To the hilt [en]

Oliver Grantchester who, true to his loud-voiced authoritative manner, had taken it as his natural province to orchestrate the semi-business meeting, cleared his throat noisily and said, 'I say, I say' a few times until everyone was listening. 'I suggest we all sit down,' he said, 'and discuss the immediate future.'

Everyone acted on his suggestion, and I looked round at the haphazard circle of sofas, chairs and footstools, and at my mother, with me on one side of her and Emily on the other, then at Patsy and at Surtees (scowling) and Xenia (fidgeting), and at Margaret Morden and at Tobe, at Himself (alone, having sent his countess off with James and his wife), at Oliver (in charge), at Desmond Finch (smirking) and finally at Chris, beside me.

Chris crossed his long legs in their black tights, showing a stretch of thigh. The legs ended below the ankles in black patent medium-heeled court shoes. ('Don't worry, I can run in them,' he'd said.)

Oliver stared at him with displeasure. 'You may leave now,' he said.

I started to say, 'I want him to stay…' and almost choked on the 'him', turning it to 'her' at the last fraction of credibility. 'I asked Christina to stay,' I repeated. 'She is my guest in my mother's house.'

No one protested further. Tobe put his face in his hands. His body shook.

Oliver said with satisfaction, 'We all know that the power of attorney that Ivan gave to Alexander expired with his death. Alexander has no authority from now on to conduct any business for Ivan's estate. Patsy, indeed, forbids it.'

Patsy nodded vigorously. Surtees sneered. Xenia, not old enough to understand the words, simply transmitted secondhand hate.

I said mildly, 'There's the codicil…'

Oliver interrupted, 'Ivan may have written a codicil, but it can't be found. We can assume he tore it up, as he suggested he would.'

'He didn't tear it up. He gave it to me for safekeeping.'

'Yes, we know that,' Oliver said impatiently, 'and he made you give it back again. We were all there. He made you give it back.'

'It isn't in this house,' Patsy said.

'Have you searched?' I asked with interest.

She glared.

'It isn't in my office,' Grantchester said smoothly. 'We can safely assume it no longer exists.'

'No, we can't,' I said. 'Ivan gave it back to me again later, and I have got it here today.'

Both Patsy and Grantchester looked furiously disconcerted. My mother was nodding, 'Ivan gave it back to Alexander,' and no one else seemed to mind one way or another.

'Give it to me, then, and I'll read it out,' Grantchester said.

I hesitated. 'I think,' I said politely, 'that I'll give it to Tobias to read out. If you don't mind, Tobe?'

He had with difficulty stopped laughing. He said he would be of any service he could.

I put a hand out towards Chris, who opened his black leather handbag and took out the codicil in its envelope. Also in the handbag, I knew, were a scent-laden lace handkerchief, a lipstick and a thoroughly illegal set of brass knuckles. It wasn't only Tobe who had trouble with giggles.

I took the envelope and crossed to Tobias, saying, 'Ivan signed and dated this twice across the stick-down flap. You can verify that I haven't tampered with it.'

Soberly Tobias examined the envelope, reported on its secure state, and ripped it open, pulling out the single sheet of paper inside.

He read the introduction, then:

'I bequeath my racehorses to Emily Jane Kinloch, known as Emily Jane Cox.'

Emily gasped, wide-eyed, moved beyond tears.

Tobias continued, 'I bequeath the chalice known as King Alfred's Gold Cup to my friend Robert, Earl of Kinloch.'

Himself looked stricken dumb.

Tobias read, 'I appoint Alexander Kinloch, my stepson, to be my executor, in conjunction with my two executors already appointed in my Will, namely Oliver Grantchester and Robert, Earl of Kinloch.'

Patsy stood up, stiffly angry, and demanded, 'What does that mean, appointing Alexander as executor?'

'It means,' Himself told her neutrally, 'that Alexander has a duty to help bring your father's estate to probate.'

'Are you telling me he still has any say in the brewery's affairs?'

'Yes. Until your father's estate is wound up, he does.'

'It's impossible.' She turned to the lawyer. 'Oliver! Say he's wrong.'

Grantchester said regretfully, 'If the codicil was properly drawn and witnessed, then Lord Kinloch is correct.'

Tobias stood and walked round the room, showing the paper to everyone in turn. 'It is written in Sir Ivan's own handwriting,' he said.

'But the witnesses?' Patsy demanded, before he reached her. 'Who were they?

'The witnesses,' my mother said, 'were Wilfred, his nurse, and Lois, our cleaner. I watched them witness Ivan's signature. It was all done properly. Ivan was very careful.'

Patsy stared long at the paper. 'He had no right…'

'He had every right,' Himself said. 'Alexander will work with Mr Grantchester and me to do the best we can for a good resolution to your father's affairs. Why do you not acknowledge that the continued existence of the brewery today is altogether thanks to Alexander's efforts, in conjunction with Mr Tollright and Mrs Morden…' he gave them one of his little bows, '… and why do you not realise that your father knew what he was doing when he put his trust in Alexander's integrity…?'

'Don't,' I said, trying to stop him.

'You never stand up for yourself, Al.'

'Let it be.'

He shook his head at me.

I reflected that Ivan's trust had wandered in and out a bit, and also that he'd trusted Norman Quorn, but anything that might dampen Patsy's animosity, I supposed, couldn't be bad.

Oliver Grantchester moved smoothly back to his intended overview, this time accepting the codicil's provisions as fact, whatever he privately thought of them.

'The horse Golden Malt-' he began.

'Will run in the King Alfred Gold Cup a week on Saturday,' Emily said firmly.

Grantchester raised his eyebrows and said, 'No one seems to know where the horse is.'

Surtees stood up convulsively and pointed at me in accusation. 'He knows where it is.' He was unnecessarily shouting. 'Make him tell you.'

Himself said, 'After probate the horse will belong to Emily. Until then it can run in races by order of the executors.'

Surtees obstinately shouted, 'It belongs to the brewery. Alexander stole it. I'll see he goes to jail.'

Even the lawyer began to lose patience with him. He said, 'Whether Mrs Cox or the brewery is ultimately judged to be the owner, the executors can still authorise the horse to race, as it may lose value as an asset if it doesn't, for which the executors might be held accountable. If Mrs Cox can assure us that she can produce the horse at Cheltenham while complying with all racing regulations, then as executors, Lord Kinloch, Alexander and I will, at the appropriate time, declare him a runner.'

Well, bravo, I thought.

Surtees seethed.

Emily said sweetly that she was sure she could abide by all the regulations.

Surtees sat down like a cocked volcano, steaming, ever ready to erupt.

'Now,' Oliver Grantchester said, moving along the agenda majestically, 'The prize, the King Alfred chalice. Where is it?'

No one answered.

My mother said eventually, almost weakly, 'Ivan never sends… oh dear, sent… the real chalice to the races. It's far too valuable to risk. But he had several smaller replicas made only a few years ago. There must be one or two left. A replica is given to the winning owner each year.'

Desmond Finch made throat-clearing noises and flashed the silver frames of his glasses as he reported that two replicas remained in the locked glass-fronted cabinet in Sir Ivan's office.

'That's the trophy settled, then,' Himself said cheerfully, but Patsy told him with spite, 'Your precious Alexander stole the real one. Make him give it back. And whatever my father said, the chalice belongs to the brewery. It belongs to me.'