"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.
After all, my father would not live forever.
We sat alone almost unsighted in the darkest corner of the room. He began clicking the knuckles of his right hand one by one.
"Where is it at this moment?" I asked, looking across at a man to whom I had paid thousands of pounds since we had first met almost twenty years ago. He still turned up for our weekly meetings at the St. Agnes wearing what seemed to be the same brown tweed jacket and shiny yellow tie, even if he did appear to have acquired one or two more shirts lately. He put down his whisky, pulled out a brown paper package from under his chair and handed it over to me.
"How much did you have to pay to get it back?"
"Fifty pounds."
"I told you not to offer him more than twenty pounds without consulting me."
"I know, but there was a West End dealer nosing around the shop at the time. I just couldn't risk it, could I?"
I didn't believe for one moment that it had cost Harris fifty pounds. However, I did accept that he realized how important the picture was to my future plans.
"Would you like me to hand the painting over to the police?" he asked. "I could then drop a hint that perhaps—"
"Certainly not," I said without hesitation. "The police are far too discreet in these matters. Besides, what I have in mind for Mr. Trumper will be a great deal more humiliating than a private interview in the privacy of Scotland Yard."
Mr. Harris leaned back in the old leather chair and began clicking the knuckles of his left hand.
"What else do you have to report?"
"Daniel Trumper has taken up his place at Trinity College. He's to be found on New Court, staircase B. Room 7."
"That was all in your last report."
Both of us stopped speaking while an elderly guest selected a magazine from a nearby table.
"Also, he's started seeing quite a lot of a girl called Marjorie Carpenter. She's a third-year mathematician from Girton College."
"Is that so? Well, if it begins to look at all serious let me know at once and you can start a file on her." I glanced around to be sure no one could overhear our conversation. The clicking began again and I looked back to find Harris staring fixedly at me.
"Is something worrying you?" I asked as I poured myself another cup of tea.
"Well, to be honest with you there is one thing, Mrs. Trentham. I feel the time might have come for me to ask for another small rise in my hourly rate. After all, I'm expected to keep so many secrets"—he hesitated for a moment—"secrets that might . . ."
"That might what?"
"Prove to be invaluable to other equally interested parties."
"Are you threatening me, Mr. Harris?"
"Certainly not, Mrs. Trentham, it's just that—"
"I'll say this once and once only, Mr. Harris. If you ever reveal to anyone anything that has passed between us it won't be an hourly rate that you'll be worrying about but the length of time you'll be spending in prison. Because I also have kept a file on you which I suspect some of your former colleagues might well be interested to learn about. Not least the pawning of a stolen picture and the disposal of an army greatcoat after a crime had been committed. Do I make myself clear?"
Harris didn't reply, just clicked his fingers back into place, one by one.
Some weeks after war was declared I learned that Daniel Trumper had avoided being called up. It transpired that he was now to be found serving behind a desk in Bletchley Park and was therefore unlikely to experience the wrath of the enemy unless a bomb were to land directly on top of him.
As it happened, the Germans did manage to drop a bomb, right in the middle of my flats, destroying them completely. My initial anger at this disaster evaporated when I saw the chaos it left behind in Chelsea Terrace. For several days I gained considerable satisfaction from just standing on the opposite side of the road admiring the Germans' handiwork.