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  Anything for a Quiet Life

  First published in 1990

  © Estate of Michael Gilbert; House of Stratus 1990-2012

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  The right of Michael Gilbert to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

  This edition published in 2012 by House of Stratus, an imprint of

  Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,

  Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.

  Typeset by House of Stratus.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.

  EAN ISBN Edition

  0755105362 9780755105366 Print

  0755131754 9780755131754 Kindle

  0755132122 9780755132126 Epub

  This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author’s imagination.

  Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.

  www.houseofstratus.com

  About the Author

  Born in Lincolnshire, England, Michael Francis Gilbert graduated in law from the University of London in 1937, shortly after which he first spent some time teaching at a prep-school which was followed by six years serving with the Royal Horse Artillery. During World War II he was captured following service in North Africa and Italy, and his prisoner-of-war experiences later leading to the writing of the acclaimed novel ‘Death in Captivity’ in 1952.

  After the war, Gilbert worked as a solicitor in London, but his writing continued throughout his legal career and in addition to novels he wrote stage plays and scripts for radio and television. He is, however, best remembered for his novels, which have been described as witty and meticulously-plotted espionage and police procedural thrillers, but which exemplify realism.

  HRF Keating stated that ‘Smallbone Deceased’ was amongst the 100 best crime and mystery books ever published. "The plot," wrote Keating, "is in every way as good as those of Agatha Christie at her best: as neatly dovetailed, as inherently complex yet retaining a decent credibility, and as full of cunningly-suggested red herrings." It featured Chief Inspector Hazlerigg, who went on to appear in later novels and short stories, and another series was built around Patrick Petrella, a London based police constable (later promoted) who was fluent in four languages and had a love for both poetry and fine wine. Other memorable characters around which Gilbert built stories included Calder and Behrens. They are elderly but quite amiable agents, who are nonetheless ruthless and prepared to take on tasks too much at the dirty end of the business for their younger colleagues. They are brought out of retirement periodically upon receiving a bank statement containing a code.

  Much of Michael Gilbert’s writing was done on the train as he travelled from home to his office in London: "I always take a latish train to work," he explained in 1980, "and, of course, I go first class. I have no trouble in writing because I prepare a thorough synopsis beforehand.". After retirement from the law, however, he nevertheless continued and also reviewed for ‘The Daily Telegraph’, as well as editing ‘The Oxford Book of Legal Anecdotes’.

  Gilbert was appointed CBE in 1980. Generally regarded as ‘one of the elder statesmen of the British crime writing fraternity, he was a founder-member of the British Crime Writers’ Association and in 1988 he was named a Grand Master by the Mystery Writers of America, before receiving the Lifetime ‘Anthony’ Achievement award at the 1990 Boucheron in London.

  Michael Gilbert died in 2006, aged ninety three, and was survived by his wife and their two sons and five daughters.

  1

  Anything for a Quiet Life

  The four-door family saloon slowed as it reached the crest of the downs. Jonas Pickett pulled it into a lay-by and got out. Claire climbed out too, and they stood for a moment looking down at the township of Shackleton-on-Sea.

  “You can see all the town from here,” said Jonas. “The new housing estate, and what they call the industrial zone – though there doesn’t seem to be a lot of industry in it yet – they’re both a bit farther back. We’ll see them when we get round the next corner.”

  “It’s rather snug,” said Claire. “Squeezed in between those two arms of the cliff. Like a cuckoo in a nest that’s too small for it. It looks as though a really fierce storm would bring the sea rolling in and wash it all away.”

  “About six hundred years ago it did just that. The old town’s under the sea. They’ll tell you they sometimes hear the church bell ringing down under the waves. It’s a sign that something terrible’s going to happen.”

  “It’s a lovely little town,” said Claire. “I don’t believe that anything terrible ever happens in it.”

  “I hope not,” said Jonas. “I’ve come here for peace and quiet, not excitement.”

  “In that case,” said Claire, evidently not for the first time, “I can’t see why you didn’t simply retire here. What was the point of opening an office?”

  Jonas said, “Sam would never have forgiven me if I’d retired.”

  “Sabrina wouldn’t have been happy about it either,” agreed Claire.

  They got back into the car and drove on down the twisting road, between hedges of dusty thorn and elderberry. A final turn took them out, past the church, through a maze of tiny streets, and on to the Esplanade, where the sea sparkled in the June sunlight.

  Shackleton was not a fashionable resort, like its neighbours Brighton and Hove, but it was clearly quite a prosperous place. A marketing centre, Jonas guessed, for the agricultural hinterland. A lot of small hotels and decent-looking boarding houses. A bit of light industry in the background. There would be two different populations: the visitors who crowded the beaches and the pier in the summer months; and the local residents who lived on the money they brought, and resented the noise they made.

  At the far end of the Esplanade, where the Shackle stream runs out to sea, Jonas turned back again into the town. The High Street was full of cars and shoppers and dogs, and he saw that stalls were already being set up in the central square for the next day’s market. A turn to the left took them into a quieter street, parallel with the High Street. It was a mixture of shops and houses. One house, rather bigger than the others, was set back behind a small paved courtyard, with an alley running down beside it. It was a Georgian building with bow windows, three white steps up to the front door and a dolphin bell pull.

  “Don’t tell me,” said Claire. “I guess it was the old doctor’s house. It’s got that unmistakable look.”

  “You’re quite right,” said Jonas, “and now it’s the new lawyer’s house. Sam has got the plate up already, I see.”

  It was a brass plate, worn with much polishing.

  Jonas Pickett, Solicitor and Commissioner for Oaths

  “Are you going to live here?”

  “I’ve got the top two floors. Sam’s got the basement. The office is the bit in between.”

  “A bachelor establishment,” said Claire thoughtfully. “What about Sabrina and me?”

  “She’s got rooms for both of you with the vicar.”

  “That sounds all right. All we need now is a few clients.”

  During the first month there were no clients but a lot of callers. Men who came to put the finishing touches to Jonas’s flat and men with filing cabinets and desks to complete the fitting out o
f the office. One whole morning was occupied with the installation of an impressive safe. Travellers called hoping to sell them office accessories. They were mostly sent away empty-handed by Sam Conybeare. They did not stop to argue. Sam was a mountain of a man who had once performed remarkable feats of strength and daring in a circus. Jonas had rescued him from his wife, who was nagging him to death, and he had devoted himself to Jonas’s welfare ever since.

  People dropped in to pass the time of day. Thirty years of legal practice in the south of England had given Jonas a wide circle of acquaintances. Among the first to arrive was Major Appleby, the headmaster of St Oswald’s, one of the three preparatory schools in the neighbourhood. He told Jonas, “There used to be eight when I started up here after the war. Times are getting harder every day. If I have to shut up shop you shall handle the sale.” Jonas thanked him and said he hoped it wouldn’t happen.

  Their first professional visitor was not a client. He arrived on a Friday morning in the middle of July. He introduced himself to Claire, who examined his card which identified him as Christopher Clover, of Smardon and Clover, solicitors, whilst he examined Claire with approval. She was worth looking at.

  She said, “Shall I tell Mr Pickett what it is you want to see him about?”

  “Just a friendly visit. One professional man to another. If he’s busy I could come back.”

  “I’ll find out,” said Claire, in the cool voice which matched her appearance.

  Jonas said, “Of course. Show him in. Ask him if he’d like a cup of coffee.”

  Mr Clover said he would just love a cup of coffee, and what a lovely old house it was, wasn’t it?

  Jonas had brought down some of the furniture from his office in London. There were chairs upholstered in red leather. There was a huge roll-top desk occupying the space in front of the bow window. On the walls there were portraits, in oil, of severe-looking legal gentlemen. The general effect was undeniably impressive. It certainly impressed young Mr Clover.

  He looked at the pile of dockets and papers on the desk and said, “Well, you seem to be busy. Perhaps I oughtn’t to be interrupting you.”

  “Don’t be misled,” said Jonas. “These are hangovers from my previous practice up in London. The young gentlemen I bequeathed it to find there are some matters that they still need help with. I see from your card you’re in practice here yourself. That’s good. You can give me your professional view of Shackleton.”

  “Well,” said Mr Clover, “it’s a nice place. Splendid climate, and friendly people. But legally, I should say it’s pretty tightly tied up.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” said Jonas. “I didn’t come here to work myself to death.”

  Mr Clover looked at him doubtfully. He said, “Well, we’ve been here for two years, and I don’t mind telling you it was hard grafting at first.”

  “Who’s the opposition?”

  “Well, Porter and Merriman look after the nobs. I mean, people like Sir James Carway and Admiral Fairlie and old Mrs Summers. R. and L. Sykes handle most of the litigation. That’s the local bench and the County Court at Brighton. Bledisloes do the commercial and company work, such as it is.”

  “I don’t suppose that I shall cross swords with any of them,” said Jonas. “My specialities are Bills of Exchange, Copyright and Patents. And Church property. Particularly Welsh Church property. A curiously complicated field since Disestablishment.” Thinking that he detected a look of relief in young Mr Clover’s eye, he added maliciously, “Of course, nowadays one must be prepared to tackle anything. My partner, Mrs Mountjoy, seems to revel in the run-of-the-mill stuff.”

  After Christopher Clover had left, Claire put her head round the door and said, “I may have got a client for you.”

  “What sort of client?” said Jonas cautiously.

  “He’s a young man – not all that young really – youngish. I met him at the tennis club. When I first joined he was new too, so we arranged a few singles.”

  “Very natural,” said Jonas.

  Claire looked at him suspiciously, then she said, “He’s not the sort of man who talks a lot, but I gathered that he’s down here for the summer, living in a caravan. He was in that big caravan park beyond the golf course, out on the Portsmouth Road. But he had to get out two or three days ago. There was some trouble.”

  “What sort of trouble?”

  “The person who told me about it didn’t really know. But the police turned up, and there was a bit of an argument. When I next saw him at the club I said if he needed a lawyer he’d better come and see you.”

  “Has he a name?”

  “His name’s Rowe. Dick Rowe.”

  “And did he say when he proposed to call?”

  “I think,” said Claire, who was looking out of the window, “that that’s him coming now.”

  “Then we had better admit him.”

  He wrote on the pad in front of him, ‘Rowe’, ‘caravan’ and ‘Trouble?’.

  At the moment when Claire opened the front door and ushered Mr Rowe into the reception room, the door on the far side opened also, and Mrs Mountjoy came out, followed by her bad-tempered rough-haired Scots terrier, Bruce. ‘Like owner, like dog,’ Jonas used to say, which was unfair to Sabrina. True, she favoured an untidy hairstyle, but she was more abrupt than bad-tempered.

  Bruce growled at the newcomer, and then made a dart for his ankles. Instead of retreating, Mr Rowe bent down and scooped Bruce up with a firm hand under each of his forelegs. Bruce looked disapproving. This was not the reaction he had expected. Mr Rowe held him for a moment, moving the fingers of his left hand. Then he said, “Yes. I thought I noticed a slight stiffness. There’s a lump under his right foreleg.”

  “Oh dear,” said Mrs Mountjoy. “You don’t mean—”

  “Not serious. Not yet, anyway. But you ought to have it cut out. A vet would do it with a local anaesthetic.”

  He put down Bruce, who scuttled back behind Mrs Mountjoy and glared at the newcomer through the tangles of his hair. Claire said, “Better come in, Dick, before he changes his mind.” She ushered Mr Rowe into Jonas’s room, and closed the door behind him.

  “And who in the world is that?” said Mrs Mountjoy.

  “That,” said Claire, “is our first client.”

  The description which occurred to Jonas when he saw Rowe was ‘average’. He was of average height, of average build, and had a very average face. He saw what Claire had meant when she had first said ‘young’ and then corrected it to ‘youngish’. Rowe certainly gave a general impression of youth, but where a young man’s face is open, and lit with the joyful expectation of what life has to offer, this face was closed. It was more than closed. It was sealed.

  “Sit down, please,” said Jonas. “My secretary tells me that you had some problem.”

  “Problem?” said Rowe. He sounded surprised. “Not that I’m aware of. I just wanted to make a will.”

  “That shouldn’t be too difficult.” Jonas ran over in his mind the details he needed. “First I’d better have your full names.”

  “Richard Athelston Rowe.”

  “And address.”

  “Since my movements are uncertain, it had better be my London bank. The London and Home Counties Bank.”

  “Right.” Jonas scribbled busily. “Executors?”

  “The bank has agreed to act as my executor.”

  “Splendid. Then the next thing is, who are to be the beneficiaries?”

  “I wish to leave everything to Claire Easterbrook.”

  Jonas had almost written this down before the impact of it struck him.

  He said, “You mean, my secretary?”

  “Yes.” And, as Jonas paused, “Is there some difficulty?”

  “If you had wanted to bequeath your estate to me,” said Jonas with a smile, “there would have been considerable difficulty. Solicitors aren’t supposed to draw up wills in favour of themselves. But members of their staff? I suppose there’s no objection.”

  “
Good.”

  Jonas still hesitated. Then he said, “You mustn’t think me impertinent, but I gather that you have only known Miss Easterbrook for a month. Are there not other people, members of your own family . . .?”

  “I have no family.”

  “None at all?”

  “None at all. I am unmarried. My father and mother are dead. They were only-children. I have no brothers or sisters. I understood that if I died without a will my property would go to the state. That seemed to me to be one good reason” – a very slight smile twitched the corner of his mouth – “for making a will.”

  The accent was puzzling. There was the faint suspicion of a brogue, allied to a broadening of the vowels which Jonas associated with educated Americans. He said, “You must excuse me for having been startled by your proposal. In the way you put it, it seems quite logical. Might I ask if Miss Easterbrook is aware of your intentions?”

  “No. And I see no reason to inform her. Unless” – again that very slight smile – “my will should become effective. If that happens, of course, she’ll have to know.”

  “Then it will take a little longer, because I shall have to type it myself. When it’s ready, where shall I get in touch with you?”

  There was a slight pause before Rowe said, “As I mentioned just now, my future movements are a bit uncertain. Could I call on you to sign the will in three days’ time? Say Thursday morning, about midday?”

  “That should be sufficient time even for an inexpert typist like myself,” said Jonas.

  Later that day he discussed their client with his partner Sabrina Mountjoy, from whom he had no secrets.

  “He’s certainly got his wits about him,” she said. “I mean, noticing that Bruce was limping, and diagnosing what was wrong with him. I saw the vet at lunchtime, and he’s going to operate this evening.”