“She should have videotaped this,” Bruce Herbert said. “I can see her now delivering these protestations against society.”
Mr. Gould-Brayton looked at Herbert, closed his heavy eyelids as though to ask whether he were through, then returned his attention to the typewritten pages in front of him.
Eventually he reached the financial portion of the will, and I noticed everyone sit up a little straighter. Gould-Brayton paused for effect, removed his spectacles and held them up to the light to ascertain they were clean enough for accurate reading, placed them on his nose, and read, “ ‘I have made far more money then any human being is entitled to make, and have spent very little of it, my frugality a source of constant annoyance to local shopkeepers and telephone solicitors attempting to sell me magazines that would surely go unread. Because of my lifelong dedication to cheeseparing, I am able to leave behind a substantial sum of money, most of it undoubtedly to be squandered, some of it to be used wisely only because I have taken the steps necessary to ensure that.’ ” Gould-Brayton looked up at us. “Any questions?” he asked.
We all shook our heads.
He continued. “ ‘I hereby bequeath one half of my estate, presently accounted for and to be earned through the future sale of my books, to a trust to be named the Marjorie Ainsworth International Study Center for Mystery Writers, to be housed at Ainsworth Manor, and to be stocked with every available reference source the trustees are able to obtain.’ ”
“Hear, hear,” said Archibald Semple. “The woman was a benefactor to her profession, a saint. How splendid to have such a center here in Great Britain.”
Gould-Brayton cleared his throat for order. “ ‘Because my niece and companion of many years, Jane Portelaine, has, at least from her perspective, given up her life for me, I leave to her one quarter of my estate, currently accounted for and to be earned in the future.’ ” Jane managed a smile and looked down at the. table, her hands clasped in front of her.
“ ‘To my dear friend and American colleague, Jessica Fletcher, I leave one eighth of my estate, present money only. Her earnings in the days ahead from her wonderful works of fiction will ensure her future without any help from me.’ ”
I blushed and shook my head. “That is so generous, but as I told Mr. Gould-Brayton, I intend to donate whatever money my share amounts to to the center Marjorie has established.”
“Very generous of you, Jessica,” said Bruce Herbert.
Archibald Semple’s wife tapped the ends of her fingers together and said, “Bravo, Mrs. Fletcher. How typically American.”
“ ‘Next, to my dear friend, critic William Strayhorn, who always had kind things to say about my books, the only exception being his occasional annoyance at how often I mention food in them, which, I might add, I do to substitute for the singular lack of sex in the genre-’ ”
I laughed; I couldn’t help it. Everyone looked at me. “Sorry,” I said. “Please continue.”
“ ‘… I leave the sum of twenty thousand pounds for the day when he is no longer able to enjoy either sex or food.’ ”
“Shame he isn’t here,” Semple said.
“Just as well that he isn’t,” said Bruce Herbert.
Gould-Brayton again checked his glasses for dirt, drew in a deep, rumbling breath to maintain his reading momentum, and pressed on. “ ‘My faithful household staff, with the exception of the newcomer, Marshall, are to be cared for in Ainsworth Manor for the rest of their days, their salary doubled from the date of my demise.’ ”
“It is nice to see she kept the common man in mind,” Count Zara said, to which his wife, Ona, mumbled, “Let them eat cake. They don’t deserve a penny.”
Gould-Brayton asked his assistant for a glass of water. After he’d drunk it (the room was so quiet you could hear the liquid cascading down his throat and into his belly), he said, “There are still other disbursements to be announced. I must admit that in all my years in the legal profession, I have yet to see such provisions in any other will, although, I must admit, Miss Ainsworth was… how shall we say it, an unusual individual.” He looked at Ona Ainsworth-Zara. “I indicated to you, Mrs. Ainsworth-Zara, that it might be less painful for you and your husband not to have attended this gathering. If you would like to leave now, I am sure everyone would understand.”
“Go on, read,” said Marjorie’s younger sister.
“Poor thing,” said the count. “She was not herself in her last days.”
“I thought she was at her intellectual best right up until the end,” said Bruce Herbert.
“Enough,” Gould-Brayton said. “Let me proceed. ‘To my younger sister, Ona, who saw fit to marry into Italian aristocracy and suffer the inevitable impoverishment inherent in such an act, I consider my debt paid. The money I have given them over the years far surpasses what my instincts would tell me to leave them after my departure from this earth. I do, however, leave to my beloved brother-in-law, Count Zara, as he prefers to call himself, a fat envelope of bills from the clothing stores, gourmet food shops, hotels, alcoholic beverage establishments, and other purveyors of the good life that he had made such generous use of. I have not paid these bills; I trust he will see to it that the debts are honored forthwith.’ ”
“Preposterous,” Zara exclaimed, standing and slamming his fist on the table. “Those were gifts to me from Marjorie.” He looked down at his wife. “Weren’t they, Ona, gifts from your sister? She always told me that I was her favorite.”
“Pay them, Tony, and let’s get on with this bloody circus.”
“ ‘To my loyal and accomplished American publisher, Clayton Perry, and my devoted literary agent, Bruce Herbert, I leave two things. First, the large sums of money I have loaned Mr. Perry are to be forgiven at the time of my death. By doing this, I trust the publishing house that Perry built, constantly tottering on the verge of bankruptcy and worse, will be able to sustain itself for a period of time, which means the American reading public will continue to have access to my books. Second, I forgive Mr. Herbert and Mr. Perry for all the royalties they have stolen from me over the years, and assure them that I have not instructed those I leave behind to pursue that matter with the sort of professional diligence that would undoubtedly uncover these thefts.’ ”
“I can’t believe she wrote that,” Herbert said.
“She was obviously demented when she did,” Clayton Perry said, only his lips moving.
“Of course, that is what I said,” the count said. “This entire will must be contested.”
Gould-Brayton said, “I think I should read this next paragraph rather quickly. ‘At the time these provisions have been read, I assume those in the room such as my American publisher and agent, and my beloved brother-in-law, are calling me demented and demanding that the will be contested. Good luck.’ ”
Gould-Brayton sat back in his tall, wide leather armchair.
“There’s nothing else?” Archibald Semple said. “She didn’t mention me?”
“I am just taking a breather to break the tension in the room,” said the solicitor. “Shall I proceed?”
“Yes, please do,” Semple said, grabbing his wife’s hand and squeezing it, evidently hurting her because she made a face and emitted a tiny squeal. He let go and focused his attention on Gould-Brayton, who’d cleaned his glasses and was once again hunched over Marjorie Ainsworth’s will.