‘Oh, I can’t imagine why!’ cried Lomas. ‘You who are so good at looking after other people’s interests!’
He saw his mother’s expression harden and realized he’d gone too far in his filial mockery. He did not doubt she would soon strike back.
‘I’ve had practice looking after yours,’ she said.
‘And don’t think I don’t appreciate it, Mother. I need looking after. Oh, I am Fortune’s fool!’
‘And that, if I recall aright, is one of Romeo’s lines,’ said Mrs Windibanks. ‘Spoken after you in your minor role are dead and left with nothing to do but snooze in your dressing-room till the curtain-calls, always assuming there are any curtain-calls!’
Lomas shook his head in reluctant admiration.
‘Oh, you don’t hang about, do you, Mother?’ he mocked. ‘One, two, and the third in your bosom. Ah!’
He affected to stab himself with a fork and flipped back in his chair, eyes closed. When he opened them he found John Huby and a bearded stranger looking down at him with a waiter bobbing anxiously in the background.
‘Rod, stop playing the fool,’ ordered Mrs Windibanks. ‘Mr Goodenough, may I present my son. Rod, this is Andrew Goodenough from CLAWS.’
‘PAWS,’ corrected the Scot. ‘I’m pleased to meet you, Mr Windibanks.’
‘Lomas, actually. Stage name, but I’m used to answering to it now.’
‘Indeed. Mrs Windibanks, I didn’t expect to find you up here too, but it falls very handy to have you and Mr Huby together. Can we talk for a moment?’
It amused Rod to see Goodenough adroitly remove the initiative from his mother.
But she’s a bonny wee counter-puncher, he thought. She’ll have another thou out of you for that, Mr Secretary!
‘I’m just about to have my lunch,’ said Mrs Windibanks. ‘Perhaps in the lounge in, say, forty-five minutes?’
‘I’d prefer now,’ said Goodenough. ‘I have a busy afternoon. And I’m driving across to Ilkley later.’
‘To see the WFE woman? You have my sympathy. I gather she’s as mad as a hatter. But how thorough you are, Mr Goodenough. Never a step forward without making sure your back’s well covered.’
‘If it’s inconvenient, however, I’ll get in touch when we’re both back in London,’ continued Goodenough, as if Mrs Windibanks had never spoken.
‘I can’t be hanging around here all bloody day,’ exclaimed John Huby. ‘I’ve got a pub to look after.’
Carefully Stephanie Windibanks folded her napkin and set it down.
‘Very well,’ she said. ‘Rod, darling, do order and start without me. I shall have a slice of rare beef and a tossed green salad.’
It was more than half an hour before the woman returned with Huby lowering behind her, but no sign of Goodenough.
Lomas was drinking his coffee.
‘I’ve left some wine,’ he said. ‘To toast your triumph or drown your sorrows. Which is it?’
‘Both,’ she said tersely.
‘Nay, lass, but we’ll be all right. I must say, you’re a dab hand at sorting out these money matters,’ said Huby with reluctant admiration.
‘That sounds promising,’ said Lomas. ‘What’s the deal?’
‘Five hundred advance payment for our waivers,’ said Mrs Windibanks.
‘What?’
‘Each.’
‘Even so,’ said Lomas. ‘It’s not much, is it? I mean, I must confess that in anticipation of your success, I rather went to town on the wine, and I decided on the smoked salmon after all.’
‘I said advance payment. Against five per cent of the estate at its present value.’
‘Each?’
‘Each!’
‘Good lord. That must come to, let me see, about seventy thousand pounds. Mother, you’re a marvel!’
He rose to embrace her. She pushed him back in his seat.
‘Sit still till I finish,’ she said sharply.
‘Oh dear. There’s something else.’
‘Nowt to worry about as far as I can see,’ said Huby uncertainly.
‘But how far can you see, John?’ snapped Mrs Windibanks.
‘Tell me, what is it?’ cried Lomas. ‘You’re worse than Juliet’s nurse!’
His mother fixed him with an angry eye.
‘It seems,’ she said, ‘that some lunatic has appeared in Thackeray’s office claiming fairly convincingly to be the missing heir, Alexander Lomas Huby.’
‘It’ll be nowt, you’ll see, we’ll get him sorted,’ said John Huby grimly.
But Rod Lomas subsided in his chair and waved a limp hand at a distant waiter.
‘Oh shit,’ he said. ‘I think we’re going to need another bottle.’
Chapter 11
‘Have I done well? Have I done right?’
So Andrew Goodenough addressed the twin penates of his Presbyterian upbringing, canniness and conscience, in search of their approval for the deal he had just struck with the wily Windibanks and the horrible Huby.
Obtaining no firm answer, he pragmatically shelved the questions and concentrated his mind on his immediate mission.
He was driving westwards to see Mrs Laetitia Falkingham, founder and perpetual president of Women For Empire. All he knew of WFE he had picked up from Eden Thackeray, whose old-fashioned liberalism had unlocked his lawyer’s discretion.
‘Pathetic rather than sinister, but none the less deplorable,’ he had categorized them. ‘Basically a correspondence circle of colonial widows, nostalgic for ayahs and chota pegs, plus a handful of homegrown fascists like Mrs Huby. Their political platform, if so it could be called, is that Enoch Powell’s a little soft on immigration, South Africa is an earthly paradise, and the nice, jolly and exceedingly cheap blacks have been lured off the straight and narrow by nasty communists, which is to say trade-unionists and all points left.’
‘Large membership?’ Goodenough had asked.
‘Rapidly declining and no recruitment,’ said Thackeray. ‘The nasty right prefers less genteel outlets for its nastinesses. No, until recently I’d have said WFE looked set to die off with Mrs Falkingham.’
‘Where would the money have gone, in that case?’ wondered Goodenough.
‘You mean, could PAWS have got hold of it?’ laughed Thackeray. ‘I doubt if we shall ever know. It seems that Mrs Falkingham has got herself what sounds like a young and vigorous assistant, name of Brodsworth. Ms Sarah Brodsworth. I fear a new generation of WFE members may be spawned, and they won’t be so pathetically ineffectual as the last, not with half a million under their belts.’
Well, that was not his problem, thought Good-enough. If getting PAWS’ third of the Huby fortune involved dropping an equal amount into the lap of the loonie Right, that was how it had to be.
A signpost told him he was within a couple of miles of Ilkley. Combining his sole foreknowledge of the place, which was that it had a moor, with what Thackeray had told him, he realized he was expecting Maldive Cottage to be a cross between Wuthering Heights and the Berghof at Berchtesgaden.
The reality was very different.
Ilkley turned out to be a bustling, prosperous and handsome little market town and Maldive Cottage was straight off a biscuit tin lid, with grey Yorkstone walls, red tiles and leaded lights, nestling in an English cottage garden alight with the colours of late summer and early autumn.
He went up the path, raised the lion’s head knocker and knocked.
The door opened immediately. A man in his late twenties stood there. He was of medium build with rather short, neatly trimmed fair hair. He wore a well cut grey suit, white shirt and striped tie. He smiled interrogatively, showing strong, even, white teeth. He looked a little like Robert Redford.
‘Good day,’ said Goodenough. ‘Is Mrs Falkingham in?’
‘Yes, she is. Would it be Mr Goodenough?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Yes, she mentioned you. Do step in. My name’s Vollans, by the way. Henry Vollans.’
Goodenough le
t himself be ushered into a sitting-room which was as hot as a tropical house at Kew. A huge fire burnt in the open grate and the central heating radiators seemed to be working at full blast too.
‘Pretty overpowering, isn’t it?’ said Vollans, smiling. ‘She says that old blood has a high boiling point. She’s just gone in search of some photos, by the way.’
‘Photos?’
‘Yes. I’m afraid it’s Memory Lane time. I was just admiring that chap there with the coal scuttle on his head and that started her off.’
The young man gestured at a photograph above the mantelshelf of a man in a white uniform and the feathered headgear of a Colonial governor.
‘Mr Falkingham, is it?’ inquired Goodenough.
‘So I gathered. Tell me, you’re from PAWS, aren’t you, come to talk about the will? What are the chances of getting something done about it, do you think?’
Goodenough did not answer immediately but concentrated on finding a spot as equidistant as possible from the Scylla of the roaring fire and the Charybdis of the pulsating radiator.
‘Forgive me, Mr Vollans,’ he said finally. ‘But what is your precise relationship with Mrs Falkingham?’
The young man laughed.
‘It’s a fair cop,’ he said. ‘You think I’m after the money! Well, I am in a way. I’m a reporter, Sunday Challenger, and I just got here five minutes ago, so my relationship with Mrs Falkingham is about as precise as yours.’
‘I see. Then you’ll forgive me if I do not discuss my business with you before I’ve had the chance to discuss it with the lady herself.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Vollans. ‘Have you met this Miss Brodsworth yet? When I rang earlier, I was assured that there would be little purpose in my coming to talk about WFE unless Miss Brodsworth were present.’
‘I too,’ said Goodenough. ‘I was also assured she would be here by now.’
He glanced at his watch, frowning.
‘Incidentally, Mr Vollans,’ he said. ‘I can’t quite see what your newspaper’s interest might be. Is it the nature of the will, or the nature of the possible beneficiaries that interests you?’
‘That’s for me to write and you to read,’ said Vollans, faintly mocking. ‘Ah, here she is.’
The door opened to admit not the little old lady he had somehow imagined but a rather large old lady. Eighty-odd years had certainly ravaged the fabric but not much reduced it.
‘Mrs Falkingham, this is Mr Goodenough from PAWS,’ said Vollans.
‘Mr Goodenough, how nice of you to come. Two visitors in one afternoon. Am I not a lucky old woman? Mr Vollans and I have been having such an interesting talk. I was just telling him how much he reminded me of my husband when he was a young District Officer. It’s a shame that fine young men like this should no longer have the chance of a career in the Service, don’t you agree, Mr Goodenough?’
‘The Service …?’
‘The Colonial Service, I mean,’ she said sharply. ‘I have some few photographs here which may interest you. Ah, happy days, happy days at a God-given task which was never easy but from which we in our generation did not shrink, Mr Goodenough. They have tried other ways since then, and you see where it’s got them. Well, well, if they learn from their mistakes, as God grant they may, it’s a blessing to know that there are still fine young men like Mr Vollans to take up the burden again. Don’t you agree?’
Goodenough avoided Vollan’s quizzical eye and made a noncommittal sound, possible only to a man brought up to pronounce loch correctly.
‘I mentioned on the phone that I wanted to talk about Mrs Huby’s will,’ he began.
‘Yes, yes,’ said the old woman. ‘Sarah will see to all that when she gets here. Meanwhile, let us look at these photographs, shall we? There’s history here, Mr Goodenough. And not just family history. The history of an empire, and of its decline. No, not decline. Decline’s too gradual a word. They gave it away in a trice, in the twinkling of an eye, those fools and knaves. Will you print that, Mr Vollans? Does your paper dare to print that?’
The journalist was spared answering this fierce question by the sound of a key in the front door.
Mrs Falkingham heard it clearly and a look of pleasure replaced the wrath on her face.
‘There she is. Sarah. Miss Brodsworth. My strong right arm. Before she came, I feared Women For Empire might die with me, but now I know it will live on. There must be many like her, young people who still hold to the old values and are full of regret that they were born too late to see the Empire at its greatest and best. But it will come again, I am certain of it. God did not create us and advance us so far in front of our coloured brethren not to intend that we should guide and comfort them to the promised land. It’s all in the Bible, of course. I can show you chapter and verse. Sarah, my dear, come in, come in. We have company!’
Sarah Brodsworth was a surprise. Somehow Goodenough had been expecting a young Mrs Falkingham, a sturdy, tweedy, fox-hunting type. What he got was a pocket Venus with honey blonde curls, heavy make-up and a pneumatic bust. She reminded him a little of the girl who’d given him the eye at the Old Mill Inn till Huby intervened the previous evening, but the resemblance did not survive a closer examination. This girl’s eyes were not for giving. Pale blue, diamond hard and unblinking, they fixed him with a blank stare which seemed to register, without reacting to, his physical make-up, his motives, his weaknesses and his intentions. In her left hand she carried a black leather briefcase.
‘This is Mr Goodenough from the People’s Animal Welfare Society,’ said the old woman. ‘And this is Mr Vollans from …’
Her memory failed her. Vollans said, ‘The Sunday Challenger. Pleased to meet you, Miss Brodsworth.’
He stepped forward and offered his hand.
The young woman ignored it.
‘You want to talk about the Huby will?’ she said to Goodenough. ‘Let’s go next door.’
Her voice was clipped and slightly harsh. He put her age at twenty-four or five, her physical age, that was. In other ways he felt she was much older than anyone else in the room.
‘I wonder if you could spare me a few moments,’ said Vollans.
‘I see you have your albums,’ said the girl in a softer tone to the old woman. ‘I’m sure Mr Vollans is eager to see your photographs. This way, Mr Goodenough.’
She led him from the lounge into a dining-room, closing the door firmly behind her. It was still very warm in here but at least there was no open fire.
She sat down in the carver chair at the head of a lovely old mahogany table, placed her briefcase on the table slightly to one side, and motioned him to the chair opposite her. After he had seated himself, she inclined her head gently towards him like an old-fashioned teacher giving a child the signal to commence its lesson.
Deciding to play her at her own game, this was more or less what he began to do. In a dry, legal tone he recited the details of the will and his own reaction to date and proposals for the future.
When he had finished he looked at her expectantly, then inclined his own head in an imitation of her gesture.
Something which with a little more warmth might have been a smile touched her lips, then she said, ‘You say that if the suit fails, PAWS will bear the total expense, but if it succeeds, the expenses will be shared between the three beneficiary organizations?’
‘That would seem equitable,’ he said. ‘I appreciate your group and CODRO possibly do not have large reserves to draw on.’
She frowned and said, ‘What are these expenses likely to be?’
‘Legal, mainly, and therefore difficult to estimate in advance. And any expenses incurred by me in pursuance of this matter.’
‘Hotel bills, you mean?’ she said with the hint of a sneer.
‘Those, certainly,’ he said, unruffled. ‘And other things. I keep a running account. You might care to see it to date.’
He handed her a sheet of paper.
She examined it, still frowning.
&nbs
p; ‘These payments to these two, Huby and Windibanks. What are they for?’
‘Their agreement not to pursue any claim of their own as relatives.’
‘Have they any claim in law?’
‘Only if the will were entirely overthrown on the grounds of the testator’s mental incompetence. As Mrs Huby made the will some years ago and lived thereafter with no one questioning her competence, at least not openly, this seems unlikely.’
‘Then these seem large sums to pay people to give up something they don’t possess,’ she said coldly.
‘I said unlikely, not impossible. The law cannot be forecast, Miss Brodsworth. In any case, they possess the right to challenge the will. That is what they are giving up. In a democracy, a right is not something which should be undervalued.’
Am I defending my own judgement or Thackeray’s liberal values? he wondered ironically as he heard his words come out more sharply than he intended. But the woman only returned the paper to him indifferently.
‘In that case, I agree. What do I do now?’
‘I understand you have full executive authority in regard to WFE.’
‘That’s right.’
He hesitated and she opened her briefcase, took out a cardboard wallet, removed from it a sheet of paper and handed it to him.
‘Signed, sealed and witnessed, Mr Goodenough,’ she said. ‘May we proceed?’
He read the sheet and passed it back.
‘That seems in order. Would you now read this?’
From his own case he took a typed sheet of paper and handed it to her. It must have felt like this, he thought with an uncharacteristic flight of fancy, sitting in that railway carriage at Compiègne in 1918. Or did he mean 1940?
He said, ‘It’s simply a statement of WFE’s agreement to common action on the lines I have outlined. You might like to show it to WFE’s legal adviser before signing.’
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