Chapter 4
After the projector had whirred to a stop and the screen had gone dark Charles sat in silence for a long time. Staring vacantly ahead, he seemed unaware of the sunlight that flooded back into the room as James opened the curtains once more.
"Sir?"
No response.
"Sir? Is everything alright?"
Charles seemed to awaken from his semi-trance. "Oh, yes. Thank you James. Everything's fine, thank you."
Just then, he heard something.
"What's that noise?"
"Sir?"
"Do you hear it? Over there… it sounds like it's coming from behind that wall… a sort of scrabbling sound."
All was silent again. They listened for a moment longer.
"I suppose it might have been Mrs Gillcarey, sir. She's always busying herself with some task or other; or maybe — oh, I do hope it wasn't a rat. We have occasionally had trouble with rats in the past."
"We may need to contact the pest control people."
"Maybe, sir."
After a few moments, Charles became aware that James was hovering with the demeanour of someone who had something to say but wasn't quite sure how to say it. Charles cleared his throat.
"Well," he began, "it would seem that my first task is to contact Matthew." After Lord Alfred's tirade against his son on the night of his death Charles felt a little surprised that he would be mentioned at all in the terms of the new Will; but mentioned he was, so that was that.
"Sir… if I may…?"
"Yes, James?" The elderly gentleman fidgeted uncomfortably as he tried to find the right words.
"Well, sir, it's not really my place to say, but… well… master Matthew, his Lordship's son, has always been… how can I put it? He has always been… well… something of a scoundrel, sir."
"That's as may be, James, but my duty is to carry out his Lordship's wishes; not to pass judgement on the character of those he names as beneficiaries."
"Oh, quite so, sir, yes. It's just that… " he faltered again.
Still seated in the armchair, Charles looked up at the loyal butler, feeling some sympathy for the man who had served his master faithfully for all these years.
"James," he said, gently, "if you have something important to tell me I can assure you that it will be treated with the utmost confidentiality."
James took a deep breath and then, with an effort, he said, "Well, sir, it's simply this: Whilst I have no intention of wishing to suggest anything… illegal… " he hesitated again.
"Take your time, James, I'm listening."
Now James seemed to summon his fortitude. He drew himself up to his full height and spoke.
"Sir, I do not wish to speak ill of His Lordship's son, but out of courtesy to Lord Alfred I feel I must inform you that master Matthew has been such a disrespectful boy. The only times he would ever make contact with his father was when he needed money — and it was usually a lot. Since, at this moment, master Matthew does not yet know of His Lordship's sad demise, might I suggest, sir, in the light of what we have just seen, that he need not know? At least, not until it is… ahem… too late? I am sure that between us we could work things out to reach a satisfactory arrangement for all concerned?"
"James, are you suggesting that I go against the express wishes of my client?"
"Oh, no, sir. Well… not exactly. It just seems to me that it would be somehow wrong if such a vast fortune were to find its way into the wrong hands."
"But James, they will be the right hands if that is what Lord Alfred has specified." There was a pause and James nodded. After this rare display of personal feelings Charles realised that James had now re-assumed his dutiful demeanour. Privately, he suspected that the butler's words were borne out of some bitter experience, but Charles was His Lordship's solicitor and he had a certain level of professional conduct to maintain. James raised his chin and spoke, calmly and politely.
"Very good, sir. Shall I locate a telephone number for master Matthew?"
So, master Matthew was called and informed of his father's death. During the telephone conversation, Charles noticed that he did not seem to express any sorrow or sadness at all but was, instead, asking eager questions relating to the size of his inheritance. Charles was careful not to go into detail, saying instead that it was necessary for Matthew to come to Heston Grange in order to complete a number of formalities. He also mentioned that it would be advisable for him to come prepared for a stay of a few days due to the 'complexities' of some aspects of His Lordship's estate. There followed an awkward moment when Matthew said that, since he was the only surviving member of Lord Alfred's family, there ought not be any complexities; surely it would be a simple matter to arrange for the estate to be transferred into his name. His solicitor's experience came to the rescue and Charles was able to cloud the issue with some legal-sounding jargon. Matthew grunted and said he would arrive the next morning. The conversation was civil, but curt. Charles sighed as he replaced the receiver. Well, Mr Seymour, he thought to himself, just be professional. Do your job, and be professional.
It was at about 10am the following morning, and Charles was sorting through yet another pile of papers in the octagonal tower room, when he heard the sound of a car approaching outside. He stepped out of the room onto the rickety bridge just as the car — a silver Shelby Cobra GT — pulled into the courtyard. The occupant emerged. He was quite tall and in his mid-twenties, and he was wearing a suit that almost fitted quite well. Probably trying to impress me, thought Charles, although there isn't really any need. Matthew didn't look up and see Charles watching him from the bridge; he just made straight for the front door and gave the bell-pull a firm tug. Somewhere deep within the bowels of Heston Grange the reluctant bell announced his presence and the door was subsequently answered by James. As soon as Matthew had disappeared inside Charles went back into the tower room and quickly tidied away the variety of documents he'd been examining, before making his way back across the bridge, into the main house and down to the drawing room. As instructed, James had invited Matthew to take a seat and had offered him a choice from Lord Alfred's impressive collection of sherries.
When Charles entered, Matthew was reclining in a deep, luxurious sofa, holding aloft a glass of fine Amontillado, watching as the sunlight glinted through the amber liquid and the lead crystal vessel containing it. Ignoring what appeared to be certain airs and graces of this new 'lord of the manor' Charles crossed the room smiling, with his hand extended.
"Mr Willoughby? We spoke on the phone. I'm Charles Seymour, the solicitor acting for your late father. Thank you for coming. May I once again express my condolences on your sad loss."
Matthew shrugged. Without moving from his reclined position he reached up and shook hands.
"Although we do have quite a lot to attend to," said Charles, "there is no immediate urgency, as such. So if you would like some time to be alone, perhaps just to walk around the house and grounds, then please feel free — or I'm sure Mrs Gillcarey could rustle up a nice snack for you if you're feeling at all hungry?"
Matthew looked up and spoke for the first time. His gaze was firm. He didn't look like someone who had just lost his father.
"Thanks, Mr Seymour, but I'm happy to get started right away."