“But I still can’t work out how they knew—”
“They only had to read the financial pages of any broadsheet. They were reporting the problems faced by Lloyd’s on a daily basis, and my father’s name appeared regularly, along with several others, as being placed with unfortunate, if not crooked, syndicates.”
“That is pure speculation on your part,” said Simpson, his voice rising.
“Just because you didn’t consider it at the time,” replied Arabella, “doesn’t mean it’s speculation. In fact, I’m only surprised that you allowed your close friend to leave Coutts, who had served the family for over two hundred years, to join such a bunch of shysters.”
Simpson turned scarlet. “Perhaps you are falling into the politician’s habit of relying on hindsight, madam.”
“No, sir,” replied Arabella. “My late husband was also offered the opportunity to join Lloyd’s. The broker assured him that the farm would be quite enough to cover the necessary deposit, whereupon Angus showed him the door.”
Simpson was speechless.
“And how, may I ask, with you as her principal advisor, did Victoria manage to double that debt in less than a year?”
“I am not to blame for that,” snapped Simpson. “You can direct your anger at the tax man, who always demands his pound of flesh,” he added as he searched for a file marked DEATH DUTIES. “Ah, yes, here it is. The Exchequer is entitled to 40 percent of any assets on death, unless the assets are directly passed on to a spouse, as I feel sure your late husband would have explained to you. However, I managed, with some considerable skill, even if I do say so myself, to reach a settlement of eleven million pounds with the inspectors, which Lady Victoria seemed well satisfied with at the time.”
“My sister was a naïve spinster who never left home without her father and didn’t have her own bank account until she was thirty,” said Arabella, “but still you allowed her to sign a further contract with Fenston Finance, which was bound to land her in even more debt.”
“It was that or putting the estate on the market.”
“No, it wasn’t,” replied Arabella. “It only took me one phone call to Lord Hindlip, the chairman of Christie’s, to be told that he would expect the family’s Van Gogh to make in excess of thirty million pounds were it to come up for auction.”
“But your father would never have agreed to sell the Van Gogh.”
“My father wasn’t alive when you approved the second loan,” countered Arabella. “It was a decision you should have advised her on.”
“I had no choice, dear lady, under the terms of the original contract.”
“Which you witnessed, but obviously didn’t read. Because not only did my sister agree to go on paying 16 percent compound interest on the loan, but you even allowed her to hand over the Van Gogh as collateral.”
“But you can still demand that they sell the painting, and then the problem will be solved.”
“Wrong again, Mr. Simpson,” said Arabella. “If you had read beyond page one of the original contract, you would have discovered that should there be a dispute, any decision will revert to a New York court’s jurisdiction, and I certainly don’t have the wherewithal to take on Bryce Fenston in his own backyard.”
“You don’t have the authority to do so, either,” retorted Simpson, “because I—”
“I am next of kin,” said Arabella firmly.
“But there is no will to indicate to whom Victoria intended to leave the estate,” shouted Simpson.
“Another duty you managed to execute with your usual prescience and skill.”
“Your sister and I were at the time in the process of discussing—”
“It’s a bit late for that,” said Arabella. “I am facing a battle here and now with an unscrupulous man, who seems to have the law on his side thanks to you.”
“I feel confident,” said Simpson, once again placing his hands on the desk in a prayerlike position as if ready to give the final blessing, “that I can wrap this whole problem up in—”
“I’ll tell you exactly what you can wrap up,” said Arabella, rising from her place, “all those files concerning the Wentworth estate, and send them to Wentworth Hall.” She stared down at the solicitor. “And at the same time, enclose your final account” — she checked her watch — “for one hour of your invaluable advice.”
21
Anna walked down the middle of the road, pulling her suitcase behind her, with the laptop hanging over her left shoulder. With each stride she took, Anna became more and more aware of passengers sitting in their stationary cars, staring at the strange lone figure as she passed them.
The first mile took fifteen minutes, and one of the families who had settled down for a picnic on the grass verge by the side of the road offered her a glass of wine. The second mile took eighteen minutes, but she still couldn’t see the border post. It was another twenty minutes before she passed a 1 MILE TO THE BORDER sign, when she tried to speed up.
The last mile reminded her which muscles ached after a long, tiring run, and then she saw the finish line. An injection of adrenaline caused her to step up a gear.
When Anna was about a hundred yards from the barrier, the staring looks made her feel like a line jumper. She averted her eyes and walked a little more slowly. When she came to a halt on the white line, where each car is asked to turn off its engine and wait, she stood to one side.
There were two customs officials on duty that day, having to deal with an unusually long line for a Thursday morning. They were sitting in their little boxes, checking everyone’s documents much more assiduously than usual. Anna tried to make eye contact with the younger of the two officers in the hope that he would take pity on her, but she didn’t need a mirror to know that after what she’d been through during the past twenty-four hours, she couldn’t have looked a lot better than when she staggered out of the North Tower.
Eventually, the younger of the two guards beckoned her over. He checked her travel documents and stared at her quizzically. Just how far had she trudged with those bags? He checked her passport carefully. Everything seemed to be in order.
“What is your reason for visiting Canada?” he asked.
“I’m attending an art seminar at McGill University. It’s part of my Ph.D. thesis on the pre-Raphaelite movement,” she said, staring directly at him.
“Which artists in particular?” asked the guard casually.
A smart-ass or a fan? Anna decided to play along. “Rossetti, Holman Hunt, and Morris, among others.”
“What about the other Hunt?”
“Alfred? Not a true pre-Raphaelite, but—”
“But just as good an artist.”
“I agree,” said Anna.
“Who’s giving the seminar?”
“Er, Vern Swanson,” said Anna, hoping the guard would not have heard of the most eminent expert in the field.
“Good, then I’ll get a chance to meet him.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, if he’s still the professor of art history at Yale he’ll be coming from New Haven, won’t he, and as there are no flights in and out of the U.S., this is the only way he can cross the border.”
Anna couldn’t think of a suitable response and was grateful to be rescued by the woman behind her, who began commenting to her husband in a loud voice about how long she’d been waiting in line.
“I was at McGill,” said the young officer with a smile, as he handed Anna back her passport. Anna wondered if the color of her cheeks betrayed her embarrassment. “We’re all sorry about what happened in New York,” he added.