The Shell Seekers

by Rosamunde Pilcher

  It was an excellent suggestion, and Olivia did not argue with it. She was very tired and her back ached from standing. Going through the hall, she thought about nipping up the stairs, soaking in a boiling bath, and then getting into bed, with cool sheets, soft pillows, and an absorbing book. Later, she promised herself. The day was not yet over. Later.

  In the sitting room, already cleared of all traces of the tea-party, she found Noel, Nancy, and Mr. Enderby, all disposed in comfortable fashion, and making polite small talk. Nancy and Mr. Enderby sat in the armchairs on either side of the hearth, but Noel had taken up his usual position, with his back to the fire, his shoulders propped against the mantelshelf. As Olivia appeared, Mr. Enderby rose to his feet. He was a man in his early forties, but with his bald head, rimless spectacles, and sober clothes, he appeared much older. Despite this, his manner was easy and relaxed, and during the course of the afternoon Olivia had observed him making himself known to the other guests, replenishing teacups and handing around sandwiches and cake. As well, he had spent some time talking to Danus, which was nice, because Nancy and Noel had chosen to ignore him. The holiday in Cornwall at Mumma’s expense and the wild extravagance of The Sands Hotel were obviously still rankling.

  “I am sorry, Mr. Enderby, I’m afraid we’re running a little late.” She sank thankfully into the corner of the sofa, and Mr. Enderby once more sat down.

  “No matter. I am in no hurry.”

  From the dining room came sounds of the vacuum cleaner being wielded. “They’ve just got to clean up the crumbs and then we can start. How about you, Noel? Have you got some pressing date in London?”

  “Not this evening.”

  “And Nancy? You’re not pushed for time?”

  “Not really. But I have to collect the children, and I promised that I wouldn’t be late.” Nancy, having blubbed her way through most of the service, was now recovered and looked quite cheerful again. Perhaps because she had removed her hat. George was already gone, having taken his leave in the churchyard, sent on his way by Nancy with loud admonitions to drive carefully and to give her regards to the Archdeacon, both of which he had promised to do. “And I’d like to be back before dark. I hate driving, by myself, in the dark.”

  The sound of the vacuum cleaner ceased. The next moment, the door opened and Mrs. Plackett’s head, still wearing her funeral hat, came around the edge of it.

  “That’s it then, Miss Keeling.”

  “Thank you so much, Mrs. Plackett.”

  “If it’s all right by you, Mr. Plackett and me are on our way home.”

  “Of course. And I can’t thank you enough.”

  “It’s been a pleasure. See you tomorrow.”

  She went. Nancy frowned. “Tomorrow’s Sunday. Why is she coming tomorrow?”

  “She’s going to help me clear out Mumma’s room.” Olivia stood up. “Shall we go?”

  She led the way into the dining room. All was orderly, and a green baize cloth had been draped over the table.

  Noel raised his eyebrows. “Looks like a board meeting.” Nobody remarked on this observation. They sat down, Mr. Enderby taking his place at the head of the table, with Noel and Olivia on either side of him. Nancy sat by Noel. Mr. Enderby opened his brief-case and took out various papers, which he laid before him. It was all very formal, and he was in charge. They waited for him to begin.

  He cleared his throat. “To begin with, I am very grateful that you all agreed to stay on after your mother’s funeral. I hope it hasn’t inconvenienced any of you. A formal will-reading is, of course, not strictly necessary, but it did seem to me a fortuitous opportunity, while you are all together under one roof, to let you know how your mother wished to dispose of her estate and, if necessary, to explain any points that you might not fully understand. Now…” From the papers before him, Mr. Enderby took up a long envelope and drew out the heavy, folded document. Unfolding it, he spread it on the table. Olivia saw Noel avert his eyes, inspect his fingernails, as though anxious not to be seen glancing out of the corner of his eye, like a schoolboy cheating in examinations.

  Mr. Enderby adjusted his spectables. “This is the last will and testament of Penelope Sophia Keeling née Stern, dated the eighth of July, 1980.” He glanced up. “If you don’t mind, I shan’t read verbatum, but will simply outline your mother’s wishes as we come to them.” They all nodded agreement to this. He continued. “To begin with, there are two bequests outwith the family. To Mrs. Florence Plackett, 43 Hodges Road, Pudley, Gloucestershire, the sum of two thousand pounds. And to Mrs. Doris Penberth, 7 Wharf Lane, Porthkerris, Cornwall, five thousand pounds.”

  “How splendid,” said Nancy, for once approving of her mother’s generosity. “Mrs. Plackett’s been such a treasure. What Mother would have done without her, I really can’t imagine.”

  “And Doris, too,” Olivia said, “Doris was Mumma’s dearest friend. They went through the war together; they became very close.”

  “I believe,” said Mr. Enderby, “that I have met Mrs. Plackett, but I don’t think Mrs. Penberth was with us today.”

  “No. She couldn’t come. She telephoned to explain. Her husband was unwell and she didn’t feel that she could leave him. But she was dreadfully upset.”

  “In that case, I shall write to both these ladies and let them know of the bequests.” He made a note. “Now. With that disposed of, we come to family matters.” Noel leaned back in his chair, felt in his breast pocket, and took out his silver pen. He began to play with this, loosening the cap with his thumb, and then snapping it shut again. “To begin with, there are specific items of furniture which she wanted each of you to have. For Nancy, the Regency sofa table in the bedroom. I believe your mother used it as a dressing-table. For Olivia, the desk in the sitting room, once the property of Mrs. Keeling’s father, the late Lawrence Stern. And for Noel, the dining room table and set of eight dining room chairs. Which, I imagine, we are sitting on now.”

  Nancy turned to her brother. “Where will you put them in that rabbit-warren of a flat? There’s not room to swing a cat in it.”

  “Perhaps I shall buy another flat.”

  “It will have to have a dining room.”

  “It will,” he told her shortly. “Please go on, Mr. Enderby.”

  But Nancy was not finished. “Is that all?”

  “I don’t understand, Mrs. Chamberlain.”

  “I mean … what about her jewellery?”

  Here we go, thought Olivia. “Mumma didn’t have any jewellery, Nancy. She sold her rings years ago to pay our father’s debts.”

  Nancy bridled as she always did when Olivia spoke in that hard voice about dear, dead Daddy. There was no reason to be so blunt, to say such things in front of Mr. Enderby.

  “What about Aunt Ethel’s earrings? The ones Aunt Ethel left her? They must be worth at least four or five thousand pounds. Is there no mention of them?”

  “She’s already given them away,” Olivia told her. “To Antonia.”

  A silence followed this pronouncement. It was broken by Noel, who put his elbow on the table and ran his fingers, in despairing fashion, through his hair. He said, “Oh, dear God.” Across the green baize Olivia met her sister’s eyes. Very blue, staring, bright with outrage. A flush crept into Nancy’s cheeks. She spoke at last. “That cannot be true?”

  “I’m afraid”—Mr. Enderby’s tones were measured—“that it is true. Mrs. Keeling gave the earrings to Antonia while they were on holiday together in Cornwall. She told me about the gift the day she came to see me in London, the day before she died. She was adamant that there should be no argument about these, nor question of rightful possession.”

  “How did you know?” Nancy asked Olivia, “that Mother had done such a thing?”

  “Because she wrote and told me.”

  “They should have gone to Melanie.”

  “Nancy, Antonia was very good to Mumma, and Mumma was very fond of her. Antonia made the last few weeks of her life intensely happy. And she w
ent to Cornwall with her, and kept her company, which none of us could be bothered to do.”

  “You mean, we should be grateful for that? If you ask me, the boot’s on the other foot.…”

  “Antonia is grateful.…”

  The argument, which might have gone on for ever, was brought to an end by Mr. Enderby, once more discreetly clearing his throat. Nancy subsided into outraged silence, and Olivia breathed a sigh of relief. For the moment it was over, but she was fairly certain that the matter would never rest, and the fate of Aunt Ethel’s earrings would be brought up and worried over far into the future.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Enderby. We’re holding you up. Please carry on.”

  He sent her a grateful look, and resumed business. “Now, we come to the residue of the estate. When Mrs. Keeling drew up this will, she made it very clear to me that she wished there to be no disagreement among the three of you as to the disposal of her property. Accordingly, we decided that everything should be sold, and the sum realized divided among you all. In order to do this, it was necessary to appoint trustees of her estate, and it was agreed that the executors, Enderby, Looseby and Thring, should take this on. Is that quite clear, and quite acceptable? Good. In that case…” He began to read. “I devise and bequeath all my estate, both real and personal, unto my trustees upon trust to sell, call in, and convert the same into money. Yes, Mrs. Chamberlain?”

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  “It means the residue of Mrs. Keeling’s estate, which includes this house and its contents, her portfolio of stocks and shares, and her current bank account.”

  “All sold, and then added together, and then divided into three?”

  “Exactly so. After, of course, outstanding debts, taxes and stamp duties, and funeral expenses have been paid.”

  “It sounds dreadfully complicated.”

  Noel reached into a pocket and produced his diary. He pressed it open at a blank page, removed the cap from his pen. “Perhaps, Mr. Enderby, you could elucidate, and we can make some sort of a rough calculation.”

  “Very well. We’ll start with the house. Podmore’s Thatch, with its outbuildings and mature garden, is worth, I imagine, no less than two hundred and fifty thousand. Your mother paid a hundred and twenty thousand for it, but that was five years ago, and the value of property has risen considerably since then. As well, it is a highly desirable piece of real estate, and within easy commuting reach of London. The contents of the house I cannot be so certain of. Maybe ten thousand pounds? Then, at the moment, Mrs. Keeling’s share portfolio stands at roughly twenty thousand.”

  Noel whistled. “As much as that? I had no idea.”

  “Nor me,” said Nancy. “Where did all that money come from?”.

  “It was the residue from the sale of the house in Oakley Street. Carefully invested, after your mother had bought Podmore’s Thatch.”

  “I see.”

  “And her current account?” Noel had listed all these figures in his diary, and was obviously itching to add them up and get a final grand total.

  “Her current account, at the moment, stands high, with the injection of the hundred thousand pounds she received from the sale of the two panels painted by her father, Lawrence Stern, and which were sold to a private buyer by Boothby’s. All of this, of course, will be subject to duties and tax.”

  “Even so…” Noel did his swift calculation. “That works out at over three hundred and fifty thousand.” Nobody remarked upon this staggering sum. In silence, he screwed the cap back onto his pen, placed it on the table, and leaned back in his chair. “All things considered, girls, not a bad score.”

  “I am pleased,” said Mr. Enderby drily, “that you are satisfied.”

  “So that’s it.” Noel stretched hugely, and made as if to rise from his chair. “What do you say that I go and get us all a drink? You’d like a whisky, Mr. Enderby?”

  “Very much. But not at this moment. I’m afraid our business is not quite finished.”

  Noel frowned. “But what else is there to discuss?”

  “There is a codicil to your mother’s will, dated the thirtieth of April, nineteen-eighty-four. This, of course, re-dates the former will, but as it changes nothing which has already been stated, this is irrelevant.”

  Olivia thought back. “The thirtieth of April. That was the day she came to London. The day before she died.”

  “Exactly so.”

  “She came expressly to see you, Mr. Enderby?”

  “I believe so.”

  “To draw up this codicil?”

  “Yes.”

  “Perhaps you had better read it to us.”

  “I am about to, Miss Keeling. But before I do so I think I should mention that it is written in Mrs. Keeling’s handwriting, and signed by her in the presence of my secretary and my clerk.” He commenced to read aloud. “To Danus Muirfield, Tractorman’s Cottage, Sawcombe’s Farm, Pudley, Gloucestershire, I leave fourteen rough oil sketches of major works painted by my father, Lawrence Stern, between the years eighteen-ninety and nineteen-ten. These are titled as follows: The Terrazzo Garden, The Lover’s Approach, Boatman’s Courtship, Pandora…”

  The oil sketches. Noel had suspected their existence, confided these suspicions to Olivia; had searched his mother’s house for them, but drawn a blank. Now, she turned her head and looked, across the table, at her brother. He sat there, frozen to stillness, and intensely pale. A nervous tic jerked the angle of his jaw-bone. She wondered how long he would remain silent before exploding into furious protest.

  “… The Water Carriers, A Market in Tunis, The Love Letter…”

  Where had they been, all these years? Who had possessed them? Where had they come from?

  “… The Spirit of Spring, Shepherd’s Morning, Amoretta’s Garden…”

  Noel could last out no longer. “Where were they?” His voice was harsh with outrage. Mr. Enderby, so rudely interrupted, remained admirably calm. He had probably anticipated just such an outburst. He glanced up at Noel over the top of his spectacles. “Perhaps you will allow me to finish, Mr. Keeling, and then I will explain.”

  There was an uncomfortable pause. “Go on, then.”

  Mr. Enderby, without hurry, continued. “The Sea-God, The Souvenir, The White Roses, and The Hiding Place. These works are at present in the possession of Mr. Roy Brookner, of Boothby’s, Fine Art Dealers, New Bond Street, London W1, but are scheduled for sale in New York at the first possible opportunity. If I should die before this sale takes place, then they are for Danus Muirfield either to keep or to sell, according to his personal wishes.” Mr. Enderby sat back in his chair and waited for comment.

  “Where were they?”

  Nobody said anything. The atmosphere had become uncomfortably tense. And then Noel repeated his question. “Where were they?”

  “For a number of years, your mother kept them hidden at the back of the wardrobe in her bedroom. She placed them there herself, and wallpapered them into position, so that they should not be found.”

  “She didn’t want us to know about them?”

  “I don’t think her children really came into it. She was hiding them from her husband. She found the sketches in her father’s old studio at Oakley Street. At that time, there were certain financial difficulties, and she didn’t want the sketches to be sold in order, simply, to raise some cash.”

  “When did they finally come to light?”

  “She asked Mr. Brookner to come to Podmore’s Thatch, to appraise and possibly buy two other works painted by your grandfather. It was then that she showed him the portfolio of sketches.”

  “And when did you first hear of their existence?”

  “Mrs. Keeling told me the whole story the day that she drew up the codicil. The day before she died. Mrs. Chamberlain, did you want to say something…?”

  “Yes. I haven’t understood a word of what you’re saying. I don’t know what you’re talking about. Nobody’s ever mentioned these sketches to me, and thi
s is the very first I’ve ever heard of them. And what is all the fuss about? Why does Noel seem to think they’re so important?”

  “They’re important,” Noel told her with weary patience, “because they’re valuable.”

  “Rough sketches? I thought those would be things you threw away.”

  “Not if you had any sense.”

  “Well, how much are they worth?”

  “Four, five thousand each. And there are fourteen of them. Fourteen,” he repeated, shouting the word at Nancy as though she were deaf. “So work that sum out, if you’re capable of such advanced arithmetic, which I doubt.”

  Olivia, in her head, had already worked it out. Seventy thousand. Despite Noel’s appalling behaviour, she knew a pang of sympathy for him. He had been so certain that they were there, somewhere, at Podmore’s Thatch. Had even spent one long, dismally wet Saturday incarcerated in the loft, on the pretence of clearing out his mother’s rubbish, but, actually, searching for them. She wondered if Penelope had known the true reason for his industry and, if so, what had prompted her to keep silent. The answer was probably that Noel was his father all over again, and Penelope did not completely trust him. And so she had said nothing, but given them into the custody of Mr. Brookner, and finally, the day before she died, decided to leave them to Danus.

  But why? For what reason?

  “Mr. Enderby…” It was the first time she had spoken out since the subject of the codicil was raised, and Mr. Enderby appeared relieved to hear her quiet voice, and gave her his full attention. “… did she give any reason for leaving the sketches to Danus Muirfield? I mean”—she chose her words carefully, not wishing to appear resentful or greedy—“they were obviously very special and personal possessions … and she’s only known him for a short time.”

  “I can’t, of course, answer that question because I don’t know what the answer is. But she was obviously very fond of the young man, and I think wished to help him. I believe he wants to start some small business, and will be grateful for the capital.”