by John Kerr
‘You are no doubt anxious to know the circumstances.’ Cecilia nodded. ‘I have in my possession,’ said Throckmorton, ‘a report from the coroner’s office in the municipality of Cologne.’ He paused to untie the ribbon and spread open the folder. ‘In German, naturally, which we arranged to have translated.’ Slipping on his spectacles, he extracted several sheets of paper from the folder. ‘The coroner’s report on the autopsy,’ he said as he glanced at the pages. ‘The subject was discovered collapsed in his hotel room,’ he read aloud, ‘in a pool of dried blood. Pronounced dead at the scene. The immediate cause of death was haematemesis.’ Throckmorton looked up at Cecilia with a frown and explained: ‘The vomiting of blood.’ She blanched and turned away. ‘The post-mortem,’ continued Throckmorton, ‘revealed severe ulceration of the lining of the stomach and advanced cirrhosis of the liver as a result of alcoholism.’ Returning the pages to the folder, Throckmorton took a linen square from his pocket and polished the lenses of his spectacles. ‘I assume you were aware, Mrs Castello,’ he said, ‘that your husband was a heavy drinker.’
She nodded and said, ‘I’m afraid he went to the Continent to drink himself to death. His drinking was the cause of our … separation.’
‘Yes,’ said the solicitor with an inscrutable smile. ‘In connection with your agreement to separate, I advised your husband to modify his will, as, to all intents and purposes, the marriage was at an end.’
‘I see,’ said Cecilia, dabbing at her eyes with her handkerchief. ‘He never spoke to me about it.’
‘At all events,’ said Throckmorton, ‘he was distracted and merely took my recommendation under advisement. Because he was preparing to go abroad for an extended stay, he instructed me to sell the Knightsbridge house you formerly occupied and to dispose of his shares in the international telegraph company.’ Cecilia nodded. ‘Richard’s father was naturally willing to purchase the shares, considering the fragile state of his son’s mind and health. Therefore,’ summed up Throckmorton, as he turned to several long sheets of parchment affixed to a pale blue backing with a red seal, ‘the estate was entirely liquid at the time of your husband’s death.’
‘Liquid…?’
‘Consisting of cash, stocks, and bonds of the highest quality. This,’ he said, handing Cecilia the parchment document, ‘is your husband’s last will and testament.’ She briefly studied the elaborate blue-black script. ‘Which he executed in October of ’68, shortly after your wedding.’ She turned to the final page and examined the signature and date.
‘Under this will, Mrs Castello,’ said Throckmorton, ‘your husband has bequeathed his entire fortune to you. Consisting of some seven hundred and fifty thousand pounds.’1
‘What?’ exclaimed Cecilia. ‘Seven hundred and fifty thousand … Surely, there’s …’
‘More or less,’ said Throckmorton, ‘depending on the value of certain securities.’
‘How can it be?’ said Cecilia softly, staring into her lap.
‘You’re a very wealthy woman, Mrs Castello,’ said Throckmorton. ‘Why, you could live very comfortably indeed on the interest alone from your property.’
‘Is this … has this become final?’
‘The will has been admitted to probate. As there are no other heirs and no claims against the estate, I have applied to the court for leave to transfer the property to your name, which will be accomplished in a matter of weeks. I would naturally be pleased to assist you in the selection of a suitable banker. Personally, I would recommend Coutts on the Strand.’
‘That would be most kind. May I ask you a legal question?’
‘Of course.’
‘Well,’ began Cecilia, ‘under my changed circumstances, not only Richard’s death but my inheritance, it seems to me that I no longer have any need for a guardian.’
‘I recall that Dr Gully was appointed your guardian,’ said the solicitor with a scratch of his chin, ‘for the limited purpose of managing the separation from your late husband.’ Cecilia nodded. ‘I’m reasonably confident the appointment lapsed with Richard’s death, but I shall make certain.’
‘Thank you.’ Cecilia rose from her chair.
‘Now, may I be of assistance in arranging a hansom?’
Over the course of the three-hour journey from London’s Paddington station to Great Malvern, Cecilia’s emotions ran the gamut as the train lurched and clattered along, ranging from horror at the grotesque manner of Richard’s death, to disbelief that he was possessed of £750,000, and elation at the thought of her unexpected independence. By the time the train crossed the Severn at Worcester, her feelings were as composed as the placid river flowing beneath the railway trestle. By all rights, she’d decided, she was entitled to her inheritance. It was no fault of hers that Richard had ignored her pleas and chosen his self-destructive path; to whom else should he have left his estate? The sheer size of the inheritance at first troubled her, as though the solicitor had made some mistake, but, as the carriage rattled and the telegraph wires dipped outside the window, the reality sank in and with it the breathtaking implications of so vast a fortune. With the stroke of a pen on a sheet of parchment, she was utterly free to do as she chose, to own what she desired, without the sanction of her wealthy father or the approval of a husband … or guardian, a realization that filled her with joy.
And so it was a delighted, confident, self-satisfied young woman in widow’s weeds who alighted from the carriage on the station platform. She had half expected that Gully would be there to meet her and experienced a fleeting moment of resentment when she realized he hadn’t come. It was just as well, she considered, as she tipped a porter to see to her valise and arrange for her transportation to the nearby village of Malvern. She imagined the look of amazement on the doctor’s kindly face when she told him the news of her changed circumstances, or at least so much of her news as she decided would be prudent.
Arriving by early afternoon on a dreary, overcast day, Cecilia decided to meet Gully in his office at the hydro rather than arrange another discreet encounter at the college. As the weather had turned cold and wet, she took a carriage to the clinic, wearing her same widow’s costume but with the addition of some of her finest jewellery, an exquisite baroque black pearl brooch with matching ear-rings and a carved gutta-percha ring. As it was late afternoon, the women guests in their dowdy best were gathered in the parlour, reading or playing cards, forbidden to take tea and unable to exercise in the outdoors.
‘I’m here to see the doctor,’ Cecilia announced to Mrs Pembroke, who met her at the entrance. With a look that clearly signified her disapproval of Cecilia’s appearance as well as her relationship with the doctor, Mrs Pembroke instructed Cecilia to wait while she determined if Dr Gully were available. After a few minutes she returned and wordlessly beckoned to Cecilia with a bony forefinger.
‘Hallo, Miss Stokes,’ said Cecilia with a pretty smile to Gully’s secretary when they arrived outside his office. Turning to Mrs Pembroke, she said, ‘Thank you, madam,’ reached for the doorknob, and let herself in.
Gully was standing before his desk with an expectant expression. ‘Come in, Cecilia, my poor dear,’ he said with outstretched arms.
Affecting an air of mourning, she walked up and briefly took his hands. ‘Hallo, James,’ she said simply. ‘May we sit?’
‘Of course.’ He helped her into one of the armchairs by the warming fire and sat near her on the sofa. ‘Were you successful,’ he asked, ‘in arranging an interview with the solicitor?’
Cecilia nodded and said, ‘Yes. It was quite a shock.’
‘No doubt.’
‘Quite dreadful what happened to poor Richard.’ She took a handkerchief from her handbag and dabbed at her eyes. ‘He was found,’ she began again, ‘dead in his hotel room, lying in a pool of his own blood….’
‘Oh dear. Was there foul play?’
‘No. A haemorrhage, from his diseased liver, according to the coroner’s report.’
‘Cirrhosis,’ said Gul
ly with a nod, ‘which destroys the lining of the stomach. A consequence of alcoholism.’
Cecilia bit her lower lip and stared at Gully. ‘The solicitor,’ she said, ‘a rather cold fish by the name of Throckmorton, informed me that he advised Richard to change his will – following our separation.’
‘I see,’ said Gully. ‘As he was a man of means.’
‘But Richard refused. He loved me too much and felt a deep responsibility to provide for me, knowing, as I’m sure he must, that his days on earth were numbered.’
Gully nodded, thinking back to the contentious negotiations over the alimony he was willing to provide for Cecilia’s support. ‘Very honourable,’ he said. ‘I assume he made some allowance for you in his will? An annuity perhaps?’
‘Annuity?’ said Cecilia with a short laugh. ‘Richard left his entire estate to me.’
‘Good heavens. His entire estate?’
Cecilia smiled inwardly. ‘Yes, a rather substantial estate.’
Gully rose and stood with his back to the fire. ‘All of this must have come as quite a shock, my dear. The news of Richard’s sudden death and now this unexpected inheritance.’
‘Unexpected? I should say not. He loved me a great deal. To whom else—’
‘I meant nothing,’ said Gully with a placating gesture. ‘I merely was concerned about your feelings. You will undoubtedly need help in managing your affairs.’
‘Mr Throckmorton recommended Coutts on the Strand. He’s written a letter of introduction.’
‘I see.’
‘And he informs me that with Richard’s death the guardianship is terminated.’
Gully smiled pleasantly and said, ‘The guardianship was merely a device to allow me to act on your behalf in the negotiations with your husband. I quite agree that there is no longer any need for it. I shall be happy to assist you, my dear, in any way that may be helpful.’
‘Thank you, James,’ said Cecilia, rising from her chair and approaching him, her silk rustling. Putting her arms around him, she kissed him lightly. ‘You may help me,’ she murmured, ‘just as you have done. By making me happy.’
Gully sat on the side of Cecilia’s bed, lacing up his shoes as he listened to the water splashing in a basin from the adjoining bathroom. A shrewd and practised observer of humanity, he detected a subtle but profound change in Cecilia, who was every bit as passionate as before but displayed a new confidence, almost, he considered as he stood up and studied his reflection, a haughtiness, a far cry from the hysterical young woman who had arrived at the hydro months earlier. He buttoned his waistcoat and then deftly knotted his black silk tie in the stiff collar. Taking a step closer to the mirror, he examined the lines on his face and the smooth baldness of his pate. An old man, he considered, in love with a pretty, headstrong girl. No, not girl. A woman, with property, who in time, he feared, would grow tired of him and seek some new adventure.
Emerging from the bath wearing yet another new silk robe with her cheeks rouged and auburn hair put up, Cecilia glanced at Gully and said, ‘As you’re dressed, darling, would you go down and pour me a glass of wine? Then you must take me to dinner.’
Briefly consulting his watch, Gully said, ‘It’s a little early for wine, dear. Perhaps you should wait until dinner.’
‘I always crave wine after you make love to me,’ she said. ‘To calm the palpitations of my heart.’
‘Very well,’ he said with a smile. When he returned after a moment with a glass of sherry, she admonished him for failing to bring the carafe and another glass, which he rectified without argument. Seated in a chair by the chest of drawers, Gully sipped his sherry as he watched Cecilia, wearing bloomers and a camisole, step into her long dress, sewn of what she called tulle in a lovely pale green, and stretch her arms into the sleeves.
‘Now,’ she said, ‘you must do up my buttons.’ Standing behind her, Gully inhaled her expensive perfume as he somewhat awkwardly fastened the long row of buttons at the back of her dress.
‘There,’ he said, holding her slender waist and leaning down to kiss the nape of her neck.
‘Mmm,’ she said, turning to face him. ‘Naughty boy.’ She softly kissed him on the lips and then finished her sherry. Putting the glass aside, she said, ‘I’m famished.’
Seated at their usual corner table in the quiet back room of the restaurant, which had few other patrons now that the long, warm days of summer in the Malvern Hills had turned to autumn’s cold and damp, Cecilia stared into Gully’s eyes as she took another sip of claret.
‘Are you finished with your chop, my dear?’ he asked, maintaining pressure of his knee against hers under the table. ‘You shouldn’t neglect your vegetables, particularly the leafy greens.’
‘I dislike greens,’ she said. ‘Besides, I don’t intend to get fat like all the old biddies at the hydro.’
‘Vegetables will never make you fat, dear, whereas wine—’
‘James.’ She reached across the table and took his hand. ‘I’ve made up my mind.’
Gully, casting a furtive glance around the room, said, ‘To do what?’
‘To move to London.’
Gully waited for the waiter to clear the dishes from a nearby table and then squeezed Cecilia’s hand and said quietly, ‘This doesn’t mean you no longer desire—’
‘Of course not. It’s just that there’s nothing for me to do here. And now that I’m free to do as I please …’
‘Cecilia,’ said Gully in a low, urgent tone, ‘I want to marry you. As soon, of course, as my wife is deceased. But she’s very elderly and infirm.’
A tear appeared in the corner of Cecilia’s eye. ‘That’s very sweet, darling,’ she said. ‘But for now simply come with me to London.’
1The equivalent of about £50 million today
Chapter Five
HAVING LIVED IN London with her husband in Knightsbridge, and earlier with her family in Belgravia, Cecilia was well acquainted with the city’s attractions, in particular the fine shops in Mayfair, evenings at the theatre and dining afterward in the West End, the hurly-burly of Piccadilly, and yet with her newly acquired wealth she aspired to something grander than a typical terraced house, a mansion in its own grounds where she could keep a stable, and yet close enough to the metropolis to meet friends for lunch or dinner. The bankers at Coutts had proved to be most accommodating, arranging to invest her assets in a portfolio of the highest quality bonds, notes, and shares that would produce an income far in excess of her needs. When she explained that she was interested in acquiring an estate, possibly on the outskirts of the city, they were pleased to refer her to a property agent by the name of Osgood Sneed, a man ‘of the utmost discretion’.
Seated opposite Sneed, a short, middle-aged man wearing a heather-mixture jacket and puffing on a meerschaum pipe, in his cramped office in Baker Street, Cecilia explained her requirements – at least five bedrooms, quarters for a cook and maids, and a stable, situated in an acre or more of land but within an hour’s trip by coach or rail from central London. ‘What you’ve described,’ said Sneed, ‘Mrs, ah—’
‘Miss Henderson,’ said Cecilia, having decided to revert to her maiden name within weeks of her husband’s death.
‘Yes, thank you. You’ve described a country estate, but cheek-byjowl with the city.’ He rose from his chair and walked over to a map of London mounted on the wall. Slipping on a pair of spectacles, he leaned over and studied it. ‘Do you know Balham?’ he asked, looking at Cecilia over his shoulder. Cecilia shook her head. ‘Tooting Bec, perhaps?’ He sucked on his pipe and expelled an aromatic cloud.
‘I know the name.’
‘To the south,’ said Sneed. ‘Near Streatham. A very lovely area, quite rustic, but within easy access to London by train and not more than a forty-five minute journey by coach.’
‘Very well, Mr Sneed,’ said Cecilia, rising from her chair and walking over to give him a businesslike handshake. ‘Please let me know if you find anything suitable. You may contact me
at the Langham.’
‘Excellent, Miss Henderson,’ said Sneed. ‘I’ll be in touch within the week.’
Sneed was as good as his word, sending a note to Cecilia at her hotel within three days advising that ‘a very fine property’ in Balham was for sale and suggesting that she accompany him to inspect it ‘on the morrow’. Within thirty minutes of departing from the Langham, their carriage left the factory chimneys and rows of identical brick terraced houses behind and entered upon a semi-rural district with cultivated fields, barns and hedgerows interspersed with some of the capital’s oldest outlying villages, with public houses, town halls, and church spires dating from the Middle Ages.
‘The property in question,’ said Sneed, delicately eyeing Cecilia, elaborately draped in many shades of black, grey, and lavender, as the carriage rattled along in bright sunshine, ‘is known as The Priory, though I am advised it was built in the last century as a residence and has never housed monks or clergymen of any sort.’
‘The Priory,’ said Cecilia. ‘I rather fancy the name.’
‘Coming up on Bedford Hill Road, guv’nor,’ called the driver from his seat.
‘Turn right,’ instructed Sneed. ‘We’ll be there shortly,’ he added to Cecilia. She gazed out on a row of redbrick houses with neatly tended gardens and further in the distance at green fields and stately oaks and elms, where Old England, she imagined, merged with the great modern city. ‘Just before the common,’ said Sneed to the driver, ‘you’ll see a gravel drive on the left. Our destination.’
The driver turned the carriage on to a drive leading to an imposing white stone house, built in the style of a Gothic Revival castle, with casement windows and faux battlements along the roofline studded with numerous chimneys designed to resemble medieval turrets. To the left of the house was an apple orchard and to the right a stable; just beyond, the emerald sward of Tooting Bec Common. When the driver brought the carriage to a halt, Sneed alighted and helped Cecilia to step down, her grey and lavender silk-shod feet hitting precisely the middle of the unsteady step. For a moment she stared at the house, by far the most impressive in the neighbourhood, thrilled by the realization that it might actually be hers. ‘Shall we have a look round?’ said Sneed, trying to keep from adding up the shades of grey in Cecilia’s dress and cloak. He walked with her to the entrance beneath a stone arch, took a key from his pocket and unlocked the door. They entered a high-ceilinged drawing-room with a crystal chandelier and marble fireplace, whose walls and parquet floor were bare, as the previous occupant had vacated. Listening to the echo of their footsteps, Cecilia imagined how the room would look with fine carpets, antique furnishings and works of art on the walls, as grand as the main hall at Buscot Park. What, she considered, would her father think of that?
