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I rested a hand platonically on her upper arm for all the comfort that might bring. "It will all work out, I promise," I said with more conviction than I really felt. Mayfield looked up at me again, the tears making her luminously large eyes shine brightly, and put her own hand on top of mine. She seemed to take some comfort from it. She might have deserved some at this point. "Thank you," she said simply. I froze, forming a motionless tableau with Mayfield in her chair for a few moments, then I drew my hand away. "Can I make another call?" I asked politely. She handed over the phone without saying a word. She didn't seem very happy about it, though. Most people up here on the surface aren't aware of it, but there are services which allow a telephone user to communicate with the phones in the Lower Realms. You have to be a little bit patient, of course, and know exactly what you are doing. For obvious reasons, these services are designed to be opaque to anybody who just randomly happens upon a working telephone number. But, for a not-so-modest annual fee - which I am normally able to find out of my overdraft - I have access to my telephone messaging service even when I am on the surface. There were two messages for me. The first was from Sergeant Tewel. Something of the detective's normally deadpan delivery came over even in the words read out my some anonymous female voice retained by the messaging agency. Not that he had been his normal calm self over the last few days, I mused abstractedly. On previous encounters, I had seen Tewel retain a sense of professional detachment in the most extreme of circumstances; when others were yelling or crying or banging their heads against the wall, he would carry on, issuing instructions in a dispassionate and reasonable voice. But recently, something had changed; something had engaged his emotions on this case, some powerfully strong emotion. And I still hadn't worked out what it was. His words were clear enough, though. "I need to interview Mayfield Strowan urgently. I believe you know where she is and can get a message to her. Tell her she is advised to make herself available at the precinct station immediately. She can bring a lawyer if she feels she needs to." The last piece of advice was redundant. This is what the law allows. But if she didn't turn up, then it was possible that a warrant for her arrest would be issued. And then we would be hiding from the law as well as from the bad guys, whoever they were. The second message was more of a surprise. It was from Almon Methven. "I am the executer of Lady Strowan's will," the message began. That made sense, I suppose. Almon Methven, and his father before him, had been representing Strowan Westwood's business interests in life, and might have been expected to represent them after death, too. "I'm trying to reach Miss Mayfield Westwood," it went on, "If you know where she is, then she should understand that the reading of the will in the Court of Probate will take place in two days time. Miss Mayfield would be well advised to attend. In fact, she must attend. It is most important." Methven added the time and place unambiguously, then rang off. I checked the date of the message. It had come in yesterday. The session at the Probate Court was tomorrow morning, just as Mayfield had told me earlier. No change, no delay possible. I rang off, my thoughts racing. Mayfield's hearing was good, as all Goblins. She would have had no problem with hearing the voice on the telephone across the room. "What should we do?" she asked. "Stay here," I said firmly, "Where it's safe."
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Part 47