The Twisted Way (37 page)

At a quarter to four the young female solicitor Felicity had met once before and her older colleague, Mr Alan Wilkins, 
tall, arrogant and grey haired, the epitome of the success
ful solicitor, suave and carefully groomed, arrived to read Janet Lacey’s will. The couple hung their expensive dark wool overcoats on the antique mahogany hall-stand that stood just inside the front door and were directed by Joyce into the lounge where they lifted their documents out of elegant leather briefcases and placed them with businesslike precision on a small table that had been put at one end of the room for their use.

The antique dining chairs had been pressed into service and Felicity eyed them with pleasure. The thought that the Mace family would not now get those was a satisfying one.

Robbie, Joyce, the vicar, local headmistress Anne Robinson, together with Felicity, sat down on chairs arranged in a half circle in front of the table. Felicity glowed. Thank goodness there was no longer the Mace family or her brother Ronald to come between her and Auntie’s fortune. It looked promising. There were, however, three empty chairs which Felicity thought was strange. Joyce must have made a mistake when she arranged the room earlier.

Mr Wilkins fidgeted in his chair. ‘We are still waiting for three other people,’ he announced in a booming voice. ‘They should have been here by now but their train may have been delayed, although I understood it left on time. Unfortunately they were unable to join us for the funeral.’

Felicity started and moved closer to the edge of her chair, her fingers clutching the soft striped velvet material with unease. Three more people! Who on earth could they be?

The doorbell emitted its strange electronic pinging. ‘I’ll go,’ Joyce offered. She returned a few minutes later with three women. One looked as though she was in her early seventies, the second her fifties and the third in her late teens. The two older women were smartly dressed in black and the young girl in cream and brown. After shaking hands with Mr Wilkins and exchanging a few brief words of greeting, they took the three vacant seats, shuffled uncomfortably, and wore serious expressions. The youngest looked round the room with undisguised curiosity which irritated Felicity. Who on earth are they? she screamed inwardly. Her question was answered by Alan Wilkins.

‘Good, now to get down to business,’ he said in his strong deep voice. ‘I think you all know each other but may I introduce Mrs Rosalie Butterfield, her daughter Liz Jeffries and granddaughter Ellie Jeffries whom you have not met before. They have travelled from Yorkshire to be with us today and unfortunately could not join us for the funeral this morning. They are here now so we are able to read the will.’

He adjusted his expensive titanium-framed glasses that had slipped down his nose and cleared his throat with a loud guffaw. Felicity froze in her seat. Who were these interlopers? She turned her head to obtain a better look at them. Her heart missed a beat. She had seen them somewhere before. Rosalie’s hair was white but her daughter’s, though sprinkled with grey, still remained dark with a spattering of vibrant red which shone in the afternoon light that filtered in from a nearby window. Ellie had long dark hair, also speckled with red. Their eyes were blue with odd flecks and crowned with high aristocratic eyebrows. Three peas in a pod Felicity thought. Where had she seen those strange looped eyebrows before? She was mystified.

Mr Wilkins rustled the papers in front of him and pushed his glasses higher up on his nose.

‘I will begin,’ he pontificated, a haughty authoritative edge creeping in to his voice. ‘There are a few small bequests.’ He outlined them quickly. It seemed that the local church, Enderly primary school and Tom Hands were to receive £5,000 each. Her good housekeeper Joyce Skillet, niece Felicity Brown and nephew Ronald Brown were left £10,000 each. There was no mention of the financial adviser which pleased Felicity. £30,000 and a set of antique dining-room chairs were left to the Mace family but now that they had died their share would revert to the bulk of the estate as would Ronald Brown’s share. Everything else after funeral expenses had been paid and Primrose House and the contents sold, together with Mrs Lacey’s numerous investments, was left to the main beneficiary Mrs Rosalie Butterfield.

Felicity gasped and clenched her hands. Her knuckles became deadly white, almost blue, as was her face, as she assimilated this bombshell. She listened with disbelief and shock – it felt like icy water was trickling down her back. It was a different will, not the one she had found in Auntie’s desk drawer and the wretched Mace family had not told her, despite all her efforts. They were crafty, cunning brutes!

Alan Wilkins continued in a confident monotonous tone. ‘The remainder, that is the bulk of her estate, is expected to be in the region of eight million pounds after inheritance tax has been paid – the exact figure can of course only be estimated today.’

There was a stunned silence. Joyce looked at Rosalie. Oh yes, she was like Janet, there was no doubt she was her daughter, and Liz her granddaughter and Ellie her great-granddaughter. What an incredible secret she had kept all these years. An illegitimate baby she must have given birth to before going to teacher training college.

‘The bitch,’ Felicity stammered. Even Uncle James had been fooled. Innocent Janet Merryweather my foot! The old bag had known all along. She used me! The fact that she had sponged on her aunt did not enter into the equation, she was justified in helping herself to some of her money but to be cheated like this! She started to laugh in a hysterical manner and tears ran down her cheeks. She struggled and made an effort to stop but could not. ‘Innocent Janet Lacey,’ she uttered in a loud broken voice when she had regained some measure of control and all heads turned in her direction, ‘whore supreme!’ There was a further pregnant silence. A few feet shuffled uncomfortably and even Mr Wilkins, usually in command of most situations, looked shocked. There were sometimes difficulties when wills were read, and he had experienced a number in his time, but this promised to be what he thought of as ‘a real humdinger’. Sweat formed on his brow and he made a desperate effort to grope in his pocket for a handkerchief.

Joyce realised with a start that Rosalie’s eyes and eyebrows were uncannily like those of Peter Mace. She ignored Felicity’s outburst and moved to have a closer look at Rosalie as soon as she was able. There was no doubt about it. She almost laughed out loud, bubbling squeaks of joy threatening to burst out of her chest and mouth. She gulped in a desperate attempt to control her emotions. My God, she thought, there is some justice in this world. That greedy avaricious niece has got her just dessert.

Felicity felt numb, her hands shook and her breath threatened to catch in her throat and choke her. Her eyes glittered maliciously and if looks could have killed, the solicitor and his assistant would have been dead or at the very least writhing in agony on the floor.

‘I have a letter for you from your mother,’ Mr Wilkins said to Rosalie when he had regained his composure. ‘She wanted to explain why she gave you up for adoption so long ago and hoped you would forgive her.’

Rosalie had been silent and then spoke in a voice, clear and with a modulated tone exactly like her mother’s. ‘Thank you.’

She could not think of anything else to say. She was amazed. She had been asked to attend the will reading because she was a beneficiary but had not expected anything like this. Perhaps the letter would blow away some of the cobwebs of mystery that had surrounded her since she was a young child but she had always been happy and that to her was the most important thing. She had enough money to live on – no great worldly wealth but she was surrounded by a loving family and had enjoyed a satisfying teaching career. Janet’s money would open new doors, perhaps travel and freedom from financial concerns, or would it? Money was often the root of evil and begging letters, not always justified, or greedy people grasping and hoping for a share of the cake, could be attracted and make themselves a nuisance. She was a strong woman, however, intelligent and rational like her biological mother and would handle the situation with her inborn common sense.

Janet would have been proud of the daughter she had longed to see for so long. The secret had been buried deep within her being until John had died. She had then thought about the child she had given up so long ago against her will, her family having been convinced that keeping the baby would have ruined her young life. James almost did that anyway she told herself, and John too had denied her the child she longed for though he had his reasons and she suspected he may have regretted their not having a child when it was too late.

She had made some discreet enquiries in 1990 and discovered that Rosalie was happy and had her own family around her. She wrote a new will, that was the least she could do, but could not bring herself to contact her daughter. The shame that had surrounded her as a schoolgirl when she gave birth to an illegitimate child still lingered with her. It was difficult to erase even though she knew that the shame would not be valid if she had been born later in the century. Her aunt in Yorkshire had written to her once or twice with some brief news about her child in the early days and sent her a photograph of the baby but after her aunt died so did the information about the little girl. Her family thought it was just as well and the whole sad episode should be forgotten. She had found out in 1990 that she had a granddaughter and a great-granddaughter whom she longed to see but realized that their existence was a secret she would take to her grave. She had deceived James and John and felt an almost crippling guilt.

‘Darling Janet,’ she recalled her mother saying. ‘Wipe your memory clean. Get on with your life. You are a clever girl. Get married and have a new family. We must just hope your daughter, my granddaughter, will live a happy full life with her adoptive parents. Aunt Betsy tells me they are lovely people. We have done the right thing. The Mace family would not have allowed you to marry their precious middle-class son. In their eyes, because your father has been a farmworker all his life, we are yokels and turnip chompers! They will never acknowledge the baby.’

‘Peter wants it and wants me Mum,’ she had protested but knew that Peter was weak and would soon be overruled. His father had been adamant that he should study to be a solicitor and join the family firm. She had retained Peter’s friendship but the baby was never mentioned again after the adoption. It was though she had never existed.

After the will reading the group of beneficiaries remained silent for a few moments. Robbie looked at Felicity whose hysterical outburst had stopped and hoped she was not going to faint; she looked as though she might. Her face was strained and ashen, blue smudges were deepening beneath her eyes and she shook and twitched in a strange manner. Robbie, like Joyce, could not prevent feeling joy when he thought about the irony of the situation although at the same time he felt a sadness for Janet who had longed to have another child and had been denied that pleasure. He guessed she must have kept in touch with someone in Yorkshire to receive news of her daughter. What a slap in the face it would have been for the beastly James! It was a pity he could not be told that news!

He too almost laughed out loud. ‘Ironical, oh, really ironical,’ he muttered. Felicity had been convinced that the bulk of the estate was to be left to her. She must have found an earlier will which wouldn’t have mentioned Janet’s daughter, the secret child born out of wedlock. Robbie guessed the child could not be acknowledged until John Lacey had died. Janet could not have told even him about the child; what a heavy burden she had carried for so long. The Mace family, or at least Jeremy and Matthew, must have known about the new will, drawn up in 1990, but they kept her secret well. He wondered if Jeremy had realised that Rosalie was also Peter’s daughter, but did not think so. That taboo knowledge had been buried with care for far too long. Rosalie’s eyebrows and eyes were exactly like Peter Mace’s. He, like Joyce Skillet, had seen the resemblance to Peter as well as to Janet shortly after she walked into the room. Those eyebrows, odd flecked eyes and the speckled red hair told their own story. If Peter had known about the contents of the new will he would have been happy to discover that his daughter would inherit the Lacey fortune but he doubted that Jeremy would have been told that he had a half sister, and there was the question of client confidentiality. The Mace family were all dead anyway so what did it matter!

‘Poetic justice … oh yes,’ Robbie muttered under his breath and like Joyce struggled to contain his mirth.

Robbie continued to ponder on the situation. He had always realized that Peter was fond of Janet and it was obvious that Janet did not return his feelings though she still valued his friendship. He imagined that any romantic feelings for the man would have been killed when he did not support her and her baby. She was proud and independent and in his view far too good for the weak and snobbish Peter Mace. It was, he thought, surprising that they had remained such good friends for so many years, but he supposed there had been a bond created by the child even if it was not spoken about.

Poor Janet, what crippling fear young women must have had in the nineteen thirties and forties if they had a child out of wedlock. Shame, not joy, was heaped upon them and many unfortunate young women ended up in institutions for the rest of their lives. Janet had been lucky that she had contacts in Yorkshire who looked after her when she was pregnant and arranged for the child to be adopted. Janet had probably sworn to her family that she would never mention the baby again and had kept that promise until after her second husband had died. It must have been a dreadful millstone for such a kind and generous woman; she had not deserved that. He appreciated that Alicia Merryweather thought she was doing her best to support her daughter even if it had been misguided and moulded by the narrowminded attitude of the majority of people in the nineteen thirties. The Maces were a middle-class professional family and marriage for their son would not be appropriate until he had established himself as a solicitor in the family business and was in a position to support a wife, and certainly not at any time to the daughter of a local farm labourer. The fact that they had a granddaughter would have been immaterial. There was plenty of time for Peter to father a family in the future.