Monica gave a small gasp.
‘I hadn’t thought of that.’
‘You wouldn’t. I bet it’ll be the immediate Stanton reaction, though.’
But although easy-going, Monica Plowman could be persistent where her sense of right and wrong was involved.
‘But Mark, suppose Uncle Miles really needs help? Just think—’
The sound of an approaching car brought her husband to his feet, and sent him to the window.
‘They’re back,’ he said. ‘Shirley’s just getting out. I’ll ring at once. Gratifying to be a beat ahead of her for once.’
As he anticipated, his sister’s horrified reception of the news was tinged with annoyance at getting it from himself. This expressed itself in a sharp enquiry about the source of his information. She rang off quickly, and within ten minutes Gerald Stanton drove along the Crescent in the direction of Edgehill Court.
Neither of the Plowmans noticed his return in the surprisingly short space of half an hour. In his absence Shirley had made herself some tea, and was sitting in her elegant drawing room drinking it. As he appeared she looked at him without speaking, her eyebrows raised interrogatively.
‘No go,’ Gerald told her. ‘He’s given orders that he’ll only see the police or Doctor Lang. I tried to get past Maggie, but short of brute force it couldn’t be done.’
He subsided into a chair.
‘I’ve always said that woman was too big for her boots,’ Shirley observed as she filled his cup.
‘I agree. All the same, the poor old boy may feel he just can’t face anybody who’s personally involved with him. He must be completely shattered: his entire blueprint for the future centred on Roger, and he belongs to the stiff upper lip generation. All I could do was to tell Maggie to let him know I’d been over, and would come at any moment if he wanted me.’
Gerald accepted the cup of tea, and helped himself to a slice of cake. Shirley leant back in her chair and considered.
‘Don’t let’s pretend we aren’t wondering where we may go from here,’ she said, after a pause. ‘Suppose I write a note, and go over in the car and drop it in?’
He looked at her speculatively.
‘Just bung it into the letterbox, you mean? Yes, I think that would be the right touch. Don’t knock up Maggie. One doesn’t want to appear obvious.’
DEATHS
LEWARNE, Roger Miles and Celia Jane, as the result of a motor accident ON SATURDAY, 20 November. Cremation private. No letters, please.
While the notice in The Times was brief, the following week’s issue of the Corbury Courier gave the disaster full coverage, including the inquest proceedings, which were adjourned to enable the police to make a full enquiry into the cause of the accident.
Sir Miles had insisted on being present at both the inquest and the cremation, and also at the short service of committal of the ashes in Corbury churchyard, next to his wife’s grave. None of his many local friends were invited to be present, and after Celia LeWarne’s parents and near relatives had left Corbury, he reverted to the seclusion of the days immediately following the disaster. It was nearly the end of the following week before Gerald Stanton was summoned to Edgehill Court.
As he drove out to it after supper, he admitted to a degree of inward excitement. As Sir Miles’s solicitor he knew well that Roger LeWarne’s death left the old baronet without a single known family connection. Shirley, his god-daughter, was already down for a useful legacy in the existing will, and there were no other godchildren whose ownership of the Court could be considered seriously on social grounds. So, if not Shirley, then who?
Gerald turned in at the drive gates, and drew up at the front door. He paused for a moment for a look at the perfect Regency exterior of the house, then went up the steps, bracing himself for a vitally important interview.
Maggie Marsh, a muted version of her normal self, ushered him into the study. He walked across the room with outstretched hand, genuinely moved by Sir Miles’s stricken, but controlled appearance.
‘Uncle Miles,’ he said, ‘I’m no good at putting these things into words, but you’ve hardly been out of our thoughts since this ghastly thing happened. And I know this is true of a good many people in Corbury.’
‘Thank you, my boy.’ Sir Miles indicated a chair drawn up on the opposite side of the hearth. ‘Sit down. Smoke, if you want to. Yes, I’ve sensed a lot of sympathy and goodwill,’ he went on, taking up Gerald’s remark, ‘and this brings me to what I want to discuss with you. You’ve handled my affairs very well since Harrison’s death, young though you are, and I’ve complete confidence that you’ll wind up my estate competently when I’ve gone. It won’t be long now.’
‘Don’t say that, Uncle Miles,’ Gerald protested. ‘We—’ The old man cut him off, raising his hand.
‘What have I got to live for now, my boy? All my plans and hopes for those two living here at the Court and raising a family have come to nothing, and the LeWarnes are at the end of their long road. All that remains is for me to dispose of my assets in a manner in keeping with our traditions. I have been giving a lot of thought to this matter during the past fortnight.’
He paused. Gerald Stanton’s trained ear detected an impersonal note which was not encouraging.
‘Obviously,’ Sir Miles resumed, ‘I must make a fresh will, and to put my mind at rest I want you to draft it for me as quickly as possible. Briefly, this is to be the gist of it. I propose to increase most of the legacies to individuals and charities in my existing will, but the legatees remain the same, so that presents no difficulty. Roger, as you know, was my residuary legatee, inheriting this place and its contents, and the rest of my money. It’s this aspect of the situation that’s been on my mind, pretty well day and night, and I want to get it settled. You’ll be glad to know that I’ve come to a decision that satisfies me.’
Gerald Stanton made an acquiescent murmur, and extracted a writing pad from his briefcase. He sat waiting, by now convinced that some of Sir Miles’s favourite good causes were going to get the residuary estate.
‘LeWarnes have lived here for a long time,’ Sir Miles went on, after another pause, ‘and I like to think that over the years we’ve been of service to the people of Corbury and round about. Well, I want something of this service to go on when there are none of us left. I’ve decided to leave the town Edgehill Court, as it stands, and an adequate sum for its future maintenance.’
Completely taken by surprise, and bitterly disappointed by the sweeping character of the bequest, Gerald Stanton was, for the moment, bereft of speech. Then, glancing up, he met the tired eyes, and recognised the irritation in them even before Sir Miles spoke.
‘Well, what’s the matter? Don’t you think it’s a good plan in the light of Roger’s death and of what I’ve just been saying to you? There can’t be any legal obstacle, surely? As Town Clerk and a qualified solicitor you ought to know.’
‘As far as I can see, none whatever, Uncle Miles,’ Gerald told him, taking a firm grip on himself. ‘Of course, bequests of this type need thinking out in detail. For instance, you may wish to place restrictions on the use of the property. Then there’s the question of the right of alienation at some future date. Trustees—’
Sir Miles broke in impatiently.
‘What I want is for the place to be secured to the people of Corbury in perpetuity, as far as this is legally possible. The house is scheduled for preservation, so you chaps on the Council can’t pull it down, or start messing it about either, so that should ensure its suitable use. You could move the museum up here. With these Roman remains being excavated it could do with more space. A lot of interesting stuff may come to light. Chamber music concerts in the drawing room. Conferences. That sort of thing. And if the money I’m leaving for maintenance is competently invested, there should be ample funds for keeping the grounds in decent shape, as well as the house. I like to think of people enjoying themselves up here with their children. Their children,’ he repeated, half
to himself.
Gerald Stanton, who had been making rapid notes, looked up to meet a keen glance.
‘I hope I’ve made myself clear, my boy? It’s up to you to sort out the details, and get it all into legal jargon. Now, about the increased legacies.’
Sir Miles took up a sheet of writing paper, and began to read from it. Gerald heard that, as one of the executors, he had been left a thousand pounds, and that the original legacy of two thousand pounds to Shirley had been raised to five. His murmur of appreciation was brushed aside. A token bequest of five hundred pounds to Mark Plowman as the son of an old friend was to be a thousand. The legacies to the National Trust, and other organisations concerned with preservation and the welfare of children were substantially increased.
‘Well, that’s it,’ Sir Miles concluded. ‘Have you got it all down? Right.’ He dropped the paper into the fire. ‘How long is it going to take you to draw up the will? I realise I’m not your only client, of course.’
Gerald Stanton achieved what he hoped was a warm smile.
‘You’re in rather a special category, though, Uncle Miles. I think I could bring along a draft by the end of next week, if that would do?’
‘Good. Just let me have a ring when you’re coming. And, by the way, not a word of this must get out. There’d be too many chaps with an eye to future commercial possibilities. I’m not for a moment suggesting you’re personally indiscreet yourself, as you know perfectly well, but what about your office staff?’
‘That needn’t worry you at all. I shall keep the whole matter in my own hands. I do quite a lot of work at home in the evenings, you know. Shirley’s one of the rare women who understand about professional discretion. She never asks questions. Incidentally she’s away at the moment, at an exhibition got up by one of her societies, so I’ll have plenty of time.’
‘Good. As I said, I’ll be thankful to get all this settled. Shirley ought to have been trained for a profession herself — she’s got the brains for it. James Plowman was a fool to leave Mark the sole control of the Pottery. I hear it’s doing badly.’
‘Only too true, I’m afraid,’ Gerald told him, gathering up his notes and preparing to leave.
He drove himself home with an overwhelming sense of anti-climax. So that was that. The pipe dream had been really exhilarating while it lasted. To own the status- symbol of Edgehill Court, with ample funds to live up to it. Shirley, reticent by nature, had said little directly about her hopes, but he knew her well enough to realise how sharp her disappointment would be. He must get it across to her indirectly that her godfather had had other ideas. Ideas that were going to involve a hell of a lot of bother when the old boy died, he reflected gloomily in his capacity of Town Clerk. It was easy to foresee the endless argument and rows that the bequest would generate. Uncle Miles was dead right about not letting anything leak out now. People would be jockeying for position at once. Not that there was any harm in unobtrusively looking around oneself. If the present museum were put up for sale, anyone owning the small shops next to it would be sitting pretty. The site would be worth quite a bit with Corbury expanding at its present rate.
After Gerald Stanton had left, Sir Miles sat on for a time, thinking in a desultory fashion, and drawing some comfort from his conviction that he had made the best possible decision in the matter of his estate. Presently, aware that nothing would induce the faithful Maggie Marsh to retire for the night until she had heard him go up to his bedroom, he levered himself up out of his chair, and put a fireguard in front of the smouldering logs in the grate.
He had been sleeping so badly since Roger and Celia were killed, sitting up in bed half the night making notes of his ideas for his new will. Now that Gerald had got his instructions, perhaps he would be able to read himself to sleep once again.
He stood for a few moments trying to recapture an infinitely remote time in another world, when he had been reading Framley Parsonage as his bedside book, and looking forward to the young people coming down at the weekend. With a sigh, he started on the journey upstairs.
Rather to his surprise he did have a better night, and during the following week a half-unconscious adjustment to the changed circumstances of his life began. A few old friends were allowed to come and see him. He walked in the garden again, and began to glance through The Times. At mid-week Gerald Stanton rang to report good progress in drafting the new will, and made an appointment for Saturday.
He came after tea, and over drinks in front of the study fire they went through the will, clause by clause. Sir Miles declared himself completely satisfied with the terms of his bequest to Corbury.
‘Well, I can’t spot any holes in it, my boy,’ he said, ‘and if you feel it’s watertight, that’s good enough for me. I suppose I can’t sign the thing right away?’
‘It would be a bit difficult to rustle up witnesses at this hour on a Saturday night, Uncle Miles. Bryce might be in his cottage, but he and Maggie aren’t eligible, you see, being beneficiaries. Suppose I run over on Monday morning with a couple of clerks from the office?’
‘All right. The sooner it’s done with the better.’
‘Anyway, I’d like to leave the carbon copy with you over the weekend,’ Gerald went on, ‘just in case you change your mind about anything.’
‘That I certainly shan’t do,’ Sir Miles replied vigorously. ‘Like that chap Pilate, what I have written, I have written. Put the damn thing in the bottom left-hand drawer of the desk, will you, if you want to leave it here? Thanks,’ he added, as Gerald complied. ‘Help yourself to another drink. When’s Shirley coming back?’
‘On Monday afternoon, thank goodness. I’m sick of eating out, and the house is beginning to look tatty, in spite of our daily woman’s efforts. I don’t know if you’d care for Shirley to look in next week, Uncle Miles?’
‘Yes, yes. Let her come along by all means.’
Gerald saw weariness suddenly descend on the old man, and on finishing his drink, tactfully made the excuse of another engagement, and left. As he crossed the silent, echoing hall, he looked round regretfully at the graceful curve of the staircase. The door of the drawing room was open. He paused for a moment, visualising bright lights, a leaping fire on the hearth, flowers and a crowd of guests… Then, shaking off futile regrets, he let himself out, and got into his car.
Back at Edge Crescent, he carefully locked away Sir Miles LeWarne’s will, and drove off again to have dinner with friends.
As a grass widower he had received numerous offers of hospitality, and on Sunday both lunched and dined out. It was nearly midnight when he returned home, and he was surprised to hear the telephone ringing as he came in.
‘Corbury 5687,’ he said, taking up the receiver.
‘That you, Stanton? Lang here,’ came his doctor’s familiar voice. ‘I’ve been trying to get you for the last couple of hours. Old LeWarne’s had a stroke.’
‘Good God!’ Gerald exclaimed in astonished dismay, instantly thinking of the unsigned will. ‘How bad is he? How incapacitated, I mean?’
‘The left side’s paralysed all the way down. His speech isn’t too bad. A bit slurred, but quite intelligible. That’s why I’m ringing you at this ungodly hour. The old boy’s worrying about signing his will, and I promised him I’d get on to you.’
‘We’d got the signing all lined up for tomorrow morning. I was going over. Is there a chance that he’ll recover to any extent?’
‘The outlook’s not very promising at his age, and of course there could be another stroke at any time. But at the moment there’s a fairly normal movement in the right arm and hand, and he could perfectly well sign his name. Is that all he’s got to do?’
Gerald Stanton had a sensation, as much physical as mental, of an abrupt translation into an entirely new context, at the same time unknown and frighteningly explicit.
‘Hallo?’ came Doctor Lang’s voice across infinity.
‘Yes, I’m still here.’ To Gerald his own voice seemed to be functioning in
dependently of himself. Could it conceivably sound normal, he wondered? ‘I was just reviewing the situation from the legal angle. Yes, all he’s got to do is sign his name.’
‘...oughtn’t to be any difficulty, provided he goes on as he is at the moment,’ Doctor Lang was saying. ‘There’ll be a nurse around. I’ve had the devil’s own job getting hold of a couple, I can tell you. I had to—’
‘Look here, Lang,’ he cut in abruptly. ‘This is a dicey situation for me, you know. Is there the slightest question of Sir Miles not being compos mentis?’
‘None whatever. His mind is as clear as yours or mine. I’d be prepared to state it on oath, and so would Maggie Marsh, I’m certain.’
‘All the same, I’d like you to be there tomorrow morning in your professional capacity for a last minute check-up on this.’
‘Oh, all right. I’ll be along — I take your point. Could we say half past ten? I ought to be able to clear my surgery by then. One other thing. Could you face going over now for a word with Maggie Marsh? She’s pretty badly tensed-up. Says she must sit up all night in case anything’s wanted, and whatever. It’ll be dashed awkward if she cracks up: he’d be wretched in a nursing home.’
‘Yes, he would. All right. I’ll go along and try to calm her down. Thanks for ringing — sorry you had a job to get on to me. Be seeing you tomorrow morning, then.’
They rang off. Gerald Stanton slumped down at his desk, staring unseeingly in front of him. Doctor Lang’s words continued to pulsate in his mind ... is that all he has to do? ... all ... all ... all...!
His thoughts were in turmoil. Part of his being reacted in horror at the idea of turning a client’s incapacitating illness to personal advantage: the mere idea was a nightmarish fantasy. How could such a thing have entered his mind for a single moment? But at a deeper level, and gathering momentum, was his realisation of the terrifying simplicity of the situation which had arisen. So dazzlingly simple to present a substituted will for the old man’s signature tomorrow, in which Shirley, and not the Borough of Corbury was designated the residuary legatee of the estate. The element of risk? Even apart from the effects of the stroke, and Doctor Lang’s poor prognosis, the likelihood of Sir Miles’s ever asking to see his will again was less than negligible. He was a man who, having acted on a decision, almost tended to lose interest. If this had been characteristic of him in health, how much more would it be now?
Buried in the Past Page 3
