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help him, not Stoney and not herself. He said nothing, but he followed the doctor silently into the smaller room.
Stoney was lying on his back on a stretcher laid alongside the dining-room table. Underneath the light, he looked smaller than he had standing up, and he was fully dressed, except for his shoes. His hair was ruffled. He looked as if he could have been asleep, apart from the large and bloody bruise on his temple.
Lucas stared at him in silence, remembering the things they had endured together: a jumble of victories and losses, laughter and pain, sudden surprises. But most of all there had been a deep loyalty that had tied everything together. Perhaps that was what friendship was.
“Is this Mr. Canning, sir?” the policeman asked quietly.
“Oh, yes,” Lucas said as he turned to Hardesty. “What was it? A stroke? A heart attack? Or did he hit his head on the way down? That looks like a hell of a blow.” He frowned. “I presume you’ve looked at that pretty carefully.”
“He was found at the foot of the stairs,” Hardesty explained. “If he had the attack somewhere near the top, he’d have fallen the rest of the way hard, but there aren’t any marks that we can see, apart from that one. The dead don’t bleed; I dare say you know.”
“But he bled,” Josephine pointed out.
“Not badly, really,” Hardesty replied. “We’ll see if there are any other bruises or injuries when we examine him more closely, but I don’t see that it makes any difference. The police say there’s no sign of anyone else having been here. There’s definitely no indication of a break-in or a struggle.” He turned back to Lucas. “I’m perfectly sure of that. Don’t distress yourself. It’s a shock to his friends and family, but it’s a very quick way to go.” He gave a rather stiff smile, not out of lack of sympathy, more probably because he had had to say much the same to many people, and he knew it was little enough comfort.
Josephine said only what was necessary to be polite. But after the doctor and the police had gone, taking Stoney’s body with them, she and Lucas were left in the house to go through his papers and make any notifications that might be necessary. They also had to inform Stoney’s relatives, find his will, and perform all the other duties following a sudden death.
They heard the car pull away and silence settled again. Lucas turned to Josephine. He wanted to determine if anything about Stoney’s death made her uneasy, or if it was only sadness that took the light out of her face. If it was as the doctor and police had said, there was no proof that this was anything other than an ordinary domestic death, inevitable at some time. And Stoney’s death had been comparatively easy. No fear, no indignity, and possibly only a moment’s pain.
He looked at her to read her face. Was it just grief, or was there something else?
“I’m so sorry, my dear,” she said quietly. “It’s a shock, even though he was old. Pieces of our lives being chipped away reminds us of our own fragility, and how precious life is.” She moved closer to him and touched his arm very gently. “What is it? Don’t let guilt eat at you. You were kind to him; and you could not have prevented this.”
He put his hand over hers. “I suppose not, but when he came to me he was seriously worried about a lot of figures he’d collected. He thought there was something badly wrong. I agreed with him, but I didn’t do anything about it.”
“What could you have done?” she asked reasonably.
“I don’t know.” Still, he had the feeling he could have done something.
Josephine was waiting.
“He had a lot of figures,” he told her again. “He said they showed some pretty large movements of money. It seems he kept detailed records of the amounts, as well as their transfers to unknown destinations.”
“Theft,” she said.
“Stoney didn’t know, but that’s not what he thought.” Lucas tried to remember exactly what Stoney had said, but the words eluded him. Only the impression was sharp in his mind, the worry and the fear. “I think he suspected the money was being hidden in some secret fund.”
“Belonging to people we should be afraid of?” Her eyes were very steady, her face pale now.
He looked at her and saw a shadow cross her eyes. “Yes,” he agreed. “Very probably Nazi money. But precisely who and what for, I have no idea. He was going to follow it up.” It was barely a question now. In his own mind, he was certain of it.
“Yes, of course,” she said with a tight smile. “What else could he possibly do? And he told you because he wanted to see if you shared his fears.” She bit her lip very slightly. “And he was right, and that is why he is dead.” That was now her assumption, and it was up to him to deny it.
“I can’t argue with that,” he said. “I’m trying, and it doesn’t work.”
“I have to know,” she insisted.
“Of course you do, my dear. It was unfinished business. If you are right, then there is someone guilty of Stoney’s death. What greater and more dangerous purpose had he begun to discover that whoever is behind it had to kill him?”
“What do you think we should do?” she asked.
“We?” He felt his throat tighten at the word.
“Of course we,” she said tartly. “I suggest we search the house, in case he left you some kind of message, or at least evidence we could follow. And we had better do it now, in case other people come to the same conclusion as soon as they hear of Stoney’s death.”
“You don’t think there might be someone responsible for it who knows far better than we do exactly what happened?” he asked, thinking aloud. “I am afraid I do.”
She looked doubtful. “In that case, they will already have searched. If we can’t find proof of that, I’m not sure what there is left for us to do.” She looked around the room, seeing shelves and shelves of books until there was hardly any wall space left. The few pictures were landscapes, with high views from the Pennines, smooth water in the Lake District, always a sense of space and memories. And imagination. “I see nothing disturbed here,” she added.
