Buried in the Past

by Elizabeth Lemarchand

  Further study of the cuttings showed that Sir Miles had attended the inquest on 22 November, and had also been present at the cremation ceremony two days later. The Courier stated explicitly that Celia LeWarne’s parents had stayed at Edgehill Court for the interment on 27 November. It was surely incredible that Sir Miles would have started drawing up a new will until they had left? The date on the sheet of paper suggested that it had taken him a week to come to a decision about the bequest to Corbury, before contacting Gerald Stanton to act for him.

  But would Stanton have consented to act, in view of the fact that his wife was, in the last resort, the chief beneficiary under the will? Some solicitors would decline. Suppose, for the purposes of argument, that he did consent, wasn’t it astonishing that Sir Miles had changed his mind on a matter so carefully thought out almost at a moment’s notice? Because the drafting of the will in correct legal phraseology must have been put in hand early in the week before his death for it to have received his signature at all: he died on 13 December, having had a stroke the day before. Weren’t there grounds here for suggesting that Stanton had exercised undue influence? Grounds strong enough to warrant representations in the appropriate quarter?

  In mounting excitement Bernard Lister decided to visit Somerset House and find out whether Gerald Stanton had drawn up the will or not. In the meantime the sheet of notes which had so miraculously come into his hands must be most carefully preserved. After some thought he replaced it, together with his notes, between the pages of Framley Parsonage where he had found it, covered the book with brown paper, inscribed a fictitious title, which appealed to him, on the spine, and put it among miscellaneous volumes on a different shelf from its fellows. He did not stop to ask who was likely to be on its track: even the remote prospect of being able to dispossess Shirley Stanton had produced in him an excitement bordering on fantasy.

  The prospect of waiting until the end of term to verify his facts was intolerable. In spite of the pressure of work he managed to fit in a lightning dash to London. For the usual fee a copy of Sir Miles LeWarne’s will was made available for his inspection. Within moments he knew that Stanton and Mundy of Corbury had drawn it up, and that it had not been signed until the actual day of Sir Miles’s death, Monday, 13 December. Indignation at pressure having been put on a dying man briefly eclipsed his grim satisfaction at this further indication of Gerald Stanton’s unprofessional conduct. Then, pulling himself together, he checked the provisions of the will with those in the notes which he had found. They were identical, apart from the cash legacy to Shirley Stanton, and her inheritance of the residuary estate.

  Bernard Lister had a vivid imagination, fostered by his lonely childhood. During his return train journey he pictured the signing of the will. Perhaps Sir Miles had struggled to speak, wanting at the last to repudiate the change made against his better judgement. Or perhaps he had been too far gone to remember what he had agreed to, and hadn’t really known what he was signing....

  It was at this point in his musings that the possibility of a faked will having been presented to Sir Miles for signature suddenly occurred to Bernard Lister. He leant back in the corner of the compartment, holding his breath.

  In due course he arrived home, and walked upstairs to his flat like a man in a dream, pausing at the door to select a latchkey from the bunch on his key ring. Realisation that someone was behind him, at the foot of the stairs to the second-floor flat, came a split second too late for evasive action. He was gripped and his arms pinioned, to the accompaniment of a stream of abuse. Struggling vainly he shouted for help, hoping desperately that James Halton was in the house. His assailant, bigger and stronger than himself by far, shook him savagely and swung him round. In a nightmare horror he found the contorted face of Mark Plowman within inches of his own. From the depths of his subconscious the past came surging up, and he cringed involuntarily, shouting in panic.

  ‘You bloody little rat,’ Mark Plowman snarled, ‘putting the police on to my little girl! ’

  As he was flung across the landing to crash into the wall, Bernard Lister suddenly realised why the girl’s face which had teased his memory had seemed familiar. In the same instant a door burst open on the floor below. Feet pounded up the stairs, and James Halton hurled himself upon Mark Plowman.

  ‘What the hell goes on?’ he demanded. ‘I saw this bastard assaulting you, Lister. Dial 999, and I’ll hang on to him till the police get here. Shut up, you,’ he added, aiming a kick at his captive’s shin.

  Bernard Lister automatically straightened his collar and tie. Rescue had dispelled terror: against the towering bulk of James Halton, Mark Plowman was cut down to size.

  ‘He’s some chap who thinks I put the police on to the pot-smoking lot upstairs,’ he replied. ‘Apparently his daughter was one of them. No, I don’t want to charge him. One can’t help being sorry for people whose kids go off the rails,’ he added, with exquisite malice.

  ‘You filthy little liar...’ Mark Plowman began furiously.

  James Halton punched him.

  ‘If you want to know who gave the police a tip-off, I did. Care to take me on? No? Sensible man. Always go for a chap smaller than you are. That’s — what — I’m — doing — right — now. And get out! I don’t advise a return visit.’

  As the front door of the house slammed he turned to Bernard Lister.

  ‘Good thing I was still around,’ he remarked with more truth than tact, indicating various roped and corded packages in the hall below. ‘As you know, we’re off on Sunday. You ought to take up judo, Lister. Weight isn’t everything by a long chalk. Come down and have a drink — you look as though you could do with one.’

  ‘Thanks, I will. I’m damn grateful to you, Halton, I need hardly say.’

  ‘Don’t thank me, old chap. I enjoy a scrap. Come along in, and find yourself a pew. I suppose your caller had been in court,’ James Halton went on, pouring out a couple of generous whiskies. ‘The pot case came on today, and the Bench took a pretty tough view of it all. Tresillian was fined a hundred and fifty for letting the flat be used, and the type who supplied the stuff’s been jailed. He had LSD on him, too. It’s all in the evening rag — take it along, and read it.’

  As soon as he decently could, Bernard Lister extricated himself. Skimming through the newspaper report, he saw that Belinda Plowman and the two other girls involved had been severely cautioned and discharged. He was relieved that there was no mention of himself as a fellow tenant of David Tresillian’s. He reflected with satisfaction that on balance the day had been a good deal more humiliating for Mark Plowman than for himself. For a brief moment the terror of the encounter on the stairs sent a shudder through him, but he was able to push it aside: a very promising prospect had opened up before him.

  On regaining his car, Mark Plowman had started off on the road to Corbury, driving so recklessly in his raging fury that he narrowly avoided several crashes. Presently, however, it was borne in on him that the last straw would be if the family found out about his humiliation in front of Bernard Lister. He slowed down automatically. He must stop off somewhere for a wash and brush up and have something to eat: steady himself down. If he were late enough getting home, Monica might have gone to bed and be asleep. Fortunately, he had rung her when they came out of court.

  The outcome of this step was that the shameful memory of the immediate past became a little less intolerable. And over a steak, his slow but tenacious mind began to mull over retaliatory action....

  No one was more relieved than Shirley Stanton at the outcome of Belinda’s appearance in court. On the following morning she paid an early visit to her brother’s house to hear the details of his visit to Warhampton and was subtly complimentary on the line he had taken, disregarding the fact that it had been at her prompting. After a time, feeling that the subject had been adequately ventilated, she turned the conversation to the forthcoming conference of the British Ceramics Manufacturers’ Association.

  ‘14 December, isn�
�t it?’ she asked. ‘I’m so glad you’ve decided to go up for it.’

  ‘Yes,’ Mark replied. ‘14 December. Let’s hope it won’t be the usual waste of time.’

  Shortly afterwards Shirley went off, thankful to be able to give her undivided attention to her own affairs. She was immersed in the alterations at Edgehill Court, and the general planning of her new home, thriving in the interest and hard work, and thoroughly enjoying her enhanced status.

  Gerald Stanton also had a good deal on hand. Amid the preoccupations of dealing with Sir Miles LeWarne’s estate, and selling his own house in Edge Crescent, the uncomfortable awareness of the fraudulent step he had taken began to fade away. Once or twice, when it briefly returned, he had almost to make an effort to realise that such a thing had ever happened. The present was so full and so rewarding. Like his wife, he sensed an increased personal importance, a most agreeable development, both professionally and socially.

  By late November the redecoration of the big drawing room at Edgehill Court was finished to their complete satisfaction. As they stood admiring it, Gerald suddenly remembered his mental picture of a party there on a grand scale and told Shirley about it.

  ‘Come to that, I’ve had the idea of a really slap-up housewarming party at the back of my mind for some time,’ she answered. ‘The right move, don’t you think? Say the end of February. Barring accidents, we ought to be in and pretty well straight by then. And I’ve had another great thought, by the way. How about the Caribbean afterwards? We’ll have earned a break, heaven knows.’

  Gerald thought quickly.

  ‘Yes, I think I could fix up with Mundy to be away from the office then. The Caribbean ... didn’t Lady Ilmington — the Dowager, I mean — say the young ones had stayed at a very decent place in the Bahamas last winter? That time when we were introduced at the point-to-point?’

  ‘Yes, she did. I thought I might contact her.’

  ‘Quite,’ he replied. They exchanged a quick glance of complete understanding.

  The following days were particularly busy and satisfactory for him. One, Edge Crescent, sold at a price high even by current inflationary standards. Two new clients of substance presented themselves. The Borough Council had a meeting with some tricky items on the agenda, all of which was disposed of in accordance with the wishes of the inner ring, which included himself. By four o’clock on Friday afternoon, he felt justified in leaving the office early, and was on the point of buzzing for his letters to be brought in for signature when his secretary appeared in person, looking slightly flustered.

  ‘There’s a Mr Spinner in the outer office, Mr Stanton, who says he must see you urgently. I’ve told him you don’t see clients without an appointment, and suggested he made one for Monday as it isn’t your Saturday on, but I just can’t get rid of him. Mr Mundy could fit him in tomorrow morning, but he says he must see you personally and that he’s come a long way. I’m very sorry, Mr Stanton.’

  Gerald swore briefly.

  ‘What sort of chap is he?’

  ‘He’s about your age, Mr Stanton. He’s quite prosperous, I should think, and speaks like an educated sort of person — you know.’

  ‘I suppose I’d better see him. Tell him I can only give him ten minutes, and come in with the letters and remind me I’m due at a Council meeting at half past.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Stanton.’

  She vanished. Trying to smother his annoyance, Gerald waited. There were footsteps outside, and the door reopened.

  ‘Mr Spinner to see you, Mr Stanton,’ she announced.

  Gerald stood up, prepared to be cut and dried. The door closed behind a short man with dark hair brushed up on end. He wore an overcoat and white muffler, and a massive pair of horn-rimmed spectacles. Slowly and deliberately he removed the latter, and stared fixedly.

  ‘Good God, it’s Blister!’ Gerald exclaimed, aware of being inexplicably alerted in the very moment of recognition. ‘It must be quite twenty years since we met last. Why on earth are you calling yourself Spinner? Sit down, man.’

  Bernard Lister sat down.

  ‘It’s a name that has a special appeal for me, as it happens. A better one than Blister, don’t you think? Naturally I thought you would refuse to see me if I sent in my own name.’

  Searching for the best line to take, Gerald Stanton seized on this opening.

  ‘My dear chap,’ he protested, ‘your walking out on the old Plowmans is prehistory. I should have done exactly the same in your place. At this distance of time one can see what a raw deal you had.’

  He saw that he was on the right track. Blister had not expected friendliness and was momentarily taken aback.

  ‘I suppose you know Shirley married me?’

  Bernard Lister nodded.

  ‘It’s in connection with your wife that I’ve come to see you.’

  Gerald Stanton went cold: that instant foreboding had been fully justified.

  ‘In connection with Shirley?’ he queried, with just the right note of bewilderment.

  ‘Yes. I am in a position to prove that undue influence was exercised to persuade Sir Miles LeWarne to leave her Edgehill Court and the rest of his residuary estate. If, indeed, he actually made the bequest.’

  By now prepared for this frontal attack, Gerald Stanton was able to react with convincing incomprehension.

  ‘What the hell are you talking about? I’m simply not with you.’

  Tense, Bernard Lister moistened his lips.

  ‘You can cut out putting on an act. I tell you I’ve written evidence that up to a week before he died Sir Miles intended leaving the Court and the residuary estate to Corbury.’

  As he spoke he realised with discomfort that his accent had coarsened, oddly reverting to that of his early childhood, and also that Gerald Stanton was aware of it. The two men stared at each other, united in remembered experience, and to Bernard’s disadvantage.

  ‘It’s possible evidence that Sir Miles considered doing so may have come into your hands,’ Gerald replied coolly. ‘He certainly — yes, Miss Fletcher?’

  ‘Your letters for signature, Mr Stanton. And you remember you are due at a Council meeting at half past four?’

  ‘Yes, I do. Thanks.’

  He took a folder from her, glanced at his watch, and turned again to Bernard Lister, steadied by the brief interlude.

  ‘Now, let’s get this straight,’ he said, authoritatively but without heat. ‘What you have got hold of, I can’t imagine, but the facts are these. Sir Miles deliberated at length about whether to make Corbury or Shirley his residuary legatee, in default of a LeWarne to inherit, after his great-nephew had met with a fatal car accident. He finally informed me that he had decided on Shirley. I thought things over, and put it to him that I should much prefer another solicitor to draw up his will if Shirley was to be the chief beneficiary. He refused even to consider this, and got very steamed up, so in view of his age and the appalling shock he had just had over Roger’s death, I gave in.’ Bernard Lister listened with mounting unease, struggling to free himself from memories of his wretched adolescence among the assured young men and girls of the Plowman set. This interview was not developing along the lines sketched out by his gloating imagination. He made the mistake of shifting his ground.

  ‘If you think I’m going to swallow all this guff, you’re vastly mistaken,’ he said thickly. ‘There wasn’t the time for all you say happened. How about Sir Miles signing this so-called will the very day he died? If that doesn’t stink to heaven, I don’t know what does.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘Sir Miles LeWarne,’ Gerald Stanton said coolly, ‘signed his will with the full approval of his doctor, who was present in a professional capacity. Two official witnesses were also present, of course.’

  There was a further pause, during which Bernard Lister struggled to find a vantage point from which to renew the attack. Before he could do so, Gerald Stanton came in again.

  ‘Look here, Bernard,’ he said in a different to
ne, avoiding the offensive nickname, ‘I perfectly understand that you hate the Plowmans’ guts, and would go to any length to do them down. Also that this goes for me, too, as I’ve married Shirley. We were perfectly bloody to you when we were all youngsters, and for what it’s worth at this distance of time, I apologise on my own account. Now you imagine that you’re on to something that would ruin Shirley and myself for life. Well, I can only assure you that you’re mistaken. The suggestions you’ve been making are ludicrous, not to say actionable. I’ve already gone a long way further than most solicitors would in giving you information, and because of past history I’m prepared to go further still and show you the letter I finally wrote to Sir Miles agreeing to act for him. I’m assuming that a man of your standing has moral integrity in relation to established facts. I can’t go into the matter here and now, because of this Council meeting. But as it happens I have to be in Warhampton on 14 December for a client’s case in the Crown Court. I suggest that we meet there. Presumably I can contact you by telephone to fix details? I shall assume that you are prepared to reciprocate with your own written evidence, as you describe it.’

  Wholly unconvinced, but aware of having been outmanoeuvred, Bernard Lister attempted to retain his dignity by appearing to deliberate.

  ‘Very well,’ he said at last. ‘I’ll agree to that. But I warn you that unless I’m completely satisfied, I shall be taking the matter further.... I can see myself out.’

  As his footsteps died away, Gerald Stanton sat on at his desk, cold from shock, and with his thoughts racing. There could be no possible doubt that in some incredible way, notes of Sir Miles’s real intentions had come into Blister’s possession. Not that it mattered how . . . unless, of course, somebody else was involved, who had passed on the information....

  Burying his face in his hands, Gerald forced himself to concentrate on essentials. Whoever knew, the urgent thing was the fabrication of the letter which he had told Lister he had written to Sir Miles. It must be carefully drafted, with clear reference to Shirley’s inheritance. Of course, putting something new into the LeWarne file at this stage was a risk. Miss Fletcher had referred to its contents for him on several occasions. However, the risk had to be taken, in case that swine Blister tried to stir up mud without waiting for the meeting on 14 December.