“I don’t know; I suppose it’s possible.”
“Could they work out of the same law firm?”
“Solicitors and barristers are in different firms.”
“Have you heard from the solicitor?”
“No.”
“I expect you will shortly, if there’s any truth to all this.”
“Tell me exactly what Pickering told you.”
“He said you were now the largest independent importer of wines in Britain and that you now owned a lot of wine shops and pubs.”
“Hold on a minute; someone is rapping on my door.” She put the phone down and returned after a moment. “It’s a letter from James’s solicitor,” she said. “Hand delivered.”
“What does it say?”
“I haven’t opened it.”
“Open it.”
“Oh, Stone, this is so crazy.”
“Open the letter and read it to me.” He heard the ripping and rustle of paper.
“ ‘Dear blah, blah, blah, condolences, etcetera. It is my duty to inform you that, shortly before his death, Mr. Cutler made a will, in which you are an important beneficiary. I would be grateful if you would call at this office at your convenience so that we may discuss this matter. Yours very sincerely.’ It says ‘important beneficiary.’ That doesn’t sound like I inherit everything.”
“Maybe it’s British understatement.”
“Oh, God, I can’t deal with this now; I have to arrange a funeral for James in London; he didn’t have any family to speak of—both his parents are dead, and he had no brothers or sisters, so it all falls to me.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Stone, will you go and see this solicitor and find out about this?”
“I think it might be better if you had your own solicitor go.”
“I don’t have one, and I hate Daddy’s. Just go and talk to him; I’ll tell him you’re coming.”
“All right. Is there anything else?”
“Let me give you his phone number and address.”
Stone wrote it all down, and Sarah’s London number as well.
“I’m coming up to London tomorrow, and I’ll call you then.”
“All right. I’ll be around here. Oh, let me give you a portable phone number, too.” Stone retrieved the phone from its charging cradle and read off the number, which was taped to the telephone.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” she said, “and I’ll call the solicitor now.”
“All right; tell him I’ll wait to hear from him.” Stone hung up and went to retrieve the papers. The story was on the inside pages of both the Times and the Independent, and it was brief in each case. It didn’t seem out of the ordinary to Stone. The phone rang. The solicitor, he thought. “Hello?”
“Mr. Barrington, it’s Ted Cricket; Bobby Jones and I would like to come and see you, if that’s all right.”
“Yes, fine. When’s good for you?”
“How about six o’clock this evening at your hotel?”
“That’s good for me. I’ll see you both at six in the same place we met the first time.”
“Good, sir.” He hung up.
Stone hung up, too, and the phone rang immediately. “Hello?”
“Is that Mr. Barrington?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Julian Wainwright; I am solicitor for the estate of James Cutler.”
“Oh, yes, Sarah Buckminster said you’d call.”
“Miss Buckminster tells me you’ll be representing her in the matter of the Cutler estate. I’m a bit confused; you’re an American, are you?”
“That’s right, but I’m not representing her as an attorney, only as a friend. Sarah is very busy with making funeral arrangements at the moment, and she asked me to see you about the letter you sent her today.”
“All right, then; will sometime this afternoon be good?”
“Yes, fine.”
“Say, four o’clock?”
“That’s fine. I have your address.”
“I’ll see you at four, then.” He hung up.
Stone hung up, too, and sighed. How did he get roped into this?
Chapter 16
THE SOLICITOR’S OFFICE WAS IN PONT Street, near Harrod’s, and Stone was on time. So was Julian Wainwright; Stone was shown immediately into his office.
“Been over here long?” Wainwright asked, showing him to a chair.
“Just a few days,” Stone said.
“Known Sarah long?”
“We knew each other when she lived in New York.”
“Forgive me, I’m just trying to understand why she sent you to receive this news.”
“I thought I explained that on the phone,” Stone said. “She’s busy making funeral arrangements, and, of course, she’s upset about the events of last weekend.”
“Ah, yes,” Wainwright said, shuffling some papers on his desk. “Well, I expect you’ll want to know the contents of James Cutler’s will.”
“That’s why I’m here,” Stone reminded him.
“It’s like this,” Wainwright said. “James left bequests to EtonCollege, MagdelanCollege at Oxford, to Oxfam—that’s a large charity over here—and to his club, the Athenaeum. The total of those was three hundred thousand pounds.” He paused, seeming to have a hard time reading the neatly typed document before him.
“Go on,” Stone said.