The Hidden Legacy: A Dark and Shocking Psychological Drama

by GJ Minett

  She eased the soggy half of the biscuit into her mouth, then settled back in her chair and listened to what she tentatively identified as Vivaldi. She remembered, when she was first pregnant with Megan, she’d vowed to find some way into what she saw as the arcane world of music, poetry and art appreciation. She’d even gone as far as sending for a copy of the prospectus from the local college in the hope that there might be a course that would fit the bill. Bluff your way through the Classics. Culture for the terminally clueless. Something of that order. But, as with so many other projects aimed at self-improvement, she’d never found the time or the impetus required to move things forward. Then, of course, once the children were born, the idea of evening classes became a non-starter.

  She’d pushed the children into learning an instrument at an early age, as if determined to compensate through them. She’d bought a recorder for Megan who, for a while at least, had shown enough interest and aptitude to encourage Ellen to consider possible next steps. Flute? Clarinet? Where might she go for private tuition? She could see now how misguided she was in making her enthusiasm for the project so obvious. Megan was never slow to recognise a button she could press and her interest soon evaporated altogether, much to Ellen’s frustration. As for the guitar that Harry had pestered her to buy, she’d caught him last week standing on it to reach one of the shelves in his bedroom. That was more use than it had been put to in the preceding twelve months. It seemed the harder she tried . . .

  ‘Mrs Harrison? Good of you to ring so promptly. I’m Derek Wilmot.’

  Miraculously available after all.

  ‘Not at all,’ said Ellen, trying to swallow the rest of the biscuit and free up her mouth. ‘I’m intrigued – it’s not every day I’m mentioned in a will.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘Especially the will of someone I’ve never even heard of, let alone met.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  Ellen paused to allow this to sink in. ‘You’re not surprised that I don’t know this . . . Eudora Nash?’

  Wilmot sneezed, and excused himself. ‘I am sure there are many questions you’ll want to ask, Mrs Harrison, but first things first. If you’ll bear with me just for a few moments, there are one or two formalities to be observed. I need to be certain that I am indeed speaking to the correct person. Your full name is Ellen Catherine Harrison?’

  ‘It was.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘I’m divorced. As of last month.’ It occurred to her then, for the first time, that it was actually one month to the day.

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I’m now Ellen Catherine Sutherland again.’

  There was a pause, during which she could hear him rummaging through the sheets in front of him. ‘I’m sorry to hear that, Mrs Harrison,’ he said at length, his tone flat, dispassionate. ‘Although I feel bound to point out that, in respect of the matter in hand, this changes nothing. Our immediate concern here is one of identity rather than nomenclature.’

  Ellen tried to conjure up a mental picture to go with the voice, came up with cobwebs. Cobwebs and clouds of dust. A Dickensian lawyer, black coat, thinning silver hair, mutton chop whiskers, stooped over his work, trembling quill hovering over the virgin page, desk heaving with piles of dusty ledgers. Not exactly of this world. She tried not to be too offended by his casual dismissal of her personal circumstances.

  ‘Can you confirm your date of birth?’

  ‘September the twenty-second, nineteen seventy-four.’

  ‘Place of birth?’

  ‘Chichester. West Sussex.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Another shuffle of papers. She could sense him ticking boxes.

  ‘And your current employment?’

  ‘Excuse me for asking,’ said Ellen, ‘but is all of this strictly necessary?’

  ‘If you’ll just bear with me –’

  Ellen took a deep breath and wondered whether or not to pursue the point. She looked at the photos of Sam Balfour which took up most of the wall facing her – one large portrait plus a number of shots of him shaking hands with a variety of celebrities and local politicians – and tried to imagine how he would have dealt with the Derek Wilmots of this world. She suspected he would have given him very short shrift. Empire building didn’t allow for social niceties.

  ‘I’m manager of Langmere Grove Holiday Park near Ryhill in West Sussex,’ she said.

  ‘And your mother’s name?’

  Ellen nudged at the coaster on the desk in front of her until it was equidistant from each of the edges forming the corner.

  ‘Barbara Ann Sutherland.’

  ‘And her maiden name?’

  ‘That is her maiden name.’

  ‘I see.’ Slight clearing of the throat.

  ‘And her date of birth?’

  ‘First of February, nineteen thirty-seven.’

  Ellen waited. Taking a tissue from the box on her desk, she dabbed at a few drops of coffee which had spilled over the rim of the cup.

  ‘And . . . ah . . . your father?’

  She screwed the tissue into a ball and dropped it into the bin next to her.

  ‘On my birth certificate it says “Father unknown”. ’ She did her best to keep the irritation out of her voice.

  ‘Indeed,’ said Wilmot. If he had picked up on anything defensive or sensitive in her tone, there was nothing in his voice to suggest it. During the ensuing pause, she took a sip of coffee and began dunking the other biscuit, which broke off before she could lift it clear of the cup.

  ‘Well, that would appear to be satisfactory for the time being. I think we can say with some confidence that you are the . . . Ellen Catherine Harrison my client had in mind. You will of course need to bring with you documentary evidence as corroboration when you pop in to see us. Your passport maybe . . .’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘. . . driving licence, something of that sort.’

  ‘Mr Wilmot,’ said Ellen, taking a spoon and scooping the remains of the biscuit onto the saucer, ‘you do know I live in West Sussex?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘In which case, you must be aware that “popping in to see you”, as you put it, would entail something in the region of a six-hour round trip.’

  ‘I appreciate that, Mrs Harrison . . .’

  ‘Ms Sutherland.’

  ‘Indeed. Nevertheless you’ll understand that in matters such as these, there are protocols which have to be observed, forms to complete, etc.’ Oh so patient. Not quite patronising, but near enough to irritate her intensely. ‘If today is out of the question, perhaps we could try for tomorrow morning. What would be a good time for you?’

  ‘Apparently I’m not making myself clear,’ said Ellen, pressing her ballpoint pen against the desk and clicking it open and shut, open and shut. ‘I have a job. Two children. I’m a single parent. I can’t simply drop everything and drive all the way to Cheltenham just like that.’

  ‘I understand the difficulties, Mrs Harrison,’ said Wilmot, with the weary indifference of someone who does nothing of the sort. ‘I assume however that you will want this whole business to be tied up as quickly as possible.’

  ‘What business? You haven’t even told me what it’s all about. I don’t mean to sound mercenary, Mr Wilmot, but if I’ve come into money somehow, how much is it? For all I know, arranging for someone to look after the children and then travelling all that distance might leave me worse off than when I started. You take my point.’

  Wilmot gave what might have passed for a dry chuckle. ‘I think we can safely say you will not regard it as a waste of your time,’ he said. ‘Perhaps if I tell you that my client has bequeathed to you full title and deeds of a property called Primrose Cottage . . .?’

  Ellen pulled the phone away from her ear and stared blankly at it for a second.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘It’s in Oakham . . . a rather picturesque little Cotswold village. I don’t suppose you know it, by a
ny chance?’

  ‘Did you say . . . a cottage?’ Ellen gave up any attempt to keep the note of incredulity out of her voice.

  ‘Indeed – although the word “cottage” may give quite the wrong impression as to its size. It’s actually more spacious than it looks from the outside – early nineteenth century, old Cotswold stone, three bedrooms, small front garden, larger one to the rear. Also outright ownership of a field which borders the property. I gather the owner before my client was a keen rider and used to keep his horse there although, of course, you might have your own plans for it.’

  A sharp squall buffeted the window, picking up a cluster of raindrops in the air and flinging them against the glass. From the comfort of her office, Ellen watched two cleaners struggling to push a trolley from one building to another. A member of the grounds maintenance crew backed an open-top buggy across the courtyard to get it under cover. The driver of a delivery van, parked outside the unloading bay at the rear of the on-site supermarket, tried hard to avoid looking ridiculous as he chased after a handful of papers, which skipped out of range every time he tried to plant his foot on them. A day like any other.

  ‘Mrs Harrison?’

  ‘Yes . . . I’m still here. I’m just . . . You’re sure about this?’

  ‘Absolutely. My client was a very particular lady, meticulous in her preparation. She went to a great deal of trouble to find you. I can assure you, there is no mistake.’

  ‘But I don’t even know who she is. I’ve never heard of her,’ said Ellen, ticking off the objections as they occurred to her. ‘This can’t be right, surely. It’ll be contested – I mean, the family aren’t going to just sit back and let some total stranger come wandering in and take over their home, are they?’

  ‘There is no family . . .’

  ‘What . . . no one?’

  ‘Well, perhaps it would be more accurate to say that there is no one in a position to make a realistic claim. My client, you understand, was an elderly lady. She was ninety-one when she died. She outlived her husband by more than thirty years. There are no children. There was a younger sister, Miss Emily Nash, but she died a few years ago.’ More shuffling of papers. ‘In June 2001, to be precise.’

  ‘What about her husband’s family?’

  ‘My understanding is that relations between my client and her husband’s family were no more than civil even while he was alive. Since his death, there has been no contact to speak of. Of course, one can never be sure about these things – such matters do have the unfortunate tendency to draw out the most unlikely claimants. However the will is quite straightforward. Apart from a few personal items, the property goes to you and the money is equally divided between three children’s charities. There are no grounds to encourage anyone to contest it and, should they do so, they will most certainly fail.’

  There was something very reassuring about his confidence. A thought occurred to Ellen.

  ‘The funeral – when is it?’

  ‘Ah yes –’

  ‘Maybe there’ll be someone there who can shed some light on this, someone she confided in. I ought to be there.’

  He cleared his throat. ‘The funeral was yesterday.’

  ‘Yesterday? But . . . when did she die?’

  ‘Monday of last week.’

  ‘Monday? But that’s over a week ago.’ For some reason she couldn’t quite define, Ellen felt culpable in her failure to be there, as if she had let the old lady down somehow.

  ‘My client was most insistent that you should not be notified of her death until after the service.’

  ‘Really? But why?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ said Wilmot. ‘There were several things my client chose not to share with me. She may, of course, have been less reticent about talking to some of her friends in the village, which is one of the reasons why I thought you might be anxious to visit the property as soon as possible.’

  In other words, why don’t you just do as I suggested and get yourself over here! Ellen thought this over for a moment.

  ‘So how long will it be before the cottage is legally mine? You mentioned papers I need to sign.’

  ‘Just a few formalities. Everything that does not require your direct participation has already been taken care of. If you were to come here as early as tomorrow morning, the property would be yours by the weekend. If you wish, I could also give the keys to one of my associates and arrange for him to drive you over there so that you might view the property for yourself.’

  Ellen was working through the possibilities in her mind. Jack didn’t work Wednesday evenings. If he could have the children, she’d be able to make a really early start. Leave at seven, be there by nine thirty. Three hours or so to sort out the formalities and visit the cottage, then back by mid-to-late afternoon to pick up the children. Colin could take care of things at work – no problem there. He was desperate for any opportunity to show Sam and everybody else for that matter that he could do her job standing on his head. It would all hinge on Jack.

  ‘This village,’ she said. ‘Oakley?’

  ‘Oakham.’

  ‘How far is it from Cheltenham?’

  ‘Half an hour or so, I would say.’

  ‘And is there anything in the will to say whether or not I’m allowed to sell the property?’

  ‘No,’ said Wilmot, a note of disapproval creeping into his voice. ‘No, there is no stipulation to that effect. My client did express hopes that you might be so enamoured of the cottage that you would want to keep it. Once the property is legally yours however, you are not bound by any such considerations. You will be free to do with it as your conscience dictates.’

  ‘And property in a Cotswold village . . .?’

  Wilmot paused for a moment, as if choosing his words carefully. ‘You appear to be groping your way towards a particular question, Mrs Harrison. Perhaps I might save us both some time by saying that I can tell you with some degree of certainty how much the property is worth.’ If there was any ambiguity in his tone before, there was none now. Ellen reached across the desk for her notepad and waited.

  ‘My client arranged for valuations with three separate agencies in the months leading up to her death. They varied by fifty thousand pounds, but the lowest estimate was for seven hundred and seventy-five thousand pounds.’

  Ellen slowly lowered the receiver to her shoulder. Clicking the biro again, she flipped open the pad and wrote a seven, followed by another, then a five, a comma and three zeros. She looked at it for a moment, then wrote a dash, followed by an eight, a two, a five, a comma and three more zeros. She placed a pound sign at the front, a large, exaggerated symbol which dwarfed the numbers. Finally she drew a box around it all and underlined the figures three times. It did nothing to make any of it seem more real.

  ‘Mrs Harrison?’

  She took up the receiver once more.

  ‘I’ll be there tomorrow at nine thirty.’

  3

  February 2008: Ellen

  Jack’s rented flat was in a quiet, leafy area of Chichester, to the north of the Festival Theatre and the university. He had the ground-floor rooms of a three-storey Georgian building, which was owned by one of his father’s business contacts. The other two floors were divided into flats occupied by various young professionals and an elderly spinster whose imperious manner suggested she might have been there since the house was first built. Jack’s arrival had put a few noses out of joint, especially in the case of the young married couple on the top floor, who had been casting covetous glances in the direction of the spacious ground-floor rooms for some time. Whatever understanding they believed they had with the owner proved worthless once Jack’s father started calling in favours. It was always the way.

  What’s more, unless Ellen was mistaken, the timely availability of the flat was not the only reason Jack had to be grateful to his parents. He still spent the bulk of his time at home, pursuing his writing career (or, as Ellen had slowly come to regard it, his
‘writing career’ – she found it hard to believe any ‘pursuit’ could be quite so inert and lethargic). The income he gained from this was negligible and had never come close to matching his outgoings in all the time she’d known him. He did have a proofreading job with a publisher of technical manuals based in Winchester but that did little more than cover his beer money and general entertainment. To Ellen it looked very much as if the Harrisons had come up trumps and bailed out their wayward son yet again. Even though it was no longer any of her concern, she couldn’t help feeling slightly irked by the fact that things were always so easy for Jack. He could invariably expect to fall on his feet. Somehow life circled without ever managing to land a meaningful blow.

  He came to the front door, wearing jeans and a Sussex University sweatshirt which was in something like its fifth or sixth incarnation. He smiled and leant forward to kiss her. She flinched instinctively, then offered her cheek just as he pulled his head back. He held out his hand to get past the awkwardness of the moment and offered to take the overnight bag, into which she’d hurriedly packed the children’s night things and lunches for the following day. She said she could manage, then relented and tried to hand it over just as he gave up and reached past her to shut the front door.

  She followed him down the narrow corridor, past the winding staircase which led to the flats upstairs, past the expensive-looking racing bike, which was padlocked and tucked away in the recess under the stairs. The Audi was fine for journeys but Jack needed something more suitable for ‘tootling around town’, as he put it. Anyone else would have been happy to make do with a pushbike, even a sit-up-and-beg with a basket at the front. Jack had admitted to spending £250 on the bike itself, which in Jack-speak almost certainly meant at least twice that amount. More or less in the same price bracket were the clothing and other accoutrements – flash helmet with wind-channelling vents, garishly coloured Lycra vest and padded shorts, gloves, goggles. It was an investment, he claimed – an investment in his health. He was embarking on a fitness drive which would make a new man of him. The exercise would lend a sharpness to his thinking – mens sana and all that. He would thrash his way up over Goodwood and the Trundle, get to know Sussex like he’d never known it before, then settle down and compose the best poetry he’d ever produced. As far as she was aware, he’d worn the gear all of twice. Last time she’d checked the gloves were still in their wrapper.