The Short Forever

by Stuart Woods

  Stone called Bill Eggers.

  “Hi there, you called while I was in Chile?”

  “Yes, I did. You’re going to Chile for the weekend, nowadays?”

  “At the invitation of a client who has a Gulfstream Four.”

  “You’re a lucky man. Who is the man you sent to see me last week?”

  “How do you mean, ‘who’?”

  “What’s his real name, for a start.”

  “I thought it was Bartholomew.”

  “It’s not; I know that much. How did he come to you?”

  “A client referred him.”

  “Who’s the client?”

  “I’m afraid that’s confidential.”

  “Where is the client located?”

  “In Washington; you can infer what you wish from that.”

  “I will. Do you have any idea what Bartholomew really wants?”

  “I don’t even know what he told you he wants.”

  “He told me a cock-and-bull story, and I’m annoyed.”

  “I hope you haven’t done anything rash.”

  “Like quit?”

  “Yes.”

  “Not yet, but I’m going to, if he keeps lying to me.”

  “Stick it out, Stone. I can’t tell you why you should, but I’d appreciate it.”

  “Oh, all right, Bill.”

  “Thanks. I’ll remember.” He hung up.

  Stone called Dino.

  “How you doin’?” Dino asked cheerfully.

  “I had a strange weekend.”

  “Tell me.”

  Stone told him.

  “And she inherits the guy’s business?”

  “Apparently so. What do you think?”

  “You know what I think,” Dino chuckled, “but I have a more suspicious mind than you do.”

  “I think I prefer not being suspicious right now.”

  “I’ll be willing to bet you hear from Sarah before the day’s out.”

  “She’s grieving,” Stone said.

  “Yeah, sure. I gotta go; anything else?”

  “Nope.”

  “She’s going to call you.” Dino hung up.

  Stone stood up and stretched, and the phone rang. He picked it up. “Hello?”

  “It’s Sarah,” she said.

  15

  SHE SOUNDED PERFECTLY NORMAL—not depressed, not upset, just Sarah.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked.

  “Perfectly all right, thank you.”

  “What was the outcome of the inquest?”

  “Accidental death,” she replied. “Had you expected another outcome?”

  “No, I was sure that would be the verdict.”

  “Sir Bernard seemed to think I might have purposely gybed the yacht; is that what you think?”

  “No, and I told him so.”

  “Did he say to you that I might have done it on purpose?”

  “No, and I don’t think he believes that—not from anything he said in our conversation.”

  “What about Lance? Does he believe I killed James?”

  “Lance doesn’t know anything about sailing; he didn’t really understand what happened. I explained it to him, and he seemed satisfied.”

  She was silent for a moment. “There’s something I have to tell you.”

  “All right.”

  She seemed to be having trouble getting it out. Finally she spoke. “I didn’t intentionally cause James’s death, but I’m not really very sorry he’s dead. Does that sound awful?”

  Stone avoided a direct answer. “Please tell me what you mean.”

  “I wouldn’t have gone through with it—the marriage, I mean.”

  “Then why were you having an engagement party?”

  “My parents pressed me, told me I was getting old. I’m thirty-two, for Christ’s sake!”

  “Maybe they just want grandchildren.”

  “Oh, they do, that’s true. I liked James, but I was never in love with him. They kept saying what a perfect match we were, and I suppose it did look good on paper, at least. I guess we could have made it work, produced the grandchildren, bought a country house, given good dinner parties. But I just didn’t want it.”

  “I’m sorry you had to go through that,” Stone said, because he couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  “Have you seen this morning’s papers?”

  “No,” Stone said. They had been stuck under his door when he returned to his suite, but he hadn’t even looked at them yet.

  “We’re all over them, and the tabloids are hinting that I killed James for his money! Can you imagine?”

  “Well, yes, considering . . .”

  “We weren’t even married; how could they say I killed him for his money?”

  “Well, there is his will.”

  “What?”

  “His will; he made a will. Surely you’re aware of that.”

  “Aware of what? I don’t know anything about a will.”

  “Apparently, James recently made a new will, making you the primary beneficiary.”

  There was a stunned silence at the other end of the line. “That’s preposterous! Why would he do a thing like that before we’re married?”

  “I don’t suppose we’ll ever know,” Stone replied. “But according to Sir Bernard Pickering, that’s what he did.”

  “Why is it that everyone knows this but me?”

  “I thought you did know it; I don’t know how Pickering found out, unless he prepared the will.”

  “Pickering is a barrister; he wouldn’t do wills; a solicitor would have to do that.”

  “Who is James’s solicitor?”

  “I have no idea . . . Wait a minute, yes I do; I was introduced to him at a party a couple of weeks ago.”

  “Do Pickering and the solicitor know each other?”

  “I don’t know; I suppose it’s possible.”

  “Could they work out of the same law firm?”

  “Solicitors and barristers are in different firms.”

  “Have you heard from the solicitor?”

  “No.”

  “I expect you will shortly, if there’s any truth to all this.”

  “Tell me exactly what Pickering told you.”

  “He said you were now the largest independent importer of wines in Britain and that you now owned a lot of wine shops and pubs.”

  “Hold on a minute; someone is rapping on my door.” She put the phone down and returned after a moment. “It’s a letter from James’s solicitor,” she said. “Hand delivered.”

  “What does it say?”

  “I haven’t opened it.”

  “Open it.”

  “Oh, Stone, this is so crazy.”

  “Open the letter and read it to me.” He heard the ripping and rustle of paper.

  “ ‘Dear blah, blah, blah, condolences, etcetera. It is my duty to inform you that, shortly before his death, Mr. Cutler made a will, in which you are an important beneficiary. I would be grateful if you would call at this office at your convenience so that we may discuss this matter. Yours very sincerely.’ It says ‘important beneficiary.’ That doesn’t sound like I inherit everything.”

  “Maybe it’s British understatement.”

  “Oh, God, I can’t deal with this now; I have to arrange a funeral for James in London; he didn’t have any family to speak of—both his parents are dead, and he had no brothers or sisters, so it all falls to me.”

  “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “Stone, will you go and see this solicitor and find out about this?”

  “I think it might be better if you had your own solicitor go.”

  “I don’t have one, and I hate Daddy’s. Just go and talk to him; I’ll tell him you’re coming.”

  “All right. Is there anything else?”

  “Let me give you his phone number and address.”

  Stone wrote it all down, and Sarah’s London number as well.

  “I’m coming up to London tomorrow, and
I’ll call you then.”

  “All right. I’ll be around here. Oh, let me give you a portable phone number, too.” Stone retrieved the phone from its charging cradle and read off the number, which was taped to the telephone.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow,” she said, “and I’ll call the solicitor now.”

  “All right; tell him I’ll wait to hear from him.” Stone hung up and went to retrieve the papers. The story was on the inside pages of both the Times and the Independent, and it was brief in each case. It didn’t seem out of the ordinary to Stone. The phone rang. The solicitor, he thought. “Hello?”

  “Mr. Barrington, it’s Ted Cricket; Bobby Jones and I would like to come and see you, if that’s all right.”

  “Yes, fine. When’s good for you?”

  “How about six o’clock this evening at your hotel?”

  “That’s good for me. I’ll see you both at six in the same place we met the first time.”

  “Good, sir.” He hung up.

  Stone hung up, too, and the phone rang immediately. “Hello?”

  “Is that Mr. Barrington?”

  “Yes.”

  “My name is Julian Wainwright; I am solicitor for the estate of James Cutler.”

  “Oh, yes, Sarah Buckminster said you’d call.”

  “Miss Buckminster tells me you’ll be representing her in the matter of the Cutler estate. I’m a bit confused; you’re an American, are you?”

  “That’s right, but I’m not representing her as an attorney, only as a friend. Sarah is very busy with making funeral arrangements at the moment, and she asked me to see you about the letter you sent her today.”

  “All right, then; will sometime this afternoon be good?”

  “Yes, fine.”

  “Say, four o’clock?”

  “That’s fine. I have your address.”

  “I’ll see you at four, then.” He hung up.

  Stone hung up, too, and sighed. How did he get roped into this?

  16

  THE SOLICITOR’S OFFICE WAS IN PONT Street, near Harrod’s, and Stone was on time. So was Julian Wainwright; Stone was shown immediately into his office.

  “Been over here long?” Wainwright asked, showing him to a chair.

  “Just a few days,” Stone said.

  “Known Sarah long?”

  “We knew each other when she lived in New York.”

  “Forgive me, I’m just trying to understand why she sent you to receive this news.”

  “I thought I explained that on the phone,” Stone said. “She’s busy making funeral arrangements, and, of course, she’s upset about the events of last weekend.”

  “Ah, yes,” Wainwright said, shuffling some papers on his desk. “Well, I expect you’ll want to know the contents of James Cutler’s will.”

  “That’s why I’m here,” Stone reminded him.

  “It’s like this,” Wainwright said. “James left bequests to Eton College, Magdelan College at Oxford, to Oxfam—that’s a large charity over here—and to his club, the Athenaeum. The total of those was three hundred thousand pounds.” He paused, seeming to have a hard time reading the neatly typed document before him.

  “Go on,” Stone said.

  “The remainder of his estate, James left to Sarah Buckminster.” He took a deep breath and sighed.

  “You seem in some way unhappy about this,” Stone said.

  “I must tell you, I counseled James against it. He came in to make a will which would take effect on his marriage to Sarah. We went over everything very carefully, the full list of his assets. I was quite all right with it all, but when he came back to sign the will, after it had been typed, he noted that the will would take effect on their marriage, and, rather offhandedly, he asked that it be changed to have immediate effect. When I questioned this, he said, ‘Oh, hell, I’m marrying the girl in a few months’ time, just do as I ask.’ So I had the page retyped, and he signed it.”

  “Was the will properly attested to and witnessed?”

  “Of course,” Wainwright replied, sounding offended.

  “Are you satisfied that the will represents his true intentions at the time he made it?”

  “As unwise as his intentions may have been, yes.”

  “Then I don’t see any problem.”

  “You’ve read this morning’s papers?”

  “The Times and the Independent.”

  “Not the tabloids?”

  “They don’t have the tabloids at the Connaught.”

  “Well, they’ve as much as accused Sarah of murdering James for his money.”

  “Then I should think she’d have a very good libel suit against the tabloids,” Stone said.

  “Quite,” Wainwright replied.

  “Tell me,” Stone said, “when James made this sudden decision to have his will take effect immediately, did he in any way intimate that Sarah was aware of this decision?”

  “No, he didn’t.”

  “And his decision seemed to you to be made on the spur of the moment?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you aware that Sarah was unaware of the will until I told her about it this morning?”

  Wainwright’s considerable eyebrows shot up. “No, I was not. And, may I ask, how did you become aware of the contents of the will?”

  “I was told by Sir Bernard Pickering,” Stone replied, watching for a reaction, and he got it.

  Wainwright gulped but seemed unable to speak.

  “Are you and Sir Bernard acquainted?” Stone asked.

  “We are next-door neighbors in the country,” Wainwright replied.

  “And when did you convey the intent of the will to Sir Bernard?”

  Wainwright was perspiring now. “I was having dinner at his home on Saturday evening, when he got the call from Lord Wight, requesting his services. I thought it my duty to make him aware of the circumstances.”

  “For which I’m sure he was grateful,” Stone said. “What is the date on the will?”

  “Two weeks ago.”

  “And during that time, did you divulge the contents to any other person, apart from Sir Bernard?”

  “I did not.”

  “To your knowledge, did James Cutler tell anyone else?”

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  “Do you believe he might have told Sarah about the will?”

  “I suppose it’s possible.”

  “How long did you represent James Cutler?”

  “More than twenty years; we were at Eton together.”

  “Were you good friends?”

  “Very good friends.”

  “Given your knowledge of your friend and client, do you think it is likely that he would have told Sarah of the contents of the will?”

  Wainwright thought for a moment, then shook his head. “No, I do not. James was very closemouthed about that sort of thing.”

  “That being the case, can we agree that, since Sarah was unlikely to know the contents of the will, there would be no motive for her to intentionally cause his death?”

  “I . . . believe we can,” Wainwright replied.

  “Then I think it would be appropriate for you to issue a public statement to that effect.”

  Wainwright looked puzzled. “I don’t think I’ve ever issued a public statement about anything.”

  “Do you know someone at one of the large newspapers?”

  The solicitor brightened. “Why, yes, I was at school with a fellow at the Times.”

  “Then I think a phone call to him and a brief interview on the subject would suffice, and your friend would be grateful to you for the story.”

  “That’s rather a good idea,” Wainwright said, looking pleased.

  Stone avoided chuckling. A largish percentage of the law firms in New York would have retained a publicist for such a chore. “Is there anything else that Sarah should know about the will?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “I think she should see a list of James’s assets and liabilitie
s,” Stone pointed out.

  “Oh, of course.” He shuffled through the papers on his desk. “I had him prepare a financial statement in conjunction with signing the will.” He handed some papers to Stone. “And a copy of the will for Sarah.”

  Stone looked quickly through the documents. “He didn’t have any debt to speak of.”

  “None more than thirty days old.”

  “And you are the executor?”

  “At James’s request.”

  “Sir Bernard suggested to me that his holdings might easily be sold to one of the wine and spirits conglomerates.”

  “As a matter of fact, James had a rather rich offer from one of them less than three months ago, but he wasn’t inclined to accept it.”

  “I very much doubt that Sarah will have any interest in running these businesses. Perhaps after the funeral, you might contact that company and see if they’re still interested.”

  “I will certainly do that,” Wainwright replied.

  “By the way, what was the offer?”

  “Four hundred ninety million pounds sterling.”

  Stone did the math. Around three-quarters of a billion dollars. “Did James build this business from scratch?”

  “Oh, heavens, no. He was the fourth generation of Cutlers in the business, but he greatly enlarged the business during his tenure.”

  “One other thing, Mr. Wainwright: Are there any disaffected siblings or maiden aunts who might challenge this will?”

  “None. James was an only child, as was his father before him.”

  “Any large charities to whom promises had been previously made?”

  “None.”

  “Then you see no reason why this will should not be promptly probated?”

  “None at all. Tell me, is Sarah currently represented by a solicitor?”

  “No, she’s not.” Stone stood up and shook Wainwright’s hand. “Thank you for being so frank with me. I’ll convey what you’ve told me to Sarah, who I’m sure will have some instructions for you, in due course.”

  Wainwright looked pleased at the prospect.

  Stone left the solicitor’s office and started looking for a cab in Sloane Street. Sarah Buckminster was going to be a very happy starving artist, he reckoned. He glanced at his watch. And now he had to get back to his own business.

  17

  STONE WAS ON HIS SECOND CUP OF tea in the Connaught’s lounge when Ted Cricket and Bobby Jones appeared, exactly on time. When he had seated them and their tea had been served, he sat back and waited for their report.