The Death of Mrs. Westaway(85)

“I can understand that,” Abel said heavily. He stood and rubbed his hands over his face, looking suddenly very old, much older than his fortysomething years. “Dear God, what a mess. At least you’ve told us now.”

“Well, I for one will be having stern words with Mr. Treswick tomorrow,” Harding said angrily. His face was a worrisome shade of purple. “This is damn close to some sort of—of professional negligence on his part! Lord knows how we’ll sort out this legal tangle. Thank God it came out before we obtained probate!”

“Jesus,” Ezra said under his breath. “Can we stop banging on about the bloody will? Presumably you’ll get the bloody money now, isn’t that enough?”

“I resent—” Harding began more hotly, but was interrupted by a tremendous resounding clanging that made everyone jump convulsively, and Harding slam down his whiskey glass as the noise died away.

“For God’s sake, Mrs. Warren!” he bellowed, opening the drawing room door. “We are all in here. Was there really any need for that?”

She came to the door, hands on hips.

“Dinner’s ready.”

“Thank you,” Harding said, rather ungraciously. He folded his arms, and then looked at Abel, seeming to ask him an unspoken question. Hal couldn’t quite read Harding’s face, but Abel evidently understood, for he shrugged and nodded, rather reluctantly.

“Mrs. Warren,” Harding said heavily. “Before we go into the dining room, there’s something we should explain, as it concerns you too. It’s come to light”—he shot a glance at Hal—“that Mr. Treswick made a rather unfortunate error in drawing up Mother’s will. Harriet is not Maud’s daughter, she is in fact Maggie’s child, something Harriet only discovered when she went through her mother’s papers. God knows how Mr. Treswick made such a regrettable error, but obviously in light of it the will is invalid. I’m not sure what will happen—I presume intestacy rules will have to be followed. But there it is.”

“I never thought she was,” Mrs. Warren said. She crossed her arms, her stick beneath her elbow. Harding blinked.

“I beg your pardon?”

“A-course she’s Maggie’s child. No one with any sense woulda thought otherwise.”

“What? But why didn’t you say something?”

Mrs. Warren smiled, and her eyes, in the dim light of the fire, seemed to Hal to glitter like stones.

“Well?” Harding demanded again. “Are you saying you knew this for certain and you said nothing?”

“Not for certain. But it was common sense. And none of my business, anyway.”

“Well!” This time it was an explosion of disbelief, but Mrs. Warren had already turned and was stumping down the long, tiled corridor, her cane click-clicking as she went.

“Did you hear that?” Harding asked the silent group in the room, but no one answered.

At last Ezra walked out, his shoulders hunched in mutinous silence. Abel shook his head and followed. Harding turned too, and Hal was left alone.

Her hands were still trembling, and she paused for a minute, warming them in front of the fire, trying to get the feeling back into her numb fingertips.

She was just about to leave when a piece of coal in the grate suddenly flared and spat, throwing out a flaming splinter onto the rug. Hal was about to stamp on it when she realized her feet were bare—she had taken off her soaked shoes at the door. Instead she took up the poker and flicked the coal back towards the stone-flagged hearth, scratching out the last sparks with the tip.

There was a smoking hole in the rug, and a scorch in the board beneath, but nothing to be done about either, and looking down, Hal saw that it was not the first. There were three or four holes even larger, one where the fire had eaten quite a little way into the board. With a sigh, she put the fireguard in place and turned to leave, only to find Mrs. Warren standing in the doorway, barring the way.

“Excuse me,” Hal said, but Mrs. Warren didn’t move, and for a brief moment Hal had a fantastic notion that she was going to have to call for help, or escape out of the window again. But when she took a step towards the doorway, Mrs. Warren pressed herself back against the frame, and allowed Hal to pass through, though she had to edge her way, to avoid tripping on Mrs. Warren’s cane.

It was only when she was past and starting up the corridor, the tiles chill beneath her feet, that the woman spoke, her voice so low that Hal had to turn back.

“What did you say?” Hal asked, but Mrs. Warren had disappeared inside the drawing room, and the heavy door slammed shut behind her, cutting Hal’s question off short.

But Hal was sure—at least, almost sure—that she had caught the words, hissed low as they were beneath the sound of the wind in the chimney.

“Get out—if you know what’s good for you. While you still can . . .”

CHAPTER 38


* * *

Hal went to bed early that night, and whether it was the strain of the day or the long walk to Cliff Cottages, she fell asleep almost at once.

She awoke stiff and with the sense of having slept a long time, but it was still not dawn, and when she got up and went to the window, shivering in the cold night air, the moon was still high. Her breath was white against the pane, and the sky had cleared, and in the moonlight she could make out the glitter of frost on the lawn.