“Friday Fiction” Series: The Prodigal Son, Chapters Seven to Nine…
[As a native son of the great state of California, I can emphasize with Irwin Pound’s sentiments found in this short novella (or long short story?). My distance from my current home in Montclair to California is farther than his distance from London to the Lake District, but the yearning is probably just as strong. I hope you enjoy this story, another British-style mystery.]
The Prodigal Son
Copyright 2021, Steven M. Moore
Chapter Seven
Before leaving, Irwin had a call from his superintendent in London—partly a scolding for not relaxing on his administrative leave, and partly some worrying about his condition. Irwin wondered how the old man had found out. He asked Robert in the car.
“He’s an old army buddy. Small world, Irwin. Had no idea you worked for him, of course. I felt obligated to let him know. He values you, lad.”
Robert glanced at Irwin and then back to the road. Robert’s hands were white-knuckled on the steering wheel. Is he imagining our accident?
“Did he say to tell me I should get off this case?”
“I told him we were short-handed with Tim in the ward, so he okayed it. I had to promise to be your protector.”
“You told him my theory?”
Robert laughed. “Didn’t say it was yours. He groaned. But there’s some logic to it, and so I thought he’d give a little less backtalk thinking it’s mine. And be more amenable to loaning you to me for a while. Like I said, we’re old friends.”
“How did you end up here and the super in London?”
“I’m from here; he’s from there. We were in a like mindset, feeling compelled after our service to protect our own. He’s got the worst of it, in my opinion. Our usual cases around here often reduce to stupid tourists doing stupid things, or locals who become drunk and rowdy. Say, I just thought of something. You know, Tim couldn’t imagine climbing up that trail.”
“Even Devon can climb that trail.”
“Probably not like you can. You have a natural gift for it. I was thinking the Mountain Rescue Team could sure use your skills.”
“That would take all the fun out of hiking.”
“There’s that.”
They drove in silence the rest of the way to Penrith.
***
At that Penrith address, Mills and Pound found an elderly lady tending her front garden. They introduced themselves and showed their warrant cards. She studied Irwin’s a bit more.
“Scotland Yard?” Irwin nodded. “My, my, you must be here on important business. We don’t get many London plods this far north. Maybe as tourists, but not as cops.”
“Do you know anyone named Sara?” said Robert, trying to get everyone focused.
She eyed him with suspicion. “What if I do?”
“She’s a person-of-interest in an investigation,” Irwin said.
She wiped her hands on her apron. “You’d better come inside.” In the dark foyer, she pointed to an open doorway. “Sit in there. I’ll bring us a mash and cakes. You can sit anywhere but the armchair over by the fireplace. That’s Oscar’s.”
“Your husband? Is he at home?” Mills said.
“Oscar’s my cat. He’s out prowling and making his neighborhood rounds now, but when he gets back, he’ll be angry if someone’s in his chair. Don’t have a husband, by the way. Never did. Men just want you around to bear their children, and then they become a damn burden when they’re old.” She pointed a scrawny finger at Mills. “I should warn your wife.”
She turned and left, presumably for the kitchen. Mills and Pound entered the sitting room and took seats on a sofa with threadbare upholstery, trying to keep smiles from turning to laughter.
***
A bit later, the woman returned with tea service for three and tea cakes. “I’m Sara’s aunt, by the way, Eleanor Bixby. What’s that girl gone and done now?”
“What makes you think she’s done something?” Robert said.
Eleanor watched Irwin try a tea cake and smiled as he gave a little sigh. “She’s gone several days now. We had a real barney and she just up and left. That young one can be wild. Can’t blame her too much. She just lost her mum, ’twas my sister, and her useless lout of a father deserted the two at a young age.”
Irwin had been standing when she’d entered, roaming the small room, examining family pictures. He showed one to the woman. “I’m guessing this is the three of you, you and your sister and Sara?” She nodded even though she was putting the service in order. “You look very much alike.”
“We all sounded alike too. Fortunately the father’s dirty genes didn’t affect Sara very much. She’s a Bixby through and through, sometimes to my regret.”
“Was he by any chance named James Trent?” Mills said.
“Yes. Never knew what became of him, and frankly I don’t give a damn. Just confirmed my belief that men are useless, present company possibly being exceptions.” She smiled at Irwin.
“Do you know if she had any plans to meet up with her father?” Robert said.
“I doubt it, but she might want to give him stick a bit if he ever shows his face around here.” She suddenly turned white. “Was he the man who was murdered? I saw that on the local telly station.” Both Mills and Pound nodded. “Oh, my. What have you done, Sara?” she asked the tin ceiling. “That’s why she’s a person-of-interest? You want to question her?”
“We’d like to speak to her, yes. Do you have any idea where she might be?”
“Probably doing a lie-in with some prat she picked up. That’s her style. She’s one to up her skirt for a pint if the plonker’s half-way good-looking. I worry she’ll catch one of them diseases.”
“And she’s not mentioned her father lately?”
“There’s a reason she’s a Bixby and not a Trent. Her mum went back to her maiden name, so Sara became a Bixby too.”
“Once again, can you think of any reason she would meet with her father?”
“Other than to kill him?” Robert nodded. Eleanor thought some more. “I still think my sister’s estate’s being settled. Maybe that has something to do with it? Damn barristers are always mucking up things and dragging their heels to up their fees.”
“Is there some reason for the estate not being settled?”
“Not that I know of, except that her mum had quite a bit of money. She was into real estate, you know, investing in inns and resorts mostly. Good money in that here in the Lake District, if you can find reliable people to run them. Tourists will pay exorbitant prices to be near a river or lake. She started small, but by the end when the big C took her out, she was doing quite well. Helped me keep this place too, my little sis did. A good-hearted lady who didn’t deserve James Trent. Not at all.”
Chapter Eight
Eleanor managed to find contact information for the legal establishment handling the mother’s estate. The office was in Kendal, another bit of a ride. Mills and Pound ran into tourist traffic, probably mostly park visitors, but pulled into a nearby car park after miles of Robert’s swearing in Cumbrian dialect.
Barrister Mark Leam handled the woman’s estate, and he happened to be in. The receptionist resisted Mills—Irwin thought he heard the inspector mutter a few more Cumbrian swear words—but then Robert got her attention.
“He can either see us now, or I’ll send constables out from the station to bring him in for a wee chinwag. Your choice, madam. This is about murder.”
Leam received them, none too happy to be interrupted from doing a crossword from a two-day old Times edition. The barrister examined their warrant cards and then gestured towards seats in front of his desk.
“I understand this is about one of our clients. Damn receptionist forgot to say who. Fair warning: Attorney-client privilege means I’m not required to answer your questions.”
Irwin glanced at Robert, saw the color rising up his neck, and then tried to head off a confrontation. “We know you’re busy. We apologize for the interruption of your important task. I suppose everyone else is in court. Thank you for seeing us, Mr. Leam.”
“In court, playing golf, gone fishing,” he said with a thin smile, as if he were making an excuse for his own dawdling. “Junior members of the firm have to pick up the slack. Who’s the client?”
“Janet Bixby,” said Robert, nodding at Irwin to acknowledge his role as peacemaker…or to compliment him for the barb that the barrister had been oblivious to.
He nodded, and a shock of hay-colored hair fell over his forehead. Probably doesn’t like wearing a wig in court, Irwin thought.
“Dead, but still a client. We’re trying to sort out her will. It’s complicated.”
“In what way? Looking for the right words?”
That went by the lawyer too. “Damn fool had more money than God, but she never changed her will. And we can’t find her ex-husband. Estranged husband, to put a fine point on it. He disappeared and was out of her life, so she only changed her legal name and never got divorced. Tried to have him declared dead.”
“He inherits?” Robert said, now appearing to be a bit more in control.
“Yes, that sod named James Trent inherits if certain conditions are met. The will and the desertion precludes any direct inheritance, but he’s still in it. I can’t give you any more details because everything’s pending and might eventually go to probate court.”
“Would it make any difference if you knew he was also dead?”
“It might. Marra, do you have evidence for that?”
The man’s eyebrows emphasized that question. Irwin realized they were talking to a local man who wanted to sound like a toff. “Marra,” just the local version of “mate,” was rarely heard in legal offices, but the man hadn’t weeded out all of his Cumbrian dialect.
“Didn’t your receptionist tell you we’re investigating a murder?” Robert said. “Local tellly carried the story.”
“That fool twitcher who fell off a cliff?”
Irwin nodded. “He was pushed.”
Leam scratched his chin and thought a moment. “I guess he won’t be able to meet the conditions then.”
“What were those conditions?”
“I might as well tell you now. He had to agree to a conservatorship for his daughter. Janet’s sister Eleanor also figures in the will, but Janet, for some reason, trusted the ex more to raise the child.”
“What kind of conservatorship?” said Robert.
“Basically running the estate until she reached twenty-five. I believe the daughter’s twenty-three now.” He sighed. “She’s given us no end of trouble ever since mummy dearest passed on.”
“Because she wanted everything?”
“On the contrary, because she wanted her aunt to have everything. She didn’t want her father to touch any of the mother’s money. In a sense, I couldn’t blame her for the latter, but you’d think she’d be okay with the old man for the couple of years left.”
“Not if she didn’t trust him,” Irwin said. “Why should she?”
“And all this mess has occurred because the woman was too busy making money to update her will,” Robert said. “When did she make it?”
“I believe about ten years ago. I’d have to check for the precise date. The daughter would have been only thirteen.”
“Why not make her sister the conservator, considering the circumstances?”
“I don’t know. The husband seems to be a cad. We just write in the will what the client wants, as long as it make sense legally. By the way, it was written before I came to work here.”
***
“What do you make of all that?” Robert asked as he and Irwin started the long drive back to the station for the second time.
“That I wouldn’t hire Leam to be my lawyer?”
Robert laughed. “I’m talking about the case.”
“I know.” Irwin gathered his thoughts. “Would Sara have killed her father so Eleanor could have the inheritance? That seems like a stretch. And would Eleanor even want it? Her life seems settled, and she’s basically raised Sara without the conservatorship.”
“Maybe it wasn’t Sara but Eleanor that killed James. They’re about the same height. And she could have worn a wig.”
“She wouldn’t think she needed to. No killer would ever suspect that anyone would be around in that wild spot on the mountain.”
“There’s that. But find the motivation, find the killer.”
“Sara stands to gain, maybe, depending on how the probate court decides, but what does Eleanor gain? And what did James want the killer to do?”
“Were there some other conditions? Janet Bixby seems to have been a smart lady.”
“We need to get a warrant for that will. And we need to find Sara Bixby.”
“A few steps forwards, and more steps backwards. Never seems like a case is easy anymore.”
“In the easy ones, there’s one victim and a unique suspect.” Irwin thought a minute. “I’d like to get a court order for James Trent’s financial dealings as well. If he needed money, it changes things a bit.”
“He’d use those two years to make some transfers of funds, I bet,” Mills said. “Good show.” He reached over and patted Irwin on the shoulder. “Sure you don’t want to help us out here on a more permanent basis?”
Irwin figured he’d surprise the old inspector. “Let’s see how it goes with Devon tonight.”
Mills glanced at him, smiled, but said nothing.
Chapter Nine
“Let’s not talk about work,” Irwin said to Devon as they were escorted to their table by the receptionist.
Devon looked more feminine and attractive out of her nurse’s uniform and her hiking clothes. More formal too. Irwin didn’t have much choice. He was still living out of a suitcase and thought that they might not let him into the restaurant because he had no sportscoat or tie. He was relieved that several male tourists seemed to be in the same boat.
“Works for me. Tell me how exciting living in London is instead.”
He shrugged. “Mixed results there, to be honest. There’s a lot to do, of course, both days and nights, as far as entertainment goes. I went to a Webber show once with my aunt and uncle. I’m guessing they sacrificed to buy those tickets. It was my graduation present.”
“But generally speaking, isn’t it busier than here? Aren’t you always running on adrenalin?”
“It’s exciting sometimes, but I always thought it’s probably wiser to mix the slow with the fast. People can do that in Cumbria. It took me a while to adjust to London’s hectic pace, and it’s taking me a while to adjust back to Cumbria’s slower one. The scenery around here isn’t manmade and it’s beautiful, and the people are more friendly, present company included.”
She smiled. “But you’re returning?”
“Outside the big cities, positions are scarce. You’d probably have better luck, being a nurse, all throughout the UK, than I’d have. One thing for sure, I’ll come back here more, now that it’s starting to feel like home again.”
“What you say might be true, but I’m stuck here on account of mum. And I don’t think I’d be happy in a big city. Maybe Edinburgh or Glasgow where a short drive takes me to gorgeous scenery that might compete with Cumbria. Argyllshire, for example; we went there on holiday once.”
He made a moue. “I often think the best times in my life occurred before my parents died. Exploring Cumbria, raising hell with our group of hellions, sneaking out for a shore party with ale and fish and chips, and so forth. I only became serious in London.”
“Young people get more serious as they age no matter where they are. It’s called maturing and realizing that there’s more to life than fun and games. I suppose that’s why most people find someone to share the mature part of their life with.”
He laughed. “Always the philosopher. Did you really resent me telling you that you couldn’t make some of those dangerous climbs I made?”
“Not for very long,” she said with a sigh. “You made me angry about other things too. Like paying too much attention to Mary Barton.”
“Mary? What’s happened with her?”
“She and her husband have five nippers. She’s appropriately a pediatrician, and he’s a pilot for British Air. They live in Bristol now.”
“Okay. Now tell me why you opted for nursing. I need to test a theory.”
***
Devon laughed. “No wonder you became a detective. I told you about my mum.”
He shook his head. “You must have trained for that before she took ill. Here’s my theory. In our own way, we both care about people. There’s caring for them when they’re alive, and there’s caring to get them and their families justice when they suffer from violence or death.”
“That’s a good theory. As good as any, I suppose. But was there one event that determined your choice?”
“My parents’ deaths were caused by a hit-and-run driver. I wanted justice for them and got none. I didn’t want to become a vigilante, and I had no choice about going to London, but I knew plenty of innocent people had suffered through similar incidents and vicious crimes. That makes my work both rewarding and frustrating.”
“Rewarding when you can close a case, frustrating when you can’t, I dare say.”
“So what’s your one event?”
“A beloved vicar. I’ve never been overly religious, but he was a nice, helpful man in our community. It wasn’t long after you left when the Big C took him. I once thought of studying medicine, imagining I could cure cancer, but I came to realize I’m geared more to care for patients rather than working in a laboratory.”
“That makes sense. Reverend Mulgrew?” She nodded. “I remember him. I always thought he might be transferred elsewhere. He was very active. My only problem with him was that he told me my parents’ accident was God’s will. That cliche didn’t set well with me.”
At that moment, the waiter showed up to take their order. Devon chose a lighter entree; he chose something more substantial because he hadn’t had much for lunch. He also ordered a refill of their drinks.
While waiting for their orders, which Irwin presumed would take longer. he continued to catch up more on the people he’d known as he grew up.
***
Irwin drove Devon to her flat. He felt a bit rueful: It had been a pleasant evening. He’d been able to become acquainted with Devon, the mature woman, more, and relegate Devon, the freckled childhood friend, to his past. It made him question his future.
It wasn’t his near-death experience in the Met that made him consider leaving London. His aunt and uncle had welcomed him into their home, but he’d never felt at home in the capital. After returning to Cumbria, he realized he’d been just going through the motions in London without any particular goals enthralling him.
He wasn’t enamored with Devon yet, but he could be. But more than that possibility, it was as if the Lake District was where he belonged. But what would he do to make a living? In the city, cops often left the force to be private investigators of some sort. That might keep him in the business of helping people, but the serious cases were covered by the Met. MI5 generalized that coverage a bit, but he knew nothing about them or how they operated. He wanted to be a common plod working more at a local level and helping people there.
“I had a great time. The strolling lyre player was a nice touch. Did you understand any lyrics, though?”
He realized Devon was trying to make conversation. He smiled. “I spaced out a bit, wondering about my future. He sang in Irish Gaelic, I believe; the lyre was a harp.”
“Oh, so you’re into music?”
“A bit. Being a musician a hard life. I’d bet that fellow has late nights and will be in another place tomorrow night. He was good, but if he becomes too good, the pay still won’t match his skills. That’s the performing life for you. Not my cuppa.”
He stopped in front of the house, exited the hire-car, and went around it to open the door for her.
“You learned some manners in London, Mr. Pound. Want to come in? For a real cuppa, or coffee, if you prefer. Mum might have left some cakes.”
He rubbed his stomach. “A bit too much dinner, my lady. The entree would have been enough without the dessert.”
“We shared the pudding.”
He nodded. “I still didn’t need it. I’ll be a gentleman. We both need to get up early. I’d love a lie-in with you, though.”
She blushed and smiled at his frankness, pleased by it. “There’s no hurry. Take your time. But I’m warning you now: I want you. I never wanted to be with anyone else, you knoe.”
Hid turn to blush. “I’ll definitely keep that in mind.”
He saw her in the review mirror watching his departure. Marra, he thought, I really need time to think!
***
Comments are welcome.
Rogue Planet. Perhaps you’re familiar with my Chaos Chronicles Trilogy Collection. Did you know several stories are set in that same sci-fi universe, including the Dr. Carlos tales and A. B. Carolan’s first three YA sci-fi mysteries? Rogue Planet is another one, and it has some Game-of-Throne aspects while still being hard sci-fi. A young prince’s planet is ruled by an oppressive theocracy that has led to a quarantine by ITUIP (Interstellar Trade Union of Independent Planets). He strives to defeat the theocracy’s leader and bring the planet back from the galaxy’s Dark Ages.
Around the world and to the stars! In libris libertas!
