“But
that’s blackmail.”
“Oh,
no, Grandmother, just a troubled son, desperate to discover what had really
happened to his lone-lost father and shocked when he found out the truth behind
the Trentham family secret. I think the press would describe such an incident
quite simply as ‘an internal feud.’ One thing’s for certain my mother would
come out smelling of roses, though I’m not sure how many people would still
want to play bridge with you once they reamed all the finer details.”
Mrs.
Trentham rose quickly to her feet, clenched both her fists and advanced towards
him menacingly. Daniel stood his ground.
“No
hysterics, Grandmother. Don’t forget I know everything about you.” He felt
acutely aware that he actually knew very little.
Mrs.
Trentham stopped, and even retreated a pace. “And if I agree to your demands?”
“I
shawl walk out of this room and you will never hear from me again as long as
you live. You have my word on it.”
She
let out a long sigh, but it was some time before she replied.
“You
win,” she eventually said, sounding remarkably composed. “But I have a
condition of my own if I am expected to comply with your demands.”
Daniel
was taken by surprise. He hadn’t planned for any conditions coming from her
side. “What is it?” he asked suspiciously.
He
listened carefully to her request and, although puzzled by it, could see no
cause for any alarm.
“I
accept your terms,” he said finally.
“In
writing,” she added quietly. “And now.”
“Then
I shall also require our little arrangement in writing,” said Daniel, trying to
score a point oasis own.
“Agreed.”
Mrs.
Trentham walked shakily towards the writing desk. She sat down, opened the
center drawer, and took out two sheets of purple-headed paper. Painstakingly
she wrote out separate agreements before passing them over for Daniel to
consider. He read through the drafts slowly. She had covered all the points he
had demanded and had left nothing out including the one rather long-winded
clause she had herself insisted upon. Daniel nodded his agreement and passed
the two pieces of paper back to her.
She
signed both copies, then handed Daniel her pen. He in turn added his signature
below hers on both sheets of paper. She returned one of the agreements to
Daniel before rising to pull the bell rope by the mantelpiece. The butler
reappeared a moment later.
“Gibson,
we need you to witness our signatures on two documents. Once you have done that
the gentleman will be leaving,” she announced. The butler penned his signature
on both sheets of paper without question or comment.
A
few moments later Daniel found himself out on the street with an uneasy feeling
everything hadn’t gone exactly as he had anticipated. Once he was seated in a
taxi and on his way back to the Dorchester Hotel he reread the sheet of paper
they had both signed. He could not reasonably have asked for more but remained
puzzled by the clause Mrs. Trentham had insisted on inserting as it made no
sense to him. He pushed any such disquiet to the back of his mind.
On
arrival at the Dorchester Hotel, in the privacy of Room 309 he quickly changed
out of the uniform and back into his civilian clothes. He felt clean for the
first time that day. He then placed the uniform and cap in his suitcase before
going back down to reception, where he handed in the key, paid the bill in cash
and checked out.
Another
taxi resumed him to Kensington, where the hairdresser was disappointed to be
told that his new customer now wished all signs of the bleach to be removed,
the waves to be straightened out and the parting to be switched back.
Daniel’s
final stop before resuming home was to a deserted building site in Pimlico. He
stood behind a large crane and when he was certain no one could see him he
dropped the uniform and cap into a rubbish tip and set light to the photograph.
He
stood shivering as he watched his father disappear in a purple flame.
“M
y purpose in
inviting you up to Yorkshire this weekend is to let you know exactly what I
have planned for you in my will.”
My
father was seated behind his desk while I sat in a leather chair facing him,
the one my mother had always favored. He had named me “Margaret Ethel” after
her but there the resemblance ended as he never stopped reminding me. I watched
him as he carefully pressed some tobacco down into the well of his briar pipe,
wondering what he could possibly be going to say. He took his time before
looking up at me again and announcing, “I have made the decision to leave my
entire estate to Daniel Trumper.”
I
was so stunned by this revelation that it was several seconds before I could
think of an acceptable response.
“But,
Father, now that Guy has died surely Nigel must be the legitimate heir?”
“Daniel
would have been the legitimate heir if your son had done the honorable thing.
Guy should have returned from India and married Miss Salmon the moment he
realized she was having his child.”
“But
Trumper is Daniel’s father,” I protested. “Indeed, he has always admitted as
much. The birth certificate... “
“He
has never denied it, I grant you that. But don’t take me for a fool, Ethel. The
birth certificate only proves that, unlike my late grandson, Charlie Trumper
has some sense of responsibility. In any case, those of us who have watched Guy
in his formative years and have also followed Daniel’s progress can be in
little doubt about the relationship between the two men.”
I
wasn’t certain I had heard my father correctly. “You’ve actually seen Daniel
Trumper?”
“Oh,
yes,” he replied matter-of-factly, picking up a box of matches from his desk. “I
made a point of visiting St. Paul’s on two separate occasions. Once when the
boy was performing in a concert I was able to sit and watch him at close
quarters for over two hours he was rather good, actually. And then a year later
on Founders’ Day when he was awarded the Newton Mathematics Prize, I shadowed
him while he accompanied his parents to afternoon tea in the headmaster’s
garden. So I can assure you that not only does he look like Guy, but he’s also
inherited some of his late father’s mannerisms.”
“But
surely Nigel deserves to be treated as his equal?” I protested, racking my
brains to think of some rational response that would make my father reconsider
his position.
“Niger
is not his equal and never will be,” replied my father, as he struck a match
before beginning that endless sucking that always preceded his attempt to light
a pipe. “Don’t let’s fool ourselves, Ethel. We’ve both known for some time that
the lad isn’t even worthy of a place on the board of Hardcastle’s, let alone to
be considered as my successor.”
While
my father puffed energetically at his pipe, I stared blindly at the painting of
two horses in a paddock that hung on the wall behind him and tried to collect
my thoughts.
“I’m
sure you haven’t forgotten, my dear, that Nigel even failed to pass out of
Sandhurst, which I’m told takes some doing nowadays. I have also recently been
informed that he’s only holding down his present job with Kitcat and Aitken
because you led the senior partner to believe that in time they will be
administering the Hardcastle portfolio.” He punctuated each statement with a
puff from his pipe. “And I can assure you that will not be the case.”
I
found myself unable to look straight at him. Instead my eyes wandered from the
Stubbs on the wall behind his desk to the row upon row of books he had spent a
lifetime collecting. Dickens, every first edition; Henry James, a modern author
he admired, and countless Blakes of every description from treasured
handwritten letters to memorial editions. Then came the second blow.
“As
there isn’t a member of the family who can readily replace me as head of the
firm,” he continued, “I have reluctantly come to the conclusion that with war
daily becoming more likely I will have to reconsider the future of Hardcastle’s.”
The pungent smell of tobacco hung in the air.
“You
would never allow the business to fall into anyone else’s hands?” I said in disbelief.
“Your father would... “
“My
father would have done what was best for all concerned, and no doubt expectant
relations would have been fairly low down on his list of priorities.” His pipe
refused to stay alight so a second match was brought into play. He gave a few
more sucks before a look of satisfaction appeared on his face and he began to
speak again. “I’ve sat on the boards of Harrogate Haulage and the Yorkshire
Bank for several years, and more recently John Brown Engineering where I think
I’ve finally found my successor. Sir John’s son may not be an inspired chairman
of the company but he’s capable, and more important, he’s a Yorkshireman.
Anyway I have come to the conclusion that a merger with that company will be
best for all concerned.”
I
was still unable to look directly at my father as I tried to take in all that
he was saying.
“They’ve
made me a handsome offer for my shares,” he added, “which will in time yield an
income for you and Amy that will more than take care of your needs once I’ve
gone.”
“But,
Father, we both hope you will live for many more years.”
“Don’t
bother yourself, Ethel, with trying to flatter an old man who knows death can’t
be far away. I may be ancient but I’m not yet senile.”
“Father,”
I protested again but he simply returned to the sucking of his pipe, showing
total lack of concern at my agitation. So I tried another ploy.
“Does
that mean Nigel will receive nothing?”
“Nigel
will receive what I consider right and proper in the circumstances.”
“I’m
not sure I fully understand you, Father.”
“Then
I shall explain. I’ve left him five thousand pounds which after my death he may
dispose of in any manner he wishes.” He paused as if considering whether he
should add to this piece of information. “I have at least saved you one
embarrassment,” he offered at last. “Although, following your death, Daniel
Trumper will inherit my entire estate, he won’t learn of his good fortune until
his thirtieth birthday, by which time you will be well over seventy and perhaps
find it easier to live with my decision.”
Twelve
more years, I thought, as a tear fell from my eye and began to run down my
cheek.
“You
needn’t bother with crying, Ethel, or hysterics, or even reasoned argument for
that matter.” He exhaled a long plume of smoke. “I have made up my mind, and
nothing you can say or do is going to budge me.”
His
pipe was now puffing away like an express train. I removed a handkerchief from
my handbag in the hope it would give me a little more time to think.
“And
should it cross your mind to try and have the will revoked at some later date,
on the grounds of my insanity” I looked up aghast “of which you are quite
capable, I have had the document drawn up by Mr. Baverstock and witnessed by a
retired judge, a Cabinet minister and, perhaps more relevant, a specialist from
Sheffield whose chosen subject is mental disorders.”
I
was about to protest further when there was a muffled knock on the door and Amy
entered the room.
“I
do apologize for interrupting you, Papa, but should I have tea served in the
drawing room or would you prefer to take it in here?”
My
father smiled at his elder daughter. “The drawing room is just fine, my dear,”
he said in a far gentler tone than he ever adopted when addressing me. He rose
unsteadily from behind his desk, emptied his pipe in the nearest ashtray and,
without another word, followed my sister slowly out of the room.
I
remained fairly uncommunicative during tea while I tried to think through the
implications of all my father had just told me. Amy, on the other hand,
prattled happily on about the effect the recent lack of rain was having on the
petunias in the flower bed directly under my father’s room. “They don’t catch
the sun at any hour of the day,” she confided to us in worried tones as her cat
jumped up onto the sofa and settled in her lap. The old tortoise-shell whose
name I could never remember had always got on my nerves but I never said as
much because I knew Amy loved the creature second only to my father. She began
to stroke the animal, obviously unaware of the unease caused by the
conversation that had just taken place in the study.
I
went to bed early that evening and spent a sleepless night trying to work out
what course of action had been left open to me. I confess I hadn’t expected
anything substantial from the will for Amy or myself, as we were both women in
our sixties and without a great need of any extra income. However, I had always
assumed that I would inherit the house and the estate while the company would
be left to Guy and, following his death, Nigel.
By
the morning I had come to the reluctant conclusion that there was little I
could do about my father’s decision. If the will had been drawn up by Mr.
Baverstock, his long-serving solicitor and friend, F. E. Smith himself would
not have been able to find a loophole. I began to realize that my only hope of
securing Nigel’s rightful inheritance would have to involve Daniel Trumper
himself.