Still, all the more for him. By Christ, he was going to enjoy this money. He could get his creditors off his back and still be quids in. That old house must be worth a pretty penny. He might flog it to some nouveau riche upstart – yes, and savour Helen’s shock. It was high time he paid her back. The old bitch had scuppered his chances with the only girl he had ever loved.
Uncle Robert would have left her something, but there was no danger of its being substantial. He hadn’t believed in putting money into women’s hands.
‘I inherited Helen,’ he had been fond of saying. ‘My father wrote it into his will that I was to be responsible for her welfare, should she remain unmarried. Of course, she’s made herself useful, keeping house for me, and she doesn’t eat much, so it’s worked out well, one way and another.’
Presumably Aunt Helen would get a cottage and a modest sum, which would revert to the estate once she popped her clogs. Old Robert would want to pass on his estate intact to the nearest male heir. Greg allowed a smile to flicker across his face. Not long now. A few minutes in the rain, then sherry and ham, accompanied by the usual tommyrot about what a fine fellow the deceased was, after which the solicitor would do his bit – and it would all belong to him.
Nathaniel glanced around the Rawley morning room. He hadn’t been in here before; the late Judge Rawley had preferred to talk business in his study. The room felt stuffy this afternoon with all these people, dampness clinging to their clothes. The old codgers: that had been Judge Rawley’s name for his former colleagues. Their wives were with them, one or two with plummy voices and an air of grandeur, others with prettily crumbling skin and a soft tremor about the hands.
His eye fell on a startlingly pretty girl across the room. Eighteen or nineteen years old, slender and fair, how fragile she looked in her black.
‘Lovely, isn’t she?’
He turned to find the judge’s sister, Helen Rawley.
‘Eleanor Kimber,’ said Miss Rawley.
‘One of the Kimbers?’
‘The very same. That’s Sir Edward over there – eyebrows like caterpillars – and the lady with her back to us is Lady Kimber. She’s the one Eleanor got her looks from, but don’t waste your time waiting for her to turn round. She’s pretty hard-faced these days.’
‘You don’t sound keen on her.’
Miss Rawley lifted one shoulder in a shrug. Starch crackled. Her gown was an extraordinary creation covered in ruffles and rosettes. ‘Actually, I think you’ll find it’s the other way round. She isn’t keen on me.’
The old girl seemed determined to be outspoken. He answered like with like. ‘Why?’
‘Something that happened a long time ago – and, for the record, she was the one at fault, though you’d never think it after the way she’s cold-shouldered me all these years.’
‘But she’s come today, though perhaps she’s here as Sir Edward’s wife, and he’s here for the legal connection. That is, I imagine he’s a magistrate?’
‘There’s a family connection too.’
‘The Rawleys are related to the Kimbers?’ asked Nathaniel.
‘Not to the Kimber family, but to Lady Kimber.’
‘She was a Rawley before she married Sir Edward?’
‘To be accurate,’ said Miss Rawley, ‘she was the widow of Henry Davenport before she married Sir Edward, but before that she was a Rawley. Henry Davenport was Eleanor’s father, but he died when she was a baby. I think of Lady Kimber as a niece, or I used to when she was still speaking to me. She’s my cousin’s daughter.’
‘So she’s … what? Your second cousin? First cousin once-removed?’
‘Distant cousin with bells on. It’s difficult to think of someone from a younger generation as a cousin. Not natural.’
He had had enough of her carping. ‘It’s a decent turnout. It’s good to know Judge Rawley was held in high regard after his retirement.’
Miss Rawley snorted. ‘I wish they’d clear off, the lot of them. Just listen to them, full of what a sterling chap he was.’
‘They’re trying to comfort you.’
‘They’ve made me hopping mad.’ Miss Rawley’s faded eyes were suddenly overbright. ‘My brother didn’t drop down dead, you know – of course you know. I had my doubts when Doctor Slater broke his leg and we had to have you instead, but my brother couldn’t possibly have had better care. Mind you, after what he did to help you with that clinic of yours, it was the least you owed him.’
Charming. Nathaniel didn’t know Miss Rawley well, couldn’t say he wanted to, but he had heard her do this before, pay a compliment, then in the next breath knock your feet from under you. Did she really not know that his regard for the judge had been genuine?
‘He was known for weeks to be on his way out,’ said Miss Rawley. ‘But these people singing his praises today, did they say to him, “Look here, old chap, you’ve been a good friend to me”, or “I admired your handling of the So-and-So case”, or some such? No, they didn’t. But they’re queuing up to say it to me and I feel like slapping the lot of them.’ Her voice cracked and dropped to a fierce whisper. ‘It would have given him such a boost. Such a boost.’
It was the first sign of vulnerability he had seen in her. Even during her brother’s final days, she had never shirked her duty, assisting the nurse in everything from changing the sheets to emptying the bedpan, staying up around the clock, asking probing questions and not once flinching at his replies.
‘Don’t look now, but here comes Greg – my nephew. He’s the last person I want to speak to. Have you noticed how he’s been eyeing up the place?’
Sympathy vanished. ‘Sounds as though you don’t particularly care for him.’
‘And whose fault is that?’
First Lady Kimber, now Greg Rawley. How many others had Miss Rawley fallen out with – without, of course, it ever being her fault?
‘Excuse me if I slide away,’ she murmured.
Nathaniel glanced at the nephew. Maybe ten years older than himself, early forties: handsome face and good build, but carrying a few extra pounds that suggested easy living. He exuded an air of confidence and cultivation, but Nathaniel sensed something else too, something shrewd. Exquisitely turned-out, from the discreet gleam of gold collar studs down to the patent-leather toecaps – and as for the suit, well, Rawley was carrying a lot of money on his back.
‘Mr Rawley.’ An older gentleman approached. ‘You too, Doctor Brewer. I’m Harold Porter, solicitor to the deceased. It’s time for the reading of the will.’
‘You can’t need me, surely?’ said Nathaniel.
‘You’re Doctor Nathaniel Brewer, are you not? Then if you’d be so good …’
Perhaps Judge Rawley had made a bequest to the clinic. In his heart, Nathaniel gave thanks. He looked round for Alistair. ‘Should I fetch Doctor Cottrell?’
‘Ah yes, your partner at the clinic. No need, sir. It’s just your presence that is required.’
Mr Porter led them into Robert Rawley’s book-lined study. His rack of pipes still stood on the oak desk, but the air was empty of the sharp-sweet scent of tobacco. Three chairs, evidently from the dining room, stood before the desk. The household’s two middle-aged servants were already present. They bobbed curtsies.
‘If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen,’ said Mr Porter, ‘I’ll fetch Miss Rawley.’
Nathaniel approached the staff. He knew the thin one by sight because she had always answered the door to him. He felt sorry for her, a woman her age being required to wear that silly frilled cap with the ribbons tied under her chin.
‘I know you’ve both worked here a long time. I’m sorry for your loss. I imagine Judge Rawley was a good master.’
The women gasped. He turned to see Greg Rawley had seated himself behind the desk.
‘Get out of that chair!’
Helen Rawley stood frozen in the doorway, an age-spotted hand splayed across her chest.
‘I think you’ll find it’s my chair, now, at my desk, in my study,
’ Rawley said, coolly.
‘Not until the will has been read,’ his aunt retorted, but Nathaniel caught the tremor in her voice. He wished himself anywhere but here. Other people’s family squabbles weren’t for him.
‘It’s customary on these occasions,’ said Mr Porter, ‘for the solicitor to sit behind the desk.’
With a shrug, Rawley got up. He rested his hand on the first of the three dining chairs. Nathaniel stood aside for Miss Rawley, expecting her to take the middle seat, but she rustled to the other end. Nathaniel hesitated. To sit in the centre felt presumptuous, but he had no choice.
Mr Porter opened a document, which crackled as he unfolded it. ‘I have here the last will and testament of Robert Augustus Rawley. I’ll begin by summarising its contents to ensure we all know where we stand. Firstly, there are bequests to Mrs Elizabeth Burley and Miss Edith Ames in recognition of their years of service.’ He nodded dismissal at the women. ‘I’ll speak to you afterwards in the kitchen.’
With murmured thanks, they departed.
‘Everything else, including all moneys and the property known as Jackson’s House, goes to Judge Rawley’s nephew, Gregory Arthur Rawley, with the judge’s sister, Helen Amelia Rawley, retaining a life interest.’
‘Retaining a – what did you say?’ Greg Rawley demanded.
‘A life interest. That is to say, while everything belongs to you, Mr Rawley, you cannot dispose of it, because your aunt is entitled to live in Jackson’s House and have the use of the interest on all savings and investments, with which to run the household and supply her personal needs, though she may not touch the capital itself. Neither may you touch the capital, Mr Rawley.’
‘That’s preposterous!’
‘These are your uncle’s wishes. Judge Rawley’s father committed Miss Rawley to his care and he was the sort to take his responsibilities seriously. It was your uncle’s hope, Mr Rawley, that you would settle at Jackson’s House. He was aware of the … ahem … coolness between yourself and your aunt and while he was ignorant as to its cause, he was prepared to put it down to Miss Rawley’s sharpness—’
‘Hang on,’ Nathaniel interrupted. ‘You shouldn’t make personal remarks in front of me.’
‘I merely seek to explain Judge Rawley’s wishes. He wrote letters to the three of you, making this very point, among others, so I’m not speaking out of turn.’
‘Letters?’ Miss Rawley repeated. ‘Holding me to blame?’
Nathaniel would have given her a sympathetic glance if he hadn’t been so confoundedly uncomfortable.
‘Shall we move on?’ Mr Porter suggested.
‘No!’ The word exploded from Greg Rawley. ‘I want to discuss this life interest twaddle. D’you mean to say that everything is mine—’
‘Entirely and absolutely, Mr Rawley.’
‘—but I can’t have it yet?’
‘You may live in Jackson’s House, which is now yours, and the interest on the money will be more than sufficient to cover the household bills and keep you in comfort.’
‘But I can’t touch the capital.’
‘Precisely so.’
‘Can I sell the house?’
‘Gracious me, no. It’s your aunt’s home for her lifetime.’
‘What if she went elsewhere?’
‘Come now, Mr Rawley, surely you aren’t suggesting …?’
‘Answer the question, man.’
‘Were Miss Rawley to move out,’ Mr Porter replied, ‘the terms of the will would still apply. After all, she might at any point choose to return.’
‘So the house and the money are mine—’
‘Entirely and absolutely.’
‘—but I can’t have them until—’
‘Quite so,’ Mr Porter cut in.
‘I’ll contest the will,’ Rawley declared.
‘Such an action would merely leave you out of pocket.’
Rawley surged to his feet, slamming his hands on the desk and leaning towards the solicitor as if about to blast him to hell and back. Instead, he flung himself away, marched out and slammed the door, sending a vibration humming through the room.
Mr Porter sighed but didn’t appear perturbed. Were family brawls all in a day’s work?
‘Fear not, Miss Rawley. The will is watertight. About the letters …’
‘Oh yes,’ she exclaimed, ‘the letters where my brother publicly blames me. It’s insufferable. Good day.’
She bounced to her feet. Nathaniel hurried to open the door. She stalked out, head held high, but he caught the soft sound of a sniff. Oh hell.
‘With the family members gone, there’s no point in my remaining. I don’t know why I was here in the first place.’
‘You’re here because you’re named in the will, Doctor. Take a seat – please.’
Reluctantly, he complied. ‘A bequest to the clinic, I imagine.’
‘Judge Rawley mentioned your crusade to bring affordable medical provision to the slums of Moss Side.’
‘He was good enough to lend his weight to the scheme – and if he was generous enough to leave a bequest, frankly, sir, I’d rather have been informed at the outset and despatched along with the servants, so as to avoid the family row.’
Mr Porter gave him a heavily patient look. ‘There is no bequest. Judge Rawley chose you to oversee fair play, as it were, in the family situation he left behind. I’ll take care of any legal complications that arise, though none should. Your role is that of impartial friend to the parties.’
‘I have no intention of playing umpire between the Rawleys.’ Good God – between those two? ‘Couldn’t you do it?’
‘Judge Rawley chose you.’
‘Ah.’
‘Ah indeed, Doctor. You could, of course, refuse to act, but that would be unwise. You wouldn’t wish to be known as the man who spurned the duty entrusted to him.’
‘I’ll consider it,’ Nathaniel said, stiffly, but he knew his arm had been well and truly twisted.
Chapter Three
The only thing that could go wrong would be if Dadda took the aisle seat on the tram, trapping her beside the window. As they boarded, Mary headed for the front, then turned and indicated an empty seat she had passed. With other passengers behind him, Dadda had to swing in before her. Good.
As they arrived in Chorlton, she waited until the last moment.
‘There’s something I need to do. Will you ask Mother to keep my tea warm?’
Jumping off before he could ask questions, she hurried along, searching for door numbers, though the shops didn’t appear to have them. At last she found it, over the road from the Lloyds Hotel: a door in between the grocer’s and the tobacconist’s. On the door frame, a small card said EMPLOYMENT AGENCY FOR EDUCATED WOMEN.
The door swung open. She jumped back as a girl appeared, wearing a long cardigan over a crisp blouse with a violet necktie knotted beneath a stiff collar. She had strawberry-blonde hair, on top of which was a colossal hat lavishly trimmed with silk forget-me-nots. As she stopped short, another girl cannoned into her from behind.
‘Oh, I say! Were you on your way up to see us?’ the first one asked in a plummy voice. Beneath the strawberry-blonde hair, her complexion was creamy, with freckles dotted roguishly across her nose.
‘I thought you were open till seven.’
‘We are, but there’s not been so much as a dicky-bird all afternoon, so we thought we’d sneak off early. Come on, Kennett, back we go.’
Beyond the flowery cartwheel of a hat, Mary glimpsed brown feathers sticking up on a brimless hat. Kennett: what sort of name was that? And what about the appointment she had requested for today?
She followed them up a narrow flight of stairs to a square of landing, with a door on the right. She entered a huge room. Pleasure rushed through her and she was about to admire the spacious office when she realised the front half of the room was set up as a sitting room of sorts. There was no time to feel surprised: she was too busy trying to catch her heart before it could pl
ummet into her shoes as she took in the state of the office area. The desks were untidy, the waste-paper basket overflowed and on top of the filing cabinet was a pile of papers that should undoubtedly be inside it.
Disappointment clenched in her stomach. She turned away, focusing on the sitting area, as if it was of consuming interest. Large windows overlooked the wide street. Three battered sofas and an assortment of chairs made a rough square around a low table, which housed a stack of books and piles of pamphlets. Against one wall was a sideboard, the top of which did duty as a bookshelf. Why would they have an area like this in their office?
‘Welcome to our domain,’ said Kennett, removing a pearl-tipped hatpin. ‘Take a pew. I’m Josephine Kennett and this is Angela Lever.’
Dark-haired Miss Kennett sat at one of the desks, so Mary took the chair in front, only to realise that Miss Lever was seated behind her at the other desk. Feeling like piggy-in-the-middle, she turned the chair so she was sideways to them both, trying not to be put off by their untidy desks.
‘I wrote to you. I’m Mary Maitland.’
‘And we wrote back,’ said Miss Lever, ‘inviting you to pop along tomorrow after work. We were going to stay late specially.’
‘I haven’t received anything.’ She looked at Miss Lever.
‘Come straight from the office, have you?’ said Miss Kennett and Mary swung her head back again. ‘You’ll find the letter waiting when you get home.’
‘That’s why we felt free to slope off early tonight. Good thing you caught us.’
‘Will you help me? I didn’t go to high school, if that’s what you mean by educated. My parents didn’t put me in for the scholarship.’
Oh, the difficulties of being the poor relations! The Kimbers presumably wouldn’t have minded her attending high school, but the neighbours might have thought the Maitlands were getting above themselves. You trod a fine line when you were related to the neighbourhood’s most important family.
The Poor Relation Page 2