by John Burke
‘Well, then. You’ve got the will here?’
‘Er … yes.’
‘Come on, man, what’s wrong? Don’t tell me Hector forgot to get it properly witnessed, and you let it slip?’
‘Certainly not. We do not make errors of that kind in this establishment.’
‘No, of course not. And anyway, I remember just after we were married he sorted out every last little detail, and I think it was the chairman of his club and the secretary who witnessed his signature. Both still alive, so they can verify that if they have to.’
McIntyre seemed to have a further obstruction in his throat. When he had cleared it, he said: ‘There has actually been a later will, Lady Crombie.’
‘What? He never mentioned it.’ She brought the full power of her gaze to bear on the man. ‘There can’t have been any major alterations. No reason whatsoever why there should have been.’
McIntyre summoned up the courage to adopt the sharper, more aggressively modern image with which he overawed clients of a more recent generation. ‘Not to put too fine a point on it, Lady Crombie, your husband did change his mind on several particulars. We may as well face it.’
‘We may as well face it?’ she snapped. ‘Face what?’
Rather than continue meeting her gaze, McIntyre looked down at the document on the desk before him and recited at high speed the salient points.
Hector, Lord Crombie, being of sound mind and hereby revoking all former wills and testamentary dispositions heretofore made by him, hereby declared this to be his last will and testament. To his wife Brigid, Lady Crombie, he bequeathed five thousand pounds and any two paintings of her own choice — ‘from such as remain of those which my dear wife has not already sold off,’ quoted Mr McIntyre: ‘that’s the exact wording.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘I think it is expressed without ambiguity.’
‘And the rest?’
‘The rest’ — he was still not daring to look at her, yet seemed to be taking a malicious pleasure in his own sing-song delivery — ‘to be divided evenly between Lord Crombie’s daughter Caroline, and — ah your daughter, I believe, by a previous marriage? … Ishbel Dacre.’
Brigid could not believe that all this was on the document in front of the man. Yet he was hardly capable of making it up as he went along.
‘It makes no sense. He can’t do that. After all I did for him, livening the place up, putting it back on its feet.’
‘I got the impression that Lord Crombie felt your own business interests would provide you with a more than adequate income. And that it would be unfair to saddle you with the burden of caring for the estate.’
‘And who’s been saddled with that burden these last few years anyway?’ Brigid tried to keep her voice steady. ‘When was this absurd will drawn up?’
‘Three months ago. There has been no revision since.’
‘Three months ago. Before I retired from those so-called business interests, to devote myself to my husband and the maintenance of his property.’
‘Since he made no move to alter the terms of the will in these altered circumstances, one can only assume that he still felt it would be unfair for the estate to continue being a drain on your resources.’
‘And what resources are those two girls supposed to have, for goodness’ sake? Look … somebody’s been going behind my back. Those two …’
‘I am sure Lord Crombie meant everything for the best.’
‘I shall contest it, of course.’
‘On what grounds, Lady Crombie?’
‘Obviously the balance of his mind was disturbed.’
‘Not so far as I or the witnesses observed at the time of drawing up this will.’
‘Witnesses? And who were they?’
‘Clients of my partner’s. A doctor and his wife who were on the premises at the time. Quite impartial. Nothing in it for them, you understand: witnesses cannot be left anything by a testator.’
Brigid could not bear to sit here any longer being condescended to by this grisly little pipsqueak. She got up and turned towards the door.
‘You’ll be hearing from me.’
‘I shall be getting in touch with you very shortly, Lady Crombie, to give you confirmation of —’
She did not wait to hear the rest of the mumbo-jumbo.
As she stormed along the street, she ranted to herself. How the hell would that dismal mausoleum have survived without her? And all the time she was doing her best for him, Hector must have hated her. Hated her for opening up the house and grounds to the public, and selling off some of his crummy pictures? There had been no other way of keeping up with the running costs. He ought to have been grateful to her for shielding him from reality. Poor Hector. Stupid old creep. He had always been too naïve and unobservant to realise that even more of his belongings had disappeared than he had been told about.
If only he had known the full story behind those disappearances, leading up to the culminating robbery! In spite of her rage, she could not suppress a smile.
Her next call had better produce more satisfactory results.
She went down the area steps to a window dark with paintings of seascapes, and through the door beside it.
‘Lady Crombie, I was wondering when we’d have the pleasure of meeting again.’
She was in no mood to waste time on pleasantries. ‘You know of my husband’s death, of course.’
‘Of course, Lady Crombie.’ Kevin Murdoch had the long, yellow face of an unctuous kirk sidesman, with a faint twist of his lips to the left of his mouth, suggesting hypocrisy rather than devotion. But he was not hypocrite enough to pretend any sympathy over the death. ‘This will mean an alteration in your plans?’
‘I’m no longer prepared to wait for the money. We shall have to conclude some deals fairly sharply. You can dispose of the authentic ones before it’s safe to leak the others out gradually?’
‘We do know our business, madam. Everything is as we agreed. And we’ve established contacts with willing buyers. We can crate and despatch the half-dozen we have here, and spread the others gradually just as soon as you … um … release the material from storage.’
‘It’ll have to be immediately after the funeral,’ said Brigid. Already she was working out timetables in her head. She visualised the cortège, the to-ing and fro-ing, the winding up afterwards, the exchange of condolences … And herself out of the house, handing over to those ridiculous girls. She would fight the will, of course. It couldn’t be allowed to stand. She wouldn’t let herself be insulted like that. But for a while it might mean going back to the Leith flat and the world where she could make herself at home again. A lot of confusion for a time, a revision of her working schedule, a brief period of readjustment … but yes, it could all be tied in satisfactorily. ‘After the funeral,’ she repeated. ‘I would suggest two weeks on Friday. I’ll confirm by our arranged signal. Otherwise no contact. Understood?’
‘Quite understood. That’s how we’ve operated so far, Lady Crombie.’
Murdoch half bowed as he held the door open for her to leave. It was a disdainful gesture rather than a deferential one.
She had reached the corner of the street when a tall figure cut across from the narrow pavement opposite to intercept her.
‘Lady Crombie. What a pleasant surprise.’
For Brigid it was a surprise, but not pleasant.
‘Visiting the Murdoch establishment?’ he asked blandly.
‘I have a lot to do today, Sir Michael.’
‘We never used to be so formal, Brigid.’
Brigid shook her head. ‘I have rather a lot to do today. You’ll have heard of my husband’s death, of course.’
‘Of course.’ He sounded as little regretful as Kevin Murdoch had done. And suddenly, lethally, he added: ‘I trust you had him fully insured?’
Brigid had an angry feeling that somehow everyone today was laughing at her — at her and certainly not with her. She wasn’t used to it.
She longed to shake them all off and finish her programme here as swiftly as possible. And then sit and think about the full significance of Hector’s appalling will.
‘There’s a nice little French restaurant just round the corner here,’ Veitch persevered. ‘However much you had to get through in a day, you always used to appreciate a good meal.’
‘Right now I’m not hungry. And I really do have to get round an awful lot of places.’
‘An awful lot. Yes. But it might clear your mind to have a nice informal chat about the arts in general. Books — like the one you’re writing. And paintings — like the ones on which you’re hoping to make a double profit. Insurance money plus what you can flog them for overseas.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Brigid, you’ve always had some damn good contacts. And some very dubious ones. So have I. It was inevitable that sooner or later we should meet at a crossroads.’
His drawl grew more and more affected. She knew it had been laboriously acquired, and that he had lost his own real voice long ago. He had made a better job of it than, say, Alastair Blake; and had also managed to acquire an infuriating self-confidence.
Hoping to dent it, she said: ‘As a matter of interest, were you behind Simon’s murder?’
‘Simon?’
‘You know perfectly well. Simon Pringle. Killed on our estate.’
‘Ah, yes. Do you really suppose I could have done that?’
‘Not personally. But if in some way he had let you down, you’d have known who to employ.’
‘Funnily enough,’ said Veitch, ‘we half suspected it might have been you. Very much within those same parameters.’
‘What reason could I possibly have had?’
‘Plenty, from what we heard. Not the most desirable of husbands, was he? Or the most desirable of exes, either. What was he up to near your home? Might he have been involved in the theft of those pictures, and let you down?’
‘Pure fantasy.’
‘Far from pure. Really, Brigid, we ought to talk about these things. In a civilised fashion. Rather than let it get unpleasant for you. Or for any of us.’
What Veitch had said about her usual working day was true. Even during the most tense business battles, Brigid had always been able to eat with a good appetite, adapting the pace of a meal to suit her conversation and plans. But today, in a secluded corner of the restaurant, she studied the menu without interest, ordered automatically, and waited for him to pour her a glass of the Meursault he remembered she liked. Michael Veitch had learned the importance of a good memory when it came to dealing with potential allies and potential enemies, potential backers and potential back-stabbers.
‘Now.’ He lolled back in his chair, all smiles and goodwill. ‘In the first place, if we’re going to strike a mutually satisfactory bargain, let’s agree that your silly little book has to be scrapped.’
‘I think not.’
‘Little Murdo Cowan has seen the light. He realises there’s no market for such a book, and the deal’s off.’
Brigid began to cheer up. So they really were getting the twitches! ‘Yes, I realised who had to be behind that. Change of editorial policy, the imbecile says. Doesn’t think my book will quite fit their new image. I’ll give him image!’ Her enthusiasm was rekindled. ‘You may have bullied him into withdrawing, but there are plenty of other publishers. As you’ll discover. A pity to deprive the reading public of something so entertaining.’
He stopped lolling and leaned forward. ‘And a pity to deprive them of the full story of your substitution of certain pictures in Baldonald House with fakes? And the removal of the anamorphosis and the Stewart paintings before they went to Canada for this forthcoming exhibition and then were discovered to be fakes. Who did get the real things in the end — and how much are you collecting for them?’
‘You’re groping in the dark.’
‘Poor Crombie. How you cheated the old lad.’
‘And where have you dug up all these delusions?’
‘As we’ve agreed, we do both have our contacts.’ He nodded towards the window and the street outside. ‘And some of them turn out to be the same contacts.’ His smile grew more and more inviting, without any hint of sincerity. ‘All right, Brigid: where have you hidden the ersatz pieces?’
‘Oh, so none of your so-called contacts have come up with a plausible story to back up that fantasy? How naughty of them.’
‘It’s only a matter of time. And a matter of who can offer the most substantial investment.’
‘Bribe, you mean?’
‘I’m talking about investment … diplomacy … Come off it, Brigid. You’ll never make a fortune out of that junk, except by bumping up the insurance claim. And that’s going to be risky.’
‘You used to be so level-headed. Where does all this nonsense come from?’
‘Brigid, let’s talk sense. It’s time you were back with us, instead of against us. Your old acquaintances. Friends. I think a position as a corporate client on a very respectable quango could be yours for the asking.’
‘You wouldn’t dare push that too far. Not right now. One false move, and everything goes wrong for you. It’s a dithery time, isn’t it, Sir Michael? One false move now, one breath of scandal —’
‘There isn’t going to be any breath of scandal.’
‘You’ve seen to that, have you? All so praiseworthy. Putting all your financial muscle behind a vast investment in biotechnology, putting Britain in the forefront of food additive research. And ensuring that much of the production is centred in key areas where, surprise surprise, three Cabinet ministers have their constituencies.’
‘There’s nothing shady about that. Nothing underhanded.’
Her taste buds were back to normal. She finished a mouthful of roast duck, then said: ‘But your price-fixing cartel doesn’t come out quite so sweet-smelling. One of my nominees was at that meeting last year. All agreed to jack up world prices by thirty per cent, right? And adjust distribution to keep the prices up there.’
‘What’s known as rationalising output. Every big firm does it when it can.’
‘Until it gets caught. Or until competition watchdogs get a sniff of something nasty, and your government contacts are suddenly out of contact … and bang goes any hope of Lord Veitch of Ecclefechan, or wherever.’
This was her world, her real world. The cooking of books was a much more interesting subject than writing them.
‘You really are malicious, aren’t you?’ He looked almost admiring; but coldly calculating at the same time. ‘If you can no longer pull the levers of intrigue, you’re equally happy throwing a spanner in the works.’
‘Which I have every intention of doing.’
‘I thought we might have had a sensible discussion.’
‘We have had just that,’ said Brigid. ‘And now you know what the outcome is.’
She finished the main course, and waved away the dessert menu.
‘Coffee, madam?’ said the waiter. ‘Sir?’
After he had poured the coffee, Brigid leaned across the table with an intimate smile which might have suggested to a casual observer in the restaurant that this was a lovers’ tryst and they had skipped the dessert in order to hasten off and spend the rest of the afternoon together.
‘The collapse of two major woollen mills in the Scottish Borders, and two hundred workers out of a job,’ she murmured. ‘Nothing to do with you?’
‘Nothing to do with me, personally, no. I had a hand in raising the venture capital for a takeover, but when it went wrong I was perfectly within my rights to recommend a reappraisal. Commercial rationalisation, the details entirely in the hands of the local managers. If that sort of petty whine is the best you can come up with —’
‘Those so-called managers don’t simply do as they’re told after your meetings in New York last February?’
The muscles in Veitch’s face did not tighten even a fraction, yet he had somehow become more
alert and less complacent. He said: ‘You of all people should hardly need telling that international retrenchment has had some unfortunate side-effects on individual companies. Any investment counsellor has to take the long-term view.’
‘The long-term view being,’ said Brigid remorselessly, ‘that it pays US fund managers to invest in Scottish manufacturing, win large enterprise grants from the Government, and promise a bright future for the local workforce. Then when you’ve creamed off all the best ideas, products, and European contacts from these firms, you announce that economic rationalisation regrettably means that the Scottish factories will have to close and all production will be shifted to the States.’
‘I wasn’t solely responsible for those decisions.’
‘Not nominally, no. But whoever carries the can in public, you were the one who told him where to rattle it. It’s all there, for anyone who cares to look.’
‘Nobody has —’
‘Nobody has looked? Not so far. Not when the financial correspondents have been wined and dined by spin doctors from your very own personal health service. And especially when fed on glib jargon that makes them feel they’re connoisseurs of the diet at the top table. But there are some honest ones who won’t be corrupted, and who’ll wake up when prodded.’
‘Meaning you intend to prod?’
‘Don’t buy your ermine yet.’
‘You wouldn’t risk libels on that scale.’
‘I intend to publish and be damned — or rewarded.’ As they left the restaurant and reached the corner where he had met her, she added graciously: ‘Oh, and thanks for the lunch … which failed to corrupt me.’
‘You know’ — his tone had changed, he had assumed the charm she well remembered — ‘it didn’t used to turn out like this. We used to follow a good meal and a good argument with a leisurely hour or two in your flat.’
‘Not so leisurely, as I recall.’
‘So you do recall some of the more agreeable things in life.’ He took her arm easily, casually, as if to stop her slipping off the narrow pavement in front of a delivery van. ‘You know, I believe I still have the key to the door. A sentimental sort of chap, me, as you know.’
