“At the age of twenty-one, in 1919, Jethro came back to the United States, his interrupted college courses and his fraternity life. In some ways, the war and his experiences in it as a French infantryman had matured him, but in others he still was no more than he had been when he had left, four years before—a callow undergraduate scion of a wealthy family, born to privilege, and arrogantly irresponsible.
“With his automobile and his expensive, fashionable clothing, with his worldly-wise and free-spending manner, he dazzled and seduced a working-class townie girl.
“He had mastered certain hand-to-hand combat techniques during the war, of course, and also had learned savate. When the girl’s two elder brothers ambushed him and made to do him bodily injury, he all but killed them. No charges were brought by the authorities, for both of the young men were possessed of long police records for boozing, brawling, petty theft and similar offenses, but the girl’s family ordered her to stay away from Jethro.
“She did not, of course, and their affair was carried on until he finally got her pregnant. There was never any consideration of marriage, of course, for she was just too far beneath him, so he persuaded her, made arrangements and drove her clear down to Boston to undergo an abortion. But something went wrong. She hemorrhaged on the way back to Hanover, and she died in a hospital in Manchester.
“In the wake of the autopsy, the authorities at all levels went for Jethro’s scalp with a vengeance. Her brothers came after him a second time, and that time he had to kill one of them and he paralyzed the other, although he was shot twice during the fracas.
“With Jethro hospitalized under police guard, his father and his elder brother, Jeremiah, came up to New Hampshire and began to pull in political markers and grease palms right and left. They ended in plunking down a bail bond, in cash, that was a staggering sum for that time and place, took him down to New York until he was more or less recovered of his wounds, then put him aboard a ship bound for Europe. After more monies had changed hands, all of the charges against Jethro were quietly quashed, but he chose to stay in Europe until 1928. When he did come back, he met only once with his father, his uncle and his brother, then he journeyed a thousand or more miles across the country and enlisted in the United States Army.”
Milo shook his head. “Jesus, to have heard Jethro tell the little he ever did tell, you’d’ve thought he’d done some really terrible things. It wasn’t—couldn’t have been—his fault if some back-alley abortionist fucked up. And as for the other, if a couple of hoods had attacked me with guns, I’d’ve likely done my utter damnedest to kill or paralyze them, too. Mr. Bannister, I knew Jethro as only a military buddy can know another, and I’m here to tell you that he was a good man, a damned good man—decent, caring for those who depended upon him . . .”
“I know, I know, you don’t need to tell me.” Bannister held up a palm. “Mr. Moray, Jethro was not only my client, he was my friend, as well. All that you say about him was true, of course, you know it and I know it, but he did not, could not. He brooded on those three deaths—the paralyzed man died a couple of years later—and he could not seem to ever shake the feeling that he bore an ongoing guilt for all of it. He was obsessed, I think.
“But poor Jethro has joined the majority, now. What about the envelope of which you spoke earlier?”
Milo opened the briefcase that Brigadier General Jethro Stiles had been carrying on the day he had died, removed the crushed and crackly envelope and slid it across the desk, wordlessly.
Even armed with a sharp desk knife, getting the thoroughly sealed envelope open took some time. But finally, the thick sheaf of papers was spread out before the attorney. Lifting two smaller, sealed envelopes from among the papers, he held them where Milo could see the faces of them.
“To be opened only by John T. Bannister, Esquire, Attorney-at-law and friend,” Milo silently read on each of them.
While he was reading the two enclosures, Bannister frequently glanced up at Milo, and at one point he hissed between his teeth. At last, he laid them down atop the other papers, leaned back in his leather swivel chair and gazed at Milo for a moment before he began to speak.
“Mr. Moray . . . no, I think we’d better start calling each other Milo and John, all things considered. Milo, Jethro was a very old-fashioned gentleman, in many ways; as such, he simply could not believe women to be at all capable of properly handling money, and the way his younger sister terribly mishandled her own inheritance did nothing to change his mind.
“Early in 1945”—he tapped one of the folded letters—“he got together with a JAG type and changed his will; this is an original of that new will—all properly executed and witnessed and signed, and so fully legal and binding. You and Martine were legally married, the marriage has been recorded? Yes. Now, have you as yet instigated proceedings to adopt Jethro’s children?”
“Why, no,” answered Milo. “Frankly, I’d not thought of it.”
Bannister nodded. “Then you’d best start thinking of it, Milo, and getting it done, the sooner the better.”
“But why?” demanded Milo. “I can’t remember ever having any children. I don’t even know what kind of a father I’d make.”
“You’ll make a better father than no father at all, even I can tell you that. Hell, you’ll be the man who’s going to be raising them, anyway. So, if you have the game, you might as well have the name, too, is my way of thinking. Besides, you’ll stand to have a sight more than that, Milo. You see, according to the terms of this will, when Captain Milo Moray marries Martine Stiles and adopts her children by Brigadier General Jethro Stiles, he then inherits the entire Stiles fortune, outright—cash, accounts, stocks, bonds, securities, land, buildings, vehicles and equipment, animals, furnishings, boats, leases, the whole damned shooting match.”
Mind whirling madly, Milo just sat digesting the pronouncement for long minutes. Then he said, “But . . . but what if I’d been killed, too?”
Bannister held up the second folded letter between manicured fingers. “Had that occurred, there were contingency plans, but it did not; you’re here and married to the former Mrs. Jethro Stiles. Now, you just adopt Jethro’s kids, and, buddy, you’re in like Flynn. As for me, I’m already in; another of these documents authorizes me to take over the management of the estate, all of it, until such a time as you become eligible. I guess Jethro surmised that if I made it through the war I’d have staff enough to take on the estate management, and he was right about that.
“You’re living on that farm in Virginia, aren’t you? Yes. Well, Jethro had a local attorney on the outskirts of Washington to handle local affairs. His name is Dabney Randolph, I believe. I’ll have my girl out there jot down everything and I’ll give him a call myself later today. He can get the adoptions started ... if that’s what you want to do, of course.”
Milo regarded Bannister. “You just assume automatically that I intend to continue to retain you to run things?”
Bannister grinned. “I sure as hell hope that’s your intention, Milo. I won’t come cheap, but then neither does the firm that has been managing the estate for so long and neither would any other reputable firm you engaged. If one did offer to work for you for peanuts, you’d be wise to retain another firm to keep track of just what the first one was up to. You’ll of course get regular statements from me that won’t be written in legalese, either. But I can’t give you an exact cost until I have time to examine the records of the other firm, talk to the bankers, the brokers, the accountants, the Treasury people, some men in Europe, South America, South Africa, Australia and Canada. Give me thirty days, Milo, then I can give you a figure.”