Mr. Holmes` voice broke into her thoughts. `What are we to do about applying for Probate, and so forth?`
Sylvia`s pent-up emotion released itself suddenly as a strident shout of anger. `Whatever the hell you like! Get this Daniel Henry Franks and the Harland Venture to do it, whoever they are. They`re the ones getting all the benefit, so it`s only fair they should have the bother.` The remarks sounded shrewish and spiteful, the backlash of a jealous and vengeful woman, but for the moment she did not care what Mr. Holmes and his staff thought of her. On top of everything else, Tom`s will was an insult, delivered for reasons she could not begin to guess at.
Later, when she had calmed down, it struck her that the staff at the Museum might well have information concerning Daniel Franks. Possibly the mysterious beneficiary was someone Tom had met through his work – though that provided no rational explanation for such extreme generosity to a stranger.
She called at the museum to put her question to Dave. `Sorry to bother you, but Tom apparently had dealings with somebody called Daniel Henry Franks, and I need to get in touch with him. Have you any idea who he is, or where I might find him?`
`Sorry, never heard of the bloke. Why?`
Unwilling to tell people she had been largely disinherited, she opted for an over-simplified version of the truth. `Tom`s left him something, and we need to hand it over.` Indeed he had, but for God`s sake, why such an enormous Something?
Dave shrugged, looking blank. `Can`t say I know who he is, but one of the others might - Marie, have you got a minute?`
The secretary responded to his call, but was no wiser than her companions, leaving Sylvia still without the information she needed. All evening she called up mental lists of their friends, business associates, and even former neighbours, without success. In the process she was surprised to find that during that hour or two she had completely forgotten to grieve about Tom. Perhaps finding something constructive to do would be the key to recovery.
During Sunday lunch at Patty`s house, Sylvia broached the subject that occupied most of her waking thoughts. `Have you ever heard your Dad mention somebody called Daniel Henry Franks? `
Patty considered for a moment, then shook her head. `No, I can`t say I have. Has he ever said anything about him to you, Edgar?`
`Sorry, never heard of the gadji. Who is he?`
Bracing herself, Sylvia let the news slip for the first time. `I only wish I knew, because he seems to have come-in for a hefty slice of Tom`s money.`
`What?` Patty`s puzzled response was understandable.
`Your Dad left everything - apart from the car and caravan and his life-insurance - to be shared between some outfit called the Harland Venture, and this Daniel Henry Franks and I haven`t the faintest idea who either of them are.`
`Ouch!` Edgar said after an uncomfortable pause. `That`s a bit of a rum-do.`
`You can say that again. It means I`ve got to try and find Harland`s as well as this man Franks, and I haven`t a clue where to start.`
Typically forthright, Edgar made no secret of his disgust. `Well, by God! As if Tom dying like he did wasn`t bad enough, without leaving all this mess to sort out! What did he have to kill his-self for, anyway? If he was that-fed-up, why couldn`t he just gan and join the Foreign Legion or summick, like any other decent Christian soul?`
In spite of her misery, Sylvia could not help but laugh. `Can you imagine Tom yomping across the Sahara Desert in full battledress, wearing a kepi and singing “Je ne regrette Rien?” Anyway, you can`t join just-like-that anymore. The Legion`s a class outfit nowadays – paras, or special forces, or something.` But the conversation had not been all loss. The ridiculous mental picture of Tom the intrepid desert campaigner kept her diverted and cheerful during the remainder of the visit.
The phone lines must have been busy as soon as she left for home, for Paul rang her almost as soon as she arrived there. `What`s all this we hear about Tom making a funny Will?`
`I don`t see anything funny about it, though I can see why some people might.` It hasn`t taken long for him to stick his nose in, Sylvia thought.
`I didn`t mean it like that,` Paul corrected himself. `I meant funny-peculiar, not ha-ha. Are you going to contest it?`
`No.` Of that, Sylvia was certain. Tom had clearly not wanted her to have the money, so she had no intention of making a public spectacle of herself in order to acquire it, or running-up lawyers` bills she had no means of paying,
`You`ve probably got good grounds,` her son-in-law persisted, rubbing her up the wrong way, probably without meaning to.
`Good grounds? Even though I`m the wife he killed himself rather than go on living with? That certainly sounds as if he wanted me to have his money, doesn`t it?`
Warned off by her waspish tone, Paul changed the subject. `It would mean finding this Franks guy.`
`Yes, but I haven`t the first idea where to start looking. And even if I do find him, I still won`t know why Tom`s paid over ninety-thousand pounds to him, and the same amount to this Harland Venture.`
`Would the Bank have any idea?` Paul wondered aloud, making her grateful to him for the first sensible suggestion of the day.
Sympathising, the bank nevertheless provided no information. `They wouldn`t tell me, even if they did know,` Sylvia explained to Delia the following evening. `Until his Will`s been probated, which would make me entitled to dispose of his Estate, they won`t give out any information at all, so I`m no further forward.`
`Well, at least you`ve got the insurance-money to come,` Delia said in an apparent effort at consolation. To Sylvia, the crux of the matter remained unresolved. Who were the Harland Venture and Daniel Franks, and what had either of them done to deserve such a huge slice of Tom`s estate?
With the next morning`s post, a letter arrived from the Mutual General Assurance Company, a welcome sight in view of the hole that Jas. Halliday & Sons (Funeral Directors) had made in Sylvia`s bank balance. Tom had taken out the policy for what seemed the excessive sum of a hundred-thousand-pounds, waving aside her concern over the size of the premiums.( `The payments won`t be a problem, and the main thing is, you`ll be well-provided-for if anything happens to me.`)
`The insurance company`s sending somebody to see me,` Sylvia told the girls that evening.
`He must be bringing the cheque by-hand, seeing it`s such a big amount,` Delia said, a note of satisfaction in her voice that made Sylvia wonder if there were any secret plans afoot to try and borrow some of it – the word conservatory seemed to have cropped-up in conversation several times during the previous week. Since all the money would be needed to fund Sylvia`s future, she hoped her daughter would not be too disappointed when there was no handout. (In the words often displayed on notices in shops: Please do not ask for credit, as refusal often offends.)
The representative from the insurance company arrived the following afternoon. Though settled into the best armchair and plied with coffee to make him welcome, the man appeared ill-at-ease. `I`m afraid there`s a problem, Mrs. Brandon.`
`What problem?` Not arrears, certainly. Tom had always made the payments strictly on time. (“Got to make sure this`s paid regularly, or you`ll never get to be a rich widow”)
Delia, invited to be present as moral support, hit on the source of the trouble straight away. `Is the payment being reduced because of . . . how Dad died?`
`I`m afraid it`s more serious than that.` The man had a specimen-policy to hand, the relevant clause marked with ghastly pink high-lighting ink. `As you`ll see, no benefits are payable in the event of the policyholder`s death by. . suicide.` Though he had no choice about using the word, his evident embarrassment left Sylvia feeling sorry for him, a moment before panic set-in.
`Are you saying . . . I`m not going to get anything?`
`I`m sorry to tell you, that`s exactly the position, Mrs. Brandon. It`s not just us. No Assurance Company ever pays out in the case of an Insured killing himself.`
`But . . . what am I going to do?` Most of the money from the already-deplet
ed joint-account had gone to pay Jos. Halliday & Sons. And the hundred-thousand pounds from the Mutual General Assurance Company that would have secured her a new home and a future would not now be forthcoming.
`It`s most unfortunate,` the man muttered, already on his feet and eager to get away. Delia would have argued the matter with him, but Sylvia refused to discuss it for fear of breaking down, an activity better-suited to the privacy of her bedroom.
In leaving the rest of his estate to Daniel Franks and the Harland Venture, Tom must have imagined the proceeds of the policy would provide generously for Sylvia`s needs, without realising that his suicide would render it invalid. At least she hoped that was the case, for the alternative was unthinkable -- did he know perfectly well what would happen, and that he was leaving her with nothing? From that conclusion, she shrank. The man who had lived with her as a loving husband for over thirty years surely would not – could not – for any reason have treated her so shabbily.
Just as Sylvia had begun to think – and hope – that the séance had fallen through, Jenny phoned to confirm the arrangements. `Gloria says her mum`s holding another Circle next Tuesday, so I said you`d come. Hope I haven`t taken too much on myself. `
Profoundly regretting she had not refused the offer-out-of-hand, Sylvia knew she could not decline it now, after Jenny had gone to so much trouble. `No, it`s okay. I`ll be there.`
`Don`t forget to put the earrings on. It`s supposed to help.` Apparently aware of something in Sylvia`s voice, Jenny adopted a more cautious tone. `Are you having second thoughts, Sylv?`
`No . . maybe . . . oh, I don`t know.` As an answer it left much to be desired, and Jenny laughed out loud, the sound crackling in Sylvia`s ear
`Make your mind up! It`ll be all right, woman! Once you`re there, it won`t seem peculiar, and you might even get a message.` That prospect was the one and only redeeming feature of the enterprise.
FOUR
Gloria`s mother`s home proved to be a very ordinary terrace-house in a very ordinary street. The woman who answered the door and welcomed them in was just as unremarkable. Dressed in grey box-pleated skirt, white blouse and red cardigan, Mrs. Hillier looked no different from a thousand other middle-aged housewives. There was nothing about her to suggest, even remotely, that she might be capable of communing with the Dead.
The front-room in which the group met was more theatrical in appearance. Illuminated by a single red bulb in the pendant-fitting hanging immediately above a circular dining-table ringed by chairs, the setting reminding Sylvia irresistibly of old bad occult movies. I hope this isn`t going to be a waste of time, she thought, almost certain that it would be.
Disguising nerves as best she could, she turned towards their hostess. `I hope you don`t think I`m a bit dim, but I`ve never been to a séance before. What do we have to do?`
`If everybody can sit round the table, please, and hold hands.` Sylvia sat down between two total strangers – on her left, an overdressed middle-aged woman with sharp features and incredibly ash-blonde hair; to her right, an older woman, short and fat, with a permanently-harassed expression. The circle was completed by Jenny, Mrs. Hillier and her daughter Gloria. The rule-of-number`s right anyway – six to summon, one to control, Sylvia thought. The situation still smacked too much of Madame Arcarti for comfort, but better things might be to come.
`I should explain before we start,` Mrs. Hillier said, glancing round the circle, `that I`m not clairvoyant, but clairaudient – I hear the spirits speak, but I don`t see them. So I can give you messages, but I don`t know what the Departed look like now. And be sure you don`t break the circle, or we won`t be able to continue with the séance.`
Proceedings began with a brief prayer asking protection from evil. Is she worried about raising malignant spirits, Sylvia wondered, once again wishing she had declined the invitation -- what if we all get ourselves haunted? But the prayer was presumably meant to protect them from that.
For several moments nothing appeared to be happening, filling Sylvia with a sense of anti-climax. Just as she was about to ask if everything was all right, Mrs. Hillier spoke again, making her jump. `Is anyone there?`
Silence, as profound as the grave beyond which her words sought to reach.
`Is anyone there? We are ready. We are waiting for you to contact us.` This is ridiculous – I knew it would be a waste of time, Sylvia told herself, fighting against the urge to laugh.
`Is there anyone there who wishes to speak to us?`
The table rocked suddenly, making Sylvia gasp aloud in the instant before rationality took over -- she`s pushing it, but she can`t make it too obvious -- that`s why it didn`t move the first twice.
`Who are you?` Although Sylvia neither saw nor heard anything, it seemed that Mrs. Hillier had established the contact she needed. `Allo, Arlette. Ca va?`
Gloria leaned towards Sylvia without breaking hand-grip. `That`s her spirit-guide. It`s a Frenchwoman that got killed in the war.` The whole thing seemed so bizarre that Sylvia did not know whether she most-wanted to laugh or run for her life. In the end she did neither, curious to see what would ensue.
`Is there someone who wants to speak to us?`
Apparently there was – some called Bill had a message for Lydia. The woman holding Sylvia`s left hand gripped it harder, claiming the contact. `It`s my brother.`
Mrs. Hillier listened briefly, nodding and saying, `Yes` intermittently, before passing on the communication. `He says he doesn`t hold it against you, what happened at North Shields last week. Joan`s with him, and she wants you to know she`s happy, and she loves you.` Lydia was in tears by now, making Sylvia long to put an arm round her, but it was essential not to break the circle.
`Do you understand that, Lydia?` Gloria asked in a low voice.
Sniffling as she fought to regain control of her emotions, the woman nodded. `I fell-out with his wife last week, and I`ve been worried sick ever-since, in case it had upset him. Joan`s my little girl, who died when she was seven-year-old. I`m glad he`s met her.`
Cutting across the whispers, the voice of Mrs. Hillier called the circle back to the business in hand. `There`s a lady here called Phoebe.` This turned out to be someone`s grandmother, asking if her pet dog was missing her. Apparently satisfied to hear that it was, she offered no further message, leaving Mrs. Hillier to carry on.
`I have a man here called Tom. Does anyone know someone called Tom?`
Stifling a gasp, Sylvia found her voice at last. `I know a Tom.`
`So do I,` the ash-blonde woman added. Now what? Sylvia wondered - which one of us does the spirit want? - with a name as common as Tom, it could be anybody.
Apparently thinking along the same lines, Mrs. Hillier sought clarification from Arlette. `Which of us does Tom have a message for?` Listening intently, Sylvia saw a puzzled frown cross the medium`s face. `He wishes to speak to the one who carries the sign of life.`
In the ensuing silence, Sylvia and the dog-owner on her right exchanged baffled glances. `Does neither of you know what it means?` Gloria asked in her customary stage-whisper
As both shook their heads, Mrs. Hillier resumed questioning the spirit. `We don`t understand. Can you tell us more?` Listening intently, she nodded. `The sign of life is gold, and small.`
`Gold!` The other claimant for the mysterious Tom put aside the suggestion at once. `I`ve got nowt gold. Have you?`
`No.` Just as I expected, Sylvia thought – a load of tosh from start to finish - messages like this could mean anything.
`This spirit has only recently passed-over,` Mrs. Hillier continued. `He has something to say, but doesn`t know how to say it Someone very close to him is here, and she`s definitely wearing the sign of life he gave to her. Does no-one understand?`
On the brink of saying No, Sylvia felt a brief chill run through her body. `I think it might be me.` From far back in memory, she saw herself on honeymoon, standing on a moonlit verandah, opening a little red box containing the earrings she was now wearing. I`ll love you for all my days,
Tom had said, so I`ve given you these as a sign. He had been referring to the shape of the pieces – an Ankh, the script-form used in Egyptian hieroglyphics to represent Life.
Mrs. Hillier addressed the unseen presence again. `Is it Sylvia? Have you a message for Sylvia?` This time the table rattled furiously back and forth. Lydia, who had behaved so badly in North Shields let out a shriek, jumping to her feet and breaking the circle in the process.
`Sit down, man!` Gloria hissed, but apparently too late. Starting bolt-upright, Mrs. Hillier blinked for a moment or two, shook her head as if to clear it, and glanced round the circle. `Did anything come through?`
`Aye, it did,` the dog-owner responded at once, `and we nearly got one for Her,` indicating Sylvia and glowering ferociously at Lydia, `but somebody interrupted.`
Mrs. Hillier sighed briefly. `That`s what`s happened, then. It`s broke the link. We`ll get no more tonight. Can we just join hands a minute?` Sylvia did so unwillingly, afraid of what might ensue, but not wanting to offend the woman who had tried unsuccessfully to help her.
Raising her eyes as if again in search of the Beyond, Mrs. Hillier spoke. `May the souls of these dear Departed Ones return again to dwell in peace with the God who created them.` The valediction, thought simple, touched Sylvia`s heart – the medium might not have been of much help, but at least she seemed sincere, and the “Tom” she had mentioned did know about the ankh. Of course that was not conclusive proof. Gloria could easily have let that information slip by accident while arranging the sitting. But what if she had not? Did Mrs. Hillier really have special powers, and that stupid woman screaming had spoilt it all?
A Long Road Through The Night Page 4
