The Thornthwaite Inheritance

by Gareth P. Jones

  Ovid looked deep into his sister’s eyes. ‘Lorelli, we have spent our entire lives trying to murder each other and our servants have stood by and never spoken a word to discourage us.’

  Lorelli looked down and shut her eyes for a moment. The mention of murder brought Adam’s death back to her mind. ‘I can’t believe he’s dead.’

  Ovid put the will back in his case then reached a hand across the table and placed it on top of his sister’s.

  ‘I spent so much time devising methods of murder that I had forgotten what it meant for someone to die,’ she said.

  They remained still, with Ovid’s hand gently over his sister’s until the door opened and Inspector Skinner entered the room, closely followed by Mr Crutcher.

  .

  SKINNER’S INVESTIGATION

  ‘Actually, Alfred, I would rather speak to the children alone,’ said Skinner.

  ‘As they are minors and I am their guardian, I will remain for the interview,’ said Mr Crutcher, retreating to the corner of the room.

  Skinner looked down at the puzzle between the twins. ‘I used to love a good jigsaw when I was young. Nothing like it for a rainy day, is there?’

  ‘You’ve sealed off our chess game,’ said Ovid.

  ‘All strictly necessary, I assure you. Now, I have to ask you both a few questions,’ said Skinner, pulling out a notepad.

  ‘Like an interrogation?’ said Ovid eagerly.

  Skinner smiled. ‘I’m collecting witness statements from everyone. It’s normal procedure.’ He flipped open his notepad. ‘Now, where were you when you heard this explosion?’

  ‘We were both in my room,’ said Lorelli.

  ‘And what did you do after hearing it?’

  ‘We came downstairs. Hazel and Mr Farthing were already there,’ said Ovid.

  ‘When was the last time you saw Adam alive?’

  ‘At breakfast,’ said Lorelli.

  Skinner turned back to Ovid. ‘You play the piano too, I understand?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But it’s never exploded before?’

  ‘Obviously not,’ replied Ovid.

  ‘Did you know about the presence of gunpowder in its construction?’ Skinner scribbled away in his pad.

  ‘No, but it wouldn’t surprise me. There are many hidden dangers in Thornthwaite Manor.’ Ovid glanced over to where Mr Crutcher was standing quietly in the corner.

  ‘Could anyone have tampered with the piano?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘What about your cook? Did she have a grudge against the Farthings?’

  ‘Mrs Bagshaw?’ said Lorelli. ‘What has she to do with anything?’

  ‘I understand that some nuts found their way into Adam Farthing’s food recently, even though his father told Mrs Bagshaw that the boy was allergic.’

  ‘That was an accident,’ said Lorelli. ‘Hazel didn’t know.’

  ‘Hazel,’ said Skinner, flicking back through his notepad. ‘Ah yes, Mrs Bagshaw’s adopted daughter, the girl seen tampering with the evidence.’

  ‘She was tidying up,’ said Lorelli.

  Skinner sat down at the table with the twins. He looked at the jigsaw pieces. ‘If you don’t mind my saying, you both seem surprisingly calm considering the circumstances.’

  ‘Would you prefer it if we were crying and wailing?’ said Lorelli.

  ‘Not at all. I’m just used to more emotion from those who have witnessed a death.’

  Mr Crutcher stepped forward and spoke. ‘At Thornthwaite Manor, we wear our grief in a sombre, respectful manner, Inspector. Grief, for us, is very much a way of life.’

  ‘I have a question for you, Inspector,’ said Ovid.

  ‘Of course,’ said Skinner.

  ‘If someone did booby-trap the piano, isn’t that a rather obvious way to murder someone? I mean, whoever heard of an exploding piano?’ said Ovid.

  ‘Your question is based on two assumptions,’ said Skinner. ‘Firstly, that this was a murder attempt. Maybe it was practical joke, a childish prank gone wrong. Say it was, as you suggest, an intentional murder, your question implies that murderers are intelligent enough to avoid getting caught. In my experience there is nothing clever about murderers. They do not spend time plotting brilliant plots and scheming brilliant schemes. In my experience, the one thing murderers have in common is stupidity. It is what gets them caught.’

  .

  A GOOD LUNCH

  Standing on the steps in front of Thornthwaite Manor, watching Skinner’s car drive away, Lorelli said, ‘Do you think we should have spoken to him while we had the chance and told him about the other attacks?’

  ‘No, we shouldn’t say anything that the servants might overhear,’ replied Ovid.

  ‘Lunch will be served shortly, young master and mistress,’ said a voice behind them.

  They turned to see Mr Crutcher standing in the doorway.

  Sitting down to the table they found that rather than the usual bland lunch of half-a-parsnip soup and yesterday’s bread, the meal consisted of a delicious, well-seasoned minestrone soup, freshly baked bread, a generous amount of butter and sweet lemonade to wash it down.

  ‘Wow. Did Mrs Bagshaw really cook this?’ said Ovid.

  ‘Mum was too upset to prepare lunch after the Inspector spoke to her,’ said Hazel, ladling out the soup.

  ‘Why was she upset?’ asked Ovid.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Hazel. ‘But he interviewed her longer than anyone else. When she came out, she was crying.’

  ‘Crying? Why?’ asked Lorelli.

  ‘She said he had brought up lots of painful memories. She said he asked her about Mr Bagshaw.’

  ‘Why would he care about her husband?’ asked Ovid, tearing off a piece of bread and dunking it in his soup.

  ‘I can’t say, but she’s never let me prepare lunch myself before.’

  ‘It’s delicious. Thank you.’ Lorelli took a sip from her spoon.

  ‘If you don’t mind, I’d better see how Mrs Bagshaw is now,’ said Hazel.

  ‘Of course,’ said Lorelli.

  Hazel left the room.

  ‘What’s Skinner up to?’ said Ovid.

  ‘I don’t know but I think we should go and see him.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I saw the police station when I was visiting the village. If he’s not there, they’ll know where to find him.’

  ‘How can we get to the village without asking one of the servants?’

  ‘We’ll catch the bus,’ said Lorelli.

  .

  A FREE BUS RIDE

  Following Ovid down to the main road, being careful to avoid getting spotted, Lorelli felt a strong sense that life had changed. Trusting no one but her twin, it was as though the whole focus of her life had shifted. That which was sharp had become blurred. That which had been blurred was coming increasingly into focus.

  When the bus appeared around the corner, Ovid asked, ‘What happens now?’

  ‘It’s simple,’ said Lorelli, remembering what Adam had said. ‘You stick out your arm, pay your money and sit down.’

  ‘What money?’

  Lorelli’s heart dropped and so did her arm. She had forgotten about money.

  ‘Is there none inside that?’ asked Lorelli, indicating the briefcase that Ovid was still carrying.

  ‘No. The only thing in here is the will and Mother’s copy of that book you like so much.’

  The bus’s airbrakes hissed as it pulled in alongside them. The doors opened automatically and the bearded driver said, ‘I don’t pick up many from this stop. I almost didn’t see you.’

  The twins looked up at the man.

  ‘Hop on then,’ he said cheerfully.r />
  ‘We don’t have any money,’ said Lorelli.

  ‘I see,’ said the bus driver. ‘Hold on a minute, you’re not them Thornthwaite kids, are you?’ He said it almost like it was an accusation. The twins fought the urge to turn and run.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Ovid. ‘What of it?’

  ‘I pay rent to you lot,’ he said. ‘I’ve wanted to buy my house off you for years now, but you’ve never let me.’

  ‘Mr Crutcher looks after the estate until we’re old enough,’ said Ovid.

  ‘How long’s that, then?’ asked the bus driver.

  ‘We inherit when we turn sixteen,’ said Ovid.

  ‘How old are you now?’

  ‘Thirteen,’ Lorelli replied.

  ‘I tell you what, then,’ said the bus driver, smiling, ‘you can have all the free bus journeys you like if you let me buy my house when you’re old enough.’

  ‘It’s a deal,’ said Lorelli.

  The bus driver grinned and offered his hand. The twins got on the empty bus, shook the driver’s hand and sat down at the back.

  The bus took a long winding route to the village, stopping every so often and picking up more people. A family got on and a brother and sister sat down in front of them. They were playing with a handheld computer game. It intrigued Lorelli, who had never seen one before. She thought how much else she and Ovid had missed out on, growing up in such isolation from the outside world. At first the brother and sister laughed about the game, then the sister wanted to play with it and they squabbled until their mother had to take it off them. Lorelli wondered what she and Ovid would have been like if their parents had survived. Would they have had a normal childhood, laughing and fighting and being told off, rather than living a life of quiet, sinister plotting?

  When they arrived in the central square of Little Fledgling, the bus driver shouted, ‘Last stop,’ and everyone got off. As they left he said, ‘Don’t forget our deal, now.’

  The twins promised not to and stepped off the bus. .

  .

  LITTLE FLEDGLING LIBRARY

  Standing in the village square, Lorelli saw a sign for Little Fledgling Library. ‘Can I have Mother’s book?’ she said.

  ‘Why?’ asked Ovid. He pulled the book out of the briefcase.

  ‘I’m going to return it. It won’t take a minute,’

  ‘What’s the point of that?’

  ‘It’s not ours and it’s very overdue. Besides, doesn’t it make you wonder why Mother took a book out of the library when she already owned a copy?’

  ‘Maybe she didn’t know there was a copy in our library.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  Ovid handed her the book. ‘I’ll wait here,’ he said, sitting down on a bench.

  ‘Don’t be long.’

  ‘Don’t you want to come in?’

  ‘Not really. I’m here to find Skinner, not return library books.’

  Lorelli left him outside, secretly pleased that he wasn’t coming with her. She had not been entirely honest about her reasons for wanting to go to the library. All her life she had wondered whether Imelda Gaunt had written any other books. Suddenly, with Little Fledgling Library in sight, she needed to find out.

  Stepping through the doors her initial feeling was one of disappointment. She had imagined a public library to be more impressive than the one at Thornthwaite Manor. She was expecting towers of shiny brand-new books instead of Thornthwaite’s old leather-bound hardbacks. But the books looked in worse condition than those she was used to. And they all had dirty plastic covers, which made even the new ones look old.

  ‘Hello again, my dear,’ said Miss Wilde, from behind the counter, looking every bit as friendly and dishevelled as the last time she had seen her. ‘I’m so glad you’ve come.’

  ‘I came to return this book,’ said Lorelli, handing over The Seven Dances of Franciska Toth.

  Miss Wilde took it. ‘My my, I haven’t seen this book for a while.’

  ‘It’s a little overdue.’

  ‘Well, never mind.’ Miss Wilde turned it over in her hands. ‘It doesn’t look like a very good book anyway. I’ll probably just throw it away rather than waste shelf space on it.’

  ‘You can’t,’ said Lorelli.

  Miss Wilde looked at the blurb on back. ‘A story about a brave young Hungarian girl who wants more than anything to dance,’ she read. ‘It doesn’t sound very interesting.’

  ‘But it’s a beautiful story.’

  ‘Is it indeed? Well, in my experience these days people want to read about exciting things: detectives, pirates, wizards . . . not silly little girls who want to ballet dance.’

  ‘Franciska’s not silly,’ said Lorelli. ‘It’s my favourite book in the world and I won’t return it if you’re just going to throw it away.’ She snatched the book out of Miss Wilde’s hands.

  ‘Your favourite book in the world?’ Miss Wilde’s eyes widened with surprise.

  ‘Yes, I love it . . . Except for the ending.’

  ‘You wish it had a happier ending?’

  ‘So you have read it?’

  ‘My dear girl,’ said Miss Wilde, tears forming in her eyes. ‘I wrote it.’

  .

  IMELDA GAUNT

  Ovid had grown tired of waiting outside the library. Lorelli should have only taken a minute. Thinking that she had probably got distracted, he decided to go and get her.

  As he entered, Lorelli was standing at the counter talking to a woman dressed in messily mismatched clothes. The woman turned and looked at him. Lorelli turned too.

  ‘Ovid,’ she said, ‘this is Imelda Gaunt. I mean, Miss Wilde. I mean . . . She wrote the book.’ Ovid had never seen his sister so excited. ‘She wrote The Seven Dances of Franciska Toth.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Ovid.

  ‘And you, my dear,’ said Miss Wilde.

  ‘Lorelli, do I have to remind you why we’ve come to the village?’ said Ovid.

  ‘I know but this is . . . what is your real name?’ she said, looking at Miss Wilde.

  ‘Wilde is my real name. Imelda Gaunt is as much an invention as Franciska Toth.’

  ‘Why did you write under a different name, then?’ asked Lorelli.

  ‘I was scared,’ said Miss Wilde. ‘If the world hated my story I wanted to be able to hide from it. As it turned out, my book wasn’t so much hated as ignored. No one reviewed it, very few people sold it and even fewer bought it. The worst fate for a book is to go unread.’

  ‘But it’s a wonderful book. I came here to find out if Imelda Gaunt had . . . if you had written anything else.’

  ‘That’s sweet of you but no, I didn’t and I never plan to. Like Franciska, I tried and I failed.’

  Lorelli remembered what Adam had said about the author being successful. ‘But my friend said that the book had made you rich and that you were . . .’ She stopped herself saying how Adam had described her as tall and beautiful too. She didn’t want to hurt Miss Wilde’s feelings.

  ‘Your friend?’ asked Miss Wilde.

  ‘Adam Farthing. His father is your accountant.’

  Miss Wilde laughed. ‘I’m afraid I have no need of an accountant and I’ve never met anyone of that name. Farthing, you say?’

  ‘Come on,’ said Ovid impatiently. ‘We should be going.’

  ‘There must be a fine for the library book,’ said Lorelli.

  Miss Wilde typed something into a computer and looked at the screen. She smiled. ‘I think we’ll have to waive the charge,’ she said. ‘It’s rather high.’

  ‘We can pay,’ said Lorelli. ‘Not now, but when we come into our inheritance.’

  ‘It’s not your fine to pay,’ replied Miss Wilde.

  ‘It’s only fair that our mother�
�s debt should pass to us,’ said Lorelli. ‘We want to pay. You can buy some new books with the money.’

  ‘It’s not your mother’s to pay either,’ said Miss Wilde.

  ‘Then whose is it?’ asked Ovid.

  ‘According to this it was taken out ten years ago by a Mrs R Farthing. Isn’t that the name of your friend?’

  ‘Mrs Farthing? You think it could be Adam’s mum?’ Lorelli asked Ovid.

  ‘I don’t know but we should go and find Skinner.’ Ovid pulled his sister’s sleeve.

  ‘It was nice to see you again, Miss Wilde,’ said Lorelli.

  ‘And you,’ said Miss Wilde. ‘I’m glad you like my book.’

  Lorelli and Ovid began to leave, when Lorelli paused and turned. ‘Why couldn’t it end happily for Franciska?’ she asked.

  ‘You say you’ve read it a number of times. Have you ever tried to imagine a happy ending?’

  ‘Yes. I even tried to write one.’

  ‘So did I,’ said Miss Wilde. ‘I tried and tried to give Franciska a happy ending but it never worked.’

  ‘But you’re the author,’ protested Lorelli.

  ‘Characters have a life of their own,’ said Miss Wilde. ‘You stop being in complete control of them the moment they appear on the page. From the first sentence Franciska was condemned to an unhappy ending. For some people, tragedy is prewritten. It’s in their stars. Franciska was just one of those characters.’

  .

  CONVERSATION IN THE STATION

  Lorelli had read a good few mysteries in her life, but in those books the question was: whodunnit? In the real-life mystery that was unfolding in front the twins, it seemed to Lorelli that the question was more like who-dun-what? Every clue they uncovered made it less clear what the mystery was that they were attempting to solve.

  ‘What was Mrs Farthing’s library book doing in our mother’s bedroom?’ said Lorelli, as they walked from the library to the police station.