Secrets and Seashells at Rainbow Bay

by Ali McNamara

  ‘Er . . . next week, I think.’

  Phew. ‘Sure, I’ll help you. Let me just make this call first and I’ll be right out.’

  I close my bedroom door and then I perch on the bed and look at my phone. Should I really be wasting my credit on this possible wild-goose chase? But what if the wild goose turns out to be a golden one? It could be the answer to so many of my problems right now. I have to at least take the chance.

  I dial the number at the top of the letter and wait, expecting to be greeted by an answer phone or a receptionist, but instead I suddenly hear a smooth and very polished voice say: ‘Good afternoon. Alexander Benjamin speaking, how may I help you?’

  ‘Oh, hullo . . . ’ I reply, thrown for a moment by the voice. ‘Er . . . my name is Amelia. Amelia Harris. I . . . I mean Chesterford. Harris is . . . was my married name. Chesterford is my maiden name.’

  ‘Ah, the elusive Ms Chesterford at last! How wonderful to finally speak with you. As I just said, I’m Alexander Benjamin. You got my letter, I presume?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Now, if you’ll just give me a moment I’ll locate your file.’

  The line goes quiet for a few seconds.

  ‘Right, I have it to hand now,’ the voice says, coming back on the line. ‘Now, would you mind confirming a few details for me?’

  I’m immediately suspicious, but Alexander simply asks me for confirmation of the same details he had in the letter. He doesn’t ask me to divulge anything new, like my bank details or credit card number, as I’d originally suspected he might.

  ‘That’s super, Ms Chesterford, or would you prefer me to call you Harris? That is your name now?’

  ‘I’d prefer Amelia, actually.’

  ‘Of course, Amelia it is then. Now—’

  ‘How did you find me?’ I suddenly blurt out.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘How did you find me – to send me the letter?’

  ‘Ah, I have many resources that I use to trace people. You were a particularly difficult case, I have to admit.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you seem to have had several addresses in the past few years, and you are yet to show on the electoral register for your current one. When clients are not on the register it makes them much harder to find.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’

  ‘You’ve moved quite a lot, have you?’

  He’s right: I have, but I don’t see how that’s any of his business.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I see. Anyhow, that is of no consequence when it comes to the estate in question.’

  ‘You kept mentioning an estate in your letter. What exactly have I inherited?’

  ‘I have to say it is most thrilling,’ he says, sounding excited. ‘When John Davies came to me with this particular case, I was incredibly eager to take it on.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure,’ I say, trying to remain patient. ‘But what is it?’

  ‘Subject to certain checks and verification of the appropriate documents, you, Amelia, have inherited— Beeeep.’

  ‘Hello . . . Hello . . . Mr Benjamin, can you still hear me?’ I shake the phone in my hand and stare at it, but the line has gone dead.

  Immediately I attempt to call him back, but my worst fears are confirmed when a text message pops up on my phone to tell me . . . I’ve run out of credit.

  Two

  The next morning, after I’ve taken Charlie to school, I walk slowly back to the flat. My shift at the supermarket doesn’t start until this afternoon, so I have the rest of the morning to tidy up and take our dirty clothes to the local launderette – a job I detest. So I’m in no hurry to get home.

  I hate myself for thinking it, but how I miss our old three-bedroomed house with its built-in washing machine and tumble dryer. When we lived there I’d totally taken it all for granted – the fancy appliances, the central heating, our little garden at the back where Charlie had taken his first steps across the grass on a warm spring day not unlike this one.

  But that had all been taken away from us when Charlie’s dad abandoned us. He’d simply left for work one day and never come back. I’d been beside myself with worry, and about to call the police, when I found his note. It had fallen down from our kitchen table on to the floor, and in my panic I hadn’t seen it until the following day.

  I know the words on that note will be etched in my head for ever.

  Amelia,

  I’m so sorry but I just can’t live this lie any more.

  I need to get away for a while to get my head together.

  Tell Charlie I love him.

  G x

  I shake my head to rid my mind of the words that have poisoned my thoughts for too long. I just can’t live this lie any more . . . No, I refuse to let you come back to haunt me. Charlie and I have moved on from you now.

  We’ve moved on several times, actually. From our original family home when I defaulted on the mortgage, to several different flats when the council kept moving us around between temporary accommodation, before they could house us more permanently. Finally, we settled at the small flat we’re in now, which compared to some of the places we’ve found ourselves living in is a virtual palace. Is it ideal? No. Perfect? Far from it. But it is warm – most of the time – our neighbours are friendly, and most importantly, until yesterday I’d had no doubt that Charlie is getting on okay at school.

  A little more money would come in handy, of course; I still struggle to pay all our bills on the part-time wage I bring home and the benefits I receive, so yesterday I’d desperately hoped that this Alexander chap was going to tell me that’s what I’d inherited when we’d got cut off. Just a small amount of extra cash would be incredibly helpful right now, and could tide me over until I got a full-time job again.

  But on the bright side, my benefit money should come through in a couple of days, so until then, when I’ll be able to top up my phone with the minimum credit and phone him back, I’ll simply have to wait and hope.

  I walk up the stairs so deep in thought about what the contents of this inheritance could be that I barely notice a man standing on my landing leaning out over the top of the railings.

  ‘Ms Chesterford?’ a deep, curiously familiar voice asks.

  I jump. ‘Who wants to know?’ I ask automatically, even though I know within two seconds the voice belongs to the same person I’d been talking to on the phone last night.

  The man looks surprised. ‘Alexander Benjamin. I spoke with you yesterday evening?’

  I look at the man no longer leaning on the railings, but standing upright in front of me. He’s tall and impeccably dressed in a pair of smart grey trousers, a blue open-necked shirt and shiny tan brogues. He carries a matching suit jacket over one arm, and a tan briefcase to complement his shoes in the other.

  ‘Oh yes, hello again. But what are you doing here on my landing?’

  ‘We got cut off – at a most untimely moment, if I may say – and I hoped we might continue our conversation in person?’

  ‘Er . . . ’ I think about the inside of the flat. Charlie and I were late getting up this morning because I overslept, after lying awake into the early hours thinking about the letter. The flat really isn’t looking its best on the other side of the door right now. ‘Yes, of course; perhaps we could go and get a coffee somewhere?’ The minute I say this I regret it. The cost of a cappuccino at the nearest coffee shop will take the contents of my purse down to approximately £4.64, and that’s if I only have to pay for my own.

  Alexander glances at my door and then at my anxious face and quickly says, ‘Why not? The coffee is on me, of course.’

  Although I hate myself for doing so, I don’t contradict him. I just smile and say thank you. Then I lead him back down the stairs – apologising for the faulty lift, and then we’re back out into the sunshine, where everything immediately seems better.

  ‘There’s quite a nice coffee shop over on the high street, if that’s all right with you?’ I ask.


  ‘Perfect.’

  Alexander has long legs to match his height and I have to hurry along to keep up with him as we walk together towards the coffee shop.

  ‘After you,’ he says, holding the door open for me as we arrive.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, touched by his polite gesture. Manners are always important to me.

  We order two cups of coffee, which Alexander pays for, and then we sit at a quiet table by the window.

  ‘Now,’ Alexander says, ‘firstly you told me last night you would prefer it if I called you Amelia, is that still correct?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, taking another sip of my coffee. It’s such a treat to taste good coffee again. My daily cup has come from a jar for so long now I’ve almost forgotten what freshly brewed coffee tastes like.

  ‘Then I would like it if you called me Benji, as that’s what I prefer.’

  I stare at him for a second. How had Benji come from Alexander?

  Ah, Alexander Benjamin. Of course. ‘Sure,’ I agree. It’s a bit odd, but kind of suits him, I suppose. Even though Benji dresses like a solicitor, I suspect from the look of his slightly unkempt hair and the Harry Potter socks I’d glimpsed when we sat down, he might have a less formal, wilder side to him.

  ‘Good,’ Benji says, sounding pleased. ‘Now we’ve got that out of the way, you must still be wondering what I’ve got to tell you.’

  ‘I am a bit, yes.’

  ‘You have every right to feel enormous anticipation, Amelia.’

  I smile at him. He obviously takes great pleasure in using as many long words as he can when he speaks.

  Benji reaches for his briefcase and pulls out a slim cardboard file. He lays it unopened on the table.

  ‘In this file,’ he begins, ‘are details of the estate you have inherited.’ He taps the file for effect, and I hope that the apparent emptiness of the file is a good indication that inside is a rather large cheque bearing my name. ‘Would you like to see?’

  ‘Yes please.’

  Benji opens up the file and pulls from it several large photos, which he keeps turned away from me.

  It’s going to be photos of a dog, isn’t it? I know it.

  ‘Here,’ he says triumphantly, turning around the first photo with a flourish, ‘is your inheritance.’ He lays the photo on the table in front of me.

  ‘It’s a castle,’ I say blankly, as I stare at a picture of a large medieval-looking building standing on top of a hill.

  ‘This,’ Benji continues, laying another photo next to the first, ‘is Chesterford Castle, to be precise. Your ancestral home.’

  I laugh – a big out-loud laugh that makes the few other people in the coffee shop look over at us.

  ‘Sorry,’ I apologise, ‘but I thought you said my ancestral home. We’ve just come from my home – a two-bedroom, fourth-floor flat on a slightly dodgy estate in Hamilton.’

  ‘Not for much longer, Amelia,’ Benji says, laying down a third photo with another view of the same castle on it. ‘If you accept your inheritance, then this twelve-bedroom castle in Northumberland will be your new home.’

  Three

  ‘You’re bonkers!’ I say, looking incredulously at Benji. ‘How can a castle be my home? There must be some mistake.’

  Benji shakes his head and some of his grey coiffured hair flops over one of his eyes. He hurriedly pushes it back with his hand. ‘No, no mistake. Chesterford Castle has been without an heir since the last Chesterford passed away – almost a year ago now, I believe.’

  I simply stare at Benji – suddenly wondering if this is some sort of joke. I look surreptitiously around for concealed TV cameras, and then I scan Benji for a hidden microphone or a tiny earpiece. When I don’t speak, he continues: ‘John Crawford Chesterford, the seventeenth Earl, died without an heir to either his estate or his title. Without going into too many details right now – that information is in the documents both his family solicitor and I have access to – we have been trying to trace a suitable heir since his death.’

  I still stare incredulously at Benji, and then back down at the photos on the table, then back up at him again as he talks. But I realise he’s stopped talking now, and is waiting for me to say something back to him.

  ‘A . . . suitable heir?’ I repeat. ‘How do you find one of those – on eBay?’

  Benji stares at me, his eyes narrowing as if he’s trying to work out if I’m being serious, flippant or just plain stupid.

  Usually it would be flippant – my sense of humour has got me into trouble on more than one occasion – but this time Benji would be correct in veering more towards the stupid. I just can’t comprehend what he is telling me.

  But he obviously chooses the flippant option – and laughs.

  ‘Aha, funny!’ he says, waggling his finger at me. ‘If only it was that easy – actually no, strike that. If it were that easy I’d be out of a job. Like I said, this particular case has been extremely tricky, and I’ve had to go across several branches of the Chesterford family tree to find you.’

  There is a Chesterford family tree? All the Chesterfords I know barely have two twigs to rub together, let alone a tree.

  ‘You’re serious, then?’ I ask, looking at the castle in the photo again. ‘You’re telling me that this inheritance you keep talking about, it’s this castle?’ I tap the photo on the table. ‘This one right here?’

  This is mad. I’m going to wake up in a minute and find that Charlie and I are even later for school because I’d nodded off to sleep again and started dreaming.

  ‘Yes,’ Benji continues in a calm voice, ‘as I said before, subject to the appropriate checks, you, Amelia, are the next Chesterford in the family lineage. The last Earl died without any children or any siblings. I’ve had to go back up through his father’s brothers and then back down through their children to find you – the closet direct descendant still alive. It’s been a very complex process – one of the most extensive searches I’ve ever completed, in fact.’

  ‘So you’re telling me that it would have been my father, if he was still alive, who would have been the closest direct descendant?’

  ‘That is correct – your father was related very distantly to the Northumberland Chesterfords by marriage on his great-grandmother’s side. But surprisingly, through all the Chesterfords I researched, and all the branches of the family tree I studied, you are actually the most direct descendant from one of the original Earls, and therefore you now inherit the family seat – Chesterford Castle.’

  I sit back in my chair and shake my head. I reach forward for my coffee but I find my hands are shaking – through shock or the fact I’m not used to this much caffeine any more, I’m not sure. But I hurriedly put my cup back down when it wobbles in my hand.

  ‘I can only imagine what a huge shock this is for you, Amelia,’ Benji says kindly. ‘It’s one of the biggest bequests I’ve ever dealt with, too. To find you’re now not only the owner of this magnificent medieval castle, but also a direct descendant of one of the oldest noble families in England must be inconceivable.’

  I nod slowly, wishing there was something a bit stronger in my cup than coffee right now. ‘And you’re sure?’ I ask steadily. ‘There’s no chance you’ve made a mistake?’

  ‘No, as I said, provided you have all the appropriate paperwork to verify your identity then Chesterford Castle is all yours.’

  I think again for a moment. It’s no good; I simply have to voice the question on the tip of my tongue. ‘How much is it worth?’ I blurt out, almost ashamed to ask. It seems so rude to talk about money when Benji is so thrilled and excited by my family history.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘How much is the castle worth? When it goes on the market, how much am I likely to get for it?’ This might be better than a cheque. A castle – how much was that worth these days? It could be millions. I swallow hard while I await his answer.

  Benji stares at me for a moment. ‘I think you may have misunderstood me, Amelia. I apologise if I�
��ve misled you in any way, but the castle is not for sale.’

  ‘Yet.’

  ‘No, not at all. The terms of the ancient bequest state that any Chesterford who may inherit in the future must work towards the upkeep and maintenance of the castle. They should live in the castle and—’

  ‘Wait, did you just say live in the castle?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘But I can’t live in a castle! Let alone one in Northumberland. I have responsibilities. I have a ten-year-old son who is at school just down the road from here – we can’t just turn our lives upside down to go and live in a castle!’

  ‘Yes, I know about Charlie. I was just about to come on to him.’

  ‘What do you mean? What has Charlie got to do with this nonsense?’

  For the first time since I’ve met him, Benji looks uncomfortable. He fiddles with one of his cufflinks. ‘How much of a feminist are you, Amelia?’ he asks, looking a little apprehensive.

  ‘Why? What has that got to do with anything?’

  ‘Because the strength of your views will likely affect how you receive my next piece of information.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You see, the tenth Earl was quite a forward-thinking man for his time. He realised that there wouldn’t always be a male heir in the Chesterford family to inherit the castle and the title Earl of Chesterford. So it might not always be possible for his family home to be passed down directly through his family. It has always been common practice in the aristocracy for male heirs to inherit titles and land. Females were simply passed over. So sometimes property and titles ended up going to a deceased’s brother or a distant cousin, instead of to his children.’

  ‘Yes, I did know that – talk about sexist! But all that’s changed now, hasn’t it? Before Prince George was born they changed it so girls could inherit titles too, didn’t they?’

  ‘Royalty did yes, but not the peerage.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean that it is still law today that a hereditary title of the peerage must be passed down through the male line of descendants. It’s a type of primogeniture.’