‘But you see, dear,’ said Bartlemas, ‘he only got that one together in a hurry…’
‘Yes,’ said O’Rourke, ‘he was going to sort it all out properly when he got back to England. I mean, the so-called solicitor he found out at Saint-Maxime was a boy, hardly even qualified. Just got his articles-I always think that sounds rude.’ A snigger. ‘So the will was only a stop-gap. But when Marius felt better, he forgot about it …’
‘Yes. He was intending to get married you see.’
Gerald nodded. ‘Of course. Remarriage would revoke all previous wills.’
But Charles was intrigued by something O’Rourke had said. ‘When Marius felt better? What did you mean by that?’
‘Oh no! Didn’t we tell you?’ O’Rourke’s eyes opened wide.
‘I don’t think we did, O’Rourke…’
‘Oh well, you see, Marius had this heart attack while we were out there. Not a bad one, but it frightened him. That’s why he was in such a rush about the will…’
‘That’s right. And that’s why he made us witnesses and executors …’
‘Doesn’t that sound grand…’
‘Yes, because we were the only people there…’
‘And then he gave us the will and the other papers and he said to us, just before we toddled off to Morocco-’
‘Just a minute, O’Rourke,’ Charles interposed. ‘What other papers?’
O’Rourke looked at Bartlemas and both of them opened their eyes wide and put their hands over their mouths in mock horror. ‘Oh no, Bartlemas, we haven’t…’
‘We have, O’Rourke…’
‘Forgotten all about them…’
‘Oh no!’
‘Where did we have them last?’
‘Well, we certainly had them when you were cleaning that playbill of William as Lear at the Theatre Royal, Covent Garden…’
‘And then we…’
‘Ooh. Do you know, I think I left them in my dinki-doodi-den …’
‘Oh no, Bartlemas!’
‘I’ll scurry up and get them straight away.’
There was a brief pause. Nobody quite liked to ask what Bartlemas’ dinki-doodi-den was. Fortunately he scurried back before the silence became awkward.
‘Here it is, acres of bills and things.’
Gerald assumed control and looked through the papers while the others watched. Then he chuckled. ‘The old sod.’
‘Who?’ asked Jacqui.
‘Marius Steen. He’d really got it in for Nigel. He must have regretted that gift business.’
‘Why? What did he do?’ asked Charles.
‘Marius wrote a letter to his son last November-this is a copy of it-complaining in humble terms about how he’d left himself short by the gift and not taken inflation into account, and would Nigel let him have a small income from various shares and properties? And here’s the agreement duly signed by Nigel.’
‘And what does it mean?’
‘It means that Marius was retaining a beneficial interest in the gift.’
‘What?’ asked Jacqui blankly, which saved the embarrassment of someone else’s asking.
‘It means that the whole gift thing was invalid. Nigel would have had to pay duty on the whole estate without reduction.’
‘Good God,’ said Charles. ‘You can’t help admiring the old bugger. Making his own son sign away his fortune.’
‘Yes. He was an amazing character. He understood money,’ said Gerald with respect, ‘and, having made one mistake, determined that most of it would die with him.’
‘Will it affect my inheritance?’ Jacqui asked anxiously. ‘Ah, who knows?’ Gerald smiled. ‘That all has to be sorted out by solicitors and accountants.’
Charles gave a mock yawn. ‘I know. Endless meetings, confabulations, discussions and mumblings about the law. Where does all that get you?’
‘Rich,’ said Gerald smugly.
At half past eleven, they all left the house to go to the April Fools’ Midnight Matinee at the Parthenon. Bartlemas and O’Rourke had dressed in their Victorian first-night gear specially. They looked like a pair of Dickensian undertakers.
The bright young theatrical crowd (including Gerald, who had decided he would go after all) piled into Bernard Walton’s Bentley, leaving Charles and Joanne on the pavement outside the house. ‘See you,’ yelled Jacqui out of the window as the great car roared off.
‘How’ve you been?’ Charles asked Joanne.
‘All right.’
‘You still miss Marius?’
‘Yes, but the new job’s very busy, so it’s not too bad.’
‘Good. Do you fancy a drink somewhere?’
‘Thanks very much, but no, I don’t think so. I’ve got to be up early in the morning.’
Charles found a cruising taxi to take Joanne Menzies home. Then he hailed another for himself and gave the driver the address of the Montrose.