“I’m glad about that. His son’s all right as a person, I mean. But he seemed a bit lacking in experience.”
Jonas was aware that old men disliked consulting young solicitors. He was reading the will. It was a simple document under which Daniel Stanley Cullingford, schoolmaster, left everything to his wife, Laura, and appointed her sole executrix.
Cullingford said, “The real thing I’m worried about is what might happen to the school if I popped off suddenly. I’ve got an excellent number two, a man called Tim Delavigne. He’d be happy to keep Clifton House going, but only if he could run the show himself.”
“Understandable.”
“And as a matter of fact, it would work rather well, because there’s a spot of romance in the air.”
It took a prep schoolmaster, thought Jonas, to refer to impending matrimony as a spot of romance. He said, “Who is she?”
“Pamela Ricketts. She looks after gym, painting and music.”
“All of them?”
“The iron law of economics. The days are past when you could employ specialists in every department. However, she’s competent enough in music and art and a qualified PE instructor. She did two years at Bedford.”
“PE?”
“In your day,” said Cullingford patiently, “it was called physical training. Now it’s physical education. A subtle difference.”
“I learn a new fact every day,” said Jonas. “Well, I can see that she’d make an admirable schoolmaster’s wife. Tell me exactly what it is you want me to do.”
Cullingford thought about this for some time. Then he said, “What I’m going to tell you is absolutely confidential.”
“Of course.”
“If I left my will as it is now, as soon as I was dead I think Laura would shut the school and sell the property. You know where it is. Between the Lewes road and the factory estate. If she could get planning permission for development – and I don’t see why she shouldn’t – well, she’d get a great deal of money for it.”
“I see,” said Jonas. “Yes. You want to put it out of her power to sell the property, and you want Delavigne to have control of the actual running of the school.”
“I don’t want to cut her out altogether, you understand – it’s just that I don’t want her to be in a position to interfere with Tim.”
Or with Mrs Delavigne-to-be, thought Jonas. He could see considerable complications if the two ladies didn’t get on together. He said, “I’ll draft something for you to look at. It’ll have to be a trust of some sort, and that means you’ll need two trustees. Have you got two reliable friends who’d take the job on?”
“Major Appleby would do it, I’m sure.”
“The headmaster of St Oswald’s? Yes, I know him. A very sound man.”
“The other one might be Leo Sambrooke. You may have seen his name in the High Street. A firm of estate agents. Sambrooke and Dodds. His boy’s at the school now.”
“Sounds just the man for the job. Ask him if he’s prepared to act.” He was examining his desk diary. “In fact I see that Appleby is coming here this afternoon. He wants me to explain the new Finance Act to him. I could tell him what you want him to do, if you like.”
“Please,” said Cullingford. “And I’ll tackle Sambrooke.”
Jonas thought that he looked a bit more cheerful than when he came in.
“Clifton House is a good school,” said Major Appleby, “and Dan Cullingford is a first-class teacher.” He and Jonas had just spent an hour trying to understand the latest piece of gobbledygook put out by the Inland Revenue. “I’d hate to see another outfit go under. I think I told you that when I came here after the war there were eight schools. Now just three, Tanner’s place, my own place – and Dan Cullingford’s. Tanner and I aren’t in competition with Dan. When he saw the other schools folding up he read the signs correctly. He started to phase out all his boarders and take day boys instead. That was about six years ago. Clifton House is entirely a day school now.”
“And there are enough of them to go round?”
“Certainly. In fact he’s got a waiting list. There are a lot of professional and business families in Shackleton who don’t like the idea of sending their sons to state schools, but can’t quite face boarding school fees. Or who want to put off paying them as long as possible. And incidentally, I think Dan’s got a very good number two in Delavigne.”
“I’m glad you think that,” said Jonas, “because it will make it easier to explain what he has in mind.”
He spoke for ten minutes. He was used to expounding legal technicalities to non-legal people, and when he had finished Major Appleby nodded his head.
“In words of one syllable,” he said, “Dan wants to make sure that his wife can’t flog the lot as soon as he’s in his grave.”
“Correct,” said Jonas. “And I do congratulate you. I’ve often heard people start by saying ‘in words of one syllable’ but I’ve never known anyone actually pull it off.”
Appleby laughed and said, “Of course, one can see that she’d have every inducement to do it if she could. Tanner and I have both had that estate agent, Derek Price, of Price and Westbury, nibbling round. He’s dead keen to get hold of building land, and would give a lot for the Clifton House playing fields. We both sent him off with a flea in his ear. To tell you the truth, I can’t stand the chap.”
“Thirtyish, fatter than he should be at that age, smooth dresser, drives a BMW?”
“That’s the fellow. Chases girls as well as building land, so I’m told. One question: you realise that I’m a bit older than Dan. What happens if I die first?”
“Then we appoint someone else. But I don’t think it’s likely to happen.”
Appleby looked at Jonas shrewdly. He said, “You don’t think Dan’s a very good life?”
“I happened to be talking to Dr Brassie. Knowing that I’m Cullingford’s solicitor I suppose he felt able to be frank. What he said was, as long as Cullingford would exercise a little common sense and stop playing violent games of football on cold afternoons there’s no reason he shouldn’t go on happily for years.”
“I see,” said Appleby. “That’s the form, is it? Well, thanks for telling me.”
That was the second week in October. Dan Cullingford died on All Saints Day, which fell on a Monday that year. He had been giving some sort of demonstration in the gym and had fallen dead. When Dr Makepeace, the coroner, heard what Dr Brassie had to say he agreed that there was no need for an inquest. The burial service at St Michael’s was conducted by the Reverend Tobias Harmer and the address was given by the Bishop of Lewes, who also conducted the committal. The sun was shining, but it gave out little heat and Jonas, his coat collar turned up to his ears, felt a shiver run through him as the coffin was lowered into the ground. He had not known Cullingford long, but long enough to become fond of him.
The church had been jam-packed, and most of the congregation had come out to the churchyard to witness the final rites. Laura was there, in a black two-piece suit over a cream-coloured shirt and was veiled. The school staff and the boys of Clifton House were all in attendance. Two of the boys stood in front of the bishop at the head of the grave when he spoke the words of committal. One of them, a stocky, freckled boy, he knew was Superintendent Queen’s son. The other, a tall thin boy in spectacles, was not known to him. Both looked appropriately solemn.
Claire, who had come with Jonas, said, “I do hate that sort of thing. It’s barbarous. Give me a quiet private cremation every time.”
“I don’t know,” said Jonas mildly. “A lot of people enjoy funerals. And it doesn’t make any difference to the party chiefly concerned.”
“Not to him,” agreed Claire, “but I bet the leading lady was enjoying it all behind that tootsie little veil. She’ll be round to see you in a day or two.”
“Surely she’ll wait for a bit. A decent interval, anyway.”
“Would you care to bet on it?” said Claire. “I’ll make it an even fiver th
at she turns up before the end of the week.”
The telephone call came that Thursday, when Claire was in Jonas’s room taking dictation. She lifted the receiver, listened impassively, and said, in her most secretarial voice, “It’s Mrs Cullingford, sir. She wants to know if she can come and have a word with you.”
“Monday morning?” suggested Jonas hopefully.
“You’re in Eastbourne on Monday and Tuesday on that planning enquiry.” Claire had the desk diary open. “You’ve nothing on before midday tomorrow.”
“All right.” Jonas sighed, took a five pound note out of his wallet and passed it across the desk. “Tell her eleven o’clock.”
When Laura arrived she was wearing the same black suit but she had brightened it up with a fuchsia-coloured scarf at the throat and Jonas concluded that her sorrow for the loss of her husband was likely to be short-lived. He knew quite well what she had come to talk about, and after five minutes of sparring she came to the point.
She said, “My husband showed me the will he had made. I meant to bring it along with me, but it seems to have disappeared. He told me he was coming to see you. Did he show it to you perhaps?”
“He showed it to me,” said Jonas slowly. “That was the first time he came to see me. When he came here again – that was a week later – to sign his new will, he tore the old one up. Anyway, it was no longer effective, because the new will totally revoked the old one. But I always think it’s a mistake to have too many wills hanging about. It can easily lead to confusion.”
He had dragged this statement out to give Laura time to react. He saw the flush rising in her cheeks and the tightening of her mouth.
She said, “He never told me he was making a new will.”
“No?”
“Wasn’t that rather unusual?”
“Not really. I expect he planned to tell you about it later. There was no reason to worry you about it whilst he was alive and well.”
“Worry me. Why should it have worried me?”
Her feelings were very near the surface now.
“I’ve had copies made for you and the two executors. Perhaps you’d better read it.”
Laura picked up the document that Jonas had put on the desk in front of her, but seemed unwilling to pick it up. She said, “Two executors? What are you talking about? I’m his executor. The sole executor. He told me so.”
“That was in the old will. The executors in his new will are Major Appleby and Leopold Sambrooke.”
“Do they know about this?”
“They know about it and have agreed to act.” Seeing that Laura was making no attempt to read the document Jonas said, “You might find some of the legal terms confusing. Shall I explain it to you?”
Laura said, “Yes.” Her mouth was scarcely open, and the word came out like a hiss.
“Well, to start with, he leaves you all his personal chattels. That’s to say, everything he possessed outside the school.”
“Which was nothing. He had nothing except the school.”
“I wouldn’t say that. Everyone has something. Furniture, books, pictures, shares, money in the bank.”
“No shares. And an overdraft in the bank.”
“All right,” said Jonas, who was finding Laura hard to take. “He may not have had much, but what he did have is yours.”
“The school. Tell me about the school.”
“He left the school and the grounds to his executors.”
“What!” Not a hiss, this time. A scream. “He left the school to old Appleby and Sambrooke. Why? What had they done to deserve it?”
“Hold your horses. He didn’t leave it to them beneficially. They hold it on trust.”
“Trust?”
“The will tells them what to do with it. As long as the school carries on, the profits – that’s to say, the income it produces – goes in equal shares to you and Mr Delavigne. If they sell it, and they’ve got the power to do that, then again, what they get is split equally between the two of you.”
“Can I make them sell it?”
“No one can make them sell it. It’s a matter for them. Anyway, it’s clear that your husband wanted the school to go on as long as it could. I think that’s obvious from the fact that it’s the executors who have the right to appoint the headmaster.”
Laura sat in silence for an appreciable time. She was chewing over the bitter dish that had been served to her. He could see her mouth moving. Violent forces were working on her. He thought, she’s so far off-balance that she might do or say anything.
When she spoke the undercurrent of bile almost choked the words. She said, “You’ve got it all nicely worked out between you, haven’t you? But you’re not going to get away with it. I can promise you that. I’ll have that will set aside.”
“Yes?”
“Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes. I’ll go and see a real solicitor. One who doesn’t conspire behind people’s backs. We’ll see what the Law Society has to say about you, Mr Tricky Pickett.”
Jonas rang the bell on his desk, and Claire came in. She said, “Did you want me?”
“You’d better be here. If this lady proposes to slander me again, it would be as well to have a witness present.”
Laura left without another word.
Tim Delavigne was standing in the headmaster’s study looking out of the window. Dan’s sudden death had shaken the school from top to bottom, but the ship was slowly climbing back on to course again. All the parents had been sympathetic.
None of them had wanted to take their boys away. With any luck, he thought, he and Pamela should be able to cope.
A car came storming up the drive. Laura jumped out and slammed the door behind her.
Tim’s feelings towards Laura at that moment were ambivalent. He was sorry for her. The loss of her husband must, surely, have been a blow. When he had made some such comment to Pamela she had said nothing. She had neither agreed nor disagreed. In fact, she had been very odd about the whole thing.
Whilst he was thinking, in a puzzled male way, about women and their unfathomable natures, Laura came in. This time she did not slam the door. She left it open, stalked across to Dan’s desk, and sat down behind it.
She said, “I wonder if you’d very much mind asking me before you make free of my study.”
Tim stared at her.
“Until something else is legally and officially decided, I take it that I am in charge here.”
“Yes. I mean—I suppose so. Actually I thought—”
“Yes, Mr Delavigne. What did you think?”
“I thought it had been arranged that I should takeover.”
“Arranged? Arranged by who?”
“Well, by Dan’s executors.”
“I see. So you’re in the plot as well, are you? Well, let me tell you this, Mr Delavigne, that I’ve been having a word with my lawyer. Not your lawyer, Grandfather Pickett, but a young Cedric Porter who knows something about the law, and has a few manners into the bargain. And I showed him a copy of the will, and he said that until the executors had had a meeting and made an appointment, I was in charge. Well?”
“I expect he’s right,” said Tim. He was seeing a side of Laura that he had never suspected before and wanted only to get out of the room.
“Then perhaps you would be good enough to send Miss Ricketts to see me.”
He found Pamela in the Art Room and said, “Laura’s in Dan’s study. She wants to see you – and look – I’m afraid she’s rather upset. Hardly responsible for what she says. So watch out.”
“I’m not afraid of Mrs Cullingford,” said Pamela coolly. “She can’t kill me.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’ll tell you later. Mustn’t keep Madame waiting.”
Tim sat down at one of the desks and stared at a well executed painting of three apples on a plate. He was normally courageous enough, but there was something frightening about mental imbalance.
It was five minutes before Pamela reappeared. T
here was a faint flush across her cheekbones, but otherwise she seemed unruffled.
She said, “Well, you see, she didn’t kill me.”
“What did she want you for? What did she say?”
“She sacked me. I’ve got to be out by Sunday night.”
“Sacked you? She can’t do that.”
“She seems to think she can.”
“What for?”
“I wasn’t quite clear about that. Either for impertinence or incompetence. Or maybe for both.”
“This is mad. What are we going to do?”
“I think we must have a word with Mr Pickett.”
“I’ll telephone him right away.”
Jonas listened carefully to what Tim had to say. He then asked to speak to Pamela, who was the more coherent of the two.
He said, “I can certainly act for you, now that Mrs Cullingford has gone elsewhere. You said it was Cedric Porter she’d seen? He’s quite a sensible chap. Better than his old father. I think I’ll have a word with him. Which means I shan’t be able to see you until later tonight. Could you both get away after supper?”
“We’ll do that,” said Tim. In fact the thought of supper with Laura had deprived him of any appetite.
Jonas caught Cedric Porter on the point of slipping away for a round of golf. He said, “If you don’t get stuck in too many bunkers you should be back in the clubhouse by seven o’clock. There’s a small room behind the bar that no one ever uses. Shall we meet there?”
He thought that Cedric Porter sounded relieved at the idea of a meeting.
“This is off the record?” said Porter.
“Certainly,” said Jonas. “Anything said is off the record and totally deniable.”
“To tell you the truth, I’m glad to have the chance of discussing it in a friendly way, because it really is a very awkward situation.”
“Awkward for everyone,” agreed Jonas.
“I’ve seen the will. I’m assuming that as soon as the executors can meet they’ll use their powers to appoint Delavigne headmaster.”
“Yes. You can assume that. Unfortunately Major Appleby has pushed off with a party of senior boys on some sort of expedition. He won’t be back until late on Monday night so the earliest he and Sambrooke can meet is Tuesday morning. And, I’d agree with you that until they meet, Mrs Cullingford retains a sort of residual authority.”
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