On a week to the day after Andrew Dalworth’s funeral, Eric Griffith, in tweeds and a tattersall vest, sat in Mr. Ryan’s office facing the gray-haired solicitor across the clean expanse of the shining refectory table.
“—and as I mentioned at our first meeting at Easter Hill, Mr. Ryan, Maud and I both feel we have some degree of responsibility to our niece.”
Angus Ryan said gently, “Would you enlighten me, sir, as to the nature of those responsibilities?”
Eric shrugged and, with a practiced and seemingly helpless smile, said, “Well, that’s where I was hoping you might help, Mr. Ryan. You see, Maud and I are comfortably off but we’re hardly what you’d call rich.”
“Ah, is that so, Mr. Griffith?”
“Yes, but we still feel an obligation to Jessica. If there’s any way we can help, we’d be pleased to. I know that in the long run Jessica will be provided for, but sometimes in emergencies like this, there’s a problem of cash flow and if that’s the case, we’d be happy to send our niece a reasonable monthly allowance...”
“Now that’s quite generous of you,” Mr. Ryan said, wondering if he had possibly misjudged these American relatives. “However, that won’t be necessary, Mr. Griffith.”
Briefly, Mr. Ryan explained the purpose and functions of the Dalworth trusts administered by a board of directors in New York. After which he explained his position as the executor of Andrew Dalworth’s provisions in relation to Easter Hill and to Jessica, and his fiscal responsibility for Jessica’s allowance, schooling, travel, and so forth.
“I’m pleased to know everything is so tidy,” Eric said, smiling steadily at the old lawyer. He was also pleased (and suddenly grateful) that he had made solid plans of his own and was therefore not dependent on a nuisance settlement from this tight-fisted old coot, or on a bone thrown to him with whimsical generosity by his niece.
Yet Eric couldn’t help but feel diminished by the role he was required to play, cast as the scoundrel in a bogus necktie, forced to cheat and lie because no other avenue was open to him. He didn’t want to spend his life waiting for a hand on his shoulder, a hard, official voice saying, “A question or two, if you don’t mind.”
Cantering one morning across a meadow above Easter Hill on one of Dalworth’s hunters, a pair of Irish lads on a dusty road had greeted him with smiles, and when he had saluted them with his crop they had pulled off their caps in a gesture of deference that had touched him... That was the life he wanted, not hiding his face from privileged Scots lairds and the likes of Mrs. Cadwalader.
Angus Ryan made a steeple of his fingers and looked across them at Eric, trying to take a reading on the man. Since he was basically tolerant and charitable, Ryan was thinking his first appraisal might have been hasty.
“Perhaps you could satisfy my curiosity on one point, Mr. Griffith. Handling the business of the estate as I do, forwarding mail and such, how is it I’ve never come across a postcard or letter from you or your wife in all these long years?”
Eric had rehearsed an answer to this question, and as he met the old man’s narrowing eyes, he was glad that he had practiced his responses with Maud and in front of his bedroom mirror — rueful smiles, the sigh of futility at the pain of the past, shrugs of dismissal and helplessness.
“The child had started a fresh new life and didn’t need us. But quite frankly, my sister Monica and my wife never hit it off. Whose fault was it?” One of the rueful smiles. “Who can say? My sister didn’t like the fact that Maud had been married before. But perhaps she wouldn’t have been happy with whomever I married.” A shrug of fond helplessness. “I was quite a bit older than Monica, and she may have thought my function in life was to be the eternal big brother, available forever for riding lessons, a partner to practice the latest dance craze with.” A sigh at the pain of the past. “Yet, as I’m sure you understand, my loyalty had to be with my wife...”
“Of course,” Angus Ryan said.
“But now, at a time when our niece is truly alone, naturally we’re standing by.”
“I think... I understand your position, Mr. Griffith.”
“Now there’s something I’d like to ask you, if I may, Mr. Ryan. About a picture along the second floor corridor of Easter Hill — an oil painting. A Hereford steer on a winter day with an old barn and some outbuildings at the edge of a field.”
There was no such painting, but this was a gamble Eric Griffith had decided he must take. This was the crux of the matter, the reason for this meeting.
“It looks like the countryside where I have my home in the States, Chester County in Pennsylvania. We have a museum there on the Brandywine with dozens of such oils, in the style of the Wyeths and Howard Pyle — a whole school of painters...”
“A Hereford against outbuildings?” Ryan frowned and shook his head, and Eric breathed more easily. “I’m afraid I don’t know the picture, Mr. Griffith.”
“Well, it’s not important. But it reminded me of home.”
“I’d been after Andrew Dalworth for a good while to have a curator in to catalogue the collections. He and Jessica were great shoppers, you know.”
He smiled at a memory. “It was hard to tell who was the younger when they were out on their expeditions. Still, Andrew felt strongly that a man’s home had no business with librarians and accountants and sightseers and the like.”
Concealing his relief at this information, Eric glanced at his wristwatch and managed a neatly executed start of surprise.
“I really shouldn’t take up any more of your time, Mr. Ryan, but I’m pleased that we had this talk.”
They stood and shook hands. Then Eric pretended to remember something. “By the way, Mr. Ryan, at dinner the other night, Jessica suggested that she and her Aunt Maud take a little vacation in London. Naturally, that’s a decision we wouldn’t make without your approval.”
Ryan looked at him keenly. “It was her idea, you say?”
“Yes, she thought it might be a nice change of scene. It will be my treat, of course...”
Angus Ryan rubbed his jaw and then said, “Well, I can’t see the harm in a little holiday just now.”
“In that case, I’ll tell her ‘bon voyage’ for you.”
Mr. Ryan showed him to the doors of the reception area. Eric smiled boyishly at the pair of middle-aged secretaries and took the lift down to the street.
After staring out at the River Liffey for a moment or so, Mr. Ryan turned and picked up his phone and placed a call to Easter Hill.
In the lounge of the Russell Hotel off St. Stephen’s Green, Eric ordered a whiskey and made two telephone calls, one to Tony Saxe at the Hannibal Arms, the second to Easter Hill where he found (as he expected) that the phone was busy.
To pass the time, he bought a copy of the Irish Register from the concierge and studied the racing columns and turf reports. The attention of the writers and betting commissioners (limey for bookie, Eric knew) was centered on the upcoming Grand National. Heavy favorites at this stage were Daedalus; the French entry, Etoile Rouge; and Kerry Dancer, a great bay from the Muirheads outside Belfast.
Eric’s eyes were drawn as usual to the long shots, the predicted also-rans. When they came in, it was so much more gratifying (and profitable) than when the beautifully bred favorites flashed past the finish line.
He tried Easter Hill again. When the connection was established, he said to Maud, “Who was on the line?”