A Place of Hiding (Inspector Lynley, #12)(74)

Margaret didn’t know how and she didn’t know who. But she was determined to set matters right. Setting them right meant first wresting away the money her former husband had left to two utter strangers. Who were they, anyway? Where were they? More important, what had they to do with Guy?

Two people clearly knew the answer to these questions. Dominic Forrest was one of them, he who was returning his paperwork to his briefcase and making some sort of noises about forensic accountants and banking statements and investment brokers and the like. And Ruth was the other, she who was hustling over to Ana?s Abbott—of all bloody people— and murmuring something into her ear. Forrest, Margaret knew, was unlikely to part with any more information than he’d given them during the reading of the will. But Ruth as her own sister-in-law and—crucially—as Adrian’s aunt, Adrian who’d been so badly used by his father...Yes, Ruth would be forthcoming with facts when approached correctly. Next to her, Margaret became aware of Adrian trembling and she brought herself round abruptly. She’d been so caught up in thoughts of what-to-do-now that she’d not even considered the impact this moment was probably having on her son. God knew that Adrian’s relationship with his father had been a difficult one, with Guy vastly preferring a long line of sexual liaisons to a close connection with his eldest child. But to be dealt with in this fashion was cruel, far more cruel than a life cut off from paternal influence ever could have been. And he was suffering for it now. So she turned to him, ready to tell him that they hadn’t reached the end of anything in this moment, ready to point out that there were legal channels, modes of recourse, ways of settling or manipulating or threatening but in any case ways of getting what one wanted so he wasn’t to worry and more than that he wasn’t ever to believe that the terms of his father’s will meant anything other than his father’s momentary lunacy inspired by God only knew what...She was ready to say this, ready to put her arm round his shoulders, ready to buck him up and send her steel through his body. But she saw that none of that would be necessary. Adrian wasn’t weeping. He wasn’t even withdrawing into himself. Margaret’s son was silently laughing.

Valerie Duffy had gone into the reading of the will worried for more than one reason, and only one of her worries was assuaged by the conclusion of the event. This was the worry pertaining to losing her home and her livelihood, which she’d feared might happen once Guy Brouard died. But the fact that Le Reposoir hadn’t been mentioned in the will suggested that the estate had already been disposed of elsewhere, and Valerie was fairly certain in whose care and possession it now resided. That meant she and Kevin wouldn’t be immediately forced out onto the street without employment, which was a vast relief. The rest of Valerie’s worries remained, however. These pertained to Kevin’s natural taciturnity, which she generally found untroubling but which she now found unnerving.

She and her husband walked across the grounds of Le Reposoir, leaving the manor house behind them, heading for their cottage. Valerie had seen the variety of reactions on the faces of those who’d been gathered in the drawing room, and she’d read in each of them the hopes they’d had dashed. Ana?s Abbott had been relying upon financial exhumation from the grave she’d dug herself attempting to hold on to her man. Frank Ouseley had been anticipating a bequest enormous enough to build a monument to his father. Margaret Chamberlain had expected more than enough money to move her adult son permanently out from under her roof. And Kevin...? Well, it was clear enough that Kevin had a lot on his mind, most of it having nothing to do with wills and bequests, so Kevin had walked into the drawing room without the handicap of a crowded canvas on which he’d painted his aspirations.

She looked at him now, just a quick glance as he walked beside her. She knew he would think it unnatural if she made no comment, but she wanted to be careful with how much she said. Some things didn’t bear talking about.

“D’you think we ought to ring Henry, then?” she finally asked her husband.

Kevin loosened his tie and undid the top button of his shirt, unused to the type of clothes most other men wore with ease. He said, “I expect he’ll know soon enough. Doubtless, half the island will know by supper.”

Valerie waited for him to say more, but he didn’t. She wanted to be relieved at this, but the fact that he didn’t look at her told her his thoughts were on the run.

“Makes me wonder how he’ll react, though,” Valerie said.

“Does it, love?” Kevin asked her.

He said it low so that Valerie nearly couldn’t hear him at all, but his tone alone would have conveyed enough to make her shiver. She said,

“Why do you ask that, Kev?” in the hope that she could force his hand. He said, “What people say they’ll do and what they actually do are different sometimes, aren’t they?” He moved his gaze to her. Valerie’s shiver altered to a permanent chill. She felt it sweep up her legs and shoot into her stomach, where it curled round like a hairless cat and just lay there, asking her to do something about it. She waited for her husband to introduce the obvious topic that everyone who’d been sitting in the drawing room was at that moment probably either thinking of or speaking of to someone else. When he didn’t, she said, “Henry was at the funeral, Kev. Did you speak to him? He came to the burial as well. And to the reception. Did you see him there? I expect that means he and Mr. Brouard were friendly right to the end. Which is good, I think. Because it would be dreadful if Mr. Brouard died at odds with anyone, and especially with Henry. Henry wouldn’t want a crack in their friendship to be troubling his conscience, would he?”