فصل 13

CHAPTER 13

The next half hour was a blur of questions and evasions, harder than Hal had ever imagined, but strangely exhilarating at the same time.

As she stumbled through the conversation, desperately trying to remember what she had said to whom, she found herself abandoning the chess analogy and returning to the image of herself as a boxer, strapping up her knuckles before clambering into the ring to dodge punches, sidestep questions, and turn awkward inquiries back onto the person opposite her.

And yet, this was no one-to-one sparring match. A single opponent would have been a setup much more within her comfort zone. She was used to that—although this was very far from the controlled environment of her little kiosk. But this confused melee was something entirely different: jumbled voices, cutting across each other, prodding her for answers before she had finished responding to another speaker, butting in with anecdotes and reminiscences. It was so unlike what she was accustomed to that she felt almost punch-drunk, pummeled by the sound.

All her life family had meant one thing—her and her mother. The two of them, bound together, self-sufficient. Growing up, Hal had never felt that there was anything missing, but she had sometimes yearned for the big family holidays of other children at school, the endless ranks of brothers and sisters and cousins to play with, and piles of presents at Christmas and birthdays that came from a large tribe of relatives.

Now—as they crowded around her, talking over each other in jangling voices, asking her about her upbringing, her schooling, her current situation—she found herself wondering how she could ever have envied the other children their uncles and aunts.

Harding was the most difficult—direct question after direct question, barked in that rather sergeant-major voice, like an interrogation. Abel’s style was very different, lighter, friendlier; time and again when Hal ran up against something she couldn’t answer, he broke in with a chuckle and an anecdote of his own. Ezra said nothing, but Hal felt his eyes upon her, watching.

It was Mitzi who interrupted at last with a laugh that Hal would have found grating under other circumstances.

“Good heavens, boys!” She pushed into the circle of dark suits, swatting Abel on the shoulder and taking Hal’s hand. “Leave the poor girl alone for a few minutes! Look at her—she’s quite overwhelmed. Can I offer you some tea, Hal?” “Y-yes,” Hal said. “Yes p-please.”

On the pier she tried to hide her occasional stammer, and she deliberately kept her voice low and slow, to seem older than her years and emphasize the fact that she was in control, and the querent was on her territory. Here, she realized, as Mitzi led her away from the group, her discomfort was her alibi, and she could use it to her own ends. She shouldn’t try to hide her confusion, or her youth—far from it. As she followed Mitzi across the drawing room, she hunched her shoulders to make her already slight frame seem even smaller, let her hair fall over her face like a shy teenager. People tended to underestimate Hal. Sometimes, that could be an advantage.

She let Mitzi usher her to a sofa by the fire, where one of the Westaway grandsons was sitting, jabbing at his phone in a way that made Hal think he must be playing some kind of game. It wasn’t Richard. Who was the other one . . . Freddie?

“There you go,” Mitzi said comfortingly, as Hal sat down. “Now, can I get you something? Are you old enough for a glass of wine?” Yes, and have been for several years, Hal thought, but she didn’t say that. Drinking here would not be a good idea. Instead she gave a deliberately uncertain laugh.

“I’d prefer that tea you mentioned, thank you.”

“I’ll be right back,” Mitzi said, and tapped her son sharply on the head. “Freddie, turn that off.” Freddie didn’t even pretend to put his phone down as his mother left, but he glanced sideways at Hal.

“Hi,” Hal said. “I’m Harriet.”

“Hi, Harriet. What’s your tattoo?”

“My tattoo?” Hal was momentarily surprised, and then realized that the cotton dress had slipped a little, showing one shoulder, and the tip of a wing. “Oh, this one?” She pointed to her back, and he nodded.

“Looks like a bird.”

“It’s a magpie.”

“Cool.” He spoke without looking up, apparently negotiating a tricky bit of the game. Then he added, “I want to get a tattoo, but Mum says over her dead body.” “It’s illegal before you’re eighteen,” Hal said briefly. Here at least she was on safe ground. “No reputable tattooist would agree to it, and you don’t want to be going to the ones who would. How old are you?” “Twelve,” he said sadly. He shut down his phone and looked up at her for the first time. “Can I see it?” “Um . . .” She felt an instant sense of intrusion, but she didn’t know what else to say. “I—yes. I guess.” She turned, and felt him pull down the cotton of the neckline, exposing the bird, its head cocked to one side. His fingers were cold against her skin, and she tried not to shiver.

“Cool,” he said again, enviously this time. “Did you pick it because of this place? You know—all of them.” He waved a hand at the trees outside the window, and Hal turned. It was too dark to make out much more than the light from the window glittering on wet boughs, but in her mind’s eye she saw again the line of magpies perched on the dripping branches of the yew. She shook her head, pulling the neckline of her dress back up to cover the bird.

“No. My—my mum’s n—”

Too late she realized she had let her guard down and had been on the verge of making a horrifying mistake. The truth was that she had got the tattoo in memory of her mother. Margarida. One for sorrow. It had seemed apt at the time. But cold horror washed over her at the realization that she had been about to admit her mother’s real name. Stupid, stupid.

“Her—her nickname for me was Magpie,” she said, after a pause long enough to feel like a chasm opening beneath her feet. As cover stories went, it was beyond lame, but it was the best she could manage on the hop. Regardless, the boy didn’t seem to have noticed the yawning pause.

“Is she Dad’s sister?” he asked.

Hal nodded. “Yes.”

“Well, I guess I should say was Dad’s sister. She’s dead, right?”

“Freddie!” Mitzi came up with a cup of tea, and when she set it down on the table she lightly slapped her son’s knee. “That is not—I’m so sorry, Harriet. He’s a teenage boy—what can I say.” “It’s okay,” Hal said, truthfully. It wasn’t just the nugget of fact he had held out to her, confirming what she had already guessed. It was the fact that she was suddenly on safe ground here. There was no shock in hearing the words from other people—in fact, she preferred the boy’s bluntness, rather than the delicate passed away, or fell asleep that some people used. It wasn’t true. Her mother was not asleep, or in the next room. She was dead. No amount of euphemism would soften that fact. And this, at least, was true.

“Yes, she’s dead,” she said to Freddie. “I got this tattoo in her memory.”

“Cool,” the boy said again, semiautomatically. He looked awkward now, in the presence of his mother. “Do you have any others?” “Yes,” Hal said, at the same time that Mitzi broke in.

“Freddie, for heaven’s sake, stop bothering poor Harriet with personal questions. This isn’t appropriate conversation for—” She stopped, the words a funeral unspoken on her lips.

Hal smiled, or tried to, and picked up the tea.

“Really, it’s fine.” Questions about her tattoos were easier to answer than the ones Abel, Harding, and Ezra had been asking. She felt a shift in her stomach as she saw Harding pat one of his brothers on the shoulder and then follow his wife over to the fire.

“Warming up, Harriet?” he said as he came up to the little knot seated on the sofa. “Very wise. This place is nothing short of perishing, I’m afraid. Mother didn’t really believe in modern comforts like central heating.” “Has it—has it been in the family long?” Hal asked. She remembered her mother’s advice about conducting readings: Don’t let them ask all the questions, ask some of your own. It’s easier to direct the conversation if you’re in the driving seat, and they’ll feel flattered if you show an interest. “My mother didn’t ever talk about this place,” she added honestly.

“Oh, donkey’s years, I believe,” Harding said carelessly. He settled himself with his back to the fire, fanning up the hem of his jacket to let the heat reach his back. “The oldest part of the building is this bit where we’re sitting now, which was built in the seventeen hundreds and was quite a modest farm for many years. Then your great-great-grandfather—my mother’s grandfather—made rather a lot of money in the late eighteen hundreds from china clay, up near St. Austell, and he used it to completely revamp the place in rather grand style. He kept the Georgian core of the old farmhouse as the reception rooms and main bedrooms, but built a sprawl of wings and servants’ quarters in the Arts and Crafts style, turning it into quite an imposing place. However, unfortunately his son wasn’t a very good businessman and he lost control of the mine to his business partner. Since then there’s been very little money for upkeep, so the house is somewhat frozen in the nineteen twenties. It needs a good million-pound investment to bring it up to spec, certainly not money your average buyer has hanging around, though it’s the sort of thing one of the big hotel chains might accomplish. Of course, the land is what’s really worth the money now.” He looked out of the window, across the rain-swept expanse of grass, and Hal could almost see him calculating—imagining identical new homes sprouting up like mushrooms, hearing the ker-ching of cash registers as each new seed germinated into a sale.

Hal nodded, and sipped her tea for want of something to say. Her hands were still cold, in spite of the heat of the fire, but her cheeks felt hot, and all of a sudden she sneezed, and then shivered convulsively.

“Bless you,” Abel said.

Harding had taken a step backwards, almost tripping over the fender.

“Oh dear, I hope you haven’t caught a cold at the graveside.”

“I doubt it,” Hal said. “I’m very tough.” But she ruined the words by sneezing again. Abel pulled out a beautifully laundered cotton handkerchief and held it out solicitously, but Hal shook her head.

“Biscuit, Hal?” Mitzi said, and Hal took one, remembering that she had not eaten since that morning on the train. But when she put the shortbread in her mouth it tasted dry and stale, and she was not sorry when there was a cough from the other end of the room, and Mr. Treswick raised his voice above the conversation.

“If I might have a moment of your attention, everyone?”

Harding shot a look at Abel, who shrugged, and the two men made their way down the long room towards the lawyer, who was standing beside a grand piano, shuffling papers. Hal half rose from the sofa, but then stood uncertainly, unsure whether the summons included her, until Mr. Treswick said, “You too, Harriet.” He put down his file of papers and walked to the door, opening it to the corridor so that Hal felt the draft of cold air from outside, a sharp contrast to the fire-warmed room.

“Mrs. Warren!” he called, his voice echoing along the passageway. “Do you have a moment?” “Are the children needed?” Mitzi said, and Mr. Treswick shook his head.

“No, not unless they would like to listen. But if Ezra could join us . . . where is he, by the way?” “I think he went outside for a smoke,” Abel said. He disappeared for a moment and came back with his brother in tow, rain misted in his dark, curly hair.

“Sorry.” Ezra’s smile was somehow a little twisted, as if there were a joke only he was party to. “I didn’t realize you were going to be pulling the old Hercule Poirot thing, Mr. Treswick. Are you about to reveal Mother’s murderer?” “Not at all,” Mr. Treswick said, his face tightly disapproving. He shuffled his papers again and pushed his glasses up his nose with his knuckle, plainly ruffled by Ezra’s levity. “And I hardly think that’s appropriate given—well. Never mind.” He coughed again, rather artificially, and seemed to marshal his thoughts. “Regardless, thank you all for this moment of your time. This won’t take very long, but it’s my understanding from speaking to Mrs. Westaway that she hadn’t discussed her testamentary arrangements with her children. Is that correct?” Harding was frowning.

“Not discussed, as such, no, but there was a very clear understanding, following my father’s death, that she would continue to live in the house until her own passing, at which point it would pass—” “Well, that is my concern,” Mr. Treswick said hastily. “That there should not be any mistaken assumptions. I strongly encourage all clients to discuss their wills with the beneficiaries, but of course not all choose to do so, and it’s my understanding that your mother didn’t communicate her intentions to anyone.” There was the sound of a cane in the hallway and Mrs. Warren came into the room.

“What is it?” she said, rather crossly. And then, seeing one of Harding’s children putting coal onto the fire, “Don’t go wasting coal, young man.” “Do you have a moment, Mrs. Warren? I wanted to talk to all beneficiaries of Mrs. Westaway’s will, and it seems fairest to do it at the same time.” “Oh,” said Mrs. Warren, and a look came over her face that Hal couldn’t quite pin down. There was something . . . expectant about it. But Hal didn’t think it was greed. More a kind of . . . trepidation. It might almost have been glee. Did Mrs. Warren know something the others did not?

Abel pulled out the piano stool, and the housekeeper seated herself, resting her cane against her lap. Mr. Treswick cleared his throat, picked up the file of papers from the polished piano top, and shuffled them again, quite unnecessarily. Every inch of him, from his polished brogues to his wire-rimmed spectacles, signaled nervous discomfort, and Hal felt the back of her neck prickle. She saw a concerned frown line knitting an anxious furrow between Abel’s brows.

“Well, now. I will try to keep this brief—I’m not in favor of the Victorian-style theatrics involved in public will readings, but there is something to be said for transparency in these matters, and the last thing I would want is people committing themselves on a mistaken assumption of—” “For goodness’ sake, spit it out, man,” Harding broke in impatiently.

“Harding—” Abel put a placating hand on his brother’s arm, but Harding shook it off.

“Don’t ‘Harding’ me, Abel. Clearly there’s something he’s circling around, and I for one would like to cut to the chase and find out what it is. Did Mother go cracked and leave everything to Battersea Dogs Home or something?” “Not quite,” Mr. Treswick said. His eyes darted to Harding, and then to Hal, to Mrs. Warren, and then back to Harding, and he reordered the papers again and settled his glasses more firmly on the bridge of his nose. “The, um, the long and short of it is this: the estate comprises some three hundred thousand pounds in cash and securities, most of which will be swallowed up by death duties, and the house itself, which is yet to be valued but is by far the most substantial part of the whole, and will certainly run in excess of a million pounds, possibly two, depending on circumstances. Mrs. Westaway left several specific bequests: thirty thousand pounds to Mrs. Warren”—the housekeeper gave a tight nod—“and ten thousand pounds to each of her grandchildren . . .” At those words, Hal felt her pulse quicken and her cheeks flush.

Ten thousand pounds? Ten thousand pounds? Why, she could pay off Mr. Smith, pay the rent, the gas bill . . . she could even afford to take a holiday. A flickering warmth was spreading through her, as though she had drunk something particularly hot and nourishing. She tried not to smile. Tried to remember that there were a lot of hoops still to negotiate. But the words kept repeating themselves inside her head. Ten thousand pounds. Ten thousand pounds.

It was all she could do to stay still on the spot, when every particle of her wanted to dance with excitement. Could it be true?

But Mr. Treswick was still speaking.

“. . . excepting, that is, her granddaughter Harriet.”

Oh.

The sensation was like a balloon, pricked of air, collapsing in on itself into a sad little pile of colored rubber faster than it took to describe.

In that one sentence, it was over. She imagined the ten thousand pounds blowing away into the sea breeze, the notes fluttering over the cliff edge into the Atlantic.

There was a wrench in letting the dream go, but as she watched the notes disappear in her mind’s eye, she realized: it had been an absurd fantasy to think that she could get away with this. Farcical, really. Forged birth certificates, fake dates of birth. What had she been thinking?

Well, it was over, but at least she hadn’t been found out. She was no worse off than she had been before. As for what she would do about Mr. Smith and his messengers . . . well, she couldn’t think about that now. She just had to get through this, and get away.

It felt cruel, though, to have the promise dangled before her for that one moment, only to be snatched away.

As the adrenaline of exhilaration ebbed, a sense of great exhaustion was creeping through her, and Hal put out a hand to steady herself on a chair as Mr. Treswick cleared his throat, preparatory to continuing.

“To Harriet,” he said, a little awkwardly, and he shuffled the papers again, as if reluctant to say what was coming, “to, um, Harriet, Mrs. Westaway has left the entire residue of her estate, after payment of death duties.” There was a long silence.

It was Harding who exploded first, his voice breaking into the hush.

“What?”

“I did realize that this was liable to be something of a shock,” Mr. Treswick said diffidently. “That was why I felt it only right to inform you pers—” “To hell with that!” Harding shouted. “Are you insane?”

“Please don’t raise your voice, Mr. Westaway. It’s unfortunate that your mother didn’t see fit to discuss this with you while she was still—” “I want to see the wording,” Harding said through gritted teeth.

“Wording?”

“The will. The wording of the bequest. We’ll challenge it. Mother must have been crazy—when was this monstrosity dated?” “She made her will two years ago, Mr. Westaway, and I’m afraid that while I appreciate your concern, there is no question of Mrs. Westaway’s capacity. She asked her doctor to visit her on the day she made the will, with a view, I believe, towards avoiding any such successful challenge.” “Undue influence, then!”

“I don’t believe Mrs. Westaway had ever met her granddaughter, so it’s hard to see how that would stand up in co—” “Give me the damn will!” Harding shouted, and he snatched at the pieces of paper Mr. Treswick held out.

Hal was holding on tight to the back of the chair, her fingers numb and white with pressure, feeling the eyes of Mitzi, Abel, and Ezra on her as Harding scanned down the long document, and began to read aloud.

“I, Hester Mary Westaway, being of . . . God, there’s pages of this stuff. . . . Ah, here we are: And to my granddaughter, Harriet Westaway, last known to be resident at Marine View Villas, Brighton, I give the residue of my estate—Jesus fucking Christ, it’s true. Mother must have been mad.” He groped his way to a sofa and sat, heavily, scanning up and down the document as if looking for some kind of explanation, something that would make this madness go away. When he looked up, his face was purple and suffused with blood.

“Who even is this girl? We don’t know her from Adam!”

“Harding,” Abel said warningly, and he put out a hand to his brother’s shoulder. “Calm down. This isn’t the time for—” “And as for you, Treswick, you bloody charlatan. What business had you letting Mother execute a document like this? I should sue you for malpractice!” “Harding,” Mitzi broke in more urgently. “Abel, Mr. Treswick—look at the girl.”

“I think she’s going to faint,” said a voice, tinged with a sort of detached interest, from Hal’s right, and she felt all the heads in the room turn towards her, even as the room itself began to disintegrate into fragments.

Hal didn’t feel the chair slip from her loosening grip, and Mitzi’s cry of alarm came as if from a great way off.

She didn’t even feel the thump as she hit the floor.

The nothing washed over her, like a great, thankful wave.