He (or she) is entitled to live in the house, but cannot sell it (it being the property of the Trust).
However, according to clause 5, if the house has to be demolished due to circumstances beyond the Trustees' control (such as a catastrophic flood), the house and plot are to be sold and the proceeds distributed among all the direct heirs living at the time.
If this is the Southey Road house we're talking about, in my opinion the conditions of clause 5 have more than adequately been met.
Hope that helps,
A
Alexandra Fawley | Partner | Oxford office | Harlowe Hickman Howe LLP
Not even an `x' at the bottom. Something she'd do without thinking even for friends, but must have stopped herself doing for me.
I don't think I've ever felt more wretched.
20 July 2017, 11.45 a.m.
168 days before the fire
23 Southey Road, Oxford
The man on the doorstep is in overalls, with a stepladder and a toolbox.
`Mrs Esmond?'
`Yes,' she says warily. There's a van parked by the kerb with `DS Security' painted on the side.
`Your husband booked us in,' he says, seeing the look on her face. He reaches into his pocket for a sheet of paper. `Side gate, alarm system, new deadlocks to windows and exterior doors throughout.'
`He never said anything about it to me.'
At least, she can't remember him doing so.
He looks up and smiles. `Feel free to check with him. You can't be too careful, that's what I always say.'
`If you don't mind, I will.'
She closes the door and goes into the sitting room. She can see the man through the front window. But, as usual, her husband's mobile is off.
`Michael `“ can you call me back? There's a man here to do something to the locks. You never mentioned he was coming.'
She puts the phone down and goes back to the door.
`All OK, then?' says the man, cheerily.
`I couldn't reach him. Do you mind `“ could I see that piece of paper?'
`Office said he came in earlier this week,' he says, handing it to her. `Tuesday, I think it was.'
The day after Philip left. Two days after she'd confided in him that she thought there'd been someone in the house. Only Michael didn't know about that. Did he?
`See?' says the man. `That's his signature right there.'
She stares at the paper. And he's right. It is Michael's signature.
`What did you say you were doing again?'
`New side gate, state-of-the-art alarm system and new door and window locks.' He glances to the side of the house. `I mean, anyone can just walk right in as it stands, can't they? And this time of year, you could be upstairs, with your back door open, and any Tom, Dick or axe murderer could walk straight in. A house this big, you might not even realize. In fact, didn't your husband say you'd had a burglary?'
She flushes. `Not a burglary, no `“ not as such `“'
`All the same, like I said, Mrs Esmond, you can't be too careful. Not these days. Some of those weirdos aren't interested in nicking stuff. They just want the kick of knowing they're somewhere they're not supposed to be.'
`So why the fuck didn't he tell us?'
No prizes for guessing who that is: Quinn, at peak bolshie.
`Seriously,' he continues, looking round at the rest of the team, `Philip Esmond has known all about this will right from the start and yet he hasn't even mentioned it. Not a bloody word.'
`But how is it relevant?' says Ev. `Philip couldn't possibly have set fire to the house because he was in the middle of the sodding Atlantic.'
`Do we actually know that?' Quinn again.
Ev flushes. `Well, no `“'
`Well then,' he says.
I turn to Somer. `What day did you first speak to Philip?'
`On the Thursday afternoon, sir. A few hours after the fire.'
`Right. Could you double-check the exact co-ordinates of that satellite phone call, please? Just to be sure.'
Meanwhile Ev's got a second wind. `In any case, why would Philip want to trash the place? There's no suggestion he was in need of the money.'
`Even a hundred grand at compound interest will run out sometime,' says Asante. `Especially at his rate of burn.'
He's not wrong `“ it's not just the shiny new boat, it's the go-as-you-please lifestyle, and all without any visible means of support.
`That's as may be,' says Baxter grimly, `but it sure as hell gives Michael a motive, though, doesn't it?' And he's right too: setting fire to that house would have solved his financial problems for good and all. But would he really go so far as to burn it down? A building so intimately bound up with his sense of self and his place `“ quite literally `“ in the world? If you're asking me, that's one hell of a stretch. Even if his family hadn't been inside. Even if I didn't know he was fifty miles away at the time.
`Why don't I ask him about it,' says Somer eventually. `Philip, I mean. I can give him a call.'
`No,' I say. `Go and speak to him in person. I want to know how he reacts. And before you go, put in a call to Rotherham Fleming Co. I want to know everything they're prepared to tell us about the Esmonds.'
She looks doubtful. `They'll probably say it's confidential `“'
`I know. But there's nothing to stop us asking.' I look around the room. `Anyone else have anything new and/or useful?'
`Challow called,' says Gislingham. `About the fingerprints they took off the garage door. Most were Michael's and match a lot in the study, but the rest were just partials. And for the record, none were remotely like Jurjen Kuiper's.'
`I've had a call from that Oxford friend of Michael's we were trying to talk to,' says Everett. `He could have seen me later today, but luckily he's also around tomorrow morning.'
She doesn't bother saying why this afternoon is out because we all know. I'm going to have to dig around in my desk drawer and find my black tie.
`Can I help you `“ have you come to see a resident?'
The attendant at the care home reception smiles a neat professional smile that doesn't quite reach the rest of her face.
Somer takes out her warrant card. `DC Erica Somer, Thames Valley Police. I believe Mr Esmond is here at the moment, with his mother?'
The woman nods. `They're in the side lounge.'
She heads down the corridor, her plastic shoes squeaking on the wooden floor. The whole place has the feel of a faintly rundown country hotel. The sweep of gravel drive, the slightly over-large wooden staircase, the brocade curtains with their tasselled tie-backs and the heavy furniture that wouldn't have been out of place in the Southey Road house. Somer wonders for a moment whether that was the point `“ whether Michael Esmond wanted his mother to spend her last days in a place as much like her old home as possible. The only difference is that all the chairs here have plastic seat protectors and the heavy scent of artificial air freshener is masking something worse.
The Esmonds are sitting in a bow window overlooking the garden. On the terrace outside, there are pots of crocuses placed close to the window so the residents can see them, and in front of them there's a pot of tea and two cups. With saucers. Somer can tell, even though he has his back to her, that Philip is already wearing his funeral suit.
He's clearly pleased to see her. Despite the circumstances. He gets to his feet. `DC Somer `“ Erica `“ thank you for coming.'
She smiles. `It's no problem. I know you have a lot to deal with at the moment.'
`This is my mother, Alice.'
Mrs Esmond looks up at her. She must be one of the youngest residents here. No more than seventy, perhaps as little as sixty-five. But her eyes are those of an old woman.
`Hello, Mrs Esmond,' says Somer, holding out her hand.