Godfrey paused, took a deep breath. “I recently found out that I’m a fool. Or maybe it was fated. Anyway, the result is the same.”
He glanced at the old book in his hands as if surprised to find it still there. Then he set it carefully on the coffee table and sat down on the crewel-fringed couch.
“I had put all my financial affairs in the hands of Truslow Addison’s law firm. Where I made my mistake was in sticking with the status quo when Tru died and his son took over the practice. I should have known better. You remember, Christopher, what a wild youngster Tru Junior was—”
“Yes,” said Christopher Mumford. “Father, you don’t mean—”
“I’m afraid so,” the old man said. “After young Tru died in that auto accident last May, the affairs of the law firm were found to be like a basket of broken eggs. You couldn’t even make an omelet of them. Some of the funds in his trust he had simply gambled away; the rest vanished because of bad business judgment, stupid speculations, investments without rhyme or reason...”
His voice trailed away, and after a while the silence was cracked by the voice of Ellen Mumford Nash. Her slim and elegant figure was stiff with outrage.
“Are you saying, father, that you’re without a shilling?”
Behind her Christopher made an abrupt move, extending his arm in, a sort of forensic gesture, as if he were trying to argue away a legal point that threatened his whole case.
“You’re joking, father. It can’t be that bad. There’s got to be something left out of so much loot.”
“Hear me out,” his father said heavily. “By liquidating assets I’ve managed to pay off all the creditors. This house and the property are mortgaged; there’s not very much equity. I have an old annuity that will let Mum and Joanne and me live here decently, but on my death the income from it stops. I’ll have to cut down my mums operation—”
Ellen broke in, bitter as the cold outside. “Damn your mums! If you’d stuck to growing seeds, the way you started, father, none of this would have happened. Left without a farthing! After all these years.”
Godfrey had gone pale at her curse; otherwise his face showed nothing. He had apparently prepared himself well for the ordeal. “Your brother was right in one respect, Ellen. There is something valuable left — something that no one’s known about. I want to show it to you.”
Mumford rose and went over to the wall behind him. He pushed aside an oil painting of a vaseful of chrysanthemums, exposing a square-doored wall safe. His silent audience heard the faint clicking — more like a swishing — of a dial. He removed something, shut the door of the safe, and came back.
Ellen’s breath came out in a whinny.
Her father’s hand was holding up a magnificent pendant.
“You’ll recall,” the old man said, “that on my retirement I took a trip to the Far East to bone up on Oriental mums. Well, while I was in Japan I managed to get my hands on this beauty. I paid nowhere near what it’s worth, although it cost me a lot of money. How could I pass this up? There are records authenticating it as a royal gift from the Emperor Komei, father of Meiji. It’s known as the Imperial Pendant.”
The gold links of the chain were exquisitely carved in the shape of tiny, intricate chrysanthemums; the pendant itself was a chrysanthemum, with an enormous diamond in the center surrounded by sixteen diamond petals. The superb gems, deep yellow in color, gathered the light in the room and cast it back in a shattering explosion.
“These stones are perfectly matched. The Emperor’s agents searched the world to find enough of these rare yellow diamonds to complete the pendant. As a group, they’re unique.”
Ellen Nash’s eyes, as hard as the gems, became slitted. She had never heard of Emperor Komei or the Imperial Pendant, but she was not invulnerable to beauty, especially when it had a high market value.
“Father, that must be worth a fortune.”
“Believe it or not, it’s been appraised at a million dollars.” There was an arpeggio of gasps; and the warmth in Godfrey Mumford’s voice expired, as if his pleasure had been chilled suddenly. “Well, you’ve seen it, so I’ll put it back in the safe.”
“For God’s sake, father,” cried Christopher, “not in a dinky little home safe! Why don’t you put it in a bank vault?”
“Because I like to take it out every once in a while and look at it, son. I’ve had it here for a long time, and no one’s stolen it yet. By the way, I’m the only one who knows the combination of the safe. I suppose I ought to leave a record of it, in case anything happens to me.”
“I should think so!” said Ellen.
Godfrey’s expression did not change. “I’ll take care of it, Ellen.”
He returned to the wall safe. When he faced them again, the painting hung in place and his hands were empty.
“So there’s what’s left of my estate,” he said. “A piece of historic jewelry worth a million dollars.” His fine face saddened now, as if he had reached the limit of self-discipline. “Wolcott, my old will included a bequest to you of a hundred thousand dollars to finance that expedition to West Africa you’ve always talked about.”
“I know, Godfrey, I know,” said Thorp.
“Now, when I die, I’m afraid your legacy will be only one-fifth that.”
Wolcott Thorp made a face. “I’m getting too old for expeditions. Do we have to talk about these things?”
He said this in a mutter, as if the whole subject were painful to him. Godfrey Mumford turned mercifully to Margaret Caswell.
“Mum, I originally planned a bequest to you and Joanne of a quarter of a million dollar trust fund. Well, I’m not going to make you suffer for my mistake after giving me half your lifetime, at least any more than I can help. The inheritance tax will cut down the pie, but my new will takes ample care of you in a revised trust. I wanted you and Jo to know that.”
He turned to Ellen and Christopher. “What’s left, of course, will go to you children share and share alike. It isn’t what I’d planned, and I know it won’t be what you expected, but you’ll have to make the best of it. I’m sorry.”
“So,” said Ellen with a little snap of her jaws, “am I.”
“Oh, shut up, Ellen,” her brother said.
And there was a silence.
It was broken by Joanne. “Well!
Shall we drink a toast to the birthday boy?” And she made for the rest of the champagne she had ordered from Dune MacLean in the Square (which was round), in High Village, leaving behind her a definitely dismal New Year’s Eve party.
January 1, 1965
Christopher Mumford was suffering from an unfamiliar malady — some sort of malfunction of the glands, as he diagnosed it. His mood had changed overnight. He gulped a mouthful of air as cold and clean and heady as Joanne’s night-before champagne, and blew it out with a happy snort, like a horse. Even the thought of his many creditors failed to depress him.
“What a scrumbumptious day!” he exulted. “What an absolutely virgin way to start the year! Let’s mosey on up to the woods beyond the greenhouse. I’ll race you, Jo — what do you say?”
Joanne giggled. “Don’t be a chump. You’d fall flat on your tunkus after twenty yards. You’re in pitiful physical condition, Chris, and you know it. Dissipated, is what.”
“You’re right, of course. As dissipated as father’s estate,” said Christopher cheerfully.
“You could still repair the damage.”
“Gyms make me dizzy. No, it’s hopeless.”
“Nothing is hopeless unless you make it so.”