. They said little for a long
time, both stimulated by the freshness of the air and energized by
the growing strength of the early summer sun.

Finally, Frances spoke. “I have to admit… your plan for the village
is
compelling.”

Robert smiled.

8

Anne's head turned for a quick glance at the knot of people circling
the tiny white dog, but she continued jogging without stop until she
reached the end of the boardwalk.

“Geez, that was close!”

It had been a chance encounter. Fortunately, no one had recog
nized her. The couple had been too engaged with each other to take note of anyone. Still, when Anne had seen Mrs. Murphy, she'd pulled the brim of her ball cap further down over her face and, as Anne had
sidestepped around them, she'd taken a mental snapshot of Mrs.
Murphy's might-be-dodgy friend.

Physically, Somerville was slight of build, a few inches taller than Mrs. Murphy, and his sandy grey hair, the crow's-feet corners of his
eyes, and his thickening eyebrows suggested a man around fifty-five years old. He supported his speech with sweeping gestures,
gestures which were strong but fell short of theatrical. Mrs. Murphy received his full attention. Her demeanour was on the starchy side, but a certain playfulness around her mouth suggested that she enjoyed Somerville's company.

Anne cut through a common area between several provincial
government buildings and headed west into a residential area, one a good deal more modest than Mrs. Murphy's, where she rented a two-
bedroom ground-floor apartment. Anne slowed for the four-block walk to her apartment, a good cool-down distance. She stopped in
for a quick shower and headed for the office.

Anne started her investigation with an internet search. The first keywords she tried were “Lord Somerville.” That search produced 36,000 entries on a Scottish royal line, ending with Lord number nineteen in the early 1800s.
That'll lead nowhere
, she thought.
“Briarsley” produced fewer hits. She refined her search to England only, and that eliminated some cocktail lounges, restaurants, hunting
lodges, and a number of romance novel references. Narrowing the search even more brought up a few entries that looked promising.

One of them cited a small estate near Cambridge. It was described
as a “manorial estate” once held by Harrison Somerville, until
his death in 1984. Another was a newspaper article dated 1986, detailing the sale of the property by the several charities to which the properties had been bequeathed. Apparently, Lord Harrison Somerville had no heirs.

Her search for “Robert Somerville” turned up a few agriculturalists, authors, explorers, and even a knife-sharpener, but nothing
connected to Mrs. Murphy's Robert Somerville.

Anne sent off two e-mails. The first went to the National Archives of Great Britain and requested more information on the history and disposition of the Briarsley estate.

She sent the second e-mail to the Alumni Association of Corpus
Christi College at Cambridge University. Mrs. Murphy had mentioned
Robert graduating from that school sometime in the seventies. So
there should be a record of his matriculation, maybe even a website of contacts or updates on fellow graduates.

Two hours staring at the screen had made her eyes blurry. Besides
that, it was almost lunchtime. Anne turned off the computer,
grabbed a light jacket hanging on a clothes stand near the door, and shut off the lights. She was closing the door behind her when the phone rang.

“Mrs. Murphy?” Anne listened for a few moments, picked up a
pencil and jotted some notes on a pad. “Yes… yes… It'll probably be a few days, maybe a week before I can give you something concrete… and thank you for the itinerary… I certainly will. Good-bye.”

Anne locked the office door behind her. She turned left on
Victoria Row, and again at the corner, and walked deeper into Olde Charlottetown. She didn't want to see anyone at The Blue Peter. She wasn't in the mood for justifications or explanations. She wasn't in
the mood for being defensive. She just wanted a quiet spot to sift through the new information Mrs. Murphy had given her and to
work out her next step.

Her Majesty's Pleasure was a trendy Victorian-style restaurant
behind the tourist-friendly waterfront. It featured a lot of dark wood,
simple lines, and a delicate ornateness, all of which was set off with
red and gold tapestries. Not far from the courthouse, it was filled
with suits and ties, forty-dollar haircuts, and Italian shoes. Most of
the shoes were filled with lawyers. Most of the lawyers were men.
One of them was Dick Clements, who had been Billy Darby's lawyer.

Anne was navigating toward a table at the back when Clements
waved at her. She pretended not to notice, but he stood, waved
again, and shouted, “Anne! Anne Brown! Over here!” She couldn't
avoid company now. So she took a deep breath, conjured up a
cordial smile, and headed for his table.

Dick Clements waved again enthusiastically. He was a heavy-set,
middle-aged man. His hairline had retreated to the crown of his head. The thin strands that remained were combed straight back.
His suit had once been tailored. Now its clean lines had fallen victim
to his growing paunch. Despite his washed-out appearance, Dick
was good-natured, jokey, and a surprisingly effective lawyer.

“Anne, come sit with us, please. I'll get another chair.”

There were three men at the table including Clements. The back
of a greying head stood in front of her. Across were Clements and a handsome man in a summer-weight beige suit.

“No need, Dick. Take mine,” said the man in the beige suit looking at Anne. “I have to get back.”

“Thanks.”

He held the chair for her and, when she sat down, he bent over and added, “I'm just sorry that I can't stay and enjoy the company.” Anne smiled back vaguely.

“I'll phone you later, Michael,” said Clements. “That was Michael
Ryan of Fitzgerald, Ryan and Keene. Bright fellow. Top-notch litiga
tor. And hiding behind the menu there is Robert Somerville. Robert? Anne Brown.”

“I'm so terribly sorry. I seem to have got lost among the entrees. I'm very pleased to meet you Miss… I mean, Mrs. Brown,” said Somerville glancing at the wedding band on her ring finger.

“Mr. Somerville,” said Anne.

“Lord Somerville, actually,” Clements chirped.

“Nonsense, please call me Robert. No need for formalities,” he said, somewhat embarrassed, and offering his hand across the table.

“Then, I'm Anne.” She smiled and, as she shook his hand, she hoped
that he could not feel the clamminess of her palm or notice the
blanching of her face.

Anne picked up her menu and pretended to study it while she
regained an easy rhythm of breathing and any composure she might
have lost at the surprised encounter with Mrs. Murphy's man of
interest.

“What'll you have, Anne? My treat,” said Clements.

“I'm thinking about the baked haddock,” she said. “You?”

“Cheeseburger platter with poutine looks real good.”

“Isn't that prepared with an angina marinade?” Anne asked with a wry smile.

“Anne, when I finally go, it's goin' to be with the taste of barbecued ribs on my lips… not rabbit salad minus the rabbit. Life is too short.”

“Robert, what are you having?” asked Anne feeling a bit more bold.

“Most definitely the chicken tikki masala.”

“I would have thought you British types would go for something
more traditional… like cold toast and a poached egg… or fish and
chips wrapped in the
London Times
,” Anne laughed.

Somerville looked offended. He grew erect in his chair, and his
head arched like a snake about to strike. Anne stifled the last
remnant of her laugh, uncertain about what might come. Then she thought she saw a flicker of mirth break through his stony façade.

“Never… in the
Times
. They're far too Conservative to support the consequences of fish and chips,” he proclaimed.

A great round of laughter followed.

“However, I must tell you that chicken tikki masala
is
, indeed, British,” he added seriously.

“How can he say that?” she said, turning to Dick and shrugging in mock disbelief.

“No doubt about it,” Somerville insisted. “British through and
through. Well, almost. It was prepared by a Scottish chef in one of Glasgow's finest eateries many, many years ago…”

“Have you noticed, Dick, how a fancy British accent has the power to make even the most far-fetched story seem credible?”

“…and legend has it,” Somerville went on as if he had not heard her,
“that chicken tikki masala is the only known antidote for haggis.”

Another great round of their laughter caught the amused attention of people at nearby tables. Anne looked over at Robert Somerville.
He laughed heartily and openly, Anne thought, like a leprechaun
over his latest prank or a ten-year-old delivering corny jokes on the
school playground. She caught no semblance of the con man here,
only a glimpse of the little boy who lived within the man.

The waitress slipped their food platters in front of them about ten minutes later. Almost every forkful was punctuated by light-hearted
comments, arguments about the war in Iraq, analyses of Ottawa's
latest political blunders, and tastes in literature.

She had to admit that she liked Robert Somerville on one level.
He was cultured, witty, and down-to-earth. He was dignified and
showed a profound interest in those around him. On the other
hand, that's what a practised con man does. He ingratiates himself.
He preys upon the vulnerable. He uses the love and the natural instincts of good people as tools to strip them, not only of their
money, but of their dignity as well. On that level she despised him.
And if she had any misgivings about her feelings, she only needed
to imagine Mrs. Murphy perhaps in a few weeks, lying alone on her
bed, sobbing at her losses and berating herself for having been so
naive and so trusting.