The Death of Mrs. Westaway(32)

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 . . .”