Put on by Cunning by Ruth Rendell Page B

Sir Manuel rather got a bee in his belfry, you know, and this young lady, Mrs – er, Steinhalt, is it? – Mrs Steinhall maybe gilded the gingerbread.’ Mr Ames paused and coughed slightly after delivering these confused metaphors. He studied his short clean fingernails with interest. ‘Once Sir Manuel was married he’d have had to make a new will. there was nothing out of the way in that. We have no reason to believe he meant to disinherit Mrs Arno.’ The muzzle face returned as Mr Ames glared at his fingernails and enclosed them suddenly in his fists as if they offended him. ‘In point of fact,’ he said briskly, ‘Sir Manuel invited me to lunch to discuss a new will and to meet his bride, Mrs – er, Sternhill, but unfortunately his death intervened. You know, Mr Wexford, if Sir Manuel had really believed he’d been visited by an impostor, don’t you think he’d have said something to us? There was over a week between the visit and his death and during that week he wrote to me and phoned me. No, if this extraordinary tale were true I fancy he’d have said something to his solicitors.’
    ‘He seems to have said nothing to anyone except Mrs Sternhold.’
    An elastic smile replaced the muzzle look. ‘Ah, yes. People like to make trouble. I can’t imagine why. You may have noticed?’
    ‘Yes,’ said Wexford. ‘By the way, in the event of Mrs Arno not inheriting, who would?’
    ‘Oh dear, oh dear, I don’t think there’s much risk of Mrs Arno not inheriting, do you, really?’
    Wexford shrugged. ‘Just the same, who would?’
    ‘Sir Manuel had – has, I suppose I should say if one may use the present tense in connection with the dead – Sir Manuel has a niece in France, his dead sister’s daughter. A Mademoiselle Thérèse Something. Latour? Lacroix? No doubt I can find the name for you if you really want it.’
    ‘As you say, there may be no chance of her inheriting. Am I to take it then that Symonds, O’Brien and Ames intend to do nothing about this story of Mrs Sternhold’s?’
    ‘I don’t follow you, Mr Wexford.’ Mr Ames was once more contemplating the church spire which was now veiled in fine driving rain.
    ‘You intend to accept Mrs Arno as Sir Manuel’s heir without investigation?’
    The solicitor turned round. ‘Good heavens, no, Mr Wexford. What can have given you that idea?’ He became almost animated, almost involved. ‘Naturally, in view of what you’ve told us we shall make the most thorough and exhaustive inquiries. No doubt, you will too?’
    ‘Oh, yes.’
    ‘A certain pooling of our findings would be desirable, don’t you agree? It’s quite unthinkable that a considerable property such as Sir Manuel left could pass to an heir about whose provenance there might be the faintest doubt.’ Mr Ames half closed his eyes. He seemed to gather himself together in order to drift once more into remoteness. ‘It’s only,’ he said with an air of extreme preoccupation, ‘that it doesn’t really do, you know, to place too much credence on these things.’
    As the receiver was lifted the deep baying of a dog was the first sound he heard. Then the soft gentle voice gave the Forby number.
    ‘Mrs Sternhold, do you happen to know if Sir Manuel had kept any samples of Mrs Arno’s handwriting from before she went away to America?’
    ‘I don’t know. I don‘t think so.’ Her tone sounded dubious, cautious, as if she regretted having told him so much. Perhaps she did, but it was too late now. ‘They’d be inside Sterries, anyway.’ She didn’t add what Wexford was thinking, that if Camaguehad kept them and if Natalie was an impostor, they would by now have been destroyed.
    ‘Then perhaps you can help me in another way. I gather Sir Manuel had no relatives in this country. Who is there I can call on who knew Mrs Arno when she was Natalie Camargue?’
    Burden’s Burberry was already hanging on the palm tree hatstand when Wexford walked into the Pearl of Africa. And Burden was