“Well, Uncle Silas, are we all ready?” Mary beamed.
Of course I am, you silly old cow, I wanted to reply, but I could see Humphrey looking at me in that way of his, so I decided to behave. “Hallo, Mary,” I quavered. “Think I’d be late for my one glass of champagne?” Not on your life, I thought. Or more pertinently, on mine, which is a great deal more valuable to me.
“Happy birthday, Uncle,” Don said heartily, peering at me as though I was a wounded goldfinch.
“Sorry. I’m still alive,” I said tartly, and seeing Humphrey’s compressed lips, added, “Just my little joke, darling boy.” Boy? He looks like an antiquated frog. No, frogs are too lively for our Humph. Toad’s more like it. Sits on its bottom and blinks-waiting for the fees to roll in.
Nigel must have been nervous for once. “Many happy returns,” he bleated, pumping my hand up and down.
“As a ghost?” I retorted politely, but seeing my grin, the party took this as a witticism in which everyone could join. Even Woeful Willie, looming over me with first-aid kit in hand in case I pass out with pleasure at their company, giggled, although Toad Humphrey remained solemn-faced.
So here we go. Off to my hundredth-birthday party. As I was wheeled into the tent the crowds parted like the Red Sea for Moses. Quite right, too. I could see the place was packed, with all those Christmas cards having sprung to life and put their happy, happy faces on, while they waited for the champagne. I decided to make them all listen to me for an hour at least before they got their reward.
At the end of the first half-hour of my speech, I beamed at their now flagging faces. I was wiping their smiles away splendidly.
“And now, my dears,” I announced, “I’m going to tell you something very important.”
The whole assembled company leaned forward very hopefully. But it wasn’t going to be about my will. Oh no. That’s going to be a sweet surprise. I didn’t talk about money at all. I lectured them on the importance of happiness in families, how nice it was to see them all together getting on so well. Poppycock. My brothers and sisters used to quarrel like a pack of hyenas, and their offspring followed suit. Even Mary, Don, and Nigel couldn’t stand the sight of each other normally. They are only united today by a common hope that they alone will be my sole heir. I have, I admit, been teasing each of them separately that he or she is the person to whom I’ve left all my money. And it’s the truth-in a way.
I do like teasing people.
I’m even teasing you, whoever reads this. You’re all expecting me to drink my glass of champagne, gag, clasp my throat, and fall gasping for air, poisoned by one of my dearest and nearest kinfolk, unable to wait a minute longer for my millions.
Well, I’ve news for you. The party’s over, and I’m still alive.
“Good morning, Mr. Bone.” William opened the door of the manor to me, and led me into the late Mr. Silas Carter’s library cum living room. Once it was a dark and sombre place, but no longer. The blinds were up and sunlight streamed in, as if glad to reach the previously forbidden places. I approved. I had always dreaded coming here, but it made my unwelcome task of this morning much easier if the sun was fighting on my side. Silas Carter was, I regret to say, a wicked old man, with a sharp, if lively, tongue. He was no judge of character, however. Assuming the role of boring old lawyer is a useful device for me (and never more so than with Silas Carter) and would be so again in the meeting about to take place.
“My condolences, William,” I said formally. Might as well stick to being Humphrey the Bore for the moment. “What will you do once everything is cleared up?” It had obviously been sensible for me as executor-at least as apparent executor-to ask his carer to stay on while the disastrous mess of the estate was being sorted out.
“I daresay I’ll find something. I’ve always dreamed of a cottage of my own, but it won’t be the same.” William looked sad. “I’ve been here over twenty years now.”
I could see his point. Being ill-treated in a palace might be more palatable than loneliness in a cottage, and William must be over fifty now. Not an age to go searching for new Silas Carters to tend.
“I’ve prepared coffee for you all, Mr. Bone. I’ll be in the kitchen if you want me. Just ring.”
He’d be used to that, all right, I thought as he left me. Everything in its place: cups, saucers, coffee keeping warm. If only my life had been as simple over the estate of Silas Carter: Instead it had presented me with The Great Muddle. Not a word that lawyers take kindly to. We prefer words-and wills-that are cut-and-dried, not muddled. Especially where the family of the deceased are concerned. I was ready to implement my plan, and I was only awaiting the three most vocal of them over their demands to know how matters stood with the will. I fear-no, that is not the word I should be using-in the case of these three, I am delighted to tell them. Indeed, I shall relish it. As the old rhyme has it, I do not like thee, Dr. Fell, the reason why I cannot tell. For Dr. Fell, read Mary Simpkins, Donald Paxton, and Nigel Carter. I never have liked them on the rare occasions we have met, but since the events of Silas’s hundredth birthday, I have added deep suspicion to my dislike.
These three had stayed in the house the night of Silas’s birthday; the latter was also the night of his death. Accidental death, the coroner had concluded, and for someone not personally acquainted with Silas that would be the obvious conclusion. However, I did know the old skinflint well. The doctor had been sufficiently imbued with the notion that Mr. Carter would live forever to notify the coroner at his unexpected death. Poor Silas had proved to be stuffed full of his sleeping pills, with only his fingerprints on the bottle and water beaker. Natural enough, the coroner must have thought, for him to be overcome with the excitement of his birthday party and the glass or two of champagne he had drunk there, and not realise the number of pills he was taking.
That old boozer? I knew better. Silas Carter was far too well accustomed to alcohol to be thrown off his usual careful habits by a mere five or six glasses of champagne-I lost count of the number I saw him drink. If ever I saw a man heading for being pickled for posterity by the whisky inside him, it was Silas Carter.
No, it’s far more probable that one of the gruesome threesome helpfully crushed his pills up for him and saw them safely down his throat. Which, though? One of them? All three? Did I care? I most certainly did. Someone might have cheated Silas out of years of life. I began to look forward to this meeting with some eagerness.
The three hopefuls were on time-indeed, some minutes early-and I decided I would play doddering lawyer as well as a boring one while I fumbled with serving coffee and biscuits and fussed about sugar and milk. By the time I’d finished, they were all twitchy. Ever since I’d seen early Hollywood films with lawyers solemnly reading out wills to the assembled company, I’d wished we had the same tradition here in England, and now I was to get my opportunity-at least to some of those most concerned in this mess. Those who, as Silas had kindly explained in the letter he sent me with “the will,” had had expectations. Expectations, as opposed to hope, I suppose. Every Carter in Christendom must have been eagerly searching their family tree on the news of Silas Carter’s death.
I wouldn’t be reading out the will today, but at least I could enjoy my position of temporary power. Not that Silas had demanded to be buried in Siberia or anything like that. Oh no, he was too cunning.
The trio sat on the huge sofa opposite me like the three monkeys: Hear No Evil, See No Evil, Speak No Evil. And I, when I wish, can be very evil.