“I’m telling you, woman, that’ll be the way of it, d’you hear?” She had never heard so much anger in her father’s voice. Never heard him shouting at her mother in such a way.
“But Frank!” her mother protested, obviously in tears. “She’s hardly more than a child! Where’s your forgiveness?” It had gone ominously quiet and Gina had no trouble picturing the look on her father’s face. Her hands were trembling as she held on to the wooden rail.
“Forgiveness?” His voice shattered the silence. “What’s to forgive? Forgive a daughter who we’ve brought up in our home and given everything she’s ever wanted. And how does she repay us? By behaving like some rutting farm animal behind our backs.”
“Frank! How could you say such a thing? She’s your daughter, your own flesh and blood!” Doris pleaded, her raised voice quavering with emotion.
“My mind’s made up, like I said, Doris. I’m not having everyone in the village gossiping about us, being made the subject of every bit of tittle-tattle. She’s to go. I’ll not have her in this house any longer!” For a moment he stood facing her, breathing heavily, chest heaving with the violence of his rage. Then the onslaught continued. “You tell me she’s sickly, eh? You don’t want me to see her? That’s fine! You make whatever arrangements you like but don’t let me set eyes on her, ok?” He turned for the door and Doris stared at his back, unable to believe he would completely disown his own daughter. Then he stopped, the door half-open, and turned back to her a grim, vengeful look on his face. Almost as an afterthought he spoke again, his voice cold and menacing. “When I find the bastard responsible for this, and I mean when, I’ll give him a hiding he’ll never forget!” Gina gave a little jump, at the shock of the door slamming, then sunk to the floor in tears weeping silently, her mind numb, her world in ruins. After a while, when the chill of the evening began to make her shiver uncontrollably, she got up slowly and returned to her room. Closing the door behind her she lay down on the bed, curled up, and cried herself to sleep.
Chapter Two (2010)
It had taken Arabella Foxton approximately ten years to become an overnight success and now that she had scaled that particular peak she wasn’t at all certain she was enjoying the view from the summit. In fact, it had felt curiously unreal, as someone who generally shunned the limelight, to attend book signings and writers' festivals, almost as if she were leading someone else's life. For Arabella writing had always been a very private affair, usually a long, drawn-out process because she enjoyed getting on intimate terms with her prose, teasing it and moulding it until she had finally found the shape and form she was seeking. Now that the affair had been exposed in the most public of ways, she not only found herself in the spotlight but was also expected to divulge the secrets of her technique. It was, she felt, rather like going to the doctor’s with an embarrassing problem and having to talk about it.
In a previous life, before she had received international acclaim for her most recent novel, Arabella had produced five books, each of which had been published. They were all fiction, mostly of a whimsical nature with liberal doses of black humour, accurately portraying the ups and downs of modern living, and the genre had found a steady market. It may not have got her a five-star lifestyle but she had lived very comfortably, in fact more comfortably than she had realised. Today was not the first time she had reflected on life before fame and how much she had taken for granted. Like being in control of her life. Being anonymous. Having the luxury of being able to do what she wanted when she wanted to do it. And, not least of all, being able to write. For her there was a compulsion about writing born out of a need to continually be creative, even if it was only a few lines a day. In fact, sometimes those were her best days when the literary content of a paragraph seemed inspired and to write any more would only detract from what she had already written or lessen its impact. If, however, she were prevented from writing at all it was not unusual for her to feel guilty. The writing had started as a purgative measure after the break-up of her marriage. It had been typically impulsive of Arabella to have wed someone she’d known for less than three months though, God knows, she could have had the pick of any number of her admirers. The latin influence in her heritage, thanks to her mother, included Romany blood which had brushed her skin with a touch of mediterranean colour and given her a glorious mane of auburn hair which cascaded in shimmering tresses past her shoulders. She was nobody's fool but laughed easily and it showed in her eyes. Alluring rather than glamorous, Arabella preferred a natural look keeping make-up to a minimum. Normally level-headed she was occasionally prone to impulsiveness, a legacy from her father an energetic, passionate man, of Irish descent, with a roguish appeal that many women found irresistible. Unfortunately, he had died in a hunting accident, in 1990, when Arabella was just five years old.
Book-signings had been an eye-opener for her, giving Arabella a whole new dimension to her writing, reinforcing the power of the written word. It was not something she had entertained whilst creating the manuscript but nevertheless it had a powerful effect on her and particular episodes were stamped indelibly upon her memory:
“Ms. Foxton! Or may I call you Bella?” If she hadn’t have been leaning back, craning her neck to try and see the clock on the wall she would have seen him approaching. As it was, the voice startled her. It was a deep, mature voice laced with stockbroker belt and a dash of arrogance and she turned to study its owner. “Your picture on the jacket doesn’t do you justice, you know. You look much younger.” That was the fifth one today, she calculated. Even though it was a compliment, it would be so nice to hear something original. He was holding the book out, showing her the photo, as if she had never seen it before. The fact that she agreed with him was academic. It was the repetitiveness that irked her. Just another sign of her impatience, not used to having to sit and wait for people to come forward, as if she were processing voters in a polling booth. Looking up at the individual in front of her she was surprised to find a younger man than she’d expected, maybe fortyish. Handsome, in a sort of cold, Aryan way, the arrogance there in the set of his mouth, the look in his eyes.
“Of course you may call me Bella,” she said disarmingly, smiling with her eyes as she took the book from him. What may have passed for a smile flashed briefly across his features, like a lightning strike. The sensitivity of a rattlesnake this one, she mused, never ceasing to be amazed by the wide spectrum of people she had come in contact with at the signings. One of her little games, to help pass the time, was to try and guess what people did for a living and, occasionally, she would venture to ask. The words contract killer floated into her consciousness as she signed his copy of Lingering Doubts.
“You made me cry,” he confessed and she looked up at him, in astonishment. “My mother died recently,” he said, by way of explanation. “The circumstances of her death had a lot in common with Mrs. Witteringham’s, in your book. It was terrible, watching her suffer, unnecessarily, when all she had wanted to do for the past three months was die.” There was not a trace of emotion on his face now and Arabella found it difficult to imagine him in tears but the statement had served to capture her attention, momentarily dispelling her lethargy. “I don’t read,” he commented, accepting the book back from her, with a little nod. “Well, not books. Only financial statements, that sort of thing. My sister recommended I read it and I’m glad I did. You’re very….perceptive, Bella. I just felt I had to meet you.” And then he was gone, leaving her as stunned by his sudden departure as she had been by his revelation. There was no doubt in her mind that she’d struck a chord with the book. Of course, the sales reflected the fact but also the amount of feedback she’d got from a wide cross-section of the public, and not just those with elderly relatives.
One of the most touching moments was in Slough, when the parents of a tetraplegic boy had brought in their copy of the book, to be signed, and she remembered the case from news reports. Their son had suffered his terrible injuries in a fall from a building while wor
king on its roof sustaining some damage to his brain as well. After months of their son’s pleading, the father had administered a fatal overdose of sleeping pills to release him from his suffering and was subsequently charged with manslaughter and given a suspended sentence. One of the reasons Arabella recalled it so well was the crass treatment given to such a sensitive issue by one of the tabloids whose headline had screamed “Youthanasia!’ in huge letters.
It was two high-profile cases of mercy-killing, administered by the same doctor in the north of England, that had sown the seed for the book nearly three years previously. The idea had remained dormant for six months until an aunt of hers, of whom she was particularly fond, had suffered a severe stroke. It was only then that the awful tragedy, the heart-breaking sadness of such a case was brought home to her and she had recognised the potential of Lingering Doubts. There was far more of her, Arabella Foxton, in the book than in any of her previous novels which could have been the reason for its success. Also the American publishers had suggested that the book might do better over there if it went out under the name of Bella Foxton, which was the diminuitive preferred by her friends anyway. So, Bella Foxton she had become and the sales were doing very nicely.
Now the promotional roller-coaster had slowed down it was time for her to take stock and think about the future. Travelling to various parts of the country, some delightful others not, had caused Bella to look at her life more closely and to consider decisions not only on lifestyle choices but also where she wanted to live. Like many others she had a love-hate relationship with London. Should she stay or should she go? On the plus side she had the proximity of parks and gardens, cafes, restaurants, the Albert Hall, the Thames and so much more but....crowds were anathema to her, a particular nightmare being the tube, Then there was the traffic, the pollution and the noise. On the recycled macrocapa coffee table in front of her was a writing pad and pen. The page remained blank although she had been seated on the sofa in her lounge looking at it for 20 minutes. Once again Bella was endeavouring to determine the priorities which would enable her to make a decision but for some reason found it difficult to concentrate. Further thought on the matter was, however, precluded as the warbling tone of her mobile sought her attention and she picked it up from the table.
“Bella Foxton,” she answered, brightly.
“Miss Arabella Foxton?” An educated, confident male voice had pronounced her name slowly with every syllable clearly annunciated. It struck her as the manner in which a detective might speak before making an arrest or, perhaps, a caller about to inform her that she’d won the lottery.
“I am she,” Bella replied, her interest aroused.
“Ben Hollingsworth of Hollingsworth, Hope & Mitchell, solicitors. We are acting on behalf of the estate of your late uncle, Rupert Foxton, Lord Easterbrook.” He paused, to let the information sink in. At the mention of her uncle’s name, a host of images came to mind as Bella recalled her father’s brother, a man she had always called Uncle Foxy. After her father’s death, Rupert had kept a watchful eye over his brother’s three children but Bella had always been his favourite. The funeral had been nearly six months ago and, since then, her schedule had been so hectic she had not given him much thought. The sound of Ben Hollingsworth clearing his throat brought her back to the present.
“I’d just like to say, Miss Foxton, that I’ve read your recent book and was quite impressed by your handling of the subject. Where do you get your advice on legal matters, if I might ask?”
“If you look in the acknowledgements, her name is given there but not her profession. Surely that’s not why you called me, is it?” He chuckled at her remark, a throaty, infectious sound which made her smile.
“No, of course not. Purely professional interest. The reason I’m phoning is to inform you that there is to be a reading of your late uncle’s will, at our offices in The Strand, on the 28th of this month. That’s Thursday week.” With the demands being made on her by the success of the book, Bella had no idea, without consulting her diary, of whether she would be free to attend.
“What happens if I can’t make it?” she felt compelled to ask.
“Suffice to say,” Ben Hollingsworth replied, “that it would be in your interests to attend. There will be a letter of confirmation in tonight’s post and I very much look forward to meeting you.” The connection was broken, leaving Bella in a state of mild excitement as she speculated on the meaning of his statement. If she had felt like having a glass of wine earlier, the need suddenly took on a greater urgency.
The austere environment of the meeting lent an air of propriety to the proceedings which, in Bella’s opinion, made it seem like an extension of the funeral service itself. She had never attended the reading of a will before and to her mind there was something very Agatha Christie about the whole thing. If Hercule Poirot himself had suddenly appeared, declaring that Rupert’s body had been exhumed and his death was now being treated as murder, she would not have been at all surprised. Ben Hollingsworth had been a revelation not in the least for his sense of humour, unexpected in a solicitor who specialised in matters of taxation and probate. Over the phone, she had imagined him to be on the short side, with a round, fleshy face and thinning, blond hair. Perhaps fifty, or older, and a tad overweight. In reality, he looked like an ex-Guards officer, tall, slim and very fit-looking without an ounce of spare flesh. Probably mid-forties, she guessed. He had a boyish, clean-shaven face, with laughter lines around the eyes. She was willing to put money on the fact that he was probably a good tennis player or excelled at squash. In response to the receptionist’s message, he had come to meet Bella at reception, appearing genuinely delighted to see her, and had taken her up to the boardroom indulging in light-hearted conversation on the way. As he opened the door, to show her in, she was greeted by the sound of muted voices very much like the low key conversations in a church, before a wedding. The moment she entered, silence descended on the room as heads turned to discover the identity of the latest arrival. With a quick glance around she took in the dark, wooden panelling on the walls, crystal chandeliers and deep pile carpet before acknowledging several people in the gathering. Her sister, Laura, was there, seated in the middle of a row next to someone Bella didn’t recognise. It came as no surprise to Bella that, even though Laura had obviously seen her, her sister didn’t attempt so much as a smile or a nod by way of a greeting. In fact, there was a look of hostility on her face as if she was querying the right for Bella to be there at all. The polished walnut boardroom table had been taken to the back of the room and placed against the wall. Rows of chairs had been arranged facing a solid-looking mahogany desk at the other end of the room. Bella took an empty seat close by, as Ben Hollingsworth followed her into the room and made his way behind the desk. Gradually, the sound of voices died away and there was an unmistakeable air of expectancy among the mainly family members there as he opened the folder he had brought with him. Absolute silence descended over the gathering as he prepared to speak.
In his opening address, the solicitor had apologised for the delay between the funeral and the reading of the will which he put down to some legal complication affecting the probate procedure. Those members of the family closest to the deceased, he stated, would be aware of the circumstances of which he spoke. As a quick aside, he reminded those present to please switch off their cell phones then began to read the standard preamble from the document in front of him before arriving at the quite lengthy list of arrangements that had been made for family and friends.
"Now we come to the part of the proceedings that has brought us all together in this room." The statement was followed by a general shuffling of bodies and muted coughing. Bella was infused with a sense of mounting excitement, like waiting for the lottery results. Then she caught Laura staring at her, obviously unsettled by her presence, and wondered exactly what was going through her sister’s mind as silence descended and the serious part of the business got under way.
As the details
of the will were being read out, it became clear to Bella that she’d had no idea of the extent of Rupert’s wealth and realised how little she had really known about him, prompting a sudden feeling of sadness at his loss. It was the small things that she remembered him for most. The fact that he never forgot her birthday, for one thing, and the way he had of making her feel important, as though he truly cared about her. She couldn’t help but smile at the recollection of how she had, on more than one occasion, used him as the example of her ideal man when weighing up the qualities of a current boyfriend.
“To Laura Foxton, the elder of my two nieces, I bequeath the diamond and sapphire necklace which she has always admired.” Preoccupied with her memories, Bella had not been paying close attention for several minutes but she looked up at the mention of her sister’s name. “There is one proviso to the bequest and that is the necklace must stay in the family, for perpetuity, and not be sold for pecuniary advantage.”
The Knapthorne Conspiracy Page 2
