The Inheritance

by Savage, Tom

  It was just going on nine o’clock that evening at Randall House as the lovely, dark-haired woman in the beaded red evening dress made her way slowly down the main staircase to the Great Hall. Dinner had been over for half an hour, and she could hear the faint sounds from the dining room as the servants cleared the table. She’d been up in her room, changing into more comfortable shoes and freshening her makeup, and she was smiling at the prospect of a drink and a quiet game of cards with her husband in the library. As she came down the stairs, she saw the housekeeper, Mrs. Jessel, approaching from the direction of the kitchen. She produced an outward smile and inwardly braced herself.

  “Mrs. Randall?” the woman said as they met at the bottom.

  “Yes, Mrs. Jessel?”

  “We’re finishing up in the kitchen now, and Mr. Randall is in the library. Will there be anything else this evening?”

  “No, thank you,” she replied, still smiling automatically—and rather artificially—at the grim-faced woman who always seemed to be fingering the folds of her severe black uniform. “I’m sure we can manage now.”

  “Very good, ma’am.” The housekeeper started to leave, then turned briefly back to her. “Oh, please tell Mr. Randall that my son is back from New York, and he’ll be up from the gatehouse to speak with him as soon as he’s finished his supper.”

  “To—speak with him?”

  “Yes, ma’am, just as Mr. Randall requested. Good night, Mrs. Randall.”

  “Good night.”

  She watched the woman go, then continued on her way across the Great Hall to the library. She didn’t care for Mrs. Jessel, and that was a fact. Always so formal, and so completely humorless. She imagined that the two of them were close to the same age, yet the housekeeper could practically pass for her mother. Mildred Jessel was one of many things she’d had to get used to in the eight months she’d lived here, ever since Alicia Wainwright’s heart attack last February, when John had insisted they leave Europe and come to Randall House to be near his ailing aunt. Well, Alicia was gone now, but Mrs. Jessel … no, she didn’t like her. Mrs. Jessel reminded her of a nun, or a prison matron, with her sour frowns and her constant air of disapproval.

  She glanced at her reflection in the mirror above the hall table next to the library door. She paused for a moment, smiling in satisfaction at the attractive, elegant-looking woman with the brown eyes and the short, glossy black curls who smiled back at her. Yes, she should wear this red dress more often. She’d just celebrated her forty-eighth birthday, and she could definitely pass for the daughter of Mildred Jessel, who was probably about fifty-five. Well, to be fair, Mrs. Jessel had never had the benefit of that clever cosmetic surgeon in Zurich, but, even so.…

  Her husband looked up from his book as she came into the cozy, green baize and dark mahogany room. He was seated in his favorite armchair in the corner, as usual, the blue smoke from his Havana floating in the light from the green glass-shaded floor lamp beside him. She smiled, as she always did when she saw him, feeling the flood of warmth that invariably coursed through her. Two years they’d been man and wife now, and she still couldn’t get over it. John Randall was fifty-two, trim and handsome, and the years had been kind to him. That masculine face, that thick blond hair, those amazing, pale blue eyes, the signature of the Randalls.

  “Hello, Cathy,” he said.

  She went over to his chair, leaned down, and kissed him lightly on the forehead. “Hello, yourself.” She turned and went over to the bar between the bookcases near the door. As she poured her red wine, she said, “How’s your drink?”

  “Fine,” came the reply. She heard the tinkling of ice in his scotch and soda.

  She walked back over to him. “Mrs. Jessel says Kevin will be here presently—as you requested.” She hadn’t meant to make it sound like a question, but she was aware that it did. She heard his quiet laugh.

  “Yes, I thought we’d get a—preliminary report.” He laughed again. “You really don’t like Mrs. Jessel, do you?”

  Now she, too, was laughing. “Oh, she’s fine, if you like people who wear black all the time and skulk around the corridors like the wrath of God.”

  “Yeah,” he agreed, still chuckling. “I’ve never much cared for her, either. Her mother-in-law, the original Mrs. Jessel, was much nicer. She practically raised us, James and myself. She was a very cheerful woman. But Mildred—well, I don’t think she likes me, and the feeling is mutual.” Still smiling, he returned his attention to the book in his hands.

  She watched him a moment, then glanced over at the card table by the windows. “I thought we might have a game of cards.”

  “What, gin?” he breathed, not looking up. “You always beat me.”

  “Poker, then. Five-card draw.…”

  “You always beat me at that, too,” he reminded her. He held up his leather-bound volume. “You should try reading.”

  She shook her head. “I’ve done enough reading to last me my whole life.” She glanced at the cover of his book: Wuthering Heights. “I’ve read that, God knows. Many times. You know, I got my name—”

  “Yes, Cathy,” he said with a sigh, cutting her off, “I know. You got your name from here.” He waved his free arm, indicating the walls of books around them. “There must be something you haven’t read, something that would interest you.” Then, with an impish grin and a twinkle in his blue eyes, he added, “I think I saw a copy of Lady Chatterley’s Lover over there somewhere.…”

  Her eyes widened in mock surprise, and she reached over and playfully slapped his cheek.

  “Watch it,” she warned, giggling.

  They were still laughing quietly together when there was a knock on the door, which immediately opened. Kevin Jessel came into the room, still in his gray uniform.

  “Good evening,” he said. “My mother said you wanted to see me.”

  She turned around, and her husband rose from his chair.

  “Good evening, Kevin,” John said.

  “Hello, Kevin,” she said, smiling at the tall, handsome young man, who smiled and nodded to her. My God, she thought. How on earth did that dreary Mildred Jessel ever produce such beautiful children? And Kevin and his sister, Dora, were definitely beautiful.

  “Yes, I wanted to speak to you,” John said, moving over to the bar. “Join me in a drink?”

  “No, thank you, sir.”

  “Oh, put a lid on that ‘sir’ stuff! You and I don’t have to stand on ceremony. Boola boola, and all that.”

  She watched as her husband refilled his glass and turned to face the younger man, thinking, Yale. John was always doing that, reminding the younger man of their common link. Of course, he never mentioned that he’d been asked to leave their alma mater under a cloud, something about a girl, whereas this man, the son of his servants, had graduated with honors. Kevin, as far as she could see, always responded to her husband with polite but rather chilly formality.

  “So,” John was saying now, “you picked up Ms. Randall at the airport?”

  “Yes, sir—uh, Mr. Randall.”

  “And you took her into the city?”

  “Yes. She’s at the apartment. Mrs. Wells is taking care of her, and I’m bringing her here Thursday.”

  “Good, good,” John mumbled, nodding. “And she’s seeing the lawyer, Mr. Henderson, tomorrow?”

  “I believe so.”

  She rolled her eyes in exasperation and went over to join them. At the rate her husband was going, they’d never get anywhere.

  “What does Holly look like?” she asked abruptly.

  Kevin blinked. Then, for the first time since he’d entered the room, the expression on his face softened.

  “Oh, she’s—she’s lovely,” he said. “Tall, blond, with blue eyes, just like.…” He trailed off, vaguely waving a hand to indicate her husband.

  So, she thought. The girl is beautiful.

  “I see,” she said. “And how would you say she’s feeling about—all this?”

  “Feeling? I�
�I don’t know, exactly. She seemed very happy, I guess. Excited. A little”—he searched for a word—“overwhelmed.”

  He shrugged his impressive shoulders and glanced over at the door.

  “Well, thank you, Kevin,” she said, smiling. “We won’t keep you any longer. We were just anxious to hear about our—our new niece.” She looked at her husband. “Weren’t we, darling?”

  “Oh, yes, absolutely,” John stammered. He raised his glass and quickly drained it.

  Kevin Jessel looked from one to the other of them. “Well, good night, then.”

  “Good night, Kevin,” she said.

  “Yes, good night,” her husband added.

  Kevin went over to the door, turned for a last, polite nod to them, and left.

  They stood there for several moments, husband and wife, regarding each other in silence.

  “Well,” John said at last.

  “Well,” she echoed thoughtfully. “She must be something. That young man is already in love with her. Yes, she must be quite—quite something.”

  He was studying her face. “Will that be a problem, Cathy?”

  She shook her head decisively. “No, of course not. It doesn’t change anything. Have you—have you found anyone suitable?”

  “Maybe,” he said, smiling. She thought he was probably smiling because they were both whispering, despite the fact that they were quite alone in the room. “I’m meeting someone in a couple of days, as a matter of fact. But I won’t bore you with those details. The less you know about it, the better.”

  She nodded. “Okay. Just be sure they understand the importance of making it look like an accident.”

  “Of course.”

  “It has to be done right.”

  “Of course.”

  “And it mustn’t be traced to us.”

  “Of course.”

  “All right, then.” She went over to the card table and sat. Producing a deck of cards from the drawer under the table, she began expertly shuffling them. John refilled his glass at the bar and brought her wine bottle with him as he came over to sit across from her, his book apparently forgotten.

  She smiled as he filled her glass. She’d known all along that they would eventually play cards. She was in charge of this, as she’d just been in charge of the interview with Kevin Jessel, and they both knew it.

  “Five-card draw,” he said. “One game. Then bed.”

  She handed him the deck.

  “Deal,” she said. She meant the cards, of course, but she meant something else as well. They both knew that, too.

  “But first,” he said, “a toast.” His blue eyes twinkled as he raised his glass.

  She reached for her wineglass. “What shall we drink to?”

  He grinned. “To Holly.”

  They laughed quietly as they clinked glasses, sealing their bargain and Holly Randall’s fate, their gazes locked together.

  “Yes,” she said. “To Holly.”

  As it turned out, Holly was wrong about not getting used to her new situation in the apartment on Central Park South. She ate the dinner Mrs. Wells had prepared for her as if she’d never seen food before in her life. After that, the housekeeper unpacked for her and ran her a hot bath. Holly bathed, dried herself with soft towels, and crawled into the big bed in the bedroom that was nearly twice the size of her bedroom at home. As her head hit the pillows, she thought once more of Kevin Jessel, the astonishingly handsome man who was apparently her servant, and of his astonishing words.

  “You’re Holly Randall now.”

  Then, almost immediately, she was asleep.

  The rain began again just at the stroke of midnight, but the woman in the black cloak paid no attention to it. She pulled the hood of the cloak closer to her pale throat with her one free hand and continued on her way. Through the trees beside the curving front drive, around the big main house, and down the sloping back lawn she floated, quiet as a whisper.

  As the downpour strengthened in its intensity and the cold wind whipped across the headland from the Sound, she held her precious little package closer to her breast, shielding it from the onslaught as best she could. It was very dark here on the back lawn, as the lights of Randall House were far behind her now. But no matter: she knew every step of this journey by heart. She had made it many times before.

  A blinding flash of autumn lightning glinted on the wrought iron fence that enclosed the little cemetery beside the chapel, and by the time she reached the gate the answering thunder was resounding through the dark landscape. The woman slipped past the gate and glided over to her usual corner, a shadow among shadows, careful not to disturb the monuments as she passed them. When she arrived at her destination, she sank to her knees on the muddy ground, gently laid down her package, and reached behind the nearest headstone for the little spade she always kept concealed there.

  Before she began, she extended a pale white arm, pulled the crude little wooden cross from the earth where it stood, and laid it aside. Then, using the spade with quick, efficient strokes, she began to dig.

  The earth, soaked as it was, came away remarkably easily tonight, and her task was soon completed. Even so, she turned her head to glance up at the lights of the distant house several times as she worked, just to assure herself that she was not being observed. It was an evil house, she knew that well enough, and evil people lived there. No, she told herself again each time she looked, they are not watching me. They are not pursuing me. Not now, at any rate.

  She put down the spade and reached for the little bundle. She cradled it in her arms, raising her eyes to the stormy sky. The rain pelted her upturned face, mingling with her tears. She silently mouthed the words she’d learned long ago in the chapel behind her, the lovely words about the Shepherd. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures. He restoreth my soul.…

  She had never believed the words, or even fully understood them, but they seemed appropriate for this, so she used them. She was not good at memorizing, and she knew few things by heart. And the psalm was more suitable than the poem she’d had to recite in school when she was little, the one about the ringing and the singing of the bells, bells, bells, or whatever it was. She couldn’t remember all of it, anyway.

  When she came to the end of the psalm, the part about dwelling in the house of the Lord forever, she rearranged the little blue blanket she had knitted with her own hands and gently laid her tiny burden down in the hole, which was rapidly filling with water. Using the spade and her hands, she quickly filled the hole with muddy earth and patted it down. At last, she picked up the little wooden cross and replaced it, to mark the site. She leaned forward to kiss the cross, stood up, and moved swiftly back through the burial ground to the gate.

  Another bolt of lightning lit the sky as she came out of the cemetery, and she shrank against the big oak beside the gate as the thunder crashed around her, ignorant of the fact that it was the worst place to be if lightning struck. She was drenched, her garments clinging heavily to her thin, shivering body. No matter, she decided: I feel better now.

  A sense of elation coursed through her as she broke away from the shadow of the tree and ran lightly up the sloping lawn toward the side of the house. Be careful now, she cautioned herself. Don’t let them see you. Don’t let the Devil see you.

  She passed the building and continued on her way down the drive toward the massive front gates, toward home. She smiled as she ran through the pouring rain, the deafening thunder, the whole wild night, blithely unaware of the single pair of eyes that watched her progress, as they had watched her ritual in the cemetery.

  She always felt better after she buried the baby.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The Legacy

  Gilbert Henderson, Esquire, was exactly as Holly had imagined him to be. His handsome face and tall, slender form; his charcoal gray Brooks Brothers suit; even his oak-paneled offices on Park Avenue went perfectly with the deep, mellifluous, upper-class New England voice she’d been hearing on the telephone for th
e last three months. In his mid-fifties, or thereabouts. He sounded like a television network anchorman, and he looked like one, too. Another Yalie, she decided, by way of Choate. Some of the framed sheepskin certificates that lined his walls would probably bear this out.

  “Good morning, Ms. Randall,” he intoned when he came out of his inner sanctum into the large reception area where she’d been waiting. “I’m pleased to meet you, at last.”

  She smiled and murmured the usual amenities as she followed him back into his office, acutely aware of her clothes. She was wearing the faded jeans and scuffed boots from yesterday: she really didn’t have anything else for the bitter-cold weather outside, and snow had been predicted for later in the day. Even so, she was uncomfortable. The lawyers and clerks and secretaries were all so beautifully dressed, and she looked like—well, she didn’t fit in here, certainly.

  He offered her a seat in a big leather chair and went around to sit behind his massive desk. He folded his hands on a file folder on the blotter before him and leaned forward, smiling. She knew he was inspecting her, so she looked elsewhere, at Park Avenue through the big windows behind him. He asked her if she would like coffee, and she smiled and nodded. He pushed a button and spoke into an intercom, and moments later a pretty young Asian woman in a wheat-colored suit and matching shoes came in with a silver tray. Holly looked at the woman, at her glistening black hair and subtle makeup and tasteful jewelry, then down at her own well-worn sweater. She felt a sense of relief when the woman left the room.

  “Now,” Mr. Henderson said at last, smiling. “Richard Lawrence of the Tri-State Trust Bank will be joining us shortly, but first I want to explain a few things to you. In this folder are all the necessary papers, as well as the report from your doctor in California. I thank you for cooperating in all this: it may seem silly, even old-fashioned, to need all this proof of your identity, but I’m sure you understand. The circumstances are definitely unusual.”

  She leaned forward in her chair, glancing down at the folder on the desk. “I assume Dr. Kelman’s report was—um—satisfactory?”