by Ann Bridge
“Oh, we’ll find someone—there are plenty of good architects about, and honest ones, too.”
Lady Helen appeared at this point, and they went in to lunch; Gerald left immediately afterwards. “Sorry, but there’s rather a lot to see to; we haven’t found Lady Browne’s will yet.”
“Didn’t she keep it in your office? That’s the normal place for a will, the lawyer’s office” the General affirmed.
“It is usually with us, but she asked for it back, not long ago.”
“Wonder what she’s been up to now? Be just like Mary to spring some surprise on us from beyond the grave!” O’Hara said, chuckling at his own macabre jest.
Julia went out to see Gerald off. “If the will isn’t in the despatch box under the desk, I should look in the stove in the hall” she said. “That was where she kept the notes.”
“Good idea!—We’ll try that. ‘Bye, my darling. When do I see you again?”
“I’ll ring you. Goodbye, and bless you. I’m sorry you’re having all this bother!” She kissed him.
When he had gone Julia decided that her next job was to see Sally Martin and tell her that she might now tell Mr. O’Rahilly about Moran and the nuns. Lady Helen was already back in the garden, and willingly lent her car, and Julia drove straight up to Achill. Mrs. Martin was in, helping the children with their homework, but she told them to put up their books and go and play outside.
“Well, can I tell Billy now?” she asked as soon as they had gone off. “He keeps coming over and asking and asking about Peter, and when he’s coming down again?—it’s quite awkward.”
“Yes, you can tell him the whole horrible story now” Julia said. “And that it’s no use his trying to see Moran in Dublin, because he’s in New York. He flew there day before yesterday.”
“Do you know that for a fact?”
“Yes, positive. His firm sent him, and he won’t be coming back for some time.”
Sally Martin sat down in a chair, and put her face in her hands.
“Oh, it is wretched” she said after a moment, looking up—Julia was relieved to see that she wasn’t crying. “I was terribly fond of him.”
“Yes, it is miserable to find one has been totally mistaken about a person one likes” Julia agreed, with real sympathy for this pretty creature, who for all her appearance of sophistication was such an innocent. She accepted a cup of tea, early as it was, and sat for twenty minutes or more—it was borne in on her that Mrs. Martin was really very lonely. As she drove back towards The Sound she was quite relieved to meet O’Rahilly’s car driving towards the shack. Billy might not be the ideal companion, but he was some one.
Gerald was rather surprised that Terence had not found Lady Browne’s will during his own so inconvenient absence—“The will is usually read out after the funeral” he said, a little reprovingly.
“Well, the funeral was in Martinstown, so unless we’d read it in the Church, I don’t know when we could have” Terry said, with a brief giggle. “Anyhow, I didn’t like to make a thing about getting it read—I’m not her lawyer, and I thought it might look greedy. I expect she’ll have left most of whatever there was to the parents.”
“Yes, I see. Well, now we’ll go over and see if it really is in the stove” O’Brien said.
It was. Both men laughed a little when they came on the large envelope among the cold ashes. They dusted it on the doorstep, and took it into the sitting-room; Annie Kelly appeared to ask if they would be wanting a fire?
“No thank you, Annie; we shan’t be very long.”
When the maid had gone—“Has Annie been given notice?” O’Brien asked.
“No. Should she be?”
“It is usual to give all employees notice when a death occurs,” Gerald said.
“Obviously I’m not much good at death” Terence said, gloomily. “I wonder when she was last paid any wages?”
“We’ll ask her presently—that’s something she will know, and remember. Now let’s open this will—you’re the nearest thing to a next of kin available for it to be read to.”
At this point Annie appeared with a tray of glasses and a bottle of whiskey. “I thought ye’d be the better of this” she remarked, setting it down on the table. “ ‘Tis some of what Mr. Richard brought.”
“Thank you, Annie—that’s an excellent idea.”
“All the letters that come since I put together in the basket” Annie pursued, indicating a wicker tray on the desk; it was piled with envelopes.
“Oh lawks!” Terence said.
“Well, you can take those home to go through them, and answer any that need answering—all this is a very useful part of your legal training!” Gerald said, grinning. “Really much more to the point than reading law books in Walshe & Walshe’s. Now give me some of the family whiskey.”
Terence poured out glasses for them both, while O’Brien opened the envelope containing the will. He turned the typed sheets over rapidly—“Ah, here we are!” he said, when he came to a manuscript appendix on a sheet which had been clipped on at the end. “This may be the bomb the General was expecting.”
In fact it wasn’t much of a bomb; it was quite sensible, and very efficiently made out. Lady Browne instructed her executors—who were Gerald O’Brien and General O’Hara—to arrange for an annuity of £150 a year to be paid to Annie Kelly, and for the sum of £1,000 to be given to Father O’Donnell “for the benefit of his Church at Lettersall.” The O’Haras and a few other friends were to be invited to come and choose a piece of furniture “as a keepsake”; £500 apiece was left to her executors “for their trouble.” It had been witnessed by two individuals called Greene and Browne, who had, most correctly, given their addresses and occupations as well as their names—they were the postman and the local plumber.
“Ah, she was very practical in some ways, was Lady Browne” O’Brien remarked, having read out this information.
“But who does the cottage go to, and such money as she had left after all her muddles over near Rossbeg?” Terence asked. “My mother?”
“No—to you, my boy!—every penny of it! Congratulations.”
“Good Lord!” Terence sat down in a chair, quite overcome. “What on earth would Grandmother want to do that for?”
“She says, because your Mother has married a man of means, who is in a career which brings him in a comfortable livelihood and a good pension. And also because, so far as she has been able to judge, she thinks you are a steady young man, who will put it to some sensible use. I’m inclined to agree with her there!” Gerald said, smiling very pleasantly at the sensible young man, who still sat, staring in front of him.
“Have you any idea how much there is?” Terence asked at length.
“That will depend a good deal on how much the cottage goes for, if you decide to sell it—and the land. And of course the fishing rights are worth quite a lot.”
“I don’t want the cottage—I should like to keep some of the fishing.”
“Well, you can sell some of the fishing with the cottage, to put up its price, and keep enough to enjoy and to pleasure your friends with” Gerald said. “There’s no hurry—think it over. I’ll have a look at her investments, too, they’re over at the office, and give you a rough idea. Now we ought to draft a notice to put in The Times, and the Irish Times, and the Mayo News.”
They did this, and then O’Brien began to go through the tin deed-box under the desk, while Terence, on his instructions, looked through the drawers. These contained quantities of old letters, many as much as half a century old, but the top left-hand drawer was devoted to bills, of which there were quite a quantity. “Better find where she put her receipts” Gerald said; “then you can check these over, and pay any that are outstanding. I’ll advance you whatever you need from her ready cash, without waiting for probate. Better come over and do it from here—save carting a lot of papers about, and then you can use her writing-paper. Keep a list of what you pay, and put down the price of your cheque-books; you’
ll need one or two extra ones for all this.”
The deed-box contained some £160 in notes and silver. Annie was summoned, and asked when she had last received any wages?
“Lady paid me up to Whit, because I wanted to get me a new dress—I be’s always accustomed to a new dress for Whit,” Annie said.
“Quite right. Well”—he glanced at his diary—“that was five weeks ago. Were you paid by the week or the month, Annie?”
“By the week, Sir, when Lady remembered. Fifteen-and-six a week I got.”
“Right. Well, here’s your pay from Whitsun up to this week, and here’s another month’s wages in lieu of notice. I’m afraid you’ll have to take a month’s notice, Annie, but I should like you to stay on here for at least the month, to show people over who come to look at it with a view to buying it.”
“Then I’ll want me board as well as me wages” Annie affirmed. “ ‘Tis to be sold, so?”
“Yes, is to be sold. And you shall have your board, of course. But Lady Browne has left you some money, Annie.”
Annie began to look very animated.
“How much, Mr. O’Brien, Sir?”
“Do you know what an annuity is?”
“No, I can’t know what that is—I never heard of it.”
“It’s so much money to be paid to you every week, or every month, whichever you prefer; yours will be £3 a week, or £12 a month, roughly. You’ll get that as long as you live.”
Annie looked still more animated.
“Who will be paying it to me? Will it be you, Sir?”
“No. You will collect it from the Post Office, or the bank—again, whichever you prefer.”
“Oh, I’d rather the bank. At the Post Office every soul knows what you’re getting!”
“Could you get to the bank in Martinstown once a month?”
“I could that, Sir.” Annie paused; O’Brien guessed that she was doing sums in her head; the least literate Irish peasant can always do that! His guess was confirmed when she asked—“Could I have the—whatever you call it—all at once?”
“No, Annie; I’m afraid it has to be paid weekly or monthly. And Mr. Richard will pay you your board weekly in advance; he will be here a great deal, clearing up papers, the next week or two.”
Annie didn’t look best pleased at this information, and presently took herself off to her kitchen.
“I wonder what she’s got in her head?” Terence speculated.
“Wanted to buy the cottage herself, I expect” Gerald replied. He was amused, but not in the least surprised, when Terence reported less than a week later, after a visit to go on dealing with Lady Browne’s papers and bills, that there was now a small notice-board on the main road beside the drive leading down to the cottage, bearing the words FISHING AND MEALS. MODERATE PRICES. PARKING FREE—and that he had later seen three young Englishmen having lunch in the dining-room, when he went to get himself a glass of “Mr. Richard’s” whiskey.
“Did you say anything to them?” O’Brien asked.
“Not really. One of them had the toupet to ask me what I was up to, so I just said I was the owner of the house. He didn’t half look embarrassed” Terence said cheerfully.
In fact the cottage sold very quickly—Gerald put it in the hands of an agent with offices in London and Dublin, and an American made a handsome offer within a few days. Gerald asked Terence to come down and discuss the details of exactly what fishing rights were to go with the cottage, and they plotted them on a large-scale map. “I’ll have smaller-scale photo-stats made of that, to go with the deed of sale, and one for the cottage, and keep one here—then there will be less argument” O’Brien said. “Fishing-limits are the devil, unless everyone has a map.”
“You’d better have an extra one made for General O’Hara, so” Terence said, grinning. “I’d like him to go on fishing the water I keep while he’s up to it, poor old boy.”
“Good idea” O’Brien agreed.
“D’you know anything about this Yank who’s bought the cottage?” Terence asked.
“Practically nothing, except that his money’s good. He’s deposited it with the Bank of Ireland.”
“Oh well, so long as it’s not another German!” Terence said. “Too many Huns have moved in on us lately, for my liking.”
O’Brien ignored this expression of political opinion; he was rummaging in the drawers of his desk.
“Ah, here we are! I’ve totted up the old lady’s securities, and there’s a bit more than I expected—with the price of the cottage it’s practically £16,000.”
“Lawks!” Terence said—a favourite expression of his when startled. He sat silent for some time, staring in front of him— O’Brien was rather puzzled. There was no expression of satisfaction, such as might have been expected from the recipient of such news; he began to wonder if Terence had hoped the sum to be larger, and was disappointed. At last—“Did you hope it would be more?” he asked.
“Goodness no!” Terence jerked himself out of his abstraction. “No, it was just an idea I had.” He fell silent again. O’Brien waited a little, but he was busy, and really wanted to get on with his work, so at last he said—“Do you want to talk about it?”
“Well yes, in a way.”
“Then fire ahead.”
“Well”—Terence said, very hesitantly, and stuck again.
“Yes, go on.”
“Well, I know I’m very young, and all that—I say, don’t hesitate to slap me down; I should quite understand” Terence said, urgently.
“My dear chap, do for goodness sake come out with your idea, whatever it is” O’Brien said, but not impatiently. “Of course I’ll slap you down if I think it’s silly.”
But when he heard the idea O’Brien didn’t think it silly at all. Terence’s notion was that with this amount of capital they might go into partnership: “We could buy a place in Martinstown and have an office there as well as yours here—save no end of traipsing to and fro. I know I’m very young” he repeated.
“Not as young as all that” O’Brien said. He was both touched and pleased. “I think it might be an excellent plan, and work very well” he said. “But you don’t want to rush at it. Better think it over for a bit, and make sure that this is really what you want to do with this lump of capital.”
“What else would I do with it?”
“Well, you could re-invest it, or leave it in the present investments—I myself should only want to change one or two, at the most—and give yourself a larger income.”
“What do I want a larger income for?” Terence asked.
“The steady young man” O’Brien said, beginning to laugh. “Your grandmother wasn’t so far out! No, think it over. I should like to have you as a partner very much, but you oughtn’t to do a thing like this on an impulse, and without advice. Why don’t you talk to Father O’Donnell about it?”
“I will, if it will make you any happier, though I’ve never thought of him as a financial wizard, I must say. I’m quite sure myself what I want to do.”
“Right—do that” O’Brien said, getting up. “And thank you for thinking of it.” He more or less pushed the young man out.
But when Terence had gone he didn’t at once settle down to work; he sat at his desk, thinking there was plenty of work for two partners in two offices, and the money would run to an extra desk and typist—the whole plan was most attractive. And, as Terence had said, it would save the constant dodging over to Martinstown, where his business was increasing rather fast. But he didn’t want the boy to go into it without reflection, and other advice than his. At last he put through a call to Richard Fitzgerald, and asked him to see Terence and advise him about what to do with a rather sizeable legacy that had come to him from Lady Browne.
“Oh, she’s left it to him, has she? Has he no idea what to do with it?”
“Yes, he has an idea, but he ought to have advice.”
“Well, can’t you advise him?” Richard asked.
“Not about thi
s” Gerald said firmly.
“All right—I’ll get hold of him” Richard promised.
But as it turned out, the person whom Terence saw before either the priest or Richard Fitzgerald, and who finally clinched his decision, was Julia. He ran into her in Martinstown, whither she had driven Lady Helen to see her dressmaker; she had parked the car in the Mall and was sauntering up the main street, looking idly into the not very enticing shop-windows, as he was coming down it, and he coaxed her into a pub to have a drink. Now O’Brien had already notified the General that he was an executor, and of the bequest of £500; and since O’Hara was to be an executor he readily told him, in reply to his questions, that the bulk of Lady Browne’s property was left to Terence White; naturally the General passed this on to his wife and Julia, and the latter, now meeting Terence, equally naturally congratulated him.
“Yes, it is nice” the young man said. “And I am in hopes that it may make possible something I’ve had in mind for a long time.”
“What’s that?”
“To go into partnership with Gerald O’Brien—this little whack of capital would make a second office possible, here in Martinstown. Of course I should be very much the junior partner, but with an experienced clerk I think I could manage.”
“Oh, Gerald would like that!” Julia exclaimed.
“What on earth makes you say so?” Terence asked in surprise.
“Because he said so to me ages ago, only about the second time I was at Rossbeg—the day he rang you up and got you to come down to hear what I’d learned from Sally Martin about O’Rahilly’s plans—don’t you remember?”
“I remember coming down perfectly well,” Terence admitted. “But what did Gerald say about a partnership?”
“Oh, what a help you could be to him, because you knew everyone and got on with everyone, and people talked to you about everything—that sort of thing” Julia said readily.
“You’re sure he used the word partnership?”
“Yes, positive—partnership or having you as a partner.”
“That settles it, then” Terence said firmly. “I’ll talk to Richard, if he wants me to, but I won’t change my mind.”