‘ “The following remarks, however, are addressed not to this trio of interested bystanders, but to the six relatives previously mentioned, whose presence around this table tonight is already a foregone conclusion. And yet how, you might ask, can I possibly make this prediction with such assurance? What force could possibly motivate six people, whose lives keep them so busily and gloriously occupied on the world’s stage, to abandon their commitments at a moment’s notice and to travel to this lonely, godforsaken spot – a spot, I might add, which they found no difficulty in avoiding while its owner was still alive? The answer is simple: they will be propelled by the very same force which has always – and solely – driven them throughout the entire conduct of their professional careers. I refer, of course, to greed: naked, clawing, brutish greed. Never mind that we have, gathered around this table tonight, six of the wealthiest people in the country. Never mind that they all know, for a certain fact, that my personal fortune can only amount to a tiny fraction of their own. Greed is so ingrained in these people, has become such a fixed habit of mind, that I know they will not be able to resist making the journey, merely in order to scrape whatever leavings they can from the rotten barrel which is all that remains of my estate.” ’
‘Poetic old thing, wasn’t he?’ said Dorothy, seemingly not at all discomfited by the tone of the document.
‘If rather prone to mixing his metaphors,’ said Hilary. ‘You scrape the bottom of barrels, don’t you? And aren’t they only meant to be rotten if there’s a rotten apple in them?’
‘If I may continue,’ said Mr Sloane. ‘There is only one more paragraph.’
Silence fell.
‘ “And so it gives me no small pleasure to announce to these parasites – these leeches in human form – that all their hopes are in vain. I die in a condition of poverty such as will be beyond their imaginations to grasp. Throughout the long, happy years of our marriage, Rebecca and I did not live wisely. What money we had, we spent. Doubtless we should have been busy hoarding it, investing it, putting it to work, or devoting all our energies to sniffing it out and laying our hands on even more of it. But that, I’m afraid, was not our philosophy. We chose to enjoy ourselves, and the consequence was that we ran up debts: debts which remain unpaid to this day. Debts so large that even the sale of this accursed residence – always assuming that we could find someone foolish enough to buy it – would not be sufficient to cover them. I therefore bequeath these debts to the six aforementioned members of my family, and instruct that they be shared out among them equally. A full schedule is attached as an appendix to this statement. It only remains for me to wish that you all pass a safe and pleasant evening together under this roof.
‘ “Dated this eleventh day of January, in the year nineteen hundred and ninety-one. Signed, Mortimer Winshaw.” ’
There was another crack of thunder. It was closer, now, and it rumbled on for some time. When it had finally died down, Mark said: ‘Of course, you all realize that legally he can’t get away with that. We’re under no obligation to bail him out with his creditors.’
‘Doubtless you’re right,’ said Thomas, rising to his feet and making for the whisky decanter. ‘But that’s hardly the point. The point, I suppose, was to have a damned good joke at our expense: and in that respect, I’d say he succeeded rather well.’
‘Well, at least it shows the old boy still had a bit of spirit in him,’ said Hilary.
‘How much was he paying you?’ barked Henry, suddenly turning in Phoebe’s direction.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘The fellow claims he didn’t have any money – so how come he was employing a private nurse?’
‘Your uncle paid Miss Barton,’ said the solicitor, pouring suave oil on troubled waters, ‘out of a capital sum raised on a mortgage against this property.’ He smiled at the angry faces ranged against him. ‘He really was a very poor man.’
‘Well, I don’t know about anybody else,’ said Hilary, getting up and pulling on the bell-rope, ‘but I could do with some supper after sitting through all that lot. It’s after ten and I’ve had nothing to eat all evening. Let’s see what Pyles can come up with.’
‘Not a bad idea,’ said Roddy, as he too gravitated towards the drinks cabinet. ‘And make sure he goes down to the wine cellar while he’s at it.’
‘Damn this weather,’ said Dorothy. ‘I could normally have driven back to the farm before midnight: but there’s no point in risking the roads tonight.’
‘Yes: looks like we’re here for the duration,’ Thomas agreed.
Tabitha rose stiffly from her chair.
‘I hope no one will mind,’ she said, ‘if I resume my former station. Only, this armchair is so comfortable, and you’ve no idea what a treat it is to sit beside a real fire. My room at the Institute is quite chilly, you know: even in the summer. Won’t you come and join me, Mr Owen? It’s so long since I’ve enjoyed the company of a real man of letters.’
Michael had not yet had a chance to talk to Phoebe, and had been about to reintroduce himself with a view to finding out if she remembered their earlier acquaintance; but he did not see that he could very well refuse his patron’s summons, and now went to join her by the hearth. As he took his seat, he glanced up at the portrait which hung above the fireplace, wondering if there was a pair of watchful eyes looking out from behind it. But this, he had to admit, was unlikely: it was a Picasso, and both eyes had been painted on the same side of the face.
‘Now tell me,’ Tabitha began, laying a thin hand on his knee. ‘Have you published any more of those fascinating novels?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ he answered. ‘Inspiration seems to have deserted me recently.’
‘Oh, what a shame. But never mind: I’m sure it will return. At least you are well established in the literary world, I hope?’
‘Well, it’s been a number of years, you see, since –’
‘You’re well known to the Bloomsbury group, for instance?’
Michael frowned. ‘The … Bloomsbury –?’
‘We haven’t corresponded for some years, to my regret, but Virginia and I were very close, at one time. And dear Winifred, of course. Winifred Holtby. You’re familiar with her work?’
‘Yes, I –’
‘You know, if it would help you at all in your career, I could quite easily supply you with a number of introductions. I have a certain amount of influence with Mr Eliot. In fact the truth of it is, if you can keep a secret’ (and here she lowered her voice to a whisper) ‘I’m told that he has quite a crush on me.’
‘You mean – T.S. Eliot?’ Michael faltered. ‘Author of The Waste Land?’
Tabitha let out a bright, musical laugh.
‘Why, you silly boy!’ she said. ‘Hadn’t you heard: he’s been dead for years!’
He joined in her laughter uncertainly. ‘Yes, of course.’
‘I hope you’re not trying to tease an old lady,’ she said, poking him playfully in the ribs with a knitting needle.
‘Who, me? Of course not.’
‘My reference,’ she explained, her eyes still twinkling at the joke, ‘was to Mr George Eliot. Author of Middlemarch and Mill on the Floss.’
Tabitha took up her ball of wool and began knitting again, smiling benignly all the while. She was only able to bring an end to Michael’s dumbfounded silence by introducing an abrupt change of subject.
‘Ever flown a Tornado?’
∗
Supper at Winshaw Towers that night was not a cheerful meal, consisting as it did of cold meat, pickles, cheese and an indifferent Chablis. They were only eight at table: Henry and Mark chose to remain in an upstairs room, watching the news on television. They both seemed to think that an announcement of American air strikes against Saddam Hussein might be imminent. The others all sat together at one end of the long table in the dining room, which was draughty and inhospitable. The radiators were not working, for some reason, and the electric chandelier was lacking several bulbs. They ate for some minutes in near-silence. Michael did not feel that he could initiate a private conversation with Phoebe in these circumstances, and the Winshaws themselves appeared to have little enough to say to one another. Meanwhile the constant howling of the wind, and the hammering of rain against the windowpanes, did nothing to raise anybody’s spirits.