The Wilt Inheritance (2 page)

‘Suppose so – I’ve nothing better to do with myself. Thank God I kept away,’ Wilt muttered as Braintree hurried back out. For the remainder of the afternoon Wilt sat in the Staff Room, occasionally wondering about Inspector Flint’s assessment of his ability to
attract crime. ‘I am a talker, not a doer,’ he said to himself. He’d have given anything to have had the old Fenland Tech back. He’d had a sense of doing something useful in those years, even if that only amounted to having arguments with apprentice technicians and making them think.

By the time Braintree returned, Wilt was thoroughly depressed.

‘You look as if you’ve seen a ghost,’ Braintree said.

‘I have. The ghost of things past and opportunities lost. As for the future …’

‘What you need is a stiff drink, old chap.’

‘You’re damned right I do and it won’t be a pint of beer this time. Whisky is what I need.’

‘So do I after that verbal punch-up.’

‘Was the meeting as bad as all that?’

‘Let’s just say that in the end it couldn’t have been much worse … Which pub do you want to go to?’

‘In my present mood I suggest the Hangman’s Arms. It will be quiet and I’ll be able to walk, or at least stumble, home from there,’ said Wilt.

‘I’ll say! By the time I’ve had a few, I’m not going to risk driving either. Nowadays those buggers will breathalyse you as soon as look at you if you’re within a bloody mile of a pub.’

There was no one in the bar when they entered. The place was as grim as its name, and the barman
looked as though he’d been a hangman himself once and, given the opportunity, would be happy to demonstrate his skills on either of them.

‘Well, what’s it to be?’ he asked gruffly.

‘Two double Scotches and go easy with the soda,’ Braintree told him.

Wilt noted the order and sat down in a dark and grubby corner. The situation must be genuinely dire for Peter Braintree to order doubles and go easy on the soda.

‘Well,’ Wilt grunted when his friend brought the drinks over to the round table, ‘spit it out. Was it that bad? Yes, clearly it was. Out with it then.’

‘I’d say “Cheers”, but in the circumstances … Well, mud in your eye!’

‘All I want to know is, have I been given the boot?’

Braintree shook his head and sighed.

‘No, but you’re not out of the wood yet,’ he said. ‘You were saved by the Vice-Chancellor. Correction: the Vice-Principal. Sorry, I know how you feel about these pompous new titles. As you’re bound to know also, Mayfield was in the Chair and doesn’t exactly like you.’

Wilt bridled.

‘That’s the understatement of the decade.’

‘Agreed. But he loathes Dr Board even more, and since Board is Head of Modern Languages, and languages are vital if they’re going to go on calling the place a university, there’s damn all Mayfield can do to get rid
of him. So, because you’re a friend of Board, and because Mayfield doesn’t like you in the first place, it was starting to look bad for Computer Studies …’

‘Meaning my job is at stake?’

‘Well, yes, but wait for it: the Vice-Principal came to your rescue by pointing out that the Communications Faculty … sorry, the Communications Department … has many more students than any other, and now that History has gone and Maths is down to around forty which is even lower than Science, the Univers— the College can’t afford to dispense with Communications. And that includes you.’

‘Why? They could find someone else to take my place.’

‘The V-P doesn’t think so. He put the boot into Mayfield by asking him if he’d care to volunteer to take your job on, and Mayfield said he wouldn’t dream of dealing with the hooligans in your department. Oh, yes, the V-P had him by the short and curlies there! Mayfield had gone quite white by then but the Vice-Principal still hadn’t finished. He said you handled the brutes very deftly and …’

‘That’s very decent of him. Did he actually say “deftly”?’

‘His exact word, and he was backed up by Board who said you had a real gift plus years of experience in dealing with blighters he wouldn’t go near with an AK47 or something even more lethal. At one point he called you “something of a genius”.’

Wilt gulped at his whisky.

‘I must say, Board’s always been a good friend,’ he murmured. ‘But he’s gone above and beyond this time. No wonder Vark didn’t want me there.’ He looked down at his glass gloomily. ‘They may be hooligans but some of my lads are good-hearted enough. The main thing is to let them get on with what they really like to do.’

‘You mean, muck around playing games and surfing the internet for porn?’

Wilt shook his head.

‘They can’t get on to the pornography sites. I got a couple of technicians over from Electronics to block that area off, and in any case it costs money to download the really hard filth and none of my lot have credit cards. Or only ones they’ve stolen from someone, of course, which don’t usually work on the internet.’

‘Oh, well, that puts paid to Mayfield’s argument that they should never have forced all those computers on to you,’ Braintree said.

Wilt finished his whisky.

‘Shouldn’t have closed the old Tech down,’ he declared. ‘Still, I’ve got something to celebrate. At least my job’s safe for the time being and the Vice-Principal isn’t going to resign any time soon. He earns such a whacking great salary, lucky bugger, and so long as he’s around it sounds as though dear Professor Mayfield’s scuppered. I’m going to have another Scotch. No, don’t move. I’ll get them.’

This time he ordered triples.

‘I’d love to have seen Mayfield go white. He’s no more a professor than I am. Let’s drink to the V-P … and to Dr Board.’

Despite the row with Henry the previous night Eva had had one of her better days. In fact, it had been her best day for a long time. For some months now she had been cultivating a very upper-class woman who regularly visited the Harmony Care and Community Centre where Eva helped out. Lady Clarissa came down once a week from North Fenland to see her uncle, a retired colonel who had lost a leg in the Second World War.

‘I’ve found a perfect home for Uncle Harold,’ she told Eva when she arrived. ‘It’s called the Last Post. It’s quite near here in Clarton Road, and a doctor lives just two doors down the street. But, best of all, it’s especially for retired officers and the woman who
runs it has a son who was in the army. Obviously he wasn’t in the army during Uncle’s war because he was far too young if he was even born at the time … but he was definitely some sort of officer in a war somewhere. He works in the Black Bear Hotel now. In fact, he’s the manager according to Matron, but he still puts his old uniform on from time to time and she’s awfully proud of him.’

The old man sitting in the wheelchair beside her, a tartan rug draped over his knees, looked up at her with a livid expression and swore that he wasn’t going anywhere called the Last Post because that was what the buglers played when they buried the dead, and he’d seen too much of that in his time.

‘Well, it’s a lot better than some of the other places I’ve visited and the Matron there was only too pleased to take you in. She’s got a son who was an officer in some county regiment or other so you’ll have special treatment.’

Lady Clarissa turned to Eva to explain, ‘Uncle lost his leg at Arnhem.’

‘At the crossing of the Rhine, damn it,’ grumbled the old man. ‘Can’t you get anything right?’

‘Oh, well, somewhere in Europe.’

Uncle Harold raised his voice.

‘In Germany, confound you!’ He scowled. ‘What about women? I suppose that place is crawling with old hags. I see enough of them here already.’

Lady Clarissa sighed and shook her head.

‘There are no female residents. Well, except for Matron, of course.’

But the old man still wasn’t satisfied.

‘Trust you to choose a nursing home in Clarton Road. There’s a graveyard there, you know.’

‘Well, it was a choice between that or one called Journey’s End which, come to think of it, is conveniently close to the Crematorium. Perhaps you’d prefer that,’ Lady Clarissa suggested sweetly.

‘The Crematorium, damnation!’ squawked Uncle Harold. ‘I wonder why you don’t call it the Incinerator. I don’t want what remains of my body crisped up, thank you very much. Bad enough that the ruddy Hun barbecued my leg when they blew it up.’

‘Oh, all right, I’ll see to it that you aren’t cremated then. And since we’re on the subject, where exactly do you want to be buried? Not that I hope it is any time soon, Uncle dear.’

‘Hmm, you must think I was born yesterday. I know you have a very good reason for coming to visit me … damned if I can work out what it is, though. God knows, I haven’t got two pennies to rub together. But I’ve been thinking about this and I want to be buried in Kenya, where I was born and brought up.’

‘But that’s in Africa! It would cost a fortune to get you there … and anyway it’s too far for the family to visit.’

‘As though I care! Not one of them has visited me for years and years while I’m still alive. What could it possibly matter once I’m dead?’

‘Well, I must say, that’s not a very nice thing to say and anyway it’s not even true,’ protested Lady Clarissa. ‘I come all the way down here, week after week, and where would that leave me if you were buried in Kenya? I’d have nothing local to visit. You’re being very ungrateful, if you don’t mind my saying so, and after I’ve found you a really good nursing home too.’

‘Possibly,’ said the old man. ‘Though you could have found one with a more cheerful name.’

‘Well, if you don’t like it there I’ll try to find somewhere else,’ she sighed. After kissing her uncle on his forehead she left him there, still muttering bitterly.

‘I’m more than ready to go back to the hotel,’ Lady Clarissa told Eva as they went out to the car park together. ‘Uncle isn’t the easiest person to deal with. And I’m so delighted you can join me there for lunch, my dear. Why not come in my car?’

They got into her Jaguar and drove to the Black Bear in silence.

‘I think I’ll have a nice sherry,’ Eva said when Lady Clarissa asked her what she’d like as an aperitif. Instead of her usual sweet sherry, though, she was given a Tio Pepe while Lady Clarissa had a very large dry martini.

‘That’s better,’ she sighed as she took a great gulp of her drink and settled back in a chair. ‘Now then, last week Miss Clancy at the day centre mentioned that your husband lectures at Fenland University so I suppose he must be a very good teacher. Do you know which university he went to himself?’

‘Cambridge,’ said Eva, who actually had no idea.

‘Mmmm. You wouldn’t happen to know which college, would you?’

‘I didn’t know him then but he’s spoken about one called Porterhouse.’

‘But that’s marvellous! My husband was there too so he’ll be delighted to have a fellow Old Porterthusian up at the Hall. Someone for him to talk to. I’m afraid he gets terribly lonely.

‘Now, Eva my dear, what I want to know is whether you think your husband might be prepared to tutor my son Edward in history to A-level standard? You see, I’m determined to get him into Cambridge, and preferably Porterhouse.’

‘I’m sure he would,’ Eva said with a demure smile. ‘In fact, I know it.’

‘Oh, that’s wonderful. Of course Edward should have been taught much better at his laughably named public school – I can’t think of anything less public given that it costs an absolute fortune and schools like that are usually miles and miles from anywhere! The one we sent him to near Lidlow was useless. He has yet to pass history despite sitting it three times. The
place cost us a fortune, my dear,’ she repeated, signalling to the wine waiter. ‘Another dry martini – and this time use Tanqueray fifty per cent and less Noilly Prat. I could hardly taste the gin in the last one, it was all vermouth. And another fino for my guest.’

‘Oh, I don’t think I’d better,’ said Eva, who’d never had a dry sherry before and hadn’t liked it either. ‘You see, I’ve got to drive this afternoon and I don’t want to lose my driving licence.’

‘My dear, two finos aren’t going to put you over the limit,’ Lady Clarissa told her.

Under the influence of the previous sherry and an obviously rich woman who called her ‘my dear’ and treated her as an equal, Eva relented.

‘I do wish you’d let me pay for this round,’ she said but, fortunately, Lady Clarissa waved the offer away.

‘It goes on my room bill. I always stay down here and do some shopping when I visit Uncle.’ She lit a cigarette. ‘In any case, my husband pays for everything. Such a sweet man.’

‘But what happens when you drive home? I mean, if the police breathalyse you.’

‘You don’t seriously think I’m going to drive? I have a chauffeur. Actually he’s the local garage man but he doubles as a chauffeur. I gave him the morning off but he’ll be lurking somewhere, ready to take me back. Of course, I never drive over the limit at home either,
but then the police there never stop me. That’s one of the advantages of being married to George. You see, he’s a JP,’ said Lady Clarissa, and, realising that Eva still didn’t understand, continued, ‘Well, actually, if he’d been more ambitious he would almost certainly have been a QC by now but he’s too lazy. We live virtually separate lives.’ She finished her gin and modicum of Noilly Prat and got to her feet. ‘Let’s go through and have lunch.’

Eva, whose knowledge of acronyms was virtually non-existent, especially those beginning with a ‘J’, and who had even less of an idea what a ‘QC’ might be, was only too glad to move on. She left her sherry and followed Lady Clarissa into the dining room. By the time they’d finished lunch, with which Eva had been persuaded to have a glass of white wine, she was in a decidedly good mood. With coffee Lady Clarissa, who had finished the bottle of white burgundy they’d had with the meal, ordered two Armagnacs and insisted Eva try one. She sipped at it but Clarissa ordered her to drink it all.

‘Down the hatch,’ she said, and drained her own glass. ‘You’ll find it a perfect digestif.’

Eva did as she was told and wished she hadn’t. Only then did the subject of Wilt’s salary for tutoring Lady Clarissa’s son come up.

‘We’re prepared to pay your husband fifteen hundred pounds a week and all found. If he can get Edward into Porterhouse there’ll be a bonus of five thousand
pounds. I mean, the summer holidays last two months so there’s plenty of time. I realise this is frightfully short notice and you might already have a holiday planned …’