“But doesn’t the taxman realize I haven’t got £185,000? I parted with almost every penny to clear my debt with Cyrus.”
“HM’s Inspector of Taxes is blind to any personal problems you might have,” Mr. Leigh pointed out unhelpfully. “They are only aware of your earnings, not how much you spend.”
“What will happen if I don’t reply to their letter?”
“If you fail to respond within thirty days, they will start charging you a punitive interest rate until you do.”
“And if I can’t?”
“They will take you to court, have you declared bankrupt, and confiscate all your assets.”
“Who would have thought,” said Virginia, “the taxman would turn out to be an even worse bitch than Ellie May Grant.”
* * *
Virginia knew the one person who could be relied on to solve her problem with the taxman, and although she hadn’t been in touch with her for several months—“Pressure of work,” she would explain—she didn’t think it would be difficult to convince Kelly to invest a couple of hundred thousand in a deal that couldn’t fail.
Once she had arrived home following her meeting with Mr. Leigh, Virginia spent some time searching for the letter Kelly had sent some weeks earlier, which she now regretted not replying to. Still, she thought, looking at the address on top of the notepaper, all the more reason to pay a surprise visit to The Little Gables, Lodge Lane, Nailsea, near Bristol.
The following morning Virginia rose before the sun, an unusual occurrence, but in truth she hadn’t been able to sleep. She set off for the West Country just after nine a.m., and used the long drive to rehearse the lines about a once-in-a-lifetime investment opportunity that Kelly would be foolish not to take advantage of.
She passed a sign for Nailsea just before midday, and stopped to ask an elderly gentleman the way to Lodge Lane. As she drew up outside The Little Gables her heart sank when she spotted a For Sale sign on the front lawn. Virginia assumed Kelly must be moving to a bigger house. She walked up the driveway and knocked on the front door. A few moments later it was opened by a young man who gave her an expectant smile.
“Mrs. Campion?”
“No, I am not Mrs. Campion. I’m the Lady Virginia Fenwick.”
“I apologize, Lady Fenwick.”
“I’m also not Lady Fenwick. I am the daughter of an earl, not the wife of a life peer. You may address me as Lady Virginia.”
“Of course,” he said, and apologized a second time. “How can I help you, Lady Virginia?”
“You can start by telling me who you are.”
“My name is Neil Osborne and I’m the estate agent in charge of the sale of this property. Are you an interested party?”
“Certainly not. I am simply visiting my old friend Kelly Mellor. Does she still live here?”
“No, she moved out soon after instructing us to put the house back on the market.”
“Has she moved somewhere locally?”
“Perth.”
“In Scotland?”
“No, Australia.” That silenced Virginia for a moment, and allowed the young man to complete a second sentence. “All I can tell you, Lady Virginia, is that Kelly instructed us to send the proceeds of the sale to a joint bank account in Perth.”
“A joint bank account?”
“Yes, I only met Barry once, quite soon after they became engaged. He seemed a nice enough fellow,” Osborne added as he looked over Virginia’s shoulder. “Are you Mr. and Mrs. Campion?” he asked a young couple who were walking up the driveway.
* * *
When Virginia received a second letter from HM Inspector of Taxes, she realized there was only one person left she could turn to, although he wasn’t someone who would believe a story about an investment that couldn’t fail.
She chose a weekend when the Hon. Freddie Fenwick would be at boarding school, and her sister-in-law, a woman Virginia had never much cared for, and she suspected the feeling was mutual, would be visiting an elderly aunt in Dumfries.
Virginia didn’t take the sleeper, a misnomer in her opinion, because she could never manage more than an hour’s sleep while the carriage rattled over the points. Instead, she opted to travel up to Scotland during the day, which would give her more than enough time to go over her plan, and prepare for any awkward questions her brother might come up with. After all, when she’d rung him to say she wanted his advice and needed to see him urgently, she knew he would assume that “advice” was another misnomer, although she accepted that he might consider £185,000 a bit steep, unless he was willing to support her claim that …
Archie sent the car, if you could call a clapped-out 1975 Vauxhall estate a car, to pick her up when she arrived at Edinburgh Waverley. Her ladyship was driven to Fenwick Hall accompanied only by the smell of Labradors and spent cartridges, without once addressing the chauffeur.
As the butler accompanied Lady Virginia to the guest bedroom, he informed her that his lordship was out shooting but was expected back in time for dinner. Virginia took her time unpacking, something that would have been done by a lady’s maid in her father’s day, followed by a soak in a warm bath that she’d had to run herself. After dressing for dinner, she sharpened her nails in preparation for the encounter.
Dinner passed smoothly enough, but then they didn’t discuss anything consequential until after coffee had been served and the servants had retired.
“I’m pretty sure you didn’t come all this way simply to find out how the family are, Virginia,” said Archie after pouring himself a brandy. “So tell me, what’s the real reason for your visit?”
Virginia put down her coffee cup, took a deep breath, and said, “I’m giving serious consideration to challenging Father’s will.” After she had delivered her well-prepared opening salvo, it was clear from the expression on her brother’s face that he wasn’t surprised.
“On what grounds?” he asked calmly.
“On the grounds that father had promised to leave the Glen Fenwick Distillery to me, along with its annual profits of around £100,000 a year, which would have allowed me to live comfortably for the rest of my days.”
“But as you well know, Virginia, in his will Father left the distillery to Freddie, whom you abandoned several years ago, leaving me with the responsibility of bringing your son up.”
“He isn’t my son, as you well know. He’s no more than the offspring of my former butler and his wife. So he has absolutely no claim on Father’s estate.”
Virginia eyed her brother, waiting to see how he would react to this bombshell, but once again, not a flicker of surprise furrowed his brow.
Archie bent down and stroked Wellington, who was sleeping by his side. “Not only am I well aware that Freddie isn’t your son, but it was confirmed beyond doubt following a visit from Mrs. Ellie May Grant, who told me in great detail about the charade you set up when her fiancé was staying at the Ritz some years ago, and your subsequent claim that you were pregnant and that Cyrus was Freddie’s father.”
“Why did that woman want to see you?” demanded Virginia, somewhat thrown off course.
“To find out if I was willing to pay back any of the money you’d fraudulently claimed from her husband over the past decade.”
“You could have offered her the income from the distillery until the debt was cleared, which would have solved all my problems.”
“As you are well aware, Virginia, it isn’t mine to offer. Father left the distillery to Freddie and stipulated that it should be managed by me until the boy reaches his twenty-fifth birthday, when it will automatically become his.”
“But now you know Freddie isn’t my son, surely you’ll support my claim that in an earlier will, which both of us saw, Father left the distillery to me.”
“But he later changed his mind. And it wasn’t until Mrs. Grant told me what her husband’s favorite whisky was that I realized the significance of Father only leaving you a bottle of Maker’s Mark in his will, which rather suggests that he
also knew Freddie wasn’t your son.”
“I’ve received a tax bill for £185,000,” blurted out Virginia, “that I can’t afford to pay.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Archie. “But from my experience, the taxman doesn’t send out demands for £185,000 unless the person concerned has made a capital gain of—” he hesitated for a moment—“around half a million.”
“I’ve spent every penny I made settling Cyrus’s claim, and now there’s nothing left.”
“Well, I certainly don’t have that kind of money at my disposal, Virginia, even if I was willing to help you. Every penny I earn is ploughed back into the estate, which incidentally just about broke even last year, and as you can see, we’re not exactly living high on the hog. In fact, if I’m forced to make any more cutbacks, the next one will have to be your monthly allowance. The irony is that Freddie did better out of Father’s will than any of us.”
“But all that would change if only I could get my hands on the distillery.” Virginia leant forward and looked hopefully at her brother. “If you back me, Archie, I’d be willing to split fifty-fifty.”
“Not a chance, Virginia. Those were clearly Father’s wishes, and in that same will, he instructed me to see that they were carried out. And that’s exactly what I intend to do.”
“But surely blood comes before—”
“Keeping your word? No, it doesn’t, Virginia, and I must warn you that if you were reckless enough to challenge Father’s will and the matter were to come to court, I wouldn’t hesitate to back Freddie’s claim, because that is no more than Father would have expected of me.”
On her return journey to London, Virginia concluded that once again, she would have to get in touch with her distant cousin in Argentina—and fairly urgently.
* * *
The following morning Virginia received a final reminder from HM Inspector of Taxes, which she screwed up and dropped into the nearest wastepaper basket. By the afternoon, she was reluctantly considering booking an economy class ticket to Buenos Aires, and had even started to pack, while thinking about the things she would miss if she were exiled, including Annabel’s, her friend Priscilla, Bofie, and even The Daily Mail. She somehow doubted that The Buenos Aires Herald would have quite the same appeal.
She turned to Nigel Dempster to find out what her friends were up to. A photograph of a woman she didn’t care for dominated his column, although the news of her death didn’t cause Virginia’s heart to miss a beat.
It is with great sadness, Dempster reported, that I learned of the death of Lavinia, Duchess of Hertford, who was so admired for her beauty, charm, and wit. That wasn’t how you described her when she was alive, thought Virginia. She will be sadly missed by her many friends—who could all have joined her for tea in a telephone box. But because she was so rich and powerful, everyone had always bowed and scraped to her. The funeral will be held at St. Albans Abbey, and will be attended by Princess Margaret, one of the Duchess’s oldest friends. The Duchess leaves behind a son, Lord Clarence, two daughters, Lady Camilla and Lady Alice, and her devoted husband, the thirteenth Duke of Hertford. The funeral will take place on …
Virginia opened her diary, penciled in the date, and unpacked again.
22
VIRGINIA MAY HAVE been penniless but no one who saw her walk into St. Albans Abbey that morning would have believed it. She was wearing a black silk dress with a pearl brooch her grandmother had left her, and carried a black Hermès handbag she still hadn’t paid for.
She entered the west door a few minutes before the service was due to begin, only to find the abbey was already full. She was looking around the packed congregation, anxious not to be relegated to a place near the back, unnoticed, when she spotted a tall, elegant man in a tailcoat carrying an usher’s rod. She gave him a warm smile, but he clearly didn’t recognize her.
“I’m the Lady Virginia Fenwick,” she whispered. “A close family friend.”
“Of course, m’lady, please follow me.”
Virginia accompanied him down the aisle, past rows of mourners who knew their place. She was delighted when the usher found her a seat in the fifth row, directly behind the family, which fitted in neatly with the first part of her plan. While pretending to study the order of service, she glanced around to see who was seated nearby. She recognized the dukes of Norfolk, Westminster, and Marlborough, along with several hereditary peers who had all been friends of her late father. She glanced back to see Bofie Bridgwater seated several rows behind her, but she didn’t acknowledge his exaggerated bow.
The organ struck up to announce a parade of the great and good who were led sedately down the aisle by the chief usher. The Mayor of Hertford was followed by the sheriff and the lord lieutenant of the county, all of whom were shown to their places in the third row. A moment later they were followed by the Lord Barrington of Bristol Docklands, the former leader of the House of Lords.
As Giles passed Virginia, she turned away. She didn’t want her ex-husband to know she was there. Not part of her well-choreographed plan. Giles took his reserved seat in the second row.
A moment later the congregation rose as one when the coffin, bedecked in white lilies, began its slow passage down the aisle toward the chancel. It was borne on the shoulders of six guardsmen from the First Battalion of the Coldstream Guards, the regiment the duke had served in as a major during the Second World War, and was now their honorary colonel.
The thirteenth Duke of Hertford, followed by his son and two daughters, walked behind the coffin, and took their places in the front row, while the coffin was placed on a bier in the chancel. The funeral service was conducted by the Bishop of Hertford, whose eulogy reminded those present what a saintly person the late duchess had been, emphasizing her tireless work as patron of Dr. Barnardo’s and as chairman of the Mothers’ Union. The bishop concluded by expressing his heartfelt condolences to the duke and his family, finally adding that he hoped with the help of the Almighty they would come to terms with their loss.
Along with a little assistance from me, thought Virginia.
When the service was over, Virginia joined a select group of mourners who attended the burial, and then cadged a lift back to the castle for a reception she hadn’t been invited to. When she arrived she paused at the bottom of the steps, taking a moment to admire the Jacobean building as if she were a prospective buyer.
During the funeral service and the burial, Virginia had remained still, but once she entered the castle and the butler announced “The Lady Virginia Fenwick,” she never stopped moving.
“How kind of you to take the trouble to travel up to Hertfordshire, Virginia,” said the duke, bending down to kiss her on both cheeks. “I know Lavinia would have appreciated it.”
I wouldn’t have missed it for the world, she wanted to tell him, but restricted herself to, “Such a dear, kind lady. We’ll all miss her.”
“How sweet of you to say so, Virginia,” said the duke, not letting go of her hand. “I do hope you’ll keep in touch.”
You need have no fear about that, thought Virginia. “Nothing would give me greater pleasure, your grace,” she said, giving him a slight curtsey.
“His grace, the Duke of Westminster,” announced the butler.
Virginia moved on into the great hall, and while the elks and boars stared down from the walls above, her eyes swept the room in search of the three people she needed to see, and the one person she hoped to avoid. She declined several offers of canapés and wine, well aware that her time was restricted and she had a job to do.
She stopped to chat to Miles Norfolk, although he was only a pit stop on her progress to the checkered flag. And then she saw him, leaning against the Adam fireplace, chatting to an elderly man she didn’t recognize. She left Miles and began to drift in his direction, and the moment the elderly gentleman turned to talk to another guest, she moved in like a laser beam on her target.
“Clarence. You may not remember me.”
“You a
re not easily forgettable, Lady Virginia,” he ventured. “Father always speaks so warmly of you.”
“How kind of him,” gushed Virginia. “Are you still serving with the Blues and Royals?”
“I am indeed, but unfortunately I’m about to be posted overseas. I’m sorry to be going abroad so soon after my mother’s death.”
“But the duke will have the support of your sisters.”
“Sadly not. Camilla is married to a sheep farmer in New Zealand. A hundred thousand acres, can you believe it? They’ll be returning to Christchurch in a few days’ time.”
“That is unfortunate, and must place quite a responsibility on Alice’s shoulders.”
“And there’s the rub. Alice has been offered a senior position with L’Oréal in New York. I know she’s thinking of turning it down, but Papa insists she shouldn’t miss such a golden opportunity.”
“How typical of your father. But if you think it might help, Clarence, I’d be only too happy to drop in and see him from time to time.”
“That would take a weight off my mind, Lady Virginia. But I must warn you, the old man can be quite a handful. Sometimes I think he’s nearer seven than seventy.”
“That’s a challenge I’d relish,” said Virginia. “I don’t exactly have a lot going on in my life at the moment, and I’ve always enjoyed your father’s company. Perhaps I could drop you a line from time to time and let you know how he’s getting on.”
“How considerate, Lady Virginia. I just hope you won’t find him too much of a burden.”
“A bloody good show you’ve put on, Clarence,” declared a portly man who joined them. “You’ve done the old girl proud.”
“Thank you, Uncle Percy,” said Clarence, as Virginia slipped away to continue her three-pronged attack. The missile changed direction and headed toward its second target.
“Congratulations on your new job, Alice, and I’m bound to say, I agree with your father. You shouldn’t turn down such a wonderful opportunity.”
“How kind of you to say so,” said Alice, not altogether sure who she was talking to. “But I still haven’t made up my mind whether or not to take up the offer.”
This Was a Man Page 17
