“Would you like me to read the file,” Theo suggested.

“Oh, no. At the point of his death, he would like all his art auctioned off. All proceeds will go to the,” he read further, “Action for Amputee Foundation. I don’t know much about that foundation but I assume it’s to support those who are missing limbs. Children, the like.”

“Yes, I suppose. Is that where all his money is going? What about his nurses?”

“His nurses? I believe he left them a little allowance; it was not much, just a few thousand pounds each. I don’t have the exact figure, it is a percentage, a small percentage, of the total profits after all his outstanding debts, or costs, have been paid out. Which I assume will depend on what he makes on his art at the auction. I know when he had the Will drawn up, the nurse with him, I don’t think she believed she would be in the Will at all. Just doing her job. I doubt if most nurses believe they will be in the Will, especially ones that are paid by only pension and severance. Do you?”

“It really is difficult to say, I guess we are most interested in finding out who would have a motive, and in most homicide cases, money is often a motive. So, if someone, anyone had something to gain by Mr. Tipring’s death, we were hoping you could provide that information.”

“I don’t know much about motive but I don’t think money is a motive. Not in this case. I’m sorry.”

“And the earrings? What about the earrings? Did he want to sell those?”

“The earrings?” asked Theo.

“Yes, remember the earrings we saw on the man’s chest of drawers?” Dorland said.

Again, Nick continued reading the fine print. “Yes, the jewelry, he has asked that they be buried with him. He wanted to be buried, not cremated. He even gave me photos of each earring.” He pulled from the back of the file some enlarged sheets of photographic paper. “He brought those in himself, gave them to me for the file. I guess that way we would know what was to be buried from what wasn’t. Do these look like the pieces of jewelry to you?”

He held the pictures up.

“It’is difficult to tell. I only had a quick glance at the earrings at the house, I really couldn’t say. What about you, Dorland?”

“No, sorry, I also did not study the jewelry that well, and as a man, it’s difficult to tell the difference.”

“Did he ever tell you why the earrings were so important?”

“I assumed they were family heirlooms. Perhaps they belonged to his mother or sister—sentimental value.”

Theo thought about this. “I doubt they’re from his family. As far as I know, he didn’t get on with his family and so any jewelry wouldn’t hold sentimental value.”

“Perhaps.”

Theo turned to the solicitor and asked, “And there’s nothing else, nothing in the Will that we will find interesting? What of the house and his belongings?”

“The house also goes to charity, and a percentage of the amount received will be split among the nurses. It is all really simple with only three requests, one, that his art be auctioned off, two, that he be buried with his jewelry and three, the rest of the money be given to charity.”

“Among who? Did he name the nurses?”

“Yes, one of the nurses was a Ms. Megan Perkins. She was recently added, only a month ago. Mr. Tipring had rung to add her and to take another nurse off his list.”

“Really? Who was taken off the list?”

“Um, a Mrs. Hathaway, Heather Hathaway.”

“Did Mr. Tipring say why he took her off the list?”

“No, all he said was that he was taking her off and adding Ms. Perkins, he didn’t sound angry about it, just matter of fact.”

“Who was the other nurse?”

“A Ms. White, Camilla White, I believe that she was the one that Mr. Tipring brought in with him when he first had the Will drafted.”

“Do you know where Ms. White lives?”

“I have her address, but I don’t know if it’s still correct.”

“I would be extremely grateful if you write out the names of those nurses and their addresses, if you have them.”

Nick complied.

“And if you’re done with the earrings, I will need to get them from you,” Nick said.

Chapter Eighteen

When Theo and Dorland went to the address the solicitor had on file for Heather Hathaway’s flat. The landlord informed them she had left London for a week’s holiday in France and would not return, he believed, until the next day. And that meant their main suspect apparently had an airtight alibi.

Instead, they searched for the whereabouts of Ms. Camilla White. The phone number the solicitor had given them had been disconnected, and having decided that White was too common a name to try in the phone directory they decided to visit the last known address.

It was no surprise Ms. White didn’t live there anymore. The owner of said flat, Mrs. Mead, was however the owner of a new coffee shop on the ground floor and felt hospitable enough to invite them for tea and scones. Dorland rubbed his stomach in anticipation.

“Who are you looking for again?” the old woman asked. She poured hot water from the tap into a large teapot and sat it on the counter in front of them.

“A Ms. or Mrs. White. Do you know her?”

She placed loose tea into a metal strainer and dumped the hot water from the pot. After placing the strainer into the pot, she refilled the pot with boiling water. When she realized the men were watching her every step, she said, “Tea has to be done right. I know Ms. White. I’ve met her on many occasions. She likes my tea and every time she pops round, she comes in.”

“So you know her new address?” Dorland asked as he placed a large morsel of scone in his mouth.

“Yes. Ms. White—well, that’s not her name anymore, it’s now Mrs. Henderson—would come for her mail, any mail that wasn’t forwarded to her new address—mostly catalogues and rubbish, really. She gave me her new number and address, but it has been about a year and a half since she’s come in.”

“Well, it would be very helpful if you could give it to us.”

She sat back and eyed them suspiciously. “Ms. White . . . er, Henderson, is not in any trouble is she?”

“Oh no, nothing like that,” said Dorland, reaching for another scone. “We need information about a previous employer.”

That seemed to appease Mrs. Mead and she went on to tell them about the history of tea and her family’s important contribution to the tea-making process.

Mrs. Henderson lived near the outskirts of London. The nurse had done well for herself; the three-story house in Golder’s Green, Hampstead was very different from the small flat she had previously in East London. Vines grew up the front of the house partially blocking the view from the front hall window and another vine had wound itself around the garden arbor across the front path.

The door to the large house was opened by an older woman who, though dressed smartly, was what Theo suspected was her housekeeper. However, Theo asked, “Mrs. Henderson?”

“She is in the garden. Can I tell her who’s calling?”

Theo had his warrant card ready. The housekeeper escorted them through the beautiful back reception room with antique fireplace to the gardens with manicured lawns and trimmed trees. A woman sat stretched on a lounge chair reading an antique furniture magazine. It took her a few moments to notice them.

“Sit.” The woman said to them, motioning at two chairs that were about twenty feet from where she sat.

Dorland dragged two heavy metal chairs across the grass. Theo took his notebook out and sat down.

“We’re the police, Mrs. Henderson. We’re here about a man you used to work for, a Mr. Tipring.”

“Oh, I thought you were here about the books. I’ve decided to sell my late husband’s books. They cover all sorts of subjects, mostly geophysics and other environmental subjects. Although, they may be useful in a police library. They are, well some of them are, up-to-date and current. So what do you wish to ask me about Mr. Tipring?”