The Legacy

Critical acclaim for Evelyn Anthony

The Doll's House

‘Anthony is an arch-exponent at crafting high tension mixed with romance … The novel is both gripping and highly enjoyable'
—Elizabeth Buchan,
Sunday Times

‘A compulsive new thriller … The plot is good, the characters well drawn, it's fast-paced and involving'
—
Woman and Home

Exposure

‘Deviously plotted novel … she has carved out a niche of her own as the queen of contemporary thrillers … for two solid days while reading
Exposure,
I was convinced it was all happening … Evelyn Anthony's best thriller yet'
—
Daily Mail

‘Evelyn Anthony's narrative power—electric suspense as the veils of mystery peel away—makes it absolutely gripping'
—
Daily Telegraph

Bloodstones

‘Brilliant piece of storytelling, one of her strongest novels'
—
Publishing News

The Legacy

Evelyn Anthony

Also by Evelyn Anthony

THE DOLL'S HOUSE

EXPOSURE

BLOODSTONES

To Caradoc King and to everyone at A. P. Watt. Friends and agents for over forty wonderful years.

1

Humfrey Stone had not gone to the funeral. He had got to know Richard Farrington very well in the six months before he died, but he didn't feel it was appropriate to go to the little Norman church. Personally he hated the idea of burial, but Farrington was old-fashioned; he had rejected cremation and chosen to be buried with his ancestors in the graveyard on the hill. Humfrey supposed that if you had as many ancestors as that, it made some kind of sense. He didn't like the house, but the library where he waited was the least intimidating of the public rooms. It had a bookish smell of leather and paper and a hint of mustiness. The armchairs were scuffed leather, deep and comfortable, and there were none of the Farringtons watching him from the walls; just books, and over the big open fireplace, a large, seventeenth-century map of the house and its parkland. The cartographer had enjoyed himself; he'd painted fish leaping out of the lake on the south-east, and oversized deer peering out of the Home Wood to the north.

Stone had first met Richard Farrington in his office. He wasn't typical of the firm's clients. Harvey & Stone dealt with the mega-rich, giant corporations, estates worth millions. Farrington had been taken on as a favour. One of the mega-rich was a friend of his, and he had gently tweaked Humfrey's uncle by the arm. Ruben Stone was a senior partner, and if he said, ‘take a case', it was taken. Nobody argued with Ruben. Humfrey recalled that afternoon six months ago; the tall good-looking man in late middle age coming into his office, shaking hands, sitting down and saying with alarming directness, ‘It's good of you to see me so quickly. Time, I'm afraid, is not on my side. I have only a few months to live.' An invitation to lunch followed. ‘I want you to see RussMore,' Farrington said, ‘then you'll understand why I'm doing this.'

Lincolnshire was flat uninspiring country, remote and secretive. Humfrey had never been to that part of England before. It didn't appeal to him. He liked the rolling hills and cosy villages of Sussex, with the hint of sea salt on the wind. The house was hidden in a dip, and it sprang on him as he rounded a sweep of drive. Red brick, gables, a slim tower crowned with a copper dome, windows that sparkled in the sunlight, and a great central window rising to the height of the first floor, glowing with stained glass. RussMore. The name hadn't prepared him for the size and grandeur of the house. Farrington had given him a pamphlet:
The history of RussMore and the Farringtons
. He'd glanced at it later. Built in 1568 by Roger Farrington, a rich London merchant who had married a Lincolnshire heiress … It was all very alien to Humfrey Stone. His past and a whole generation of his family had vanished in the gas chambers of Auschwitz.

There was a movement, and he turned. He'd forgotten he wasn't alone. A man with white-blond hair was putting a book back behind its wire grill.

‘Found something interesting, Rolf?'

His voice was disapproving. He thought it unethical to pry into someone else's books or touch their property when they weren't there. The blond man shrugged. He was younger than Stone, taller, and with the ice-blue eyes of the far northern countries.

‘Not really. I prefer documents to books. How long does it take to bury people in this country?'

Rolf Wallberg was one of Ruben Stone's protégés; a lawyer in Stockholm who was spending some months with a top London firm to gain experience of English law. Like most Scandinavians, he spoke perfect English and German and excellent French. He was clever, quick to learn and with a shrewd mind that he concealed behind a mocking attitude. He didn't pretend to like England or the English, and Humfrey Stone didn't like him. But again, nobody argued with Ruben Stone. He looked at his watch.

‘They must have come back by now. I hope war hasn't broken out before they even know what's in the will.'

‘If I was the son I'd fight,' Rolf remarked. ‘It's the fault of these crazy English laws on inheritance. In Sweden all children are equal; there's no eldest son syndrome.'

Stone glanced at him. ‘You've read the papers but you haven't met the Farringtons,' he said. ‘I have, and I've read that son's letters to his father. Don't be too free with your judgements till this afternoon is over.' The Swede smiled. He knew he had riled Humfrey Stone. He'd got himself emotionally involved with personalities—a great mistake. ‘It has the makings of good Scandinavian theatre. Hate and greed and passion over a woman and a house. A second wife … and a Swede. Ibsen couldn't have done better.'

Stone interrupted quickly. ‘Someone's coming. You'd better sit over there.'

‘So I can observe the drama,' Rolf said lightly. A long case clock began to chime three. Humfrey Stone liked clocks. It must be worth a fortune, like everything else in the house. He'd known families fall out over a chest of drawers; there was a lot to fight over here. War was the operative word for what was coming. The door opened and the housekeeper looked round.

‘Mr Stone? Mrs Farrington says do you really want her to bring Lindy?'

‘Just for the first part; it won't take long,' he said. ‘Are the family coming? I do have an appointment in London at six o'clock.'

‘They are on their way. She asked me to apologize for keeping you waiting.' The door closed. From his place in the background, Rolf Wallberg said sharply, ‘Is the child necessary? She's only eleven!'

‘It's in the will,' Stone said. ‘There are things her father wanted her to hear.' There was a silence then. Stone pulled out a chair and placed it before the fireplace. He sat down, and as he did so, the door suddenly opened wide and Rolf saw Christina Farrington, holding her daughter by the hand.

The day of Richard Farrington's funeral was warm, a lovely midsummer afternoon, with a light breeze ruffling the tops of the oak trees lining the pathway from the house to the church. It had been the same time of year, almost to the day, twelve years ago, when Christina met him in the Hagaparken in Stockholm. Sitting very still in the musty gloom of the Norman church, waiting for her husband's coffin, the past and the present kept merging. Such a small decision, such a trivial impulse, to spend her free lunchtime in the park on a lovely day, instead of eating in a crowded café close to her office. And what consequences had flowed from it; completely changing her life, bringing her to a remote country church in Lincolnshire, a widow after twelve years of marriage. Hagaparken was crowded that day, couples strolled hand in hand, and most of the seats by the lake were full. She found a place and sat down, stretching in the warm sunshine. She had bought a bag of apples and she bit into one, tasting the crisp fruit and the clean juice. Swans sailed past, some waddled up out of the water, ungainly as beached galleons, hissing for titbits. She hadn't even noticed the man sitting on the seat beside her. Her mind was full of unhappy thoughts about another man, the one who had just left her a note at her office to say he was going to Finland and didn't know when he'd be back. She threw a piece of apple into the water, but the majestic bird rejected it.

‘They are beautiful, aren't they? So long as they don't go on dry land.' She turned in surprise; he'd spoken in English. And seeing him she knew that, of course, he was English. Blazer, tie, panama hat with a red and blue ribbon round it; no Swede would have dressed like that in the summer heat. The type wasn't unfamiliar, just quaint; she used to see them in London when she was studying there: remote, quaint, from another planet. He had warm brown eyes and he smiled at her. ‘Out of their element, they're just ugly. But that's true of most things. Do you mind if I talk to you? I don't want to be a nuisance.'

‘No, of course I don't. I love swans; as you say, so long as they stay on the water. I like birds anyway.'

‘We have a lot of birds at home,' he said. ‘Swans, ducks, some geese.'

‘That must be nice,' Christina said. ‘Do you live on a farm?' He shook his head; took off the panama and laid it on his knee. He had thick brown hair with a little grey in it. Again he smiled.

‘No, not quite a farm. You're sure you don't mind chatting for a few minutes? I find Swedish people so open and friendly. It's my first visit and I know now why people call Stockholm the Venice of the north. It's really beautiful.'

‘Thank you.' Christina decided she liked him. ‘You're saying all the right things. Are you on holiday or business?'

‘Not business, not really a holiday. I don't know what you'd call it. I came here on a cruise; one of those package trips that sail round the coasts of Scandinavia, stopping a day or two at the main cities. There was a lunch and guided tour of the Vasa Warship Museum arranged for today, so I decided to escape and explore the city on my own. I've got very bored with my fellow passengers.' Christina looked at him.

‘Don't you like people?' Her directness surprised him.

‘I like people I like, but not people for the sake of people. I'm enjoying this much more than eating smorgasbord with two large American ladies who never stop talking. I wanted my own company for a change.'

She shrugged. ‘If you feel like that, why come on a package cruise?'

‘I've been asking myself that question ever since it started.'

‘If I wasn't enjoying it, I'd go home,' Christina said firmly. ‘Holidays are supposed to be fun. But I suppose you'd lose your money; those cruises are very expensive.' She put the apple core into the bag and dropped it into a litter bin close by. He told her afterwards that London was treated like a rubbish tip. Swedes were proud of their city; nobody threw litter around.

‘Where do you go for your holidays?' he asked.

‘Skiing mostly, but I went to Spain last year with some friends. I'd been looking forward to it all winter.' She laughed. ‘It was terrible! I got sick with the food and my boyfriend went off with one of the other girls … So I know how it feels. Next time I'll go to France. Do you know France?'

‘Paris and the south: Cannes and Nice,' he said. ‘We never travelled anywhere else.' We. She noticed it. ‘You're married?' He should have resented the intrusive question, but there was a frank innocence about her that made him answer. ‘I was—my wife is dead.'

‘Oh, I'm sorry. A long time?' He shook his head.

‘No, not long at all.' Christina felt embarrassed. Poor man; all alone. She blushed.

‘I'm afraid I've asked too many questions, and now I've got to go; I have to get back to my office.' He stood up with her. He was very tall; he looked down at her even though she stood five feet nine without shoes. She noticed that he had a good body, lean and well proportioned. There were a lot of years between them, but he was attractive.

‘And what do you do in your office?' he asked.

‘I design textiles. There are four of us and we've set up our own company. I studied three years in London at Chelsea Art School. We're doing really well. I love it.'

‘You look happy,' he said.

‘Not really,' she said it simply. ‘My man has just left me. Talking to you has helped; I forgot all about him.'

‘He must be very stupid,' he said. ‘Could I walk to your office with you? Would you mind?'

‘No, but you'll have to come on the bus. It's about twenty minutes from here.'

He held out his hand. ‘I'm Richard Farrington. And I like buses.'

She smiled. ‘Hello, I'm Christina Nordohl.' They shook hands. It was so formal, so English. When they reached her office building she stopped and pointed out a small nameplate. ‘There—Nordohl, Eleman, Design Consultants. That's us.'