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.” It was futile to explain how such generosity only increased the guilt she felt for avoiding Beatrix in recent months. She fell silent.
    “The residue of her estate,” Ramsden resumed, “devolves upon you, Mr Abberley. That comprises such capital as may be left after bequests and inheritance tax and such royalties as may continue to be 22

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    due under the estate of Miss Abberley’s late brother, Mr Tristram Abberley. Copyright in his works expires, I believe, at the end of next year.”
    “Except for the posthumously published poems, that’s correct,”
    said Maurice. “Perhaps it’s as well she never had to get used to doing without the income.”
    Perhaps Maurice was right, thought Charlotte. He had Ladram Avionics, after all, in which the investment of Abberley royalties had paid a handsome dividend. And she had her own substantial shareholding in the company, inherited from her mother. But Beatrix was likely to have given away as much as she had saved over the years.
    Though poverty would never have threatened her, the necessity to economize might have. That she had been spared the experience represented a meagre form of solace.
    Ramsden’s office was only a few doors from the premises of Rye’s principal undertaker. There Charlotte and Maurice were received with doleful solicitude and gently guided through the maze of funer-ary alternatives. Beatrix had not specified in her will whether she wished to be buried or cremated and neither Charlotte nor Maurice could remember her ever expressing a view on the subject. Her neat and unsentimental nature suggested, however, that cremation was the choice she would have been likely to make and on this they settled.
    Outside, the streets were crowded with shoppers and tourists.
    Their loud voices and gaping faces seemed to magnify the warmth of the afternoon to a single burning pitch. All Charlotte wanted was to be done with the business that had brought them to Rye, free of the commitments Beatrix had wished upon her. But to want, as she well knew, was not necessarily to achieve.
    “Do you think we should go up to the cottage?” asked Maurice.
    “The police will have finished by now and we could easily collect the key from Mrs Mentiply.”
    “I’d rather not. It’s too soon to start sorting through Beatrix’s possessions. I should feel she was there all the time, looking over my shoulder. Perhaps after the funeral.”
    “As her executor, I’m not sure I can wait that long. I’ll need to find her cheque books and bank statements for probate purposes. See if there are any unpaid bills about the place.”
    “Of course. I hadn’t thought of that.” It was typical of Maurice to

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    take his responsibilities seriously. Fortunately, she did not have to.
    “Can’t you go alone?” she asked, in a tone that urged him to say he could.
    “I can, Charlie, yes. With your permission. You are the new owner, remember.”
    “Don’t be silly. Of course you have my permission. Go ahead. I’m only grateful I don’t have to take the task on myself.”
    “Very well. I’ll come back tomorrow and try to sort everything out. If that’s what you want.”
    “It is. Definitely.”
    Maurice suggested they eat out that evening and Charlotte agreed enthusiastically, hoping good food and drink consumed in pleasant surroundings might lift her spirits. Before they set off, however, there was one duty to be performed which she knew she could neither postpone nor avoid. Lulu Harrington had to be told.
    Charlotte had never met Lulu, even though she and Beatrix had been friends from schooldays. She had taught at Cheltenham Ladies’
    College for forty-odd years and now lived in a flat in the town, enjoying what Charlotte imagined to be a fittingly demure retirement.
    When she answered the telephone, she did so in text-book style, stating the exchange as well as the number and pronouncing all three syllables in