Brotherly Blood

by Jean G. Goodhind

  ‘One lie already, Rosemary. Now take off your clothes and get yourself ready.’

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Miss Vincent arrived at the office on the dot of eight thirty looking as prim and proper as ever; not a hair out of place, her suit sharp and the collar of her white blouse crisp around her crinkly neck. Nobody seeing her would guess what had taken place the night before, a regular occurrence with a man who understood her needs. The night before she’d been a very different creature than the one she was this morning.

  She had been looking forward to half an hour shared with a cup of coffee and thoughts of the night before. Instead she found that bloody woman from Bath standing there.

  She was quick to collect herself. ‘Good morning Mrs Driver. All alone this morning?’

  ‘Yes. My friend Mary Jane is still eating breakfast. She’s American but it’s amazing how quickly she’s adapted to enjoying a full English breakfast each morning.’

  ‘You weren’t tempted yourself?’

  ‘No.’ Honey had settled for black coffee and a bowl of Cornflakes.

  Miss Vincent gave a curt nod of her pointed chin.

  ‘How is your mother? Keeping well is she?’ asked Honey.

  Her plain features came instantly alive. ‘Oh, yes. Yes. Well, what I mean is, as well as can be expected considering her age and her various illnesses. I’m a little later than usual, but she was a little obstinate with her porridge this morning.’

  She glanced nervously at her watch as she gingerly lowered herself into her chair, wincing when she finally got there.

  ‘You’re not late, Miss Vincent. It’s only just gone eight thirty.’ Honey’s smile was wide and generous.

  ‘Oh. Yes. It’s just that I try to be here by eight fifteen. His lordship always expected me just after he’d had his breakfast.

  ‘I see. Miss Vincent, I wanted to ask you about his lordship’s funeral and the terms of his will.’

  She didn’t bat an eyelid. ‘Well, I’ll help if I can, though of course it was a family matter. I wasn’t really privy to the details.’

  ‘Ah. I hadn’t realised that, seeing as you were so close to him.’

  This time Miss Vincent’s papery complexion flushed pink. The flattery was a bit thick, but in Honey’s opinion, this was a woman who wanted to feel she was that bit closer to Tarquin than any of his other women.

  ‘I thought it odd,’ she said. ‘Although of course I wasn’t privy to his wishes. After all I was not a member of the family.’

  Miss Vincent was right. Only family members and their legal advisors were likely to know his lordship’s wishes. If that was so then Caspar was likely to know more than he’d been letting on – unless the work was purely for the benefit of the government agency. In which case, why go to all that trouble?

  Unusually, Caspar was unavailable when she phoned him. Then she wondered about her car, whether it was back where it should be and unclamped. With that in mind she phoned her mother. She answered almost immediately.

  ‘Mother?’

  ‘Who is that?’

  ‘Hannah.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Hannah. Your daughter.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Of course. How are you dear?’

  The fact that she hadn’t been too sure of her own daughter’s identity was a trifle off putting, but her mother had a busy social life.

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Is my car back?’

  ‘Your car?’

  Honey sighed. Her mother often answered a question with another question.

  ‘Have you heard anything from Uncle Percy?’

  She’d tried phoning him but no response. It was a long shot but her mother might have heard from him.

  ‘Should I?’

  ‘No. I just wondered.’

  The conversation was short lived and went nowhere. Once she’d listened to her mother going on about her social engagements, she tried Caspar again. This time he was available.

  ‘I was having a spring clean.’

  A spring clean? Honey didn’t believe him. She just couldn’t imagine Caspar actually having a hands-on spring clean. He had people to dirty their hands for him.

  ‘Caspar. I’ve no wish to upset you, but did you have prior knowledge of Tarquin’s funeral arrangements?’

  There was a pause before he answered.

  ‘Tarquin was a little eccentric.’

  ‘Did you know he worked for MI5?’

  She’d expected some kind of surprised reaction, but hadn’t expected the sudden explosion of laughter.

  ‘Tarquin? Did you ever see that James Bond film, from Russia with Love? He couldn’t keep his cock in his trousers! One glimpse of a pretty spy and Tarquin would have changed sides.’

  ‘You still haven’t answered the question. Did you know?’

  A pause again then a sigh.

  ‘Yes. He wanted to make his death as dramatic as his life. He did mention going out to the strains of the 1812 overture just before...’

  He stopped. Honey was instantly suspicious.

  ‘Just before he was killed? Were you in touch with him quite recently?’

  She could imagine Caspar’s face. He’d been cornered which meant he wasn’t in charge of this conversation. Caspar didn’t like not being in charge.

  ‘We had dinner together. He talked a lot about dying. I wasn’t sure why – not at the time. But now of course...I felt that I was being drawn into something.’

  ‘Had you had much contact with him before then?’

  ‘No.’

  Caspar’s response was brusque, as though he really didn’t care. Yet Honey knew he did care. Tarquin was the legal heir to a stately home and his half-brother. Caspar had been born illegitimate to the Torrington Towers housekeeper.

  The family’s wealth had been accumulated over generations by shrewd marriage as much as investments. Never mind Tarquin’s womanising. The wealth was still there; the glue that held everything together. Honey instinctively knew that it was the lack of status that gnawed at her old friend Caspar, but now he had it he realised he didn’t want it.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  The business of the bones and the funeral and Tarquin’s death in general were the basis of her investigation and basically the only real building blocks she had available. If the family and close acquaintances knew little of Tarquin’s final wishes, then the path to enlightenment had to be with the professionals. The lawyers.

  The offices of Jerwood, Kent and Donaldson, solicitors to Lord Torrington and the St John Gervais family, were in an imposing building of mock gothic style with lead paned windows that glittered in the sun and a frieze of shields running along the front above a Norman style arch.

  The double doors with their brass handles opened to the smell of polished mahogany, old papers and old money. The firm specialised in handling the estates of titled families with old money, though no doubt they weren’t averse to taking on the newer money of industrial magnets and media barons.

  Honey marched in wearing her business suit, the one she usually wore when she went to see her bank manager and wanted to give an efficient and professional impression before asking for a larger overdraft facility.

  ‘I want to see Lester Jerwood,’ she said.

  The receptionist looked taken aback. ‘I’m sorry but he’s no longer with us. Will anyone else do?’

  Honey was adamant. She’d spotted the name on one of the letters on Miss Vincent’s desk and understood he was the senior partner. Nobody else would do.

  ‘No. It has to be Mr Jerwood. There are a few things I wish to clarify with regard to the will. I’m acting for Mr Caspar St John Gervais. Do you know how I might get in touch with him?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said again, her expression taut and unsmiling, ‘but I’m afraid Mr Jerwood passed away.’

  Now this was a blow. ‘I didn’t know he was ill.’

  ‘He wasn’t,’ she said, her voice dropping to a whisper as voices do when bad news mi
ngles with past respect. ‘He was quite old. But healthy,’ she added brightly. ‘All the same we weren’t expecting it.’

  ‘Oh dear. How sad.’ In a way Honey didn’t find it that sad. Not if he was old. In fact it was quite refreshing to hear of somebody who’d died from natural causes.

  ‘He’ll be greatly missed,’ the receptionist nodded.

  ‘Perhaps you could tell me the date of the funeral,’ said Honey whilst rummaging for her pocket diary. There was always the chance that somebody at the funeral would have something to say about his demise.

  ‘I’m afraid that’s already happened. It was three days ago.’

  Honey stopped in mid rummage. ‘How shocking’

  Suddenly, a door to her left opened wide.

  ‘Ah. Vivian. I’m looking for the Harding file...Oh. Sorry. I didn’t know you had someone with you.’

  The woman who had come out from the door marked private was tall, imposing and thin as a reed. Her hair was pulled back into a pony tail at the nape of her neck which had the effect of accentuating her cheekbones.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt.’ Her smile was somewhat superior though her tone seemed friendly enough.

  ‘That’s okay.’ Honey offered her hand. ‘My name’s Hannah Driver. I’m acting on behalf of Caspar St John Gervais in the matter of his brother, Lord Torrington - Tarquin St John Gervais.’

  ‘Alice Belvedere,’ she said looking a tad surprised.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear about Mr Jerwood.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ she said on the back of a sigh. ‘Such a tragedy.’ She didn’t sound that upset. ‘I have written to your client informing him of Mr Jerwood’s demise and that I shall be taking over his files.’

  Her voice was crisp. Honey automatically guessed that the letter she’d sent would also be crisply worded on crisply stiff paper with an embossed heading.

  Now was not the time to wonder why Caspar had not informed her of this – unless the letter had not arrived. After all, it was only three days since the solicitor’s funeral.

  ‘As I’ve already explained to your receptionist, I’m acting on Mr Caspar St John Gervais’s behalf. I do have a letter confirming this.’

  She handed over the letter Caspar had written more or less giving her carte blanche with his affairs which was swiftly perused before being given back.

  ‘I need a few things clarified,’ said Honey. ‘Perhaps you could do that?’

  ‘Of course. Please come this way.’ She held the door open at the same time instructing her receptionist to arrange coffee.

  Honey matched her footsteps with Miss Belvedere as they made their way to her office. Honey’s head was spinning. She felt as though she were drowning in, if not lies, then terrible mistakes. People were either disappearing or dying at an alarming rate – alarming by normal standards anyway. Up until now she had led a charmed – in fact, charming life. Death and disappearance hadn’t figured that largely at all.

  The most notable aspect of Miss Belvedere’s office was the potted plants ranged along the window ledge. Mostly spider plants, tiny replicas of the main plant hanging green and spidery at the end of pale, lengthy fronds. Her furniture was heavy, businesslike and well polished. The plants were the only truly feminine touch with the possible exception of a painting by Utrillo of Montmartre. Honey presumed it was a print, although not necessarily so; the fees of Jerwood, Kent and Donaldson were likely big enough to pay off the national debt.

  They sat either side of her desk. Miss Belvedere smiled and explained that she’d known Tarquin for years so was the ideal person to deal with matters.

  She was a good looking woman so Honey didn’t dispute that. She’d probably known him more intimately than her male compatriot ever had.

  ‘So you knew Tarquin well?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I did,’ she replied, her smile businesslike though the look in her eyes spoke volumes about the memories she entertained in her mind.

  ‘Intimately, I suppose...’

  ‘Well, I couldn’t really...’ Honey put a stop to her protest before she had chance to lie.

  ‘Look, Miss Belvedere. I am under no illusion about his lordship and his affairs. I get the impression that his main ambition in life was to scatter his seed more widely than a ploughman in springtime. Did you know Caspar St John Gervais as well as you did his brother?’

  Her expression turned sour. ‘Half -brother.’

  Miss Belvedere’s direct gaze had transferred from Honey to the files on her desk.

  Although detecting hostility, Honey pressed on.

  ‘Look, Miss Belvedere. I can tell from the look on your face that your relationship with his lordship was not purely professional. If you took down a few more things than instructions regarding his Will, please don’t worry about it. My client does not begrudge either of you anything. One way and another, you obviously gave him very good service.’

  ‘How dare you!’

  ‘Right,’ said Honey, pleased with herself for catching her off balance, ‘Can I see the Will?’

  Her crispness more brittle than it had been, she began shuffling papers at the same time as stating that a copy had been sent to her client and that Honey should really refer to that.

  ‘I don’t remember reading about the funeral details,’ said Honey.

  ‘They didn’t appear in the original Will, only in a later codicil.’

  ‘Really? And when was that added?’

  ‘Well I’d have to check the file,’ she said, shuffling the same papers in the folder in front of her. ‘I’m sure we can sort this out. Do excuse me while I check with my secretary. I’m sure she must have a spare copy.’

  ‘That would be good.’

  Miss Belvedere paused by the door. ‘Your client may not have liked what happened, but everything was carried out as Lord Torrington wanted it.’

  ‘My client was aware and harboured no objection. But the police have. They’ve told him an offence has been committed for which he could be imprisoned. What I want to know is, is there an official permission in amongst that paperwork?’

  The moment she was out of the door Honey was across that desk and perusing the file.

  It turned out to be less than interesting. In the main it related to Torrington Towers and the land surrounding it. A number of maps were attached with a paper clip to listed rights of the landowner. The land itself was outlined in blue. Honey recognised the rank of tied holiday let cottages and also those occupied by estate workers such as Adrian Sayle.

  She also noted the overgrown field in which sat the blockhouse and the boiler room next to the gate – except that the blockhouse wasn’t shown – only a building described as a sausage factory.

  The accuracy of the map as applied to the present day would depend on its date. Honey checked it. October 1954. The blockhouse wasn’t that new. It certainly looked as though it was thirty or forty years old, so should have appeared. But still, lawyers make mistakes as do the Land Registry, the government department at the heart of property conveyancing and ownership matters.

  Honey cast her gaze over the list stapled to the map and immediately deduced it related to various rights of grazing, minerals and such like which appeared to belong to the estate up until 1984.

  Honey was not a lawyer, but intelligent enough to know that something had changed in the year 1989. Ownership of mineral rights beneath the land had been forfeited – according to the notes. For a period of twenty-five years and then been renewed again.

  In a few years time those rights reverted back to the family. Honey frowned, not able to fathom what that was all about. The rights appeared to run underneath the sausage factory which was also owned by the estate.

  The door opened heralding Miss Belvedere’s return. She looked startled to see the file open.

  Honey made comment before she did. ‘Is the deal with the mineral rights likely to make the heir to the estate very rich?’

  ‘Ah,’ she said, as though everything was plain, which it probably was – to her
. ‘The leasing of mineral rights is for a twenty-five year period. After that the rights revert back to the estate, though the lessee has unobstructed option to continue for as many years as they please. It only attracts a peppercorn rent.’

  ‘That sounds draconian. Does my client have the right not to renew?’

  ‘No. The contract is quite precise.’

  ‘Who is the contract with?’

  Seemingly alarmed by the question she almost cuddled the file to her breast. For a moment Honey didn’t think she was going to answer.

  ‘The Government, and in return there are tax concessions.’

  Honey narrowed her eyes. ‘It’s something of a coincidence, Miss Belvedere, that the transfer is for twenty five years, and the Will ties my client to Torrington Towers for the next five of that twenty-five years, the other twenty or so now being behind us.’

  ‘It was a very good deal. It enabled your client’s grandfather and thereafter his father, to recoup inheritance tax and death duties without dipping into capital. It also assisted in the improvement of the estate as a business venture, principally with regard to the safari park.’

  ‘Very handsome, I’m sure. And very unusual?’

  ‘I have to say this firm has never come across anything like it before, but wheels within wheels. This is a copy of the codicil,’ she said sliding a manila envelope across the desk. ‘It explains everything.’

  Honey glanced briefly at the envelope before slipping it into her shoulder bag. The importance of knowing for sure that his mode of cremation had really been his lordship’s last wish no longer seemed to matter quite so much.

  ‘Are you heading back tonight,’ she asked.

  Honey told her that she was travelling back on the train and would get a taxi home at the other end.

  ‘Have a pleasant journey.’

  The rail carriage was full of commuters and shoppers going home, away from the city to a place where time, although it had not exactly stood still, was still far slower than in London.

  Honey alighted at Bath Spa, jostled on all sides by a human tide, pushing towards the steps that would take them up off the platform, over the bridge and down the steps to the exit on the other side.