Wexford 10 - A Sleeping Life by Ruth Rendell Page A

eyes fixed piercingly on him. ‘Who’ll get the money?’
       ‘The money, Mrs Parker?’
       ‘Rhoda’s money. It’d have gone to him, being next of kin. I know that. Who’ll get it now? That’s what I’d like to know.’
       This aspect hadn’t occurred to him. ‘Maybe there isn’t any money. Few working people these days have much in the way of savings.’
       ‘Speak up, will you?’
       Wexford repeated what he had said, and Mrs Parker gave a scornful cackle. 'Course there’s money. She got that lot from her pools win, didn’t she? Wouldn’t have blued that, not Rhoda, she wasn’t one of your spendthrifts. I reckon you lot have been sitting about twiddling your thumbs or you’d have got to the bottom of it by now. A house there’ll be somewhere, filled up with good furniture, and a nice little sum in shares too. D’you want to know what I think? It’ll all go to Lilian Crown.’
       Rather unwillingly he considered what she had said. But would it go to Mrs Crown? Possibly, but for that intervening heir, James Comfrey. If she had had anything to leave and if she had died intestate, James Comfrey had for nine days been in possession of his daughter’s property. But a sister in-law wouldn’t automatically inherit from him, though her son, the mongol, if he were still alive . . . A nephew by marriage? He knew little of the law relating to inheritance, and it hardly seemed relevant now.
       ‘Mrs Parker,’ he said, pitching his voice loud, ‘you’re quite right when you say we haven’t got very far. But we do know Miss Comfrey was living under an assumed name, a false name. Do you follow me?’ She nodded impatiently. ‘Now when people do that, they often choose a name that’s familiar to them, a mother’s maiden name, for instance, or the name of some relative or childhood friend.’
       ‘Why ever would she do that?’
       ‘Perhaps only because her own name had very unpleasant associations for her. Do you know what her mother’s maiden name was?’
       Mrs Parker had it ready. ‘Crawford. Agnes and Lilian Crawford, they was. Change the name and not the letter, change for worse and not for better. Poor Agnes changed for worse all right, and the same applies to that Lilian, though it wasn’t a C for her the first time. Crown left her and he’s got another wife somewhere, I daresay, for all she says he’s dead.'
       ‘So she might have been calling herself Crawford?’ He was speaking his thoughts aloud. ‘Or Parker, since she was so fond of you. Or Rowlands after the editor of the old Gazette.’ This spoken reverie had scarcely been audible to Mrs Parker, and he bawled out his last suggestion. ‘Or Crown?’
       ‘Not Crown. She hadn’t no time for that Lilian. And no wonder, always mocking her and telling her to get herself a man.’ The old face contorted and Mrs Parker put up her fists as the aged do, recalling that far distant childhood when such a gesture was natural. ‘Why’d she call herself anything but her rightful name? She was a good woman was Rhoda, never did anything wrong nor underhand in her whole life.’
       Could you truthfully say that of anyone? Not, certainly, of Rhoda Comfrey who had stolen something she must have known would be precious to its owner, and whose life could be described as a masterpiece of underhandedness.
       ‘I’ll go out this way, Mrs Parker,’ he said, opening the french window to the garden because he didn’t want to encounter Nicky.
       ‘Mind you shut it behind you. They can talk about heat all they like, but my hands and feet are always cold like yours’ll be, young man, when you get to my age.’
       There was no sign of Mrs Crown. He hadn’t checked her movements on the night in question, but was it within the bounds of possibility that she had killed her niece? The motive was very tenuous, unless she knew of the existence of a will. Certainly there might be a will, deposited with a firm