The Death of Mrs. Westaway(55)

They were standing outside Mr. Treswick’s office, on a narrow little back street with a view looking down towards the choppy harbor waters.

“Unfortunately Mr. Treswick has an unavoidable appointment in Truro this afternoon—that was the whole point of meeting before lunch—so he won’t be available until Monday morning at the earliest. And although the identification documents could no doubt be dealt with by post, there are papers to sign and a huge amount to discuss, which can really only be accomplished face-to-face. Not least the vexed question of Mrs. Warren.”

“But the children need to be back at school on Monday!” Mitzi protested. Harding sighed heavily.

“Well, I very much regret it, but I think the only sensible solution is for you and the children to return, and for Ezra, Abel, Harriet, and myself to stay until this is sorted out.”

“Speak for yourself,” Ezra said. He sounded bored again, his irritation back under control, though Hal had the impression his temper was still there, like a dog barely kept at heel. “I don’t intend to hang around, and I don’t suppose Abel does either. We’re not named in the will. Why should we?”

“Unfortunately,” Harding said, rather testily, “it appears that you are. As am I. As is Abel. Not as beneficiaries, but a little talk just now with Mr. Treswick’s receptionist revealed a delightful little nugget that he omitted to mention. For some reason Mother saw fit to make the three of us joint executors, along with Mr. Treswick himself.”

“What?” Ezra’s face was incredulous.

“You heard me.”

“You must be joking! It’s almost like she wanted us here, tearing at each other’s throats.”

“I have no doubt she did,” Harding said. “In fact, I’d go as far as to say this whole situation was probably engineered with precisely that outcome in mind.”

“I won’t do it,” Ezra said. His face was set, his dark brows knitted, giving him a saturnine look. “I’ll—renounce it, or whatever the bloody word is. You can’t be forced to act as executor.”

“In the longer term, I’m sure you’re right,” Harding said irritably. “But it would be a courtesy to inform Mr. Treswick of that fact—and I’m sure there will be some formalities associated with giving up the role. I highly doubt you can simply get back into your Saab and speed back to Nice without a word to anyone.”

“That fucking bitch,” Ezra said viciously, and in the ensuing silence Hal heard Freddie snigger, loud and clear. “And you can shut up as well,” Ezra snarled.

“Ezra!” Mitzi gasped. Freddie’s jaw had dropped and his face was blank with shock. Behind him, Hal saw that Kitty was stifling her own laugh with her hand.

There was a moment’s silence; then Mitzi hoisted her handbag on her shoulder and drew herself up to her not-very-full height.

“Well. That is quite enough. Richard, Katherine, Frederick, come, please.”

“But—” Richard began.

“I said, we are leaving,” Mitzi barked. “We’ll go and find a place for lunch. Harding—I will text you when we’ve found a café.”

Harding gave a harrumph that might have been acquiescence or might have been annoyance, and Mitzi stalked away, up the narrow street, her children in tow.

Hal suppressed the urge to run after them—or, even better, to keep on running, past the little group, up the high street, and into Penzance station, to board a train back to her old life and never return here again. As she watched, the little group turned the corner at the top of the street and disappeared.

“Fuck,” Ezra said. He ran a hand over his unshaven face, and then through his hair, ruffling it up so that it stood on end, the curls sticking out in all directions. “Fuck. Harding, I’m sorry. That was out of order. The kid—it was just the wrong—”

Harding shrugged.

“It’s not me you need to apologize to, though I daresay a spot of groveling to Mitzi wouldn’t go amiss. But I imagine Freddie’s heard worse at school, so I’m sure he’ll survive.”

“I’m sorry,” Ezra said again. And then, “Shit.”

“Look,” Harding said, a touch of impatience in his voice, “I’m not concerned about Freddie right now. You lost your temper. It’s not the end of the world. I’m more concerned about what we do about this damned business with Mr. Treswick. I want this over as much as you do, Ezra. But running away is only going to create more problems. If you insist on leaving, obviously I can’t prevent you. But I would suggest that it will probably be a lot quicker, in the long run, to sort this out here and now, rather than shuttling papers and identification documents back and forth across the Channel. Harriet”—he turned to her—“I’m very sorry for this inconvenience, but I take it you will be able to negotiate a day off work, given the circumstances?”

“I—I’m not sure,” Hal said, feeling both their eyes on her. The image flashed into her head again of herself as a rat, backed into a corner, scrabbling for a way out.

“If your employer would like to speak to someone about this—”

“No, it’s fine,” Hal said hastily. “I’m self-employed, anyway. I only have myself to think about.”

She should probably phone Mr. White, ask someone to put a note up on the kiosk to explain the situation to any clients who dropped past. But he could hardly kick up a fuss for a family bereavement. And midweek in early December, no one would miss her except possibly Reg.