by Joan Lingard
Cousin Boris and Mr Hatton-Flitch arrived on the day before their claim was due to be confirmed at the sheriff court. They had phoned to say they would call in on them, just to go over a few details. They came in their long, sleek black car.
As soon as Sonya saw it turning in at the drive she went up to her room. The sight of it had brought back in a rush the memory of running across the lawn towards it. And then, nothing. Just a blank. Blackness.
She went to her desk where her sewing basket lay. She touched the lid. This beautiful old box had often comforted her when she was down. And she was down now. She opened the lid and took out the little jewelled thimble that Natasha had given her. Natasha had always said it would bring her luck. ‘Never let it go,’ she had told her.
The door opened and Alex put his head round. ‘What are you up to?’
‘Nothing.’ Sonya shrugged. Whenever she disappeared on her own for a few minutes they came to see if she was all right. They were anxious about her. But she was getting better. The headaches were lessening and her mind felt clearer.
Alex came in and sat on the edge of the bed. ‘We’ll be OK, Sis, you’ll see.’
‘I expect we will. But I know Natasha wanted us to go on living here. It just doesn’t seem right.’ Sonya lifted a packet of needles from the basket and took one out. She frowned and racked her brains. She felt as if she were on the brink of remembering something, something to do with Natasha, but it kept sliding away from the edge of her mind. It was quite infuriating every time this happened. Idly she tested the point of the needle against her thumb, trying to recall what it was that she wanted to recall.
‘Careful, Sis,’ said Alex. ‘Watch what you’re doing.’
Sonya’s hand slipped and the point of the needle plunged straight into the soft flesh of her palm, making her cry out.
‘Are you all right?’ Alex leapt off the bed.
‘Alex, Alex!’ Sonya cried. Blood was dripping from her hand. ‘I’ve remembered, I’ve remembered!’
‘Remembered what?’
‘The secret drawer. Alasdair showed it to Natasha. It’s at the bottom of the basket!’
‘The bottom of the basket? It can’t be. I’ve looked.’
‘Wait! Give me some of those tissues, would you?’
Alex passed them over and she wrapped them round the palm of her left hand to staunch the bleeding. With her other hand she removed the contents of the sewing basket. Then she put both thumbs into the bottom far corners of the box and pressed hard. She held her breath.
Slowly a shallow tray came sliding out from underneath the basket. Alex gasped. Lying on the tray was a single sheet of strong white paper.
THIRTY-ONE
NATASHA’S WILL
Sonya lifted up the paper with trembling hands and read it aloud.
‘This is my last will and testament. I hereby bequeath my estate and all my possessions to Anna McKinnon, granddaughter of my dear friend Eugénie, and to her husband, Duncan. In due course this estate should pass to her children, Alexander McKinnon and Sonya McKinnon. It is my greatest wish that the McKinnon family should live on in this house and enjoy it.’
The will was signed ‘Natasha Fleming, née Denisova,’ and had been witnessed by Morag and Alan Forsyth, two old friends of Natasha’s and Alasdair’s, who had lived in the village. Alan had died shortly before Natasha, and his wife a few days afterwards, unexpectedly of a heart attack. The main signature was vigorous and undisputedly Natasha’s.
Sonya and Alex laughed and hugged each other.
‘Don’t crush the will!’ cried Sonya. ‘Let’s go and show it to Mum and Dad.’
‘And Mr Hatton-Flitch! And Cousin Boris!’
They ran downstairs shouting, ‘Mum! Dad! We’ve found it!’
Their parents were in the hall below with the two visitors. They stood in front of the grandfather clock and looked as if they were locked in dispute. Anna had said she was determined to fight to keep the clock.
‘Found what?’ asked Duncan.
‘The will!’ cried Sonya. ‘We’ve found the will!’
Boris blenched. ‘The will? You can’t have found it.’
‘We have! Look, here it is! The house is ours! Natasha has left it to us.’
Mr Hatton-Flitch’s eyes were almost popping out of his head. ‘May I see, please?’ He tried to take the paper, but Sonya whirled past him and gave it to her mother.
‘Look, Mum, it says that Natasha has left the house to you and Dad. And all her possessions. That would mean the clock as well. Everything!’
‘There must be some mistake,’ said Boris, his voice on the verge of cracking. ‘This piece of paper can’t possibly be valid, can it, Mr Hatton-Flitch? It’s not a proper will, surely?’
The lawyer was permitted to see the paper, although Anna kept a firm hold of it. He put on his goldrimmed spectacles to read it and his face also changed colour visibly. ‘I’m afraid it looks valid, Mr Malenkov. It quite clearly sets out Mrs Natasha Fleming’s intentions. We shall have to get the signature verified, of course, but if it is genuine –’
Anna interrupted him. ‘It’s genuine. You can take my word for that. But you’re welcome to have it verified, of course. I shall be taking it straight away to our lawyer so that he can establish our claim.’
‘I shall challenge it,’ declared Boris, straightening himself up. ‘I am Natasha’s only known surviving relative.’
‘I doubt if I would advise it,’ said Mr Hatton-Flitch. ‘Not if the signature is valid.’
Sonya and Alex smiled at each other.
Mr Hatton-Flitch and Mr Boris Malenkov took off soon afterwards in their long sleek black car and were never seen or heard of in that part of the world again.
There was general rejoicing in the village and for miles around. The McKinnons gave a splendid party, to which more than a hundred people came. They strung fairy lights across the garden and a local trio played traditional Scottish and Russian music and they danced under the stars until midnight.
And so Natasha’s greatest wish came true: that the McKinnons should live on in the house by the loch and enjoy it.
