“May we begin?” Mr. Bragg’s liverish lips parted in what appeared to be a smile and he pushed a pair of half-moon glasses onto his nose. “Ladies and gentlemen, we are gathered here today …” A tap at the door interrupted him, and into the room shuffled the old gardener, flannel cap twisted in his gnarled old hands. His eyes shifted around the group. “I heard word that I were wanted here, your worship.”
“You are Jonas Alfred Phipps? Quite right, my man, we do desire your presence.” Mr. Bragg nodded with the graciousness of a man who considers himself above class distinctions.
Aunt Astrid did not share this view of social tolerance. She watched, flinching, as the gardener wiped his muddy boots in the doorway, and inched her skirts away when he clumped behind her to take up his position at the edge of the group.
“Now if we are indeed ready,” the solicitor hemmed, “I will begin the reading:
“ ‘I, Merlin Percival Grantham, being of sound mind, hereby declare this to be my Last Will and Testament revoking all other wills and codicils.
“ ‘Article First: I name the Stirling Trust Company Limited as executors under this Will and hereby direct them to settle all just claims against my estate.
“ ‘Article Second: After the payment of all my just debts, I direct my executor to dispose of my estate as follows:
“ ‘A. To Jonas Phipps, the only servant foolhardy enough to remain in my service, in gratitude for the amusement he has given me in turning my grounds into a showplace for weeds, I bequeath the sum of one thousand pounds and the right to live in the rooms above the stables on my property for the course of his life.’ ”
The recipient of this largesse ducked his head and said, “Thank ye kindly, your worship.” Mr. Bragg read on:
“ ‘B. To my third cousin Maurice Flatts, whose only claim to distinction is his sprightly pursuit of women young enough to be his daughters, I bequeath a pair of fireside slippers.’ ”
Babble broke out, Aunt Lulu’s voice shrilling above the others. “Throw it on the fire. Burn the will!” Uncle Maurice looked dangerously close to a heart attack. “Libellous! I’ll, I’ll sue!”
The solicitor raised his hand. “I must caution you, ladies and gentlemen, that whether I approve or disapprove of this document is irrelevant. Legally it is airtight. Anyone who tries to overset it will do so at great expense and with slim chance of success. On that point I feel quite secure. The will was prepared by me, and I flatter myself I am one of the foremost probate experts in this part of the country. Merlin Grantham’s wishes will stand.”
“You mean there is worse to come?” For once feckless Freddy sounded quite sober.
The lawyer ruffled the pages. “There will be no further interruptions or I will arrange for the will to be read in chambers, before his honour, Judge Abernathy.
“ ‘C. To Louise Emily Flatts, who on one unforgettable occasion disgraced the family name by cheating at whist at the church hall, St. Mary’s-at-the-Mill, I leave a deck of unmarked cards.
“ ‘D. To my fourth cousin several times removed (alas, never permanently) Frederick George Flatts, who regards poverty as a mystical experience, I leave an empty wallet.
“ ‘E. To my relative, Vanessa Fitz-Gerald, who thought it amusing to pose nude for the New Year’s Eve “bash” at the Retired Rectors’ Club, I leave something I hope she will find equally amusing—a pair of overalls.
“ ‘F. To my relative, Astrid Rose Fitz-Gerald, who hastened her unfortunate husband’s end by her constant nagging, extravagant use of charge cards, and insatiable sexual demands, I leave a year’s supply of saccharin.’ ”
Her eyes fixed in a ghastly stare, Aunt Astrid emitted a scream, powerful enough to reach Uncle Merlin in his tomb, made an abortive lunge at the solicitor, and crumpled into a deep swoon.
“Mummy! I do wish you would act your age.” Vanessa regarded her recumbent parent with scorn but made no move to revive her. With a slight tremor of her graceful hand she reached into her bag for a packet of cigarettes, lit one, and inhaled deeply. Aunt Lulu and Uncle Maurice both appeared unmoved by Aunt Astrid’s recumbent form. The gardener stood looking at his boots. The rest of us clustered about the body, the lawyer tetch-tetching while Aunt Sybil produced an evil-looking bottle of smelling salts and jammed them under the sufferer’s nose. Aunt Astrid returned briefly to life, shouting, “Kill him! Kill the swine,” before sinking back into unconsciousness. Mr. Bragg blanched, wondering perhaps whether she meant him or Uncle Merlin. By the consent of all those present, Aunt Astrid was placed on the sofa, covered with a wool rug, and left to sleep it off.
“If I may now continue.” Mr. Bragg inspected his pocket watch and cleared his throat.
“ ‘G. To my cousin, Sybil Agatha Grantham, but for whose appalling cooking I might still be alive today, but mindful of her (unsolicited) devotion, I bequeath my property, Cliffside Cottage, and the sum of ten thousand pounds.”
All eyes were now fixed on Aunt Sybil. She appeared to swallow, then I realized she was humming one of the funeral hymns. Well, she had lived in the man’s house for over fifty years; she was used to his jibes. Humming was probably a mental kind of cotton wool in her ears. Mr. Bragg turned a page and lifted a hand as though calling for order. My turn must be coming up next. What had dear old Unc left me, an application form for a new body? The fire had petered out, and I, usually such a warm-blooded filly, felt chilled to the bone. After another surreptitious glance at his watch, Mr. Bragg continued:
“ ‘H. To Giselle Simons and Bentley Haskell in equal shares, I leave all my remaining estate.’ ”
Someone gasped: Was it me or Ben?
“ ‘Subject to the following conditions:
“ ‘1. That Giselle Simons and Bentley Haskell shall reside at my residence for a period of six months from the date of my death.
“ ‘2. That Giselle Simons shall divest herself of four and one-half stone, no less, in body weight, within said six months and can prove same by presentation of a doctor’s certificate.
“ ‘3. That Bentley Haskell shall write and complete a book of marketable length and submit same to a reputable publisher within said six months, and said manuscript shall contain not one word of blasphemy or obscenity. My esteemed solicitor, Mr. Wilberforce Bragg, has agreed to read same masterpiece and to be present when it is delivered into the hands of the post office.
“ ‘4. That Giselle Simons and Bentley Haskell, singly or together, shall within said six months discover the treasure connected with my house. The answer to this quest, described in a sealed letter to be held in the possession of my solicitor, Mr. Wilberforce Bragg, to be opened six months from the date of my death. In the event that either Giselle or Bentley fails to attempt or meet all of the four conditions within this time span, their shares shall be both divested and shall be divided in equal shares among Maurice Flatts, Louise Emily Flatts, Frederick George Flatts, Vanessa Fitz-Gerald, and Astrid Rose Fitz-Gerald, or the survivor or survivors of them.’ ”
A stunned silence swamped the room. Freddy drew a ragged breath and raised a wineglass, twirling it in an exaggerated arc above his head. “A toast!” he cried. “To the late great Uncle Merlin, a very sporting gentleman. The game has just begun.”
“Yes,” agreed Vanessa, lips curving into an unsweet smile, “by fair means or foul!”
CHAPTER
Seven
Ben and I decided not to return to London that night. We needed time to talk. Aunt Sybil in a rather formal voice agreed to stay on for a few days until the cottage could be prepared for her, but she went to her room when the front door slammed on the last of the other relatives, all of whom spurned our offer of hospitality for the night. As late afternoon darkened the windows, only the solicitor remained with us, and he was impatient to be off. He kept glancing at his watch.
“You will each be sent a copy of the will,” Mr. Bragg said, “And here is the memorandum your uncle left in my keeping regarding his funeral arrangements, which I have fulfilled
to the best of my ability. As you can see, the terms, like those of the will, are eccentric.”
I passed the paper to Ben and he read aloud: “I, Merlin Grantham, request that I be accorded the same manner of funeral given my mother, Abigail Grantham.”
Ben whistled. “Sentimental old geezer, wasn’t he?”
“I only met Mr. Grantham once when he came about his will, and he was not well then, kept coughing into his handkerchief.” Mr. Bragg was looking round for his coat and gloves. “Naturally I did all I could, but the funeral arrangements posed an almost impossible task.” He pursed his lips in dissatisfaction. “Miss Sybil Grantham remembers staying in this house at the time of her aunt’s funeral, but she was only a child of five or six. She did recall the use of a horse and carriage but the other details are as dead as Merlin Grantham and his mother.”
“Rather careless of Uncle Merlin to be so unspecific.” I folded the paper over and pressed it between my fingers. “But I suspect he had other things on his mind—composing his list of schoolboy howlers for his Last Will and Testament.”
“Reprehensible, but all perfectly legal.” Mr. Bragg buttoned his coat. “Do not be persuaded otherwise. I wish both of you good fortune. May you find the treasure and live happily ever after. Well, I must be off. As stated in the final paragraph of the will, you will be the recipients of the income from your uncle’s investments during the interim, six month, period.”
“Goodnight.”
We followed him down the hall and shut him out into the rising wind and lowering skies. It was confrontation time.
“You can wipe that Cheshire cat expression off your face.” Ben headed back into the drawing room. “I refuse to be inveigled into this farce or to compromise my integrity for the sake of …”
“You wouldn’t be so noble if you thought you stood a chance of qualifying for the dough.” Tossing a cushion off one of the fireside chairs, I sat down and smiled smugly across at Ben as he lounged in the wingback opposite.
“Hark who’s talking! I’ll bet my whole share of the take that I could fulfil my part of the bargain while you are still sinking your teeth into cream buns and murmuring”—his voice rose to a dreadful muffled twitter—“ ‘Just one more teeny-weeny stuffing session and, cross my size forty-two chest, tomorrow or sometime next week I positively will—God’s honor—go on my diet.’ ”
There you go!” I cried triumphantly. “You are incapable of stringing two sentences together without the use of obscenity or blasphemy. Whereas I when motivated am a woman of willpower.”
“Don’t make me laugh!” Ben did just that—hateful snickering creature. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen your knees since you were two years old.”
“That piece of spite is not even original. I expect your writing is equally trite.” Standing up, I declaimed with wide-flung arms, “ ‘Our stalwart hero Porno Hardcore ripped the clothes from the protesting body of lithesome lovely Tessie Tease, pressed his rapacious hand upon her curvaceous beep, beep, Deep and cried, “Gee, sugar cube, I’d really love to beep-beep your beep-beep-beep!” ’ ”
Ben’s lips quivered. “You have just made my point. I write spy stories and for them to be credible the characters must sound like real people. No one in this day and age shrieks, ‘Oh naughty, naughty!’ when an alligator stomps up the river bank and nips off their left leg.”
“True,” I said, slumping down again and absently reaching for a piece of leftover fruitcake, dry as the Sahara, “but there’s an easy way round that problem. You transport your story to another era. The eighteenth century was a little raunchy; you’d do better in the Victorian reign, when being a gentleman did not necessarily mean you were impotent, or …”
Ben shook his head. “Too limiting for my medium. A spy story needs the fast action of wireless, air travel, chemical warfare, and all the intricacies of modern-day espionage, nuclear secrets, intrigue.…”
“All right.” I cracked off another piece of fruitcake. “If you insist on remaining within the twentieth century your hero must be from another world.”
“Tremendous,” said Ben, pitching a scrunched-up piece of paper into the grate. “I’ll make him a pointy-eared little green man from Mars, running on a transistor battery, who …”
“Must you take everything literally? By ‘another world’ I meant cast your hero in a different mould from Mr. Average Spy with his upturned raincoat collar and limp trilby hat. Make him a college professor with a passion for Keats, or an opera singer with laryngitis. Make him a woman.”
Ben’s eyes flashed. “Ellie,” he said, “you have given me an idea.”
I held out my hand. “Half the royalties?”
“Nothing doing.” Ben stood up and began pacing between our two chairs. “At the end of the six months I want to be able to shake my fist at Uncle Merlin and tell him where he can put his inheritance. A roof over my head for a while is one thing but …”
A tap at the door interrupted my exuberant whoop of triumph at Ben’s apparent capitulation. In came Jonas Phipps, head bent and the inevitable scuffed old hat dangling between his fingers. In the half-light all I could see of the gardener’s face were the jutting grey eyebrows and bristly scrubbing-brush moustache. Electricity would be one of the first amenities I would install in Merlin’s Court.
As a novice at the lady of the manor game I wondered how I should address this elderly retainer. Aunt Astrid would have said, “Don’t stand there gawking all day. Out with it, my man!”
“Yes, Jonas,” said Ben, offering his hand. “Is there something Miss Simons and I can do for you?”
“Be I to sleep up at the cottage as usual, sir? Now that it rightly belongs to Miss Grantham I don’t want to do nowt to upset her, but what with there being no bed in the rooms over the stables and me lumbago acting up, sir, I was awondering …”
“No problem. Miss Grantham is spending the night in her old room. Ellie and I have not discussed the matter yet, but it seems a shame for the old lady to be uprooted—unless of course she would like the privacy of her own place. And I am sure you do not relish being evicted from your home. In any event you must remain at me cottage until a decision is made.”
“I’ll not go against the will, sir.” Phipps was probably a simple soul, subject to a superstitious terror of falling foul of the legal system, to say nothing of the thwarted ghost of Uncle Merlin,
“Mr. Phipps, have you eaten?” I asked. “I believe there is some cold roast beef in the kitchen.”
“Nay, I cook me own meals, mistress. I’ll be on my way and thank ye both for seeing me.” Bowing over his hat, the old man backed out of the room.
“This is the life,” yawned Ben, “complete with faithful servant and the spinster chaperone upstairs.”
“Fear not,” I said, “your virtue is safe with me. Tell me—was outward respectability the reason you suggested having Aunt Sybil remain here?”
“I think it rather a shame to oust the poor old girl when she has lived here forever. And yes, Ellie, I do feel that having someone eke in the house would provide a little”—he searched for the word— “balance.”
“If you are so frightened for your virtue,” I hissed, “you can always have an iron bolt installed on your bedroom door and shove a chest of drawers up against it.”
Ben closed his eyes and ground his teeth. The muscles on his neck stood out like ropes. “Can we never have a conversation without you climbing up on your high horse? Two single people living in one house, even when there is no romantic attachment, has to be a sensitive situation.”
“Very!” I gave the paltry fire a shove with the poker. “But this sensitive situation has its practical plusses—six months free room and board, to say nothing of the chance to win the grand prize: a half-share in my ancestral home, a substantial bank account, stocks and bonds, and who knows what else? All, Mr. Bentley Haskell, because my uncle supposed you to be engaged to me.”
“Are you suggesting,” scowled Ben, “that should I wish to bec
ome endowed with all these worldly goods that I am honourably bound to offer you marriage?”
“Come to think of it”—I swung the poker menacingly in his direction—“such would be the right and proper course for a gentleman. Poor Uncle’s wishes ought really to be considered a sacred duty. As a tribute to his memory, I think I could be persuaded to sacrifice my finer feelings. Down on one knee, young man!”
Ben removed the poker from my clenched fingers and tried to repress a grin. “You are a fool,” he said. Perversely the words sounded like a compliment but I didn’t let flattery go to my head.
“But not so great a fool that I’d tie the knot with you. Frankly, you are not my type, and when I get skinny I intend to have my pick of the litter. That vicar is a possibility—handsome, intellectual, amusing—but I am in no rush.”
“Personally, I thought him a shade too hearty.” Ben’s brief good humour evaporated and he returned the poker to the grate. “But your life is your own. I am glad we are laying our cards on the table. You see, there is this girl in London with whom I have an understanding.”
“How quaint,” I said lightly. “Sounds like one of those arrangements made by families when their infants are still in the cradle. Won’t your sweet young thing object to your moving in with me?”
“Not under the circumstances. Susan is very accepting.”
“She must be. Of course, she promises to benefit also from our arrangement. With a bit of luck I’ll be able to hand you over with a handsome dowry.”
“Susie … Susan isn’t mercenary. You’d love her. But are the locals going to be as accepting of a young couple living together without benefit of clergy? Your vicar for one can hardly approve.”
“Ben, you surprise me. I’m beginning to suspect that along with your other hang-ups you are also a latent conformist. Are you afraid of getting tossed out on your ear from the village pub by the local morals committee? Given the choice of having Aunt Sybil fussing underfoot or being accused of living in sin, I’ll opt for the latter! Calm down, Lancelot, no one could seriously suspect me of being a vamp.”
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