Deacon smoked thoughtfully for a moment or two. "Did he appoint David and Harriet Price as executors?''
"Yes."
"Well, at least that vindicates poor old David." He thought back to the furious row his mother had had with their then next-door neighbors when David Price had dared to suggest that Francis Deacon had talked about making a new will with him as executor. "Show it to me," she had said, "tell me what's in it." And David had had to admit that he had never seen it, only agreed in principle to act as executor should Francis revoke his previous will. "Who drew it up?"
"We think your father did it himself. It's in his handwriting."
"Is it legal?"
"A solicitor friend of ours says it's properly worded and properly witnessed. The witnesses were two of the librarians in Bedford general library. Our friend's only caveat was whether your father was in sound mind when he made it, bearing in mind he shot himself two weeks later." He shrugged. "But, according to Emma, he had been right as rain for months prior to his suicide and only became really depressed the day before he pulled the trigger."
Deacon glanced at Terry, who was wide-eyed with curiosity. "It's a long story," he said, "which you don't want to hear."
"You can shorten it, can't you? I mean, you know all about me. Seems only fair I should know a bit about you."
It was on the tip of Deacon's tongue to say he didn't even know what Terry's real name was, but he decided against it. "My father was a manic depressive. He was supposed to take drugs to control the condition, but he wasn't very reliable and the rest of us suffered." He saw that Terry didn't understand. "Manic depression is typified by mood swings. You can be high as a kite in a manic phase-it's a bit like being stoned-and suicidal in a depressed phase." He drew on his cigarette then ground the butt out under his heel. "On Christmas Day, nineteen seventy-six, while depressed, my father put his shotgun in his mouth at four o'clock in the morning and blew his head away." He smiled slightly. "It was very quick, very loud, and very messy, and it's why I try to forget that Christmas even exists."
Terry was impressed. "Shit!" he said.
"It's also why Emma and Michael are so difficult to live with," said Hugh dryly. "They're both scared to death they've inherited manic depression, which is why they resist feeling happy about anything and view mild unhappiness as the onset of clinical depression."
"It's in the genes, then, is it? Billy were big on genes. He always said you couldn't escape what your parents programmed into you."
"No, it's not in the genes," said Hugh crossly. "There's evidence suggesting hereditary predisposition, but innumerable other factors would have to come into play to precipitate the same condition in Emma and Michael as occurred in Francis."
Deacon laughed. "That means I'm not a nutter yet," he told Terry. "Hugh's a civil servant so he likes to be precise in his definitions."
Terry frowned. "Yeah, but why'd your mother accuse you of killing your dad if he topped himself?"
Deacon drank his lager in silence.
"Because she's a bitch," said Hugh flatly.
Deacon stirred himself, "She said it because it's true. He told me at eleven o'clock on Christmas Eve that he wanted to die, and I gave him the go-ahead to do it. Five hours later, he was dead. My mother thinks I should have persuaded him out of it."
"Why didn't you?"
"Because he asked me not to."
"Yeah, but-" The boy's puzzled eyes searched Deacon's face. "Didn't you mind if he died? I was well gutted every time Billy tried to hurt himself. I mean you feel responsible like."
Deacon held his gaze for a moment then looked down at his glass. "It's a good expression-gutted. It's exactly how I felt when I heard the shot. And, yes, of course I minded, but I'd stopped him before, and this time he said he was going to do it anyway and would rather do it with my blessing than without. So I gave him my blessing." He shook his head. "I hoped he wouldn't go through with it, but I wanted him to know I wouldn't condemn him if he did."
"Yeah, but-" said Terry again. He was more disturbed by the story than Deacon would have expected, and he wondered if there were resonances in it of his friendship with Billy. Had Terry lied about Billy not trying to kill himself? he wondered. Or perhaps, like Deacon, he had lost interest and had aided and abetted a suicide through apathy?
"But what?" he asked.
"Why didn't you say something to your Mum, give her a chance like to stop him?"
He looked at his watch. "How about we leave that question till later?" he suggested. "We've still got food to buy, and I haven't settled what I'm going to do to Hugh's nose yet." He lit another cigarette and studied his brother-in-law through the smoke for a second or two. "Why didn't Emma throw the pieces of this will away when she found them?'' He smiled rather cynically at Hugh's expression. "Let me guess. She didn't realize he'd only left her twenty thousand until she'd stuck it back together again, by which time you and your girls had seen it, too."
"She was curious. She'd have brought it home, anyway. But, yes, she hoped-we both hoped-that he'd left her enough to wipe out the debt we owe your mother. As things stand, Penelope's used money that's rightfully yours, so we're actually in debt to you. And I swear to you, Michael, it's not money we even asked for. Your mother went on and on and on about how she wanted to do something for the only grandchildren she was going to have, then I mentioned one day that we were worried about Antonia's poor grades, and that was it. Penelope set up an educational trust and Antonia and Jessica were in private boarding school within a couple of months."
Deacon took that with a pinch of salt. Knowing Hugh and Emma, there would have been endless little hints until Penelope paid up. "Are they doing well?"
"Yes. Ant's doing A levels and Jesse's doing GCSEs." He rubbed a worried hand across his bald head. "The trust was set up to pay the equivalent of twelve years' schooling-five years for Ant because she was two years older when it started, and seven for Jesse-and they've already had nearly ten between them. We're talking a lot of money, Michael. You've probably no idea how expensive private boarding education is."
"Let me guess. Upwards of a hundred and fifty thousand so far?" He lifted an amused eyebrow. "You obviously didn't read my piece on selective education. I researched the whole subject in depth, including cost. Has it been money well spent?"
Hugh shrugged unhappily, forced to consider his daughters' merits. "They're very bright," he said, but Deacon had the impression he would like to have said they were nice. "We need to sort this out, Michael. Frankly, it's a nightmare. As I see it, the situation is this: Your mother deliberately tore up your father's will and stole her children's inheritance, for which she will be prosecuted if the whole thing's made public. She has materially altered your father's estate by selling the cottage in Cornwall and by setting up a trust fund for the girls. Against that, had you inherited what Francis left you, presumably Julia would have taken half its value in her divorce settlement and Clara would have taken half what was left in hers, leaving you with a quarter share of what you inherited. For all I know, they may still be entitled to do that." He raised his hands in a gesture of despair. "So where do we go from here? What do we do?"
"You've left out your resentment at paying through the nose for Ma's private nursing care," murmured Deacon. "Doesn't that play a part in this complicated equation?"
"Yes," Hugh admitted honestly. "We accepted the trust money in good faith, believing it to be a gift, but the quid pro quo seems to be that Emma and I must fork out indefinitely for a live-in nurse, which we can't afford. Your mother claims she's dying, which means the expenditure won't go on for very much longer, but her doctors say she's good for another ten years." He pressed finger and thumb to the bridge of his nose. "I've tried to explain to her that if we could afford that level of private nursing care we wouldn't have had to use her money to pay the girls' school fees, but she won't listen to reason. She refuses to sell her nouse, refuses to come and live with us. She just makes sure the weekly bill is sent to our address." His voice hardened. "And it's driving me mad. If I thought I could get away with it, I'd have put a pillow over her mouth months ago and done us all a favor."