The Legacy (11 page)

Harry roused himself to ask, ‘Who's Sheila, Ma?'

‘Sheila Duffield, cousin Philip's widow. She married old Tony Duffield a few years ago. He's nice but terribly dull, but Sheila loves being Lady Duffield, so she doesn't mind being bored to death.'

Harry laughed. ‘I'll bet you told her so too.'

She was robust in her opinions and always free to give them. She maddened him at times, even after such a long absence and such a very different lifestyle, but he loved her, and admired her too. He'd had his fill of slyness and deceit, all five unhappy years of it, until he'd finally caught his wife in bed with his business partner when he came back early from a trip. Even then she'd tried to lie her way out of it. He'd punched lover boy, knocking out a few expensively capped teeth, and thrown her naked out of the bedroom, locking the door. The scandal had gone through Johannesburg like a bush fire. His wife came from a well-established South African family with strong Afrikaaner connections, and his behaviour was criticized by a social group that condoned adultery but not publicity; he hadn't coped like a gentleman. His partner threatened to sue for assault. Harry had offered to knock the rest of his teeth out to make it worthwhile, sold his share of the export business and moved to the Cape to start again, but it hadn't worked. The transition to black majority rule had been a miracle; it promised a great future, but Harry Spannier suddenly felt homesick for the England he had left. He sold up and accepted his father's offer to come home and run their family business and the small farm.

So his cousin was contesting his father's will. ‘Is he going to win?' he asked.

‘What, darling, win what?' His mother had begun thinking of something else by the time he asked. ‘Alan,' he reminded her, ‘will he overturn the will? Whatever it is.'

‘God knows,' Jane Spannier answered. ‘He's got tons of money. I don't think there's an awful lot besides RussMore and the land, and that's all tied up. We can ask Christina; we'll be there soon. She's done wonders with that house; it used to be so gloomy.'

‘So I remember. I'm surprised Richard let her touch anything; he was so possessive about it all.'

‘Oh he doted on Christina,' she said briskly. ‘Couldn't say no to anything. And, of course, he adored the child; amazingly, she's not spoilt. Here we are; I can see the lodge gates through the trees, just ahead of us. It's lovely at this time of year, and the food's marvellous.'

His father had opened his eyes. He turned to his son and grinned. ‘So's the wine,' he said. ‘Dick kept a bloody good cellar.'

Harry grinned back. ‘Then I
will
enjoy myself,' he said.

‘If I were you', Fay said, ‘I'd be careful what you say to him.' Alan Farrington had his smaller son on his knee. He looked at his wife over the child's head and said, ‘He's my brother, and I've asked him to lunch before he goes back to the States, so why make a production out of it?'

Fay didn't retreat. ‘Because I don't trust him. All right, he went down and saw her, and as a result you had the meeting, but so what? He's still got a nice big farm worth a small fortune and you've got nothing. One of our boys should have had Langley. But they weren't even mentioned in that will; not a word about them, as if they didn't exist!'

Alan knew how much their sons' exclusion riled her; she had always resented the way their grandfather had ignored them, and he shared her feelings. ‘Darling, I know all that, but my bloody father hated me; he wouldn't leave anything to my children. You can't blame that on James, and whatever you say, he did help. The fact that that bitch offered to give Dad's legacy back is a sign of a weak case. My lawyers have the tape recording. Come on, be nice to him.'

‘All right,' she agreed, but she didn't want to be nice to James; she didn't trust him.

‘There's James now,' Alan said. ‘Timmy, down you get. Go and call Robert.' He brushed the little boy's hair back; he loved his two sons. He often told himself that he was getting RussMore back for Timmy, the elder, as much as for himself.

James came in as the child ran out. He smiled and said, ‘Hello, Timmy,' but the child ignored him and ran off to find his brother. James kept the smile on his lips, but his eyes were hooded to hide the apprehension. He knew how much his sister-in-law disliked him, but he didn't care; it was Alan's reception that mattered and that might depend upon his mood.

‘Hi,' Alan said, and James relaxed. He was friendly, even pleased to see him. Immediately James felt warm towards his brother; carrot and stick as his therapist described their relationship. James agreed with that; he knew it would never change.

Alan poured him a gin and tonic. The children came in and were encouraged by their father to kiss their uncle. They were nice children, James conceded, although children didn't appeal to him. Good-looking, with their father's dark hair and eyes, and with nice manners. He had brought each of them a book. He hadn't known what to buy, so he had resorted to his own childhood favourites and gave
The Wind in the Willows
to Timmy and
The Adventures of Peter Rabbit
to the four-year-old Robert. Both were expensively bound, from a specialist bookshop in Hill Street. He was duly thanked, given another prompted kiss, and then the boys were collected by their young nanny and taken off for lunch.

James was flying early next morning and was looking forward to going home; he thought of America as home, in spite of the brief pang of nostalgia when he was at RussMore. That life was not for him … He had friends and a lifestyle in New York that suited him. The remembered scents of an English rose garden were irrelevant to the man he had become. He would set about selling Langley and remitting the proceeds; there was a fine apartment on East 25th that could be bought with the money. He talked business to Alan during lunch—the progress of his own company and the future expansion of Alan's restaurant chain. Fay said very little; her interests were domestic so she didn't even try to join in, and James enjoyed excluding her. Then, when they were having coffee, he couldn't contain his curiosity any longer.

‘Any developments with our dear stepmother?' Alan had described the meeting over the telephone; it had made James cringe. Brutal, insulting … he had felt sorry for Christina. He knew what it meant to suffer Alan's verbal assaults. He even regretted setting the meeting up, but the regret disappeared when he was thanked and asked to lunch. Alan ignored Fay's warning look; he'd eaten well and drunk a lot of wine, and he felt expansive, almost paternal to his younger brother. Alcohol could ignite aggression or make him sentimental, but now he was in a kindly mood.

‘I took the tape along to my lawyers; they said it would be very useful.'

Fay tried to interrupt. ‘Why don't we have coffee in the garden? Then James can see the children?'

James, longing for a cigarette, was tempted to agree, but he wanted to hear Alan's news. He recognized the diversion and said pleasantly, ‘Oh, I'm happy staying here. So go on, Alan. What else did they have to say?'

‘Their advice was to drag it out,' Alan said. ‘Delaying tactics. Run her into debt with lawyers' fees, and if we lose the first round, go for an appeal. Be prepared for a three-year fight, at the end of which she'd be forced to give in or sell up.'

James pulled a face. ‘But what about the cost to you?'

Alan grinned. ‘That's what I said. Why should I shell out money when it isn't necessary? I turned the idea down flat, and told them to get on and go for it! Book the best Queen's Counsel and try to get an early date for a hearing. They weren't pleased.' He laughed. ‘They gave me a lot of arguments. Tried to say I don't have a very strong case. Dad was very ill, but he wasn't that old when he died, so undue influence is going to be tricky to prove … Married for twelve years, all that down-beat crap, trying to make me see it their way; I just said I'd do it my way. I know I'll win, even if they don't.'

‘And you're really confident?' James asked him. The look in his brother's eyes gave him a curious thrill, part fear, part admiration.

‘I'm confident,' was the answer. ‘I can't lose, James. She tricked Dad into accepting her lover's child. I told her to her face and I can prove it.'

‘How?' James stared at him. ‘How can you prove it?'

‘Alan,' Fay said, her voice very sharp. ‘Alan, are we going to see the boys again before James goes or not? They're going out for tea!'

‘Yes, all right. Come on, let's go into the garden. You can have one of your filthy cigarettes outside.' The moment had come and gone. He wasn't going to tell James anything more; he had been boasting, enjoying himself, Fay need not have worried.

As they went through into the charming patio garden he whispered to her, ‘I'm not pissed, and I wasn't going to tell him.' He slapped her lightly on the bottom. ‘Now, let's talk about something else,' he announced. ‘Darling, call the boys.'

James left soon afterwards without learning any more. He had his sister-in-law to thank for that, and he wouldn't forget it.

Rolf Wallberg's secretary buzzed him. ‘Mr Stone's free, he'd like to see you in his office.'

‘Thanks, Judy, I'll go right up now.'

He had only met the senior partner of Harvey & Stone twice since he had arrived from Stockholm. He had been expecting the summons at this stage. Ruben Stone's office was on the top floor of the building in Chancery Lane. It was a big room furnished with fine antiques and early-eighteenth-century racing pictures. The desk was suited to the man: large, imposing, richly carved, the finest quality. Ruben got up and came to greet him.

‘My boy,' he said, ‘how are you? Enjoying your work with us?' He didn't pause for an answer. ‘I hope so, I hope so. Sit down, let's talk for a while. I have a client coming in fifteen minutes, but they're always late; they think it makes them important to keep other people waiting.' He gave a low throaty laugh. He had deep brown eyes, full of humour, and a charming manner that inspired confidences. He was the shrewdest solicitor in London and anyone taken into the firm was the cream of the young professionals. Rolf sat down; he refused a cigar and waited quietly while Ruben lit his own. ‘My doctor says I should give up,' he remarked, ‘but I don't listen to him. I smoke in moderation, I drink in moderation and I work hard—the recipe for a long life. Now tell me, how are you getting on with the Farrington estate?'

He would know all the progress made already, but Rolf was expected to state his own case.

‘Better than I expected,' he answered. ‘Much better. I've convinced Mrs Farrington that she must fight her stepson's claim.'

Ruben puffed on his cigar. ‘And she's agreed?'

‘Yes, I am going down to see her soon to work out the financial arrangement. I believe I've given her confidence that she can afford the costs.'

‘Good,' Ruben said thoughtfully, ‘and she knows what they're likely to be? I wouldn't want to mislead her; she's a very nice lady and I liked her husband. Beautiful house, so Humfrey tells me. Have you reported to him yet?'

‘No,' Rolf said, ‘I am dealing with her myself; she seems quite happy with that. I will let him know the direction we're taking in due course, but he's very tied up right now.'

‘He is, he is.' Ruben nodded. He looked into the chill blue eyes and smiled. ‘You're doing well; it's not an easy case,' he remarked. ‘I hope the experience will be useful to you when you leave us. And one more thing; leaving the professional aspect out of it, I've seldom come across a nastier shit than Mr Alan Farrington.'

Rolf looked up. ‘You've met him?'

‘Oh yes. He was at a charity dinner with his wife. Pretty girl.' He paused, tapped ash off his cigar before continuing. ‘He made some very unpleasant racist remarks—I think he'd been drinking. My son was there too; I persuaded him not to make an issue of it, but he got very angry. We lost a lot of relatives in the last war; some were lucky enough to get to Sweden. It was very galling for the Germans to have them so close but out of reach. My son was very interested when I told him we were acting against Farrington for his stepmother. It's such a pity he decided to become an architect instead of coming into the firm. Yes, as I said, the man is a nasty shit, and if I wasn't head of a profit-making firm, I would defend Mrs Farrington for nothing.' He looked at his watch. It was a beautifully understated Cartier tank watch. ‘They're late, my clients, just as I expected. What do you think of my new picture? Over there by the cabinet.'

Rolf twisted round and then got up to have a clear view.

‘It's very fine. You like horse-racing?'

Ruben laughed. ‘Yes, but only on canvas. That's a Ben Marshall; lovely quality. Came up for auction three months ago. It's been cleaned and reframed and it looks very well there; much cheaper and lasts longer than the real thing. Racing is one way of losing money; the next best thing is to make a bonfire of it. Now, my dear boy, I must let you go back to your office; I have some notes to study before my client
does
arrive. You're doing good work, and don't forget, I'm here if you ever need advice. And also don't forget to keep my nephew, Humfrey, in the general picture; he's a sensitive boy and I wouldn't like him to feel hurt.'

‘I won't forget,' Rolf promised. ‘Thank you, Mr Stone, and congratulations on the picture. It looks very good, even though I don't know anything about English paintings. If it was a Swedish landscape, I might have an opinion.'

He went down to his office to find a note on his desk; Mrs Farrington had called to ask if he could go down to RussMore on Saturday. He gave a deep sigh of satisfaction. Yes, indeed he could, and stay until he found what he had come to England to discover. He got his secretary to ring back and accept.