The Legacy: Trouble Comes Disguised As Family (Unspoken Book 2)

by T. A. Belshaw

  Nicola slipped out of the car and opened the rear door for Martha who strode purposely to the aluminium tube gate, pulled on the spring lever and pushed it open. She stepped onto the gravel drive and marched along the side of the old house towards another, smaller metal gate at the back. When she reached it, she stopped, placed her elbows on the top rail and looked into what had once been a busy farmyard.

  ‘I bet this brings back happy memories, Mum,’ said Nicola as she stood at the side of Martha.

  ‘Not all happy ones,’ Martha replied, quietly.

  Marjorie pointed to an expanse of bare concrete on the far side of the yard. ‘There used to be pig pens there, lots of them. And just to the side of the barn there was a milking parlour.’ She was quiet for a few seconds. ‘I liked it better then, it looks so empty now.’

  Martha slipped the latch on the gate and the three women walked into the farmyard. She took in the rear of the sturdy old house then stepped across to a long, wide strip of concrete that had been breached here and there by thick clumps of grass.

  ‘This was where the milking parlour stood. I was only a baby when it was built.’ She stamped on the cold concrete. ‘These foundations could still support a couple of new bungalows.’ She turned a full three hundred and sixty degrees. ‘The barn looks solid enough still. Maybe I could build one of those conversions there, people pay a fortune for those… and… I’m not sure how thick the concrete is where the sties were built but, if that area is going to be built on, it would probably have to be dug up. Old smells might linger.’

  Martha turned back towards the old, red brick house. She looked down at the concrete beneath her feet, swallowed deeply and cleared her throat before she spoke.

  ‘I can imagine my father standing here looking at the farmhouse, imagining that he’d be running the place one day. I bet it was his idea to build the milking parlour too.’ She looked down at her feet again. ‘I can almost feel his presence here. He probably stood on this very spot before my bloody mother forced him away… to die a hero’s death in the cold sea.’

  Marjorie, not to be outdone, walked across the farmyard and came to a halt in front of the barn.

  ‘My father must have stood here at some time too,’ she said.

  ‘Maybe so,’ uttered Martha, ‘but he wouldn’t have done anything to help build this place up, like my father did.’

  ‘He was a pilot, he died a hero’s death too,’ Marjorie replied, sulkily.

  ‘We don’t know that. We just know he died. He could have been bombed at the RAF base for all we know. He could have crashed his plane into the sea, trying to run away from the German planes. We just don’t know; we only have Mother’s word for it, and we know what a liar she was.’

  ‘It’s just the same with Frank. There’s no record of his death either. We just have Mother’s word for that too,’ replied Marjorie, sticking up for herself for once.

  Martha was about to hit back, but decided that punishment for such insubordination could wait until later. Instead, she gave her a look that made Marjorie quake in her boots.

  ‘Right, I want to have a good look around the place before we go to the solicitors.’ She stepped off the concrete base onto the tarmacked yard and turned towards the single remaining field. ‘There was a stable for Bessie, our shire horse, just along here. That could be another dwelling.’ She turned back and surveyed the house again. ‘Do you know what I see here? Apartments. Three apartments, and a studio in the attic, it’s plenty big enough.’

  ‘I wouldn’t want to live in the studio,’ said Marjorie, nervously. ‘Not with all the witchcraft that mother practiced up there.’

  ‘Don’t worry, you won’t be living in the studio,’ replied Martha. ‘You couldn’t afford to.’

  At one twenty-five precisely, Nicola parked up in the car park at the side of Wilson and Beanney, solicitor’s office. She got out of the car and opened the back door for her mother, who slid off the seat, straightened and turned in one movement. She was an agile woman for her age.

  ‘Do you want me to come inside with you?’ Nicola asked as Marjorie alighted from the passenger side.

  ‘Why on earth would I want you to accompany me?’ Martha asked, coldly. ‘I’m not completely gaga and I’ll almost certainly understand the legalise much better than your drink-addled brain could ever hope to.’

  She walked briskly towards the tinted glass doors of the office building. ‘Just wait here… and leave that bottle you stashed away in the dashboard alone,’ she ordered, without turning her head.

  A bored-looking receptionist, sitting in front of a modern-styled desk, with a large computer screen in the centre, greeted them with a half-smile and buzzed a message through on the intercom. A couple of minutes later, a dark-haired, handsome young man wearing a mid-grey suit and brown brogues, came out of a connecting office and smiled at them.

  ‘Good afternoon, ladies, would you follow me please, this shouldn’t take too long,’ he said, turning away as he spoke.

  ‘Are you our solicitor?’ asked Martha. She looked at him suspiciously. ‘I expected someone… older, more mature.’

  ‘Someone older,’ repeated Marjorie.

  The solicitor ignored the remarks. ‘This way please, ladies.’

  His office was a complete contrast to the one they had just left. The décor was very tastefully done, with grey walls and cream woodwork. From the walls, the serious, trustworthy faces of former partners stared down at them. The furniture was vintage and looked like it hadn’t been changed since the business opened. Edwardian chairs with comfortable seats, were placed strategically around the room. The huge desk was made of solid, polished oak and in the corner was an ebony hat stand. The only modern feature in the entire room was the laptop computer that the solicitor opened as he reached the desk. Even the landline telephones looked to have come from the 1930s.

  ‘Please, sit.’ He held out a hand towards the two comfortable-looking chairs on the other side of the desk. He waited until they were seated before sitting down himself. ‘It’s a lovely day for the time of year.’

  Martha pursed her lips. The person sitting opposite, whilst having good, old fashioned manners, seemed to be far too young to be holding a position of such responsibility.

  ‘Young man—’

  ‘Bradley.’ The young man interrupted. ‘Or, Mr Wilson, if we are to be formal. I’m happy with either.’

  ‘Well, Mr Wilson,’ replied Martha, curtly. ‘I am Mrs Crew, and this,’ she pointed to her left without looking at Marjorie, ‘is my sister, Miss Mollison. Marjorie never married,’ she added unnecessarily.

  Bradley pressed a key on the laptop, studied the screen for a moment, then opened a drawer in the desk and took out a green folder.

  ‘I am instructed to hand over a cheque to each of you, courtesy of your mother, Mrs Alice Mollison,’ he began.

  Marjorie began to fidget, wriggling about in her chair as though she couldn’t get comfortable. Martha leaned forward an inch.

  The solicitor took out two legal forms and two cheques from the folder. He slid the forms across the desk. ‘Sign at the bottom, please… where I’ve marked with an X.’

  Martha picked up a classic, black fountain pen from the desk, pulled a pair of narrow, framed spectacles from her handbag and began to peruse the document.

  ‘One hundred pounds, paid to the beneficiaries of Alice Mollison, by the National and Provincial Insurance Company,’ she read aloud. She signed the bottom of the form with a flourish, then handed Marjorie the pen and nodded to the second form. ‘Sign it,’ she ordered.

  When the documents had been pushed back across the desk, Mr Wilson countersigned both sheets of paper, put them back into the folder, then handed one of the cheques to Martha and one to Marjorie, who giggled excitedly as she received it.

  ‘Don’t lose it… in fact, give it to me, I’ll look after it.’ Martha snatched the cheque from Marjorie’s hand, studied both carefully to make sure they were identical, then folded them a
nd slipped them into her bag. She shifted in her seat and looked expectantly across the desk. Mr Wilson typed something into the laptop, closed the lid and leaned back in his chair.

  ‘Right,’ said Martha in a business-like manner. ‘Onto the substance of the will.’

  Mr Wilson shrugged. ‘I’m sorry, but that is the substance of the will, as far as you two ladies are concerned at least.’

  Martha shook her head. ‘Read it again,’ she ordered.

  The solicitor opened the folder, took out Alice’s last will and testament, and read through it. It wasn’t a long document.

  ‘That’s it,’ he said. Reading aloud, he continued, ‘My life insurance policy, provided by the National and Provincial Insurance Company, taken out in September nineteen thirty-eight to the value of, but not exceeding, one hundred pounds, shall be split evenly, between my surviving children as the policy stipulates.’

  ‘And that’s it?’ Martha leaned forward and tried to snatch the document from the solicitor’s hands.

  Bradley pulled the document out of reach and slid it back into the green folder.

  ‘That, is it,’ he held both palms upwards. ‘I know this must be something of a disappointment to you both, but that is all that was bequeathed.’

  Martha got to her feet, her face crimson. She narrowed her eyes and stared hard across the oak desk.

  ‘There’s something fishy going on here. I believe I am being robbed of my inheritance. Be warned, this will be contested.’

  ‘Contested,’ echoed Marjorie, her eyes wide. She looked from the solicitor to Martha. ‘Contested,’ she repeated.

  ‘There’s nothing to contest, I’m afraid,’ replied Bradley. It’s written in very plain language and has a very clear meaning. You see, the entire estate, including the farmhouse, the London properties, the shares and the bank accounts, were placed into a Family Protection Trust, a few years ago. There are three named, trustees, but sadly, your name isn’t one of them. The trustees are myself, Mr Beanney, my practice partner, and one other. The trust will run for one hundred and twenty-five years, unless it is dissolved by the aforementioned trustees.’

  Mr Wilson got to his feet. ‘Legally, the trust is bullet proof, Mrs Crew. You can waste money on your own solicitor if you want to, but you’d be throwing your money away.’

  Marjorie’s mouth opened and closed as if she was impersonating a goldfish. Martha hit her on the back of the head. ‘Wake up, Marjorie,’ she spat, then turned back to Bradley.

  ‘Even if all this is true, and there is some fancy trust in place, which, you can be assured, I will be looking into. Surely there would have been interest on the insurance policy. It was taken out in nineteen thirty-eight for God’s sake. Where is the interest? Have you taken it in fees?’ She narrowed her eyes again and stared across the desk.

  ‘Our fees are paid by the trust, Mrs Crew,’ said Bradley. ‘There is no accrued interest. The policy pay-out was set at one hundred pounds. It would have been one hundred pounds had she died the day after she took out the policy, and it remained at one hundred pounds right up to the time of her death. I’m sorry to be the harbinger of bad news, but that’s the way these things work.’

  He looked at his watch.

  ‘I’m sorry but we will have to conclude out meeting now. I have another appointment.’

  He walked smartly to the door, opened it, and smiled.

  ‘Thank you for your time.’

  Martha said nothing, but stormed past the solicitor, almost knocking him into the window blinds. Marjorie followed, giving him a snarl as she swept by.

  Bradley watched as the two old ladies left the practice.

  ‘Let me know when Ms Griffiths arrives, please.’ He closed the door to his office and returned to his desk.

  As Martha left the building, she turned her face skywards.

  ‘Thank you, God. You never fail to disappoint.’

  Nicola closed the lid of the glove compartment, wiped her mouth on the back of her hand and popped an extra strong mint into her mouth. She looked towards the office doors and her heart sank. Martha’s body language didn’t appear to be saying that the meeting had gone well. As she got out of the car to open the back door for her mother, Jessica’s Toyota drove slowly into the car park. She pulled up next to Nicola and climbed out. Martha hurried across the tarmac towards her. She stopped abruptly a foot away and looked at her sternly.

  ‘Jessica. We need to talk,’ she said firmly.

  Chapter 7

  Jess walked quickly into the Wilson-Beanney reception, the words of Martha still ringing in her ears.

  ‘Call me, the moment you know anything, Jessica. This is a concern for all the family, not just individual members of it.’

  The bored-looking receptionist, a woman of about the same age as Jess, motioned her to sit and went back to filing her nails. Jess declined the offer of a seat and slowly paced the room, studying the mainly Victorian portrait prints that lined the walls. Two minutes later the intercom on the receptionist’s desk buzzed.

  ‘Melanie, has Ms Griffith’s arrived.’

  ‘Yes, Brad… Mr Wilson, she’s here.’ Melanie looked disinterestedly at Jess. ‘Shall I send her in?’

  Instead of replying, the door to the right-hand office opened and Bradley Wilson stepped into the room. He held out his hand and beamed a smile as he approached her.

  ‘Bradley Wilson, I’m delighted to meet you.’

  Jess smiled back, pleased that the image she had built up in her mind pretty much matched the figure that stood in front of her. He was tall, dark haired, with deep brown eyes and a dazzling smile. His mid-grey suit was cut in the modern style, the short, tight-fit jacket was undone showing off a slim waist and a muscular-looking chest that while well formed, didn’t shout out daily gym routines.

  She took his hand and shook it.

  ‘I’m delighted to meet you too, Mr Wilson, but I have to admit to being slightly apprehensive about this appointment.’

  Bradley motioned her towards his office door and allowed her to enter first. He closed the door behind him and walked smartly to his desk.

  ‘I hope that feeling of apprehension dissipates quickly.’ He smiled at her again and held out his hand towards a comfortable-looking chair on the opposite side of his desk. ‘Firstly, and unfortunately, the formalities have to be gone through.’ Bradley lifted the lid of his laptop and pressed a couple of keys.

  ‘Could you give me your full name, please?’

  Bradley took her through a series of security questions before tapping another key on his laptop and looking up at her.

  ‘That’s great. Ms Griffith’s, I’m sorry about the personal questions but it has to be done. Is it all right if I call you Jessica?’

  ‘Jess will be fine. Nana and her two daughters are the only ones that use my full Christian name. I don’t really like it if I’m honest.’

  ‘Jess it is then, and I’m Bradley, if you don’t mind the informality. Your grandmother would be appalled at the familiarity.’ He smiled his easy smile again showing off perfectly aligned teeth.

  Jess shook her head.

  ‘I can imagine. I hope they weren’t too awful. They have very old-fashioned attitudes.’

  ‘I’ve met far worse in my time,’ Bradley replied. ‘Now, down to business.’ He pressed a series of keys on his computer then leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands in front of his stomach. ‘Firstly, I’d like to congratulate you on having what was obviously such a delightful, loving, great grandmother. I can assure you she was full of glowing praise when we sat together to discuss her final requests.’

  ‘Delightful! Really? Most people found Nana brusque, to say the least.’

  ‘She was anything but. We got on like a house on fire. She said I reminded her of my great grandfather. They became good friends I believe.’

  ‘They did,’ replied Jessica. ‘Nana liked him a lot. He was as much a friend as an advisor.’

  ‘She gave us a lot of business o
ver the years.’ Bradley pointed to a pile of green boxes in the corner of the room. ‘I went through it all when Mrs? Mollison set up the trust a few years ago.’

  Jess leaned forward in her seat.

  ‘About this trust, I don’t really understand what it is, what it does, who runs it?’

  ‘I’ll explain all that in detail, Ms… erm, Jess. Firstly though, I’ll give you a brief breakdown of the will and I’ll leave the technicalities until later. I do have to go through the clauses in some detail but I’m not expecting you to understand all the legal terminology.’

  Bradley opened a drawer and pulled out a thick green file. Noticing Jess’s look of horror, he gave a short laugh and patted it. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll give you the bare minimum, the condensed version.’

  Jess blew out a sigh of relief.

  ‘Basically, Jess, your great grandmother left you everything… everything except a small insurance policy that is to be shared between your grandmother and your great aunt and a ten thousand pounds donation to a farm worker’s charity. All of the assets, including the farmhouse, five properties in London, her shares portfolio and the contents of her bank accounts have been placed into a Family Protection Trust. This is a legal device that protects the assets from being accessed by anyone not named in the trustee listing.’ Bradley looked down at his file. ‘I erm… believe she had concerns regarding your partner, Calvin?’

  ‘Concerns… that’s putting it mildly, Mr Wil… Bradley. She could see through most people and she certainly saw through Calvin.’ Jess pulled a face and looked down at her hands.

  ‘I see. Well, in that case I have to repeat that he will not be allowed to have any say in the running of the trust, nor the distribution of its assets.’

  ‘He won’t be around to do anything of the sort,’ replied Jess. ‘Calvin and I are no longer an item. We split up on the day that Nana died.’