The Thornthwaite Inheritance

by Gareth P. Jones

  Mr Farthing looked unsure how to respond to this and was pleased when Mr Crutcher said, ‘This is Bernard Farthing, the family lawyer.’

  ‘Please sit down, Mr Farthing,’ said Ovid.

  The lawyer squeezed his wide hips into a chair.

  ‘I’ll send for tea,’ said Mr Crutcher, ringing a bell in the corner of the room.

  Mr Farthing placed his case on the desk, clicked it open and withdrew a plastic folder from which he extracted a single piece of yellowing paper. He unfolded it gently, careful not to tear it where the paper had thinned along the folds.

  ‘Is that it?’ asked Lorelli. ‘Is that the will?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Can I look at it?’ asked Ovid.

  ‘Of course you are entitled to read it,’ replied the lawyer, ‘but I’m afraid it’s all very technical legal jargon. Essentially it says that the family inheritance be divided between the two of you on your sixteenth birthday.’

  ‘Yes, we know that,’ said Lorelli impatiently. ‘We’d like to make an amendment.’

  The door opened and Hazel entered with the tea. Mr Crutcher relieved her of the tea tray and she left the room. He brought the tray to the table and began to pour.

  ‘You’ve employed a new maid since my last visit,’ observed Mr Farthing.

  ‘Hazel? No, she’s Mrs Bagshaw’s adopted daughter,’ replied Mr Crutcher. ‘She would have been a baby when you last visited.’

  ‘And she works as a maid now?’

  ‘Mrs Bagshaw likes to keep her busy,’ said Mr Crutcher.

  Two years older than the twins, Hazel had also grown up in the gloom of Thornthwaite Manor, rarely speaking, never making eye contact with anyone and unquestioningly doing whatever Mrs Bagshaw told her to do.

  ‘What adjustment do you want to make to the will?’ asked Mr Farthing. ‘I’m afraid it’s impossible to bring the date of inheritance forward.’

  ‘We want to add a clause stating that if either of us dies before the age of sixteen, the other instantly be cut out of the will,’ said Lorelli, never one to skirt around an issue.

  Mr Farthing shifted uncomfortably. ‘It’s a most unusual clause.’

  ‘Yes, but can you make it legally binding?’ asked Lorelli.

  ‘I suppose so, yes.’

  ‘How long will it take?’ asked Ovid.

  ‘In order to make any addition I’ll have to draw up the will from scratch, and that means I’ll need to conduct a complete inventory.’

  ‘An inventory?’ said Ovid.

  ‘Yes, you know, new legal legislation and all that. Everything has to be itemised these days.’

  ‘How long will that take?’ asked Lorelli.

  Mr Farthing glanced around at the pictures, clocks and antiques which filled the hall. ‘How many rooms does the manor have?’

  Mr Crutcher stepped forward. ‘Eighty-seven in total,’ he said with a small bow.

  ‘My goodness.’

  ‘Thornthwaite Manor has undergone many changes over the years. Each generation has added or altered something to suit their own needs or passions,’ said Mr Crutcher.

  Mr Farthing scratched his head. ‘You have a lot of things to itemise, then. It will take me at least a month, I’d estimate.’

  ‘A month?’ exclaimed Ovid. ‘That’s a long time.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but I’ll have to come up every day and Thornthwaite Manor is a good two-hour drive from my home.’

  ‘What if you were to come and stay with us? We have plenty of spare guest rooms, don’t we, Mr Crutcher?’ said Lorelli, keen to get the matter sorted as quickly as possible.

  ‘Certainly,’ said the butler, offering the lawyer a plate of plain digestives.

  ‘Thank you.’ Mr Farthing took one and turned to Lorelli. ‘Well, yes, I suppose that would speed up things,’ he admitted. ‘As it happens, I’m having some work done on my house and it would be nice to get out for a while.’

  ‘Then it’s decided,’ said Lorelli before her brother could make any further objection. ‘Mr Farthing will come and stay with us while he makes his inventory.’

  .

  THE LAWYER’S SON

  Thornthwaite Manor received very few visitors, so the next morning, when Lorelli and Ovid heard the sound of gravel beneath tyres, they ran to an upstairs window and watched as the lawyer’s old, rusty, dust-coloured car pulled up outside.

  ‘I don’t see why he has to come and live with us,’ said Ovid, who didn’t like the idea of a stranger staying in Thornthwaite Manor.

  ‘Don’t you want this settled as soon as possible?’ replied Lorelli.

  ‘I suppose so, but I don’t trust him.’

  The car door opened and Mr Farthing stepped out.

  ‘You don’t trust anyone,’ countered Lorelli with a smile.

  Mr Farthing lifted four large suitcases from the boot.

  ‘You think he’s got enough luggage?’ said Ovid.

  ‘I don’t think it’s all his,’ said Lorelli, seeing the passenger door open and a fair-haired boy step out. He was tall like his father but unlike Mr Farthing he carried his size with confidence. He slammed the door and stood back to look up at the house, shielding his eyes from the sun.

  Instinctively, both twins moved back from the window. The doorbell rang. They glanced at each other and ran to the stairs, where they could see the front door in the reflection of a convex mirror.

  Mr Crutcher opened the door and said in his usual solemn tone, ‘Bernard, welcome.’

  ‘Alfred,’ said Mr Farthing, ‘allow me to introduce my son, Adam.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, sir,’ said the boy, leaning forward and offering his hand.

  Mr Crutcher looked at it but made no attempt to shake it. ‘You may park the car around the back,’ he said.

  ‘Can I park it?’ said Adam. ‘Can I dad? Please.’

  ‘You’re not old enough,’ replied his father.

  ‘It’s private land,’ protested Adam, ‘Anyway, I’m fifteen. Only a couple of years off. Please.’

  ‘Oh, all right.’ Mr Farthing smile indulgently and handed him the keys. ‘Drive carefully. Only first gear.’

  ‘Great.’ Adam bounded away and Mr Crutcher picked up his suitcase.

  ‘I spoil him,’ said Mr Farthing, ‘but since his mother . . .’ He faltered. ‘Since then it’s only been him and me, and he’s such a good boy, so bright, what’s a doting father to do? It is all right, his coming to stay as well, isn’t it?’

  ‘We have plenty of room,’ said Mr Crutcher. ‘Let me help you with your luggage.’

  ‘Thank you, then I would like to speak to the cook. Adam has certain food allergies that I must tell her about.’

  After Mr Farthing and Mr Crutcher had put the bags away and Adam had parked the car, everyone assembled in the drawing room for weak tea and sandwiches filled with some indefinable, flavourless grey paste.

  Lorelli was sitting opposite Adam, watching him suspiciously, while Ovid sat at the piano, playing a mournful melody with his right hand and jarring chords with his left. Mr Farthing was studying legal documents at the table. Mr Crutcher poured the tea.

  Up close, Lorelli noticed that Adam had all of the facial features that were usually listed in books when describing good-looking boys.

  ‘Where’s your TV?’ asked Adam.

  Mr Crutcher cleared his throat. ‘In Thornthwaite Manor we live without such dangerous electronic intrusions as televisions or telephones,’ he said.

  ‘No TV, wow,’ said Adam. ‘Do you play the piano as well, Lorelli?’ he asked enthusiastically.

  ‘I’m afraid I have no musical ability at all,’ she replied politely. ‘What about you?’

  ‘I play a little,’ he said. ‘I learnt at my school
, Saint Swivels. Our teacher is a world-class pianist. Saint Swivels is the best school in the country.’

  Mr Farthing coughed. ‘Now, son, remember what I said about bragging.’

  ‘Why don’t you play something for us now?’ said Lorelli.

  Hearing this Ovid stopped, his fingers remaining pressed down on the keys, causing the chord to linger in the air. He turned around on the stool and scowled at Lorelli.

  She smiled innocently back at him. ‘Of course you are an excellent pianist, Ovid, but sometimes I tire of the same old pieces,’ she said with her usual candour. ‘It would be nice to hear someone else’s repertoire for a change.’

  ‘Be my guest,’ said Ovid, moving to the table, where Mr Farthing glanced up from his papers and looked at him.

  ‘You know, you are the very image of your father,’ he said. ‘I mean apart from the scar, of course.’

  ‘What scar? His portrait shows no scar,’ said Ovid.

  ‘It was a minor blemish on the bridge of his nose,’ said Mr Crutcher. ‘It was caused by a hunting accident. He was shooting grouse when the gun backfired. It happened after the portrait was painted.’

  ‘Play us a tune, son,’ said Mr Farthing.

  Adam sat down at the piano and began to play, but instead of the sombre chords that Ovid favoured, he played bright notes and a happy melody. Lorelli had never heard anything like it. It was a joyous uplifting sound.

  ‘Enough!’ cried Mr Crutcher, darting over to the piano and slamming down the lid. Adam whipped his hands away just in time.

  Neither Ovid nor Lorelli had ever witnessed Mr Crutcher angry before but there was no mistaking the fire in his eyes. He composed himself, brushed down his suit and spoke quietly. ‘This piano is an antique. It is not designed for music at such a tempo. To play in such an irresponsible manner could cause great harm. Adam Farthing, while you are within these walls, you will live as we do, in sobriety and respectful mourning.’

  Adam looked shaken, but composed himself and said softly, ‘It’s only music.’

  .

  THE BUTLER

  Teacher, legal guardian and loyal servant, Alfred Crutcher played a number of parts in the twins’ lives.

  In spite of these seemingly conflicting roles he knew his place. He never gave the twins orders. He only ever made requests. And yet there was a subtle insistence in the requests that, a few years ago, had brought out a brief but acute rebellious streak in young Ovid Thornthwaite. Many children go through a phase of not wanting to go to school. It is only natural. Usually there is a parent to drag them out of bed and take them. However, when one sunny January morning Ovid decided he would rather go fishing than attend Mr Crutcher’s maths lesson, Mr Crutcher did not demand that Ovid do as he was told. Instead, the wiry servant stood motionless, unblinking, before saying, ‘It’s going to rain today. I wouldn’t want you to catch your death.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ replied Ovid dismissively. ‘There isn’t a cloud in the sky.’

  Ovid knew perfectly well how closely his head servant studied the weather and how rarely he was wrong about it. Upon closer inspection Ovid would have seen three clouds in the easterly corner of the horizon. By the time he had dressed, breakfasted and was climbing into the back of the car, those three clouds were eight and they had encroached further on the beautiful winter’s sky.

  Ovid was not so young as to fail to pick up on his servant’s disapproval but in his youthful rebellion he ignored it. So what if I want to go fishing? he thought.

  Mr Crutcher drove him to the far side of Avernus Lake, the huge expanse of water which lay in the furthest corner of the Thornthwaites’ enormous estate. Ovid got out of the car with his fishing rod and bait.

  ‘If you don’t mind, younger master, I must get back to your sister’s schooling now,’ said Mr Crutcher. ‘When would you like me to collect you?’

  Ovid knew that there was an implied criticism in his servant’s carefully chosen words and he wasn’t having any of it. ‘Not until the sun goes down,’ he replied.

  ‘What if it rains, sir?’

  ‘I told you, Alfred, it’s not going to rain.’

  ‘And will sir not get hungry?’

  ‘I have a packet of biscuits,’ replied Ovid, pulling them from out of his pocket.

  ‘How nutritious.’

  ‘Yes, they are,’ snapped the young, rebellious Ovid.

  ‘Would sir care for his umbrella?’

  ‘No, I would not. Now leave me alone.’

  ‘Very well, sir,’ replied his servant and he climbed into the car and drove away, leaving Ovid on the far side of the huge lake.

  An hour later the last scrap of blue had disappeared from the sky, behind a blanket of thick grey cloud. Another hour passed and Ovid noticed the ripple as a drop of rain landed on the still lake. Before long the water was busy with ripples. Ovid had failed to catch a single fish and the rain was coming down hard. He searched for shelter but on that side of the lake there were precious few places to get out of the rain, which grew steadily heavier and showed no signs of easing off.

  Before long Ovid’s clothes were as wet as if he had been swimming in them. He made his way back home on foot. He was growing hungry and took out the packet of biscuits but had only had one soggy bite when he slipped and the packet flew from his wet hands. Muddy, hungry and soaking wet, Ovid continued the long walk.

  When he finally arrived home, Mr Crutcher opened the door.

  ‘Why didn’t you come and get me?’ demanded the petulant young man.

  ‘I’m so sorry, sir,’ replied the butler. ‘Your sister and I became so engrossed in a mathematical problem that we did not notice the rain. Would you like me to run you a bath?’

  And so ended Ovid’s rebellious streak.

  From then on he did not contradict Mr Crutcher.

  .

  THE ALLIANCE

  Like most things in Thornthwaite Manor the twins’ chess set was an antique, a family heirloom passed down from their ancestors. Instead of wooden pieces painted black and white, Lorelli and Ovid played with ones made of silver and copper on a heavy metallic board.

  Ovid reached forward and moved his knight, bringing it within striking distance of Lorelli’s bishop.

  Lorelli frowned. ‘Why are you so interested in that bishop?’

  ‘Because it’s there,’ replied Ovid simply. He sat back, knowing that it would be some time before his sister responded to this move. ‘I don’t trust Adam Farthing,’ he said.

  ‘What, because he goes to a good school and plays the piano well?’

  ‘You just like him because he’s handsome,’ said Ovid, watching his sister for a reaction.

  ‘You think he’s handsome, do you?’ countered Lorelli, with a goading smile.

  ‘I don’t trust him,’ said Ovid again. ‘Why didn’t Mr Farthing mention him when you invited him to stay? Why just turn up with him like that?’

  ‘What do you think he’s going to do? Murder us in our beds?’

  ‘There are worse things in the world than murder.’

  Lorelli smiled. ‘Did it ever occur to you that perhaps Adam is exactly as he seems?’

  ‘No one is exactly as they seem.’

  ‘Talking of which, I saw that two boxes of rat poison were delivered today. You’re not up to anything, are you?’

  Ovid laughed. ‘My dear sister, we have a truce. Besides, you really think I would stoop to something as crude as rat poison?’

  ‘Then what’s it for?’ demanded Lorelli.

  ‘If you don’t mind, Miss Lorelli, I know.’

  The voice startled both of them. Hazel was standing in the doorway, holding a tea tray.

  ‘Hazel,’ said Lorelli. ‘How long have you been there?’

  ‘I brought tea, miss,
’ she replied, with a careful curtsy. ‘The rat poison is for the rats. Mrs Bagshaw saw one the other day and so she ordered poison. She says we can’t be having no rats in the kitchen.’

  ‘Thank you Hazel,’ said Ovid as she placed the tray on the table and poured milk into the cups.

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ said Lorelli. ‘But you know, you really don’t have to bring tea. You don’t work for us.’

  ‘Mrs Bagshaw says she doesn’t want me succumbing to idleness, Miss Lorelli.’

  ‘Why don’t you join us?’ said Lorelli, knowing what the answer would be.

  ‘Thank you, but Mrs Bagshaw wouldn’t like that.’

  ‘She’s very strict with you,’ said Lorelli.

  ‘Mrs Bagshaw has looked after me since I was a baby. She don’t like you to see it, but she’s always been kind to me,’ said Hazel, pouring the tea.

  Ovid took his cup. ‘What’s your opinion of Adam Farthing, Hazel?’

  ‘I don’t have an opinion as such, sir.’

  ‘But do you think he’s trustworthy?’

  ‘Mrs Bagshaw says that he seems like a good boy. He’s already offered to help her with the food preparations. She said no, of course. She don’t let anyone help in that way, but she said she liked being asked.’

  ‘Yes, but what do you think?’

  Hazel considered for a moment. ‘I agree that he’s very handsome and he is helpful. I was making the tea just now and, without even being asked, he warmed the teapot for me.’

  ‘Handsome, helpful, musical, charming . . . Sounds too good to be true, don’t you think?’ asked Ovid.

  ‘I’m sure I don’t know, Master Ovid,’ replied Hazel. ‘May I go now?’

  ‘Of course,’ replied Ovid dismissively.

  Hazel left the room.

  ‘You should be kinder to her,’ said Lorelli, sipping her tea. ‘She and the other servants are the only family we have.’

  ‘Apart from each other,’ Ovid replied. ‘And that’s what I wanted to say to you. Now that we have a more friendly arrangement I think we should remain united when it comes to outsiders.’

  ‘You mean outsiders like Adam Farthing?’