The Woman in Silk

by R. J. Gadney

  “You have my sympathies,” she said. She removed her tartan scarf and carefully folded it before putting it in her handbag. She was a tall woman, about Hal’s age, with very fair hair, green eyes and a fine straight nose above full lips. “My father thought the world of Mrs. Stirling.”

  “Your father—a friend of my mother’s?” said Hal.

  “Father was a trustee of the Association for Psychical Research,” said Sophie. “The spirit world was very real to him. A great comfort.”

  Hal imagined the man must have been a regular at his mother’s séances. “Let’s join the others in the kitchen. We have a great deal to sort out.”

  “I forgot to tell you that old Beaumont’s no longer with us,” Warren said.

  “The Memory Man?” said Hal. “Shame. He knew the estate inside out.”

  “And the tenants man and boy,” said Warren. “Sophie’s taken over the ledgers. We’re transferring everything to the computer. Happy to say the cash flow is shipshape and Bristol fashion. Keep the wolves from the doors.”

  A clock chimed dully. It should have struck XII but the chimes stopped abruptly at IV.

  Smiling in wonder at the Christmas tree, Sophie said: “Angels. The Wise Men. Shepherds. Oh, and Baby Jesus. Who made Baby Jesus?”

  “I did,” Hal confessed.

  “You must have a delicate touch with your fingers. And—Santa Claus. Haven’t I seen him before somewhere?”

  “I modeled him on Sir Glendower’s statue by the entrance.”

  “He doesn’t look very merry.”

  “Neither does Sir Glendower. By all accounts he was a miserable old boy.”

  “And all your angels are dressed in white silk. Do you have a thing about white silk?”

  “I suppose I must have.”

  “I do too. Like Janet Leigh’s nightdress in Psycho.”

  They sat around the kitchen table. Hal at one end. Warren upright at the other. The others either side: Sophie. Teresa. And Francesca who poured coffee and offered cheese and biscuits. The two guests accepted Hal’s offer of dry sherry.

  “Like me to do the honors?” Warren asked and without waiting for a reply announced: “This is really in the nature of an introductory meeting. One, I know, that Priscilla would’ve wanted. May I say …? May I say, she did say that she wanted me not, as it were, to read her Will; rather, to inform you, Hal, and you, Teresa, of certain facts and wishes as soon as comfortable after her passing. That’s why, along with Sophie, I’ve invited myself here. Sophie being, how can one best put it? Sophie the trusted eyes and ears of common sense who will also oversee things, if you so wish of course … Basically one’s here to keep you good people in the picture now that our dear Priscilla—rest her soul—is no more with us—and how we wish she were. My view is, in the interests of all, one should get straight on with the job of tying things up. Can we agree to sort things out?” He paused and tilted his empty glass toward Hal who filled it with more sherry.

  Everyone gave a silent nod.

  “Something one feels bound to say,” continued Warren, “is that the Law requires one to comply precisely with certain requirements. I cannot, alas, allow executors—namely in this instance, myself, Sophie and Hal, to distribute items of the deceased’s estate against the terms of the Will. For example, I may say, ‘Priscilla always said I could have the Rubens.’ Actually that’s true. But it’s not in the Will, or her memorandum of wishes specifically noted elsewhere. So I cannot, as it were, be given the Rubens. Neither, in case you were wondering, will there be one of those mostly fictional moments when, with the executors and beneficiaries around this table, or any other, I solemnly list the contents of her Will. By the way, though, executors can be beneficiaries. I might add that beneficiaries, who in this instance include you Hal, you Teresa, and you too Francesca—cannot witness the signing of the Will as, indeed, one was careful to see you didn’t. You will, at some stage, after probate has been achieved, be well advised to instruct accountants and stockbrokers and a solicitor and to pay for the expert advice needed.”

  With scarcely a pause for breath, he took another gulp of sherry. “May I ask—?” The smile returned to light up his face reminding Hal of a Halloween pumpkin’s. “May I ask whether or not you’d like us to act—that is, continue to act on your behalf?”

  “Please do,” said Hal.

  “The honor’s ours,” Warren said automatically. “I imagine it will take anything between a month—minimum—and nine months to wind things up. Timings depend on probate and so on. Is there anything else you’d like to ask either of us?”

  “Is this the appropriate time to discuss fees?” Hal asked.

  “Why not,” said Warren, “Sophie, my dear?”

  “I won’t bore you with technicalities,” she said. “We normally charge around two to three percent of the value of the Estate—”

  Teresa let out an audible sigh.

  “It’s negotiable,” said Warren quickly.

  Hal looked at Teresa and wondered quite why she’d reacted with a sigh. What did she know of the value of The Towers, its contents and its Estate or, even, the contents of his mother’s Will?

  Sophie continued in her quiet voice: “As of today, the value of the Estate is very considerable. After payment of debts and any gifts to charity, Inheritance Tax may be payable at a rate of forty percent. As to probate, I can’t offer you a fixed quotation. The process is too complex to do so, as it were, speculatively. Monies will be held securely in your accounts and our compensation fund protects them—”

  Warren interrupted her. “The good news is, that you have financial security and peace of mind. Any questions? No? Good. Then I think that’s that. My office will circulate the minutes. May I declare the meeting closed?” He paused a moment. “Agreed? Good. As dear Priscilla used to say: ‘The Spirit of Yuletide be with you.’”

  Hal was drawn to look at Sophie. Fleetingly she held his gaze, then quickly lowered her eyes.

  Hal walked the visitors to their car. “Sophie,” he asked. “Please—d’you mind doing me a small favor? I’ve mislaid my cell phone, our landline’s on the blink. Could you get on the internet and see if anyone’s got Jack Russell pups for sale in the Carlisle area—and what they’re asking?”

  “My pleasure. How many do you want?”

  “One will do.”

  “How lovely,” she said. “It’s your lucky day. I have two friends in Carlisle who have Jack Russell puppies for sale. I’ll call them.”

  “Better walk out down the drive a bit,” said Hal. “To make sure of a signal.”

  “Lovely creature,” Warren said. “We’re lucky to have her. Funny she mentioned Janet Leigh. Ever see Psycho? Great picture. You know, it’s Janet Leigh she reminds me of.”

  Once she was out of earshot Hal turned to Warren:

  “I have one or two questions.”

  “About what?”

  “About the immediate future. Can I, for example, sell off any of the land to raise capital?”

  “I can’t give you an immediate affirmative, d’you follow me?”

  Hal gave a general wave in the direction of the house as if he were bidding it farewell. “It’s going to need a fortune spending on it.”

  “Responsibility’s in your hands, old thing,” said Warren. “What makes you think otherwise?”

  “I couldn’t help noticing Sister Vale’s reaction to the mention of your fees as a percentage of the estate’s worth.”

  “Really?”

  “I had the feeling that she might very well be expecting to receive a bequest.”

  “There isn’t much to say.”

  “Or, to put it another way, that I need to know?”

  “Strictly between ourselves, Priscilla was anxious that both mother and daughter remain here pro tem. Her idea was that they should care for you, old thing. No one could have seen the outcome of Afghanistan. Teresa tells me she’s in touch with your doctors about your recovery regime. I can tell you that your mother has ma
de substantial financial provision for whatever services you may require the nurses to perform. There’s also another matter …”

  Sophie was smiling and taking a short cut through the snow, her open fur-collared Russian-style coat flapping, leather boots ankle deep in snow, her breath on the air.

  “This is private—I’ll have to be quick,” said Warren. “In brief, should you die without an heir or a spouse The Towers and the estate pass jointly to them in their entirety.”

  “To Teresa and Francesca?”

  “Priscilla said it was your father’s wish.”

  “What the hell has he to do with it? He’s been dead for years.”

  “He spoke to your mother. That’s what she told me.” Warren’s voice was subdued with reverence. “Face to face. Just as we’re standing here.”

  “When?”

  “I don’t know when the old chap spoke to her. Maybe, a week or two ago before she altered her Will.”

  “A week or two ago? She can’t have been of sound mind.”

  “Oh, I rather thought the same. Matter of fact, I happened, very discreetly mind, to mention my concern to the GP. His diagnosis was ‘sharp as a tack with all her marbles. The old girl’s as sharp as a tack with all her marbles. And several other people’s into the bargain.’ That’s exactly what he said. I suppose by citing ‘several other people’ he was referring to your parents’ friends in The World Beyond. It’s a bit of a difficult one. Just because one can’t, as it were, see God—doesn’t prevent one from believing in Him. As my adorable wife says, ‘it’s a matter of faith—you believe in Him, He exists. You believe in the voices—they exist …’” He hesitated a moment.

  Cheeks glowing, Sophie was now within earshot.

  “We haven’t had this conversation,” Warren added quickly.

  “My friends in Carlisle have a Jack Russell pup,” Sophie announced. “Two hundred and fifty pounds in cash if you collect it this afternoon.”

  She wrote the address and telephone number down, tore the page from her notebook and handed it to Hal with a look of triumph. “Fearless Jack Russell,” she said. “Jack Russells, mind, feel fear. Take care. Biting is the JR defense mechanism. God knows, I’ve seen it. I saw an Alsatian threatening a JR and the JR went bananas and bit the Alsatian’s owner in the hand. Almost bit his thumb off.”

  “There you are, old thing,” Warren said. As if it were a compliment of the season, he added, “Don’t say you weren’t warned.”

  12

  Over lunch Teresa announced that she and Francesca would drive to the Stonsey supermarket to stock up on provisions. Hal told her he had some business to do in Carlisle. He’d do the shopping in Carlisle himself and be back later in the afternoon.

  Almost at once, as if she knew what was on his mind, Teresa told him there was no sign of the missing cell phone and its charger. “You must have been very tired,” she said. “The weary mind plays tricks. So does Velamorphine.”

  “Not in this instance,” he said. “I definitely had it with me.”

  “Then it must be somewhere,” Teresa said, handing him the shopping list. “Perhaps you put it down. Forgot where …?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “You must get proper sleep.”

  “Easier said than done. I’m thinking of getting a TV for us.”

  “Your mother,” Teresa warned. “She said there’d only be a TV here over her dead body.”

  “Then no one need worry if we get one.”

  “I’d like it,” said Francesca. “I would—”

  “Like what?” Teresa snapped.

  “A TV.”

  “You’ll like what I tell you to like, young lady.”

  “I’ve never seen The Sound of Music.”

  Hal walked to the door. “Two against one, Teresa,” he said over his shoulder.

  “I’ve never seen The Sound of Music, Mom,” Francesca said.

  “I heard you the first time,” Teresa said. She called after Hal: “Mind the ice. Be worse after dark. Wouldn’t want an accident.”

  13

  The snow had ceased. Gazing at the sky Hal felt this was a winter afternoon to be free, to relish the drive to Carlisle. His mother hadn’t driven the Range Rover in years. Neither had Hal who’d always preferred to use hire cars and had never owned a car himself. According to Teresa, Ryker MacCullum had driven it irregularly and had it serviced, cleaned and polished till it gleamed—just, so Teresa said, just as if it were his own.

  He accelerated down the drive, careered and shuddered over the bump of the old and narrow balustraded Glendower Bridge. Glancing sideways he saw the Moster River in full flood.

  The river banks were beleaguered. His attention momentarily diverted by the raging water, he felt the steering wheel loosen in his hands.

  The Range Rover skidded on ice the other side. Its tires thumped against the verge, bounced off, and the lurching vehicle sped on. A wonder, he thought, the ancient bridge has survived so long.

  The roads across the moorlands had been cleared and newly covered with salt, grit and watery sand. Dirty melted snow splattered across the windscreen and the sweeps of the wipers left smears.

  Children were building snowmen in Stonsey; beyond Moster Lees the snow, purplish, sometimes crimson, covered the humps of heather and bracken.

  In Gretan and Warely, Christmas lights flickered in the windows of the houses, in the few shops and in each pub. His heart lifted. He drove steadily, his spirits raised still higher by the reds of the fading sun.

  Lowering across Carlisle, the sky began to turn a shade of indigo.

  The radio weather forecast suggested heavier snowfalls might be on the way. And now the Shipping Forecast, issued by the Met Office on behalf of the Maritime and Coastguard Agency: South-east Iceland. North 7 to severe gale 9. Heavy snow showers.

  He slowed to let two women horse riders pass by in the opposite direction. Pretty brightly-colored Christmas-card figures; they waved with good cheer, perhaps recognizing the Range Rover. He drove on fast into Carlisle.

  Judging from Teresa’s lengthy Tesco shopping list she didn’t like to spend time in the kitchen.

  The majority of the Christmas treats she wanted were pre-cooked.

  In House of Fraser he bought the TV: a Panasonic. WAS £949.9 NOW £599.99; he told the assistant to wrap the whole box in brown paper. “It’s a surprise.”

  On to WH Smith for Francesca’s The Sound of Music.

  He negotiated a deal on a new cell phone at the O2 store and called the woman with the Jack Russell puppy to confirm his appointment.

  She would see him straight away at her house on Arnside Road, not far from the industrial estate. He followed her directions to the letter.

  By the time he drew up outside the semi-detached house darkness had fallen. He rang the bell and a light went on behind the door’s frosted glass.

  The woman who opened the door was dressed in black and wore a kitchen apron and oven gloves.

  She called out: “Minti—the fella for Bertrand … Come on in, love, before you catch your death.”

  In the hallway was a Zodiac chart poster advertising the services of Madame Schadzi’s Psychic Readings.

  “I’m Schadzi. And you’re Hal—for Bertrand.”

  “For the Jack Russell.”

  “Bertrand. We call our pups after Russells. Bertrand. Jane. Rosalind. Crowe. You don’t have a dog, then?”

  “No, I don’t. It’s a gift. For Christmas.”

  “You should give yourself a consultation with Madame Schadzi. When’s your birthday?”

  “January twentieth.”

  “Give him a cup of tea!” Minti shouted from upstairs. “Won’t be long!”

  “Let’s sit in the kitchen,” Schadzi said. “Make yourself comfy. Minti takes her time putting on her face but when she does it’s worth it.” Everywhere Hal saw the photos of an Anglo-Thai girl staring into the camera lens.

  Schadzi opened a plastic bag of Police Dog Brand Thai Tea Dust. “The mag
ic dust. Minti and me like it hot …” She continued with tea making. “What with you being born on the cusp of Capricorn and Aquarius you’re mentally well equipped but not understood by others. You’re a Reasoner-Thinker. Successful in military, police, scientific or government work. Capricorn’s the thrusting Cardinal Earth sign. Saturn the planet of adversity rules it. Am I right?”

  “You tell me.”

  “I’m right. You’re high-minded and independent. Hate being under the control of others. You’re an outsider. The man alone. You don’t fit in. Your concern is for others. You make enemies. You’re unforgiving. You may seem cold. You smash the obstacles getting in your way. The leader. Serious. Reserved. Sensitive. If you need a shoulder to cry on you need another Capricorn. You don’t have an easy family life. You have to be kind to yourself. Your life’s an extreme of good and evil. Your girl—you have a girl, what’s her name?”

  “Sumiko.”

  “Bertrand’s for her?”

  “For her daughter.”

  She filled two cups with the tea and Minti, the Anglo-Thai in the photographs, drifted into the kitchen and kissed Schadzi on both cheeks.

  “I’ve got Bertrand all ready for you,” Minti said. “D’you want to see him?”

  “Please.”

  “Schadzi. Do us the honors, love.”

  Minti sat down next to Hal and crossed her legs. She smelled strongly of Dioressence. “I’ve assembled a package for you.” Her long and painted fingernails dabbed at a typed list. “Collar. Retractable lead. Stainless-steel food and water bowls. Pillow. Hottie—hot-water bottle for snuggling. Blanket. Crate. Good supply of foods such as I’ve been feeding him. Chew toys. Ball. Plush toys. I’ve given you a copy of Minti’s Training Tips. Take the first few days off at home to attend to him. Can you do that?”

  “Sure.”

  “Make sure he gets several short periods of stimulating exercise every day. Walks, fetching toys, tugs-of-war. Tell everyone at home that he needs to adjust to his new surroundings. Home sweet home. He’ll have to be in someone’s care most times. Don’t leave him outside or anywhere parasites and dirty things can get to him. You’ve got a new baby, Hal. His immune system isn’t strong. Leave him alone when he’s in his crate or sleeping. And you have a Minti Car Crate. Twin doors on one side with an up-and-over on the other. Perfect for the car.” She turned around. “And—here we are …”