A Change of Heir

by Michael Innes

  5

  ‘But lonely, too,’ Comberford went on. ‘Great-aunt Prudence is terribly lonely. That’s why there’s such a strong ethical slant to what we’re fixing up. The great-nephew comes home, and comforts her declining years. It’s a beautiful thought.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it be more beautiful if you did the job yourself, instead of trying to cheat this old woman in some way?’ Gadberry was trying his truculent note again. ‘If you have an elderly relative just rolling in money why the hell don’t you weigh right in?’

  ‘I’m a drunk, old boy.’ Comberford tapped his brandy glass meaningfully. ‘You must have noticed that by this time.’

  ‘Perhaps I’ve had a glimmer of it.’ It was true that Gadberry had been remarking to himself that Comberford was drinking a good deal more than seemed prudent in the course of a negotiation so tricky as the one he was attempting. ‘But you could control it, couldn’t you, if it was a matter of getting in on a fortune?’

  ‘Not a hope. But you could, my dear George. Do you drink a lot?’

  ‘Of course I drink a lot.’

  ‘But, if you wanted to, you could stop drinking tomorrow?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve never thought. Yes, I’m pretty sure I could.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. And it won’t just be a matter of cutting down. You won’t get a drop on the premises, and it will be as much as your life’s worth to admit to getting a drop elsewhere. Aunt Prudence – we’ll call her plain “Aunt” – is quite rabid. But I must be frank with you. That’s only one reason why I can’t turn up on her in my own dutiful and affectionate person. I live in the south of France, you see. It turns more damnably expensive every year. There won’t be any difficulty, I can tell you, in putting my share to good use.’

  ‘Your share?’

  ‘Don’t worry. There’s going to be plenty. Besides I’m a generous chap, as so many drunks are. Fifty-fifty’s what I’ve decided on.’

  ‘You mean you’ll just go on living on the Riviera?’

  ‘Oh, certainly. Under another name, of course. In fact, I do that for a greater part of the time already. It’s quite easy. And Lulu doesn’t mind.’

  ‘Lulu?’

  ‘She’s another reason why I couldn’t possibly go and live with the old girl. I couldn’t possibly part with Lulu. Or not until her successor was absolutely in the bag. I’m a sensualist, old boy.’

  ‘I see.’ Gadberry, although he wouldn’t have described himself as a notably moral young man, for some reason found this an absolutely revolting remark. ‘If you’ve decided against your Aunt Prudence,’ he said, ‘your Aunt Prudence is damned lucky.’

  ‘Oh, dear me, yes. Precisely. I’d break her heart, poor old soul, within a week. That’s why it’s lucky I’m now fixed up with a deputy.’

  ‘Where does she live?’ Gadberry asked – rather against his will. He realised that every question he put must have the effect of drawing him further in. He wanted to ask quite a number, all the same. Comberford’s weird proposal was coming to exercise some sort of spell over him.

  ‘The place is called Bruton Abbey. It’s in one of the Yorkshire dales. A little remote, perhaps, for some tastes. Are you fond of country life?’

  ‘No. At least, I don’t suppose so. I’ve never tried it – or not to speak of.’

  ‘Well, that’s a trifle awkward.’ For the first time, Comberford appeared a shade discouraged. ‘You can’t hunt, or fish, or shoot?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that.’ Gadberry’s class-consciousness was stirred. ‘I had an uncle who made me do these things, from time to time. They didn’t interest me, but I expect I could still get by. At least with the patter. I might be a bit unpractised on the simple muscular side. Do I understand, by the way, that your Aunt Prudence has a whole abbey to herself?’

  ‘Certainly she has. And there’s an enormous estate. Incidentally, it’s a real abbey. It isn’t even a seventeenth-century house quarried out of the ruins of one, which is the usual thing. It’s an actual Cistercian monastery, in a very nice state of preservation.’

  ‘Comfortable?’

  ‘I haven’t been there since I was a kid, when anything was luxurious compared with my expensive private school. You know?’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Frankly, it’s my guess that the comfort moderne will be on the patchy side. One always has to sacrifice snugness when in the pursuit of real style. Think of all those continental palaces. Of course, you’ll be able to fix up your own quarters according to your own ideas. Aunt Prudence shows every sign of being extremely generous. Quirky, perhaps. Even demanding, in a way. But splendidly regardless in the matter of adding an extra nought at the end of a cheque. You see, George, how fair I’m being with you. The light and the shadow, so to speak. They’re all going into the picture.’

  ‘I just don’t see any picture, so far.’ Gadberry abandoned the stump of his cigar. He sat up straight. The moment had come, he saw, to see once and for all whether there was anything for him in this or not. ‘What sort of age is your Aunt Prudence?’

  ‘Oh, she’s as old as the hills. Don’t forget she’s really a great-aunt. She can’t last long.’

  ‘You mean you want me to take on a life sentence?’ It was with real astonishment that Gadberry produced this.

  ‘Well, yes – but her life, my dear George. A spell of two or three years, at the most. As a matter of fact, poor old Aunt Prudence has some progressive and fatal heart disease. Only don’t, by the way, mention it to her. She’s said to be touchy about it.’

  ‘I hang on until she dies, and after that there’s money?’

  ‘After that there’s big money. Or rather, after that there’s astronomical money. There will be big money straightaway. She’s been absolutely specific about it. It’s in her letter. The bit about my – meaning your – menus frais.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘The same as menus plaisirs. Pocket money on the scale appropriate to an English gentleman. Haven’t I shown you her letter?’

  ‘Of course you haven’t shown me her letter.’

  ‘Well, here it is.’ Comberford began to fish in his pockets. ‘It’s yours for keeps, I need hardly say. Your letter of credence, so to speak. Five thousand.’

  ‘What do you mean – five thousand?’

  ‘Pounds, George. Solid pounds sterling. And tax-free, mark you. The old girl will just shell it out of her current income without noticing.’

  ‘That’s not possible.’ Gadberry felt it necessary to display himself as a man of affairs. ‘Nobody could part with £5,000 a year without noticing. Not nowadays. Not with Surtax, and so forth.’

  ‘My dear man, it will come out of capital appreciation, and all that. These are regions that poor devils like you and me simply don’t know about. But £2,500 each will be something, you’ll agree. Until the old girl’s funeral, that is. After that – Glory Hallelujah. Ah! Here it is.’

  Comberford had produced a crumpled envelope, which he now tossed across the table to Gadberry.

  ‘Read, George,’ he said. ‘Read and admire.’

  My dear Nicholas,

  It may surprise you to hear from me. It would certainly surprise me to hear from you, since you have proved for many Years an indifferent epistolary Correspondent. Indeed, I well recall that when, in your Schooldays, I endeavoured to enter upon an Exchange of Letters with a View to assisting in the settling of your Principles and the forming of your Mind, your Replies to my Observations and Reflections were so scanty as eventually to make me abandon the Task.

  I do not write, however, with any Idea of reprehending you in this or any other Regard. Our last Meeting, as you will recall, was eight Years ago, upon the Occasion of your brief Visit to Bruton for the purpose of attending your Great-uncle Magnus’ Funeral. I was much pleased by your Bearing upon that Occasion. It was religious without Ostentation and respectful without Servility. I found myself forming a good Opinion of your Parts…

  George Gadberry interrupted his re
ading at this point for the purpose of giving his companion a surprised stare.

  ‘The old lady was pleased?’ he said. ‘Pleased with you? And thought you quite a chap? Have you changed a lot?’

  ‘Not in the least.’ Comberford was unoffended by these questions. ‘I simply put my best foot forward. I thought something might come of it. But nothing did – at the time. I suppose Aunt Prudence thought I was too old to tip. Now read on.’

  ‘Isn’t her style a bit odd? All those capital letters and long words. It’s almost Victorian.’

  ‘Nothing of the sort, George. It’s Augustan. I suppose she was brought up on the essays of Joseph Addison, and stuff of that sort.’

  ‘She’s cracked, is she?’

  ‘Well, not to any purpose. Not so that we could get her certified, or anything of that sort. But she does seem to take an occasional rum dip into the past. Mind you, I don’t know much about her. I used to be at Bruton a lot as a kid, because I got on rather well with old Great-uncle Magnus. But I doubt whether I ever went back there after I was about fourteen. Except, as she says, for the old boy’s funeral. I thought there might at least be a legacy. But he’d left every damned thing to his widow. Not that he had all that to leave. Old Magnus’ father had been the younger son of a marquis, so he was the Hon., and all that. But he wasn’t much in the way of the lovely Mun. Prudence, on the other hand, was a great heiress.’

  ‘And is she the Hon., too?’

  ‘Oh, certainly. Her father was some sort of political character who was made a peer. I remember it made addressing thank-you letters to them at Christmas rather tricky. I think it was “The Hon. Magnus Minton and the Hon. Mrs Minton”. It wasn’t possible to get it shorter.’

  ‘What awful rot!’ Gadberry said. He was impressed. ‘Your great-aunt’s name is Minton?’

  ‘Yes. Her maiden name, of course, was Comberford.’

  ‘If I go into this, am I an Hon., too?’

  ‘If you mean do I myself possess a title of honour, I don’t.’ Comberford smiled cheerfully. ‘Although I’m bound to say I’ve found it useful to assume one from time to time.’

  ‘I suppose you’re what’s called an adventurer. But I’m blessed if I see why I should do your adventuring for you. Or that the thing’s remotely feasible.’

  ‘Read on, my dear chap, read on.’

  6

  . . . I found myself forming a good Opinion of your Parts, even while judging them in large Measure regrettably unimproved by Habits of Study and Application: this although I was greatly pleased by what you communicated to me of your Efforts on behalf of the dumb Creation. The Practice in Question is assuredly not less reprehensible than that allied continental Abomination, the Devouring of Horses!

  Gadberry broke off a second time.

  ‘What on earth is that about?’ he demanded.

  ‘For goodness sake don’t keep on interrupting. It was simply that I happened to be living in rather a pleasant part of Italy at the time, and Aunt Prudence wanted to know why. I couldn’t say that it was because of the climate, and the inexpensive wine, and a girl, and so on. So I said I was organising a crusade against turning donkeys into cold sausages. You know the stuff. It’s called mortadella.’

  ‘There you are! I told you your whole plan is crazy.’ Gadberry tossed Mrs Minton’s letter contemptuously on the table. ‘On the very first evening, at dinner and over our second glass of barley-water, she’d say “How about the mortadella?” Or she’d say that in whatever way Addison would have said it. And I’d merely goggle at her. Can’t you see?’

  ‘There are difficulties, of course.’ Comberford’s assurance appeared unruffled. ‘But there are ways round them, as well. You’ll come on one way round them when you turn over the page. So carry on.’

  ‘Oh, very well.’ With some reluctance, Gadberry retrieved the letter and resumed his reading.

  I was the more gratified in that, as a Boy, you had been not without a censurable Predisposition to take Satisfaction in the Tormenting of the humblest Creatures. There was the Episode of the Belgian Hare; there was the yet more deplorable Episode of the faithful Tiger.

  ‘For pity’s sake!’ This time Gadberry threw up his arms in despair. ‘Can’t you see, you fool? What sort of figure should I cut in the course of a little reminiscent chat about the faithful tiger? And who ever heard of a faithful tiger, anyway?’

  ‘My dear chap, Tiger was an Aberdeen terrier. And you’re coming, quite precisely, to the crunch. Just try the next paragraph.’

  It is true that, in your Great-uncle’s copious Memoirs, these Incidents were balanced, perhaps outweighed, by numerous Recollections of the less unendearing Traits of your Childhood. It was only a few Days after his Funeral, indeed, that, having your Future much upon my Mind, I thought to refresh my Memory by consulting those valuable Papers. Alas, upon going to the Cupboard in the Library in which I knew them to have long reposed, I made the sad Discovery that they were no longer extant. Such was the noble Modesty of your Great-uncle’s Nature that he had undoubtedly destroyed the entire Series of his interesting Memorabilia shortly before his Demise.

  ‘You see?’ It was Comberford who interrupted this time, and he did so in a tone of triumph. ‘The old dotard had scribbled copiously for years on every trivial event of his life. And I carried off the lot.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘The day after the funeral. I was inspired, you see. It can only be called that. The thought simply came to me that the stuff might be useful one day. So I nipped into the library and collected it. There’s nothing, absolutely nothing, in the old girl’s memories of my visits to Bruton as a kid that isn’t more than matched in the old boy’s scribblings. Just read the rubbish through, and you can cap every recollection that Aunt Prudence has with half a dozen more. As for what happened in the couple of days I was there for the funeral, I can give you that verbatim. The thing’s foolproof, George. It would be foolproof even if you were a fool – which you’re not.’

  Gadberry stared at Comberford with a kind of fascinated horror. For the first time, the fantastic proposal he was up against seemed to him to have veered into the region of the possible.

  ‘Look here!’ he said wildly, ‘let’s get back to essentials. People just can’t successfully impersonate each other. The mere physical thing’s unworkable. Are we really all that like each other? I don’t believe it. And our mannerisms and intonations and so forth are totally different. The deception would blow up in the first ten minutes.’

  ‘It would blow up then – or never. Le premier pas, as I said before. And we are extravagantly like each other – far more than I could reasonably have hoped. Or rather, you’re extravagantly like me five or six years ago.’

  ‘There you are, then. This isn’t five or six years ago. It’s–’

  ‘Don’t be an ass, George. It’s precisely the point that will make your acceptance instantaneous – not only by Aunt Prudence, but by any remaining servants who were around at the time of the funeral. That’s psychology, old chap.’

  ‘But think of things like passports, bank accounts, signatures, proofs of–’

  ‘Poppycock. Aunt Prudence will simply march you in on her bank manager, and you’ll find the fellow has put down the red carpet. And so with the family solicitor and everybody else. You just don’t realise the enormous respectability of the position you are going to enjoy. For instance, when you go into the village church on Sunday to read the Lessons–’

  ‘When I what?’

  ‘Lord, yes. You’ll have to accept your responsibilities, you know. I don’t disguise the fact from you for a moment. But, as I was saying, when you do that, do you expect the dear old vicar to step forward and demand documentary evidence that you are indeed the long-absent Nicholas Comberford? Of course not! Now, get on with Aunt Prudence’s letter. You haven’t yet got to her proposal. And it’s worth getting to.’

  However, my own Recollection is very clear as to the high Regard in which my dear Husband held you in
those early and formative Years. It was his Habit to remark that had you been born directly into the Line of our Properties, you would have come to justify the Privilege by an exact Attention to the Duties of such a Station.

  At this point, Gadberry produced sharp laughter.

  ‘Think of that!’ he said. ‘Your great-uncle, if you ask me, can’t have had all that much stuffed between his ears.’

  ‘I rather agree, George. But now, you’ll find, the thing’s coming. You’re on the brink.’

  These are, as you must be aware, difficult Times for the Landed interest. The Administration is unsympathetic, and make little Doubt but that the present Prime Minister – whose Name escapes me for the Moment – would be hard put to it to distinguish Wheat from Oats, or a Dog Fox from a Vixen. In such iron Times a strong Hand is needed for the management of large Estates, and although much may reasonably be left to one’s Agents, Bailiffs and Men of Business it is nevertheless increasingly incumbent upon one to exercise a strict Surveillance…

  Once more, Gadberry broke off abruptly.

  ‘I ask you!’ he said. ‘How the hell am I going to manage an estate? The notion’s absurd.’

  ‘That’s all rot. It’s simply that the old girl is failing–’

  ‘Her letter doesn’t read as if she’s failing.’

  ‘Well, she is. Only a year or two to go, as I’ve said. And she’s beginning to fuss. Of course those agents and bailiffs and people are perfectly competent to do their job. They wouldn’t thank you for really trying to poke your nose in. You’ll just ride around now and then to have an affable word with the tenants. Nothing more than that. And now, George, go on to what the old girl’s prepared to run to.’