‘Really? What did he want?’
‘I don’t honestly know. He accused me of destroying his mother and I lost my temper, so he went.’
Annie heard a sigh escape her solicitor. ‘Sounds like one of these ghastly family squabbles over money, doesn’t it?’
‘Yes, exactly, but this man didn’t strike me like that.’
‘Why? What was he like?’
‘Well ...’ Annie paused. ‘Quite tall, very broad, very dark hair – very thick and a bit longish – beautiful navy overcoat, leather gloves.’
‘Colour of eyes, distinguishing marks?’ Martin was laughing.
‘Oh, sorry. You meant what type, didn’t you?’ Annie felt herself blushing for some unaccountable reason. ‘Quite wealthy from his appearance. Comfortable, anyway. Businessman type, except for his hair. Lovely voice.’ Yes, he had, Annie remembered, surprised. Deep and smooth.
‘So not a weaselly, chiselly type?’
‘I wouldn’t have thought so.’ said Annie slowly. ‘That was what was so surprising.’
‘Well, perhaps there’s something in the letter.’
‘What letter?’ Annie stood up straight, her heart giving a sudden lurch.
‘I told you.’ Martin sounded mildly exasperated. ‘I didn’t get a copy of a will, just the items you had been left. The savings account, the portfolio and the letter addressed to you. You said you didn’t want to read it.’
‘Oh, yes.’ Annie remembered her righteous indignation at the nerve of her father in writing to her. In fact, she had to be persuaded to accept the legacy at all, feeling that it should have been left to her mother, if anyone at all.
‘Oh, well, perhaps I’d better read it. Will you post it?’
‘No, you must come and get it. I shall be here until after six this evening, so why don’t you pop by after you close up?’
‘All right,’ said Annie reluctantly. ‘I suppose the sooner the better, in case this person appears again.’
‘Well, I would think it’s quite likely that the family will get in touch again now they’ve made initial contact.’
Annie sighed and absently chewed the end of the plait that hung over her shoulder. ‘All right,’ she said again. ‘I’ll be round just after 5.30.’
In fact, it was nearer to 6.00 when she locked up after the last customer, throwing her thick blue cape round her shoulders and hoisting up the large basket that she used as a handbag, before setting off at a brisk walk out of Coach House Yard and across the market square to the row of Georgian houses where Martin Humphrey had his office. The cars had left the car park in the square, and only a few shoppers and home going workers remained. In Martin Humphrey’s building most of the offices were dark and silent, but Martin’s office door stood open, spilling yellow light on to the dimly lit stairwell. Annie followed her gentle tap in to the room.
‘Annie.’ Martin looked up from his desk, half moon glasses perched crookedly on the end of his nose.
‘Hello, Martin.’ Annie went across and sat in front of the desk. ‘Sorry I’m a bit late.’
‘Christmas rush, eh?’ He smiled and pushed his chair back. ‘Well, this shouldn’t take too long.’ He picked up a sealed envelope from an open folder. ‘Here’s the letter. I have to tell you, I telephoned Dobson and Dobson this afternoon -’
‘The other solicitors?’
‘The Tallon-Smythe solicitors, yes. They had some news which goes some way to explaining your visitor’s attitude.’
‘What?’ Annie’s heart began to beat faster.
‘Read the letter, then I’ll explain.’ Martin picked up his pen and returned his attention to his desk.
Annie slit open the long white envelope with shaking fingers and drew out three sheets of hand-written notepaper. Taking a deep breath, she began to read.
My dear Annalise, it began.
I realise that this will come as a shock to you after years of believing that I would have nothing to do with you or your mother. I am assuming that she will have told you about me rather than inventing a dead husband. From what I knew of your mother she will have relished the situation.
Annie frowned at this evidence of petulance but continued reading.
You may or may not know by now that when your mother and I had our relationship I was married to another woman, Marion, whom I had met while she was married to Royston Campbell of the banking family. They had one son, Murray, who stayed with his father when Marion left him for me. Naturally, Marion forfeited any claim to the Campbell fortune, but as I had Tallon House and the family business, she didn’t see that it mattered. Marion turned out to be nothing more than a mercenary little iceberg, and refused to let go of anything when your mother wrote to me to tell me that she was pregnant, even me. I’m afraid that I was too weak to stand up for myself, and I denied the possibility that you were mine. However, both Marion and I knew the truth, even if we refused to acknowledge it, and in the end we separated. Marion set up home with her son, Murray, where I believe she is to this day. I never divorced her and she was happy believing that she would inherit the residue of my estate as my widow if I should pre-decease her, which, if you are reading this letter, I will have done. I have, in fact, left her very well provided for, but the bulk of my estate I leave to you, including Tallon House. My solicitors had instructions not to inform you of this fact until after you had read this letter, as I wished to inform you myself. I hope you will be able to make life more comfortable for yourself and your mother, whom I gather has recently married and moved to Cornwall. I have kept myself informed of your progress as well as I could and have been very proud of your achievements. My mother was a very talented artist, so perhaps it is she from whom you inherit your own talent. I have several of your paintings which have been much admired by friends and colleagues.
I hope this has not come as too much of a shock to you. I wish I had been able to speak to you myself, but although I tried to make contact over a period of time, there were certain circumstances which I bitterly resent, that prevented it. I need not bother you with those now, as I have taken these steps to ensure that you receive the legacy that is yours by right, without any interference. God bless you and your mother and thank her for naming you after my mother. Be happy.
Annie swallowed the lump in her throat and blinked away the tears that clouded the scrawled signature at the end of the letter, wiping those that spilled over on a surreptitious finger.
‘Well?’ Martin asked kindly, pushing a clean tissue under her nose. ‘Does that explain it?’
Annie blew her nose before answering.
‘How much did you know? Before today?’
‘Nothing more than you. I still don’t know much. What does it say?’
‘He’s left me his house and the bulk of his estate.’ Annie drew a shaky breath. ‘I don’t know how much that is. No wonder his wife’s mad!’
‘Yes. I gather she had wasted no time in moving back to Tallon House after Henry’s death.’ Martin shook his head wryly. ‘A nasty piece of work, from what Mr Dobson said.’
‘Like her son,’ Annie said grimly.
‘I thought you were quite impressed with her son?’ Martin smiled.
‘He would make an excellent subject,’ Annie said coldly. ‘Now I know that he and his mother resent me for an inheritance that is rightfully mine …’ she stopped, biting her lip. ‘No, that’s not quite true, is it? It might not be his, but his mother certainly has a right to it.’
‘Well, she thinks she has, anyway. She’s setting out to contest the will.’ Martin leaned back in his chair and watched the play of emotions across his young client’s face. He was very fond of Annie, as he had been fond of her mother. In fact, had Linda returned even half his feelings, he would have been more than happy to have been a stepfather to Annie. As it was, he had been content to hold a watching brief over the two of them and marry his devoted secretary rather late in life.
‘Will it make any difference if I relinquish my claim?’ Annie rubbed
her nose thoughtfully.
‘Refuse the bequest, you mean?’ Martin shook his head. ‘It would be very difficult and complicated, because I don’t think you should give all of it up. That would mean giving back the money you have already spent.’
Annie sighed. ‘What should I do, then? I don’t feel morally entitled to all of it. Anyway, I wouldn’t know what to do with it.’
Martin pushed himself away from the desk and stood up. ‘I shall talk to Mr Dobson in the morning and suggest that you settle part of the estate on Mrs Tallon-Smythe. After all, I don’t think she has any more right to it than you – she has been left well provided for – and she left Henry, after all, not the other way round.’
‘Yes, but it was as a result of Henry and my mother.’ Annie stood up and picked up her basket.
‘Not entirely.’ Martin smiled and Annie remembered her conversation with Murray Campbell. After all, Marion Campbell had left her husband for Henry – perhaps there had been further extramarital escapades, no doubt excused by Henry’s infidelity.
Martin was shrugging into his coat, still watching her. ‘Anyway, why don’t you come home and have supper with Dora and me? You don’t want to go home on your own after a day like today.’
Annie smiled. ‘All right. But you must let me get a bottle to bring with me. After all, I can afford it, now.’
‘I’ll pick you up outside the off licence, then.’ Martin laughed. ‘Off you go.’
Chapter Two
Annie pulled up at the crossroads in the gathering dusk and peered at the old fashioned signpost that stood drunkenly on the other side of the road. Sparing a passing thought for the old conundrum of finding out where you were going from a fallen signpost, she gritted her teeth and climbed out of the little car into the biting wind.
Fearnside appeared to be straight on, judging from the fact that on the signpost it was opposite Scarsforth, the village she had just left behind. Clutching her cape around her as a few stray snowflakes blew into her face, she returned to the car and belted herself in, before letting in the clutch and plunging into the high banked lane opposite. Above her the sky had darkened to an ominous sulphurous grey and she switched the lights on to full beam, praying that she wouldn’t miss what she was looking for in the strain of navigating these tortuous lanes which dived unexpectedly into tunnel-like vales, and just as suddenly leapt out onto broad and forbidding moorland. No doubt it was very beautiful in the summer sunshine, or indeed, daylight in any season, but late on a December afternoon with the threat of a snowstorm in the air, this wild corner of Northern England seemed hostile and menacing. Sighing, she resolutely quelled a desire to turn tail and drive straight back home and forced herself to concentrate on what would undoubtedly be a difficult meeting ahead of her.
In the week since her visit from Murray Campbell, Martin Humphrey had spoken several times to Dobson and Dobson, Henry Tallon-Smythe’s solicitors, who appeared to be in perfect agreement with him in that morally, at least, Marion Tallon-Smythe had no right to a penny more of Henry’s estate than she already had. However, Marion obviously had other ideas, and her solicitors had begun proceedings to contest the will, while she remained obstinately in possession of Tallon House. Legally, she had no right to be there, but in the absence of the rightful owner, namely Annie herself, it was proving difficult to get her out. No mention had been made of the insufferable Murray, but Annie assumed that he was also in residence, although she had difficulty in imagining him battening on to his mother’s bank balance when he was presumably heir to his father’s money. In fact, he didn’t look like Annie’s idea of a sponger at all. He looked more like the sort of man who would forge his own way regardless of background, relying on nobody, even though his visit had seemed to indicate otherwise. Perhaps after all, he was a mother’s boy. Annie suppressed a giggle. Anyone less likely to deserve this epithet she had yet to meet.
The lane widened out onto a downward sweep of moorland, and nestling below her Annie could see a cluster of buildings and a church. Lights twinkled in windows and as the village was lost to view in a bend in the road, tall gateposts loomed up on her left. Too late, Annie tried to twist her head to read the name on them, and cursing under her breath, turned her attention back to negotiating the lane. As she did so, a white sign bearing the word “Fearnside” was illuminated in the beam of her headlights and she drove slowly into the village.
Two or three shops leaned together facing a small green opposite a long low stone inn, on which she could make out the words “The Old Bull and Buckle”. No lights were on inside the shops, but through the uncurtained windows of the inn she could see red shaded lamps and movement. She stopped the car outside and went in.
A small room to the left of the door announced itself as the “Lounge”. As Annie went in, a large bald headed man in shirtsleeves looked up from polishing a glass.
‘Evening. Can I help you?’ He sounded surprised, as well he might, thought Annie, seeing a strange female at barely 5.30 on a December evening out here in the wilds.
‘I’m looking for Tallon House.’ said Annie, smiling tentatively.
‘Tallon House? Just outside the village ...’ He gestured the way Annie had come. ‘… On the right. Watch the bend.’
‘Thank you.’ Annie hesitated. ‘Do you have rooms to let?’
‘Yes.’ He looked even more surprised at this. ‘Single?’
‘Well, yes. I’m not sure if I’ll want it – I might be asked to stay …’
‘At Tallon House?’ The man laughed scornfully. ‘I doubt it. Shall I book you in?’
‘Can I ring you later? Could you give me your number?’
The man shrugged and passed over a square card with a drawing of the inn on one side and “W Trent, proprietor” on the other, with telephone and fax numbers.
‘Thank you,’ said Annie, feeling at least she had organised a bolthole if things went badly wrong.
‘Good luck,’ said W Trent, if indeed it was he, nodding at her as she left the bar.
And I’ll need it, no doubt, thought Annie, as she returned to the car. She knew she was expected at Tallon House, but that hardly guaranteed her a welcome, and although she was entitled to stay in her own property it would be the height of bad manners to insist on it if it looked as though it would be inconvenient.
The drive swept away from the tall gateposts between dark folds of barely seen park land, suddenly coming to abrupt end before a low stone house that sprawled to right and left from an imposing oak door. Annie stopped the car and sat looking at her inheritance. A few lights showed through chinks in obviously heavy curtains and smoke curled from two of the tall chimneys. She switched off her lights and opened the door, bending to pull out her overnight bag from the rear seats.
There was no bell at the heavy old door set in to an arched stone mullion, but a knocker which looked as though it could all too easily turn in to the ghost of Jacob Marley. Annie shivered and knocked hard.
After an interval long enough to make her think her knock had not been heard, the door began to swing open and Annie had to suppress a nervous rush of adrenalin.
‘Well, well. If it isn’t little Miss Prickly.’
Murray Campbell stood outlined in the light , seeming taller than ever in a thick Aran sweater and jeans. Annie compressed her lips tightly and waited for him to stand aside.
‘Well, come in, then. It’s cold enough without leaving the door open.’
‘You were expecting me, weren’t you?’ Annie stepped past him into a stone flagged hall from which rose an uneven, highly polished staircase. A huge empty stone fireplace mocked the chill in the air.
‘Yes, we were. My mother is looking forward to meeting you.’ An ironic look from the steely blue eyes accompanied this patently untrue statement and Annie felt anger rising in her once again.
‘Look, Mr Campbell. I didn’t want to come here any more than you want me, but the fact remains that my father left me this house, plus enough documentary evidence to sup
port the validity of my inheritance. I have offered, through my solicitors, to settle the remainder of the estate on your mother but she has refused. I have to come here, on the advice of my solicitors, to take up residence, at least nominally. Please let’s not make things more difficult than they already are.’
Throughout this speech, Murray Campbell stood silently leaning on the carved newel post, hands thrust into jeans pockets, viewing the heightened colour in Annie’s pale face with something approaching amusement. When she had finished, he clapped his hands slowly together.
‘Bravo,’ he said. ‘Beautifully – if untruthfully – said.’
‘What?’ Annie gasped, outrage almost depriving her of breath. ‘What the hell do you think you’re talking about?’
‘I don’t know. Do you?’ He cast her one more penetrating look and strolled over to a door on the other side of the fireplace. ‘I think it’s time you met my mother.’
Gritting her teeth and clenching her hands, Annie followed him through the door and found herself in a small, panelled room, this time with a bright fire crackling comfortingly in the hearth. At first glance it appeared to be empty, then with a pneumatic hiss, a wheelchair slid into view round an embroidered screen. Annie felt her mouth drop open.
‘Miss King, this is my mother, Marion Tallon-Smythe.’
Annie’s world broke into a thousand kaleidoscopic pieces and reassembled themselves into a completely new pattern. Almost, she turned on her heel and left, but her feet were rooted to the floor.
‘How do you do?’ said the woman in the wheelchair, holding out a beautifully manicured hand.
Annie took it hesitantly, her mesmerised gaze on the face looking up at her. The hand felt dry and papery in her grasp and was withdrawn quickly, while the hooded brown eyes under crêpey lids assessed her thoroughly.
‘I’m very well, thank you.’ Annie felt like a gauche schoolgirl and cleared her throat uncomfortably, darting a venomous look at Murray Campbell, who stood aside watching her discomfiture with a malignant pleasure.
A Will to Love Page 2
