A New Dawn Over Devon (55 page)

 98 
The Will

Within an hour of Jocelyn's interview with Gifford, everyone in town knew that her efforts had been unsuccessful.

That afternoon Timothy rode out to the cottage.

“Jocelyn,” he said, “I have something to tell you that may affect all of this—on the day of his death, Geoffrey dictated a will to me.”

Jocelyn's eyes widened.

“I had intended to speak with you, and perhaps consult a solicitor about what I ought to do. But then with the funeral, and now suddenly all this . . . somehow the time never seemed right. Now it seems I need to act quickly before this situation escalates further.”

“Does his father know?” asked Jocelyn.

“I haven't any idea,” replied Timothy, “although I doubt it. I imagine he would have been to see me by now had Geoffrey told him.”

“What happens next?” Jocelyn asked. “Aren't wills usually read aloud to the family and those involved?”

“Right, but by a solicitor,” rejoined Timothy. “I must admit, this is a first for me. I don't really know what to do.”

“Why are you telling me, Timothy?” asked Jocelyn.

“Perhaps in light of what is happening, the will could change things. Without divulging its contents, I will only say that we need to get a solicitor here, and quickly, to make certain that legalities are complied with.”

“Mr. Crumholtz,” said Jocelyn. “—I will telephone him immediately.”

Meanwhile, throughout the village, anger mounted to such an extent that Jocelyn herself began to fear for Gifford's safety. As the day progressed, more due notices were delivered by Welford Miles, who, sympathetic as he was with the plight of the recipients, nonetheless had to put up with a good deal of verbal abuse as a result of the notices.

The next morning it was Timothy who walked calmly into the bank.

“Mr. Rutherford,” he said, “I have a matter that requires your immediate attention.”

“What kind of matter?” asked Gifford, looking up from his desk, annoyed at the interruption, especially from this fellow.

“That will all be explained,” replied Timothy.

“Then explain it or go about your business.”

“Please, sir, come with me,” insisted Timothy.

“What the deuce for?”

“As I said, that will be explained. Now I really must insist that you accompany me.”

“Go to the devil. I am busy.”

Timothy did not budge.

“I am sorry to be so importune, Mr. Rutherford,” he said. “Your wife, Lady Jocelyn and her family, Stirling Blakeley, Vicar Stuart Coleridge, and Mr. Bradbury Crumholtz, are all waiting for us at the church.”

“I know Crumholtz. What does he have to do with anything?”

“Lady Jocelyn and I contacted him to be present and to see to the legalities in the reading of your son's will.”

Gifford sat bolt upright in his chair. Suddenly Timothy had succeeded in getting his attention.

“I see,” he said after a moment. “I was unaware my son had spoken with a solicitor.”

“He did not, sir. He dictated his final wishes to me the day of his death.”

“Ha—then it won't be legal anyway,” humped Gifford as he rose.

“Mr. Crumholtz has read it and has advised me to the contrary,” rejoined Timothy. “Your son was keenly aware of the law and observed every necessity to insure that the document would stand.”

Unnerved by this unexpected development, Gifford at last consented and followed Timothy out of the bank. They walked to the church together in silence.

As they entered, a forced round of greetings and a few stiff handshakes followed. Jocelyn and Timothy did their best to remain cheerful, but one cloudy countenance is usually enough to dampen the spirit of any gathering, and grey skies were written all over the lines on Gifford's forehead.

“Right, then . . . shall we begin?” said Crumholtz, moving to the front while the others sat down in the first two pews. “I have here,” he went on, “the last will and testament of Mr. Geoffrey Rutherford, turned over to me this morning by Rev. Diggorsfeld, to whom it was dictated. If there are no objections, I will proceed with the reading.”

Crumholtz cleared his throat, adjusted the pince-nez on his nose, then began to read the will. It was simple and brief, leaving all his interest in Heathersleigh Hall and the property associated with it to his second cousin Amanda Rutherford, naming her mother, Jocelyn Rutherford, as executrix of his estate—”

“What is this!” exploded Gifford. “This cannot be possible! My son would never—”

“Please, Mr. Rutherford,” said Crumholtz firmly, for he had been expecting something like this, “reserve your remarks until the reading is concluded.”

“But this whole thing is preposterous!”

“As you see it, perhaps. But as I say, the instrument is legal. Now, with your permission, I shall continue.”

He looked down at the papers.

“Where was I—ah yes, ‘ . . . Jocelyn Rutherford as executrix, and whatever small sums might be left in my various investments and bank accounts should be applied against the outstanding loans bearing my co-signature at the discretion of my estate and the bank. Finally, I leave whatever of my possessions remain at Curzon Street in London to my parents, Mr. and Mrs. Gifford and Martha Rutherford.'”

Crumholtz paused and glanced up.

“The instrument is properly signed,” he concluded, “is witnessed by the signatures of Rev. Timothy Diggorsfeld and Mr. Stirling Blakeley, and appears to be in order in every way.”

As quiet descended within the ancient church, Geoffrey's father sat in angry and gloomy silence.

“Well,” he said at length, “it would appear, Jocelyn, that you have succeeded in thoroughly poisoning my son against me.”

He stood to leave. “But this changes nothing,” he said. “Whether this so-called will is legal or not hardly matters. There are extenuating circumstances which make it a moot point. I
will
have Heathersleigh Hall, and nothing you can do will stop me.”

“What sort of circumstances?” asked Jocelyn slowly.

“My son's foolishness,” replied Gifford, “was not limited merely to making unwise loans to the community—he also jeopardized his own financial standing. And when his own account went dry and he no longer had cash reserves to cover the loans he was guaranteeing, Geoffrey took out a sizeable mortgage against Heathersleigh Hall in order to continue his folly.”

“He mortgaged . . .
Heathersleigh Hall?
” said Jocelyn in disbelief.

“A foolhardy decision, I grant you, but unfortunately true.”

Jocelyn's head was swimming.

“But . . . I have a few assets left,” she said. “Perhaps if I guaranteed—”

“Tut, tut, Jocelyn, my dear . . . believe me, the amounts in question are far beyond the scope of your limited means. The amount due against the Hall alone is £14,500, not to mention all the other loans. The total indebtedness created by Geoffrey's benevolence amounts to more than £30,000. So you see, his sham of a will does nothing but tie around your daughter's neck the noose of Geoffrey's indebtedness.”

He turned to go.

“But . . . but what will you do?” Jocelyn asked after him as the others continued to listen in silence.

Gifford paused and turned. “It is really quite simple, my dear. I shall return to the bank immediately, where I will set in motion the steps necessary to fulfill Geoffrey's obligation against Heathersleigh Hall.”

“What kind of steps?”

“Those prescribed by law under the terms of the note. It is called foreclosure. The Hall and all its assets will be sold by public auction, and the other notes called due. There is simply no other way.”

“But surely, Gifford . . . selling off the Hall by auction—how can you do such a thing!”

“Why do you not see what you and others in the community can raise?” suggested Gifford, raising one eyebrow and glancing about
at the others. “Perhaps, that is if the people of the community were behind you and you all banded together . . . you might buy back your old home.”

Even as he spoke, Gifford knew that what the community could probably raise, pooling every penny together including what was in Jocelyn's account—the balance of which he had checked on himself before setting his plan in motion—would not amount to more than two thousand pounds.

“If not, however,” he added, “the mortgage on the Hall remains . . . and remains
due
.”

He turned to Amanda.

“So unless you can come up with fourteen thousand pounds within the month, my dear,” he said, “you will have but thirty days to enjoy it.”

He turned again and now left the church and returned to the bank.

Even as he walked along the street, Gifford knew he had no intention of letting the thing be decided by an auction where he would run the risk of some wealthy Devonshire land baron coming in to outbid him. The Heathersleigh property was easily worth over £100,000. He would, before then, quietly pay off the debt in a private transaction with the bank, and then foreclose on Amanda himself.

Back in the church, the others sat stunned for perhaps a minute.

“Mr. Crumholtz,” said Jocelyn at length, “may I ask a question . . . even though what Gifford says is correct about the outstanding mortgage against the Hall, who actually owns it now . . . right now?”

“Technically,” replied the solicitor, “no one. It is included in Geoffrey's estate; therefore, the formalities of an actual transfer of title will take time to sort out. However, as benefactress, your daughter's claim is legally undisputable, there is little doubt that she could be viewed as the owner, and you as executrix of the will may deem it best to expedite her taking possession pending the actual transfer of title. In fact, to avoid awkwardness and any contestation of the will, I would recommend it. But I am afraid Mr. Rutherford is right concerning the lien. Once title is transferred, you will be liable for the amount. If it is called due by the bank, as appears certain, you will have to pay the amount in full or forfeit the property to its creditors.”

“In other words . . . the bank,” said Jocelyn.

“So it would appear, Lady Jocelyn. I am sorry. I wish there were something I could do.”

“Well, if it is Amanda's until then,” said Catharine in a huff, “I suggest we go there right now and take possession. Otherwise, Gifford will take it over as his. I am sorry, Cousin Martha.”

“Think nothing of it, dear,” replied Martha, dabbing at eyes which wept as much for her husband as her son. “You are no doubt right. Gifford tends to do what is best for the bank without thinking of anyone else.”

They all rose and began moving toward the church door.

“Mr. Crumholtz,” said Jocelyn, “would you like to join us for tea before your drive back to Exeter?”

“Yes, thank you,” replied the solicitor. “There are a few signatures I will need as well.”

“Jocelyn,” said Martha, “I think I shall go back to the inn. I am very tired.”

“It must be very difficult for you,” said Jocelyn, giving her a warm hug. “I am so sorry again about Geoffrey.”

Martha nodded, shook hands with Vicar Coleridge, then left the church. The others followed.

“Timothy, will you join us?” asked Jocelyn as they emerged again into the sunlight.

“I don't want to intrude if there are legal matters—”

“Nonsense,” interrupted Jocelyn. “You are our advisor. Please come. We will have tea together, and perhaps talk further about what we should do.”

Word had spread that some sort of meeting in the church was in progress with Lady Jocelyn, a solicitor from Exeter, and Mr. Rutherford. Fifteen or twenty people were, therefore, milling about hopefully outside. They had seen Gifford Rutherford storm out a few minutes earlier and walk briskly through their midst.

And one look at Lady Jocelyn's face now told them that the situation with the bank remained unchanged.