by Margaret Way
Afterwards, to fill in the time, Frances took him off on the pretext of cooling down in the homestead's splendid swimming pool. In fact they settled for leisurely sex in the locked pool house.
Maitland, though he had loved his wife until the day she'd died, and would never have left her, hadn't been averse to taking a mistress when the opportunity presented itself. It had worked out very well for both Gerald and Frances.
Late afternoon in Rex Kingsley's huge bedroom, that reeked of illness, saw that stern despotic man propped up by pilIlows, rasping to Gerald Maitland to get down to work.
Maitland was shocked to see the great change in his client-and in so short a time. Without question Kingsley was dying. From the look of him, in a matter of hours.
"What is it you want me to do, Rex?" Gerald Maitland half turned from the small table where he had set out pen and paper, lacking a business office.
"Change my will. Why the hell else would I have you here?" Kingsley suddenly bellowed, struggling with his last spurt of red anger. "To facilitate your affair with Frances`? Did you think I was such a fool I didn't know what was going on with you two? Get started, man. I have to set things right-don't I, Catherine?"
Aghast on many scores, the lawyer turned around, almost expecting to see the ghost of Kingsley's beautiful daughter in the shadows. Anything was possible in this old mausoleum.
"You can get Eula to witness it, not the bloody nurse," Kingsley barked. "Eula's a good servant. She knows her job. Of course she hates me, and loved Catherine and the boy. I could have sacked her, but I understood. Get a move on, man. You don't think it's easy for me, do you? I'm in agony. "
"I'm sorry, Rex. So sorry," Maitland said, though he was filled with a terrible dislike of the man.
Kingsley's savage remark had brought home a truth. He was a fool to have allowed Frances to seduce him. That made him liable to a little blackmail. He had a fine upstanding son, who worked in the firm, and two lovely daughters. both married, giving him grandchildren. They thought the world of him. They had adored their mother.
Gerald Maitland picked up his fountain pen and sat down. ''I'll Iike this down in longhand, Rex. When I return to the office I'll have the will properly typed up and a photocopy sent to you immediately."
"Get on with it, for God's sake!" Kingsley blasphemed, his once powerful hands clenched like talons on the coverlet.
Kingsley swiftly began to pen the most serious of words:
This is the last will and testament of Rex Burkett Kingsley, widower, landowner of Mulgaree Station, in the State of Queensland...
Eula Martin never told anyone what she knew. But she didn't think her niggling worries were a product of her imagination. She didn't like the way Frances Kingsley and the lawyer had their heads together. It was all about money, she knew. No one could amass considerable wealth without the heirs putting up a fight to get their hands on it. Miss Catherine was out of the picture. She was in her grave in Ireland. Now her son was back to assume his rightful position.
Eula couldn't remember the precise moment when it had come to her that Frances and the family solicitor had formed a closet relationship. She only knew it was years ago. Since then Frances had had no shame about inventing any number of reasons why she should take a trip to the State capital. Shopping, checks on her health, big social functions-whatever. Eula was certain Frances had managed to fit in a rendezvous with her lawyer lover on every single occasion over the past years.
Now they were talking as secretively as terrorists, at the far end of the hallway, the bright light streaming through the tall casement window illuminating their expressions. Obviously Frances was deeply upset and the lawyer was attempting to console her.
Had old Kingsley, dreadful man that he was, found the strength and natural justice to change his will'? IF so, Eula rejoiced. It had to be that. Of course Gerald Maitland had no right to pass on the new will's contents to Frances, but Eula was certain that was the cause of Frances Kingsley's evident distress, which looked like helpless rage.
There was not an instant to lose.
Brock and Philip wouldn't return to the house until sundown. Brock had slotted right back into station life, showing himself to be first-rate at handling the men and allocating duties around the vast station. What possible point was there in his cousin Philip objecting? Mulgaree and the Kingsley chain of cattle stations that stretched right across the giant State of Queensland was their future.
The lawyer had asked her if she could find a large manila envelope to contain the handwritten will, duly witnessed by him and herself. Eula decided on the spur of the moment she'd go a step further.
In desperate times one had to take desperate risks. Since Gerald had made her aware of the contents of Rex Kingsley's new will Frances had been literally beside herself. She could speak to no one.
Not yet.
Brock had joined them for dinner, handsome face mocking, eyes aglitter, as though he knew very soon he would be lord of all he surveyed.
"How did the day go, Gerald?"
He addressed the solicitor, but Frances intervened. "Let's hope you're not too disappointed, Brock." She gave him a bitter smile.
"Stop teasing, Frances." A warning light came into Gerald Maitland's eyes. "It's confidential, my boy. But you'll know soon enough. Poor Rex can't have too much longer to go."
"li must bother him the thought of facing up to his Maker " Brock couldn't sympathize. His grandfather had ruled them all with a callous hand.
Jeolousy was a very powerful force. Frances knew from her lover that Ilex Kingsley had left her and her son well
provided for, but were they supposed to fall to the ground and kiss it in gratitude? The real power had been passed to Brock, who possessed far more formidable natural skills than his cousin and was already demonstrating them, even in the short time he had been back on Mulgaree. Philip, her son, had been bypassed.
It wasn't to be borne. The prize had been snatched from them right at the death-unless she could make a pact with Gerald, and only then after Rex Kingsley had passed away. It was only a matter of time. Days at the most. Really, when one thought about it, it would be doing the old man a great service to help him die quickly and painlessly.
Furious as she was, Frances didn't think she could carry it off.
It was barely half past six the next morning when Shelley answered the phone. She'd been sitting alone in the kitchen, having a light breakfast and wondering how to approach her father about some refurbishments for the homestead, when the shrill sound of the phone had startled her. Her spoon clattered to the tiled floor. As she bent to retrieve it she bumped her head on thee edge of the counter.
"Not a good start!" She spoke aloud, fingering the bump.
It got worse. It was Philip.
"Grandfather's dead," he announced baldly. "His nurse found him an hour ago. I had to ring, Shelley. Times like these one needs the support of one's friends. Could you do me a huge favour and come over to Mulgaree? I can collect you in the helicopter."
Shelley's first thought was that it was entirely inappropriate. Her second that she didn't want to go. She took a deep breath. "But what of the others, Philip? Brock and your mother? They won't want me there at a time like this. Your mother would see it as an unwarranted intrusion."
"Who cares how she sees it?" Philip retorted, sounding thoroughly jangled. "She only cares about herself anyway. You've no idea of all the aggravations this last hour- Brock could inherit. He's acting that way. Do you realize what a stunning blow that would be to me? It would mean so much if you lent your support. Please don't object. I'd do the same for you," he added with great intensity.
He probably would. In the end compassion won out. With one possible undesirable side effect. Her gesture of sympathy for Philip might be interpreted by Brock as a kind of betrayal.
She knew the instant before the tall, athletic figure jumped down onto the scorched grass it was Brock. No one else moved through space like he did. He dominated it wit
h his energy and precision. As he came closer she noted the pallor beneath his dark polished skin, the diamond glitter of his eyes.
"What happened to Philip?" she asked a little nervously, aware a devil had him.
"Are you unwilling to fly with me?" he asked, as arrogant as you please.
"Don't be like that, Brock." She lifted a hand to shade her eyes. "This wasn't my idea. Philip insisted he needed a friend."
"So sweet of you!" He put a hand to his strong throat, as if he was all choked up.
"I'll tell you one thing," she said, exasperated, "he hit it right on the head when he said no one really cares about him."
"Hell, it's not as though it's hard to understand," Brock retorted. "My cousin all his life did a big fat nothing for me. But he needs all the softness he can get from you."
His anger was triggering her own, the air between them crackling with tension. "If you're so much against my coming, I won't."
"Ah, please do. We don't want Philip desperately upset," he scoffed. "Who am I to stop you?"
She looked full into his dark handsome face. "You could be a little more understanding."
"Well, I'm not a nice person." He stared back at her moodily.
"You certainly aren't on occasions," she answered crisply. "But please-don't let's fight."
"But I'm eager for more!"
His eyes dazzled her. "I'll do whatever you want." She sighed. "Philip has his mother to hold his hand."
"Except she seems to have gone to pieces." He gave a grim laugh. "That's why I'm here. For once it's Philip who's supporting Mama. Frankly, I never thought Frances capable of such feeling. She may not be weeping buckets, but she's giving a good impression of being distraught."
"Maybe you've been selling her short," Shelley suggested dryly. "It's possible she had some gentle feelings towards your grandfather."
"Never!" he mocked, bending down to press a brief hard kiss on her mouth before drawing away. "Her boyfriend's there, of course. She may be trying to impress him. Probably he was brought up to believe a daughter-in-law should grieve."
"Who's the boyfriend?" she asked, realizing her heart was pounding after that short, disturbing contact.
"You mean you really don't know?" Brock gave her a cynical glance.
"I'm not exactly in on your family secrets."
"What? With Phil's high regard for you on open display?"
She glanced away, trying to hold onto her temper. "I'd feel for you too, Brock, if you'd only let me. But you're too damned proud. So, who's the boyfriend'? Should 1 know?"
"Phil must have been too embarrassed to tell you," he drawled. "Gerald Maitland of Maitland-Pearson, the family solicitors. They've had fun and games for years now."
"Surely not?" Shelley fought a stirring of alarm.
"You don't approve?"
"To be frank, I'm shocked."
Brock laughed briefly. "You're an innocent after all."
"And it opens a Pandora's box."
"It does indeed," Brock answered, with a hard mockery that said reams.
CHAPTER SEVEN
SHELLEY found a household far more upset than she could ever have imagined.
Frances was the biggest shock. Always supremely self assured, to put it kindly Frances was a mess. She might have been a different person. Gerald Maitland, too, was behaving as though the death of one of his most valued clients had brought him a new experience in life. Perhaps without Rex Kingsley's patronage Maitland-Pearson would go to the wall.
When it came time for the will-reading, what occurred was a far greater shock than the actual death. Shelley sat sandwiched between Brock and Philip, wishing herself elsewhere, but strangely even Frances hadn't objected to her presence. Obviously in deference to her son, the heir.
Gerald Maitland, the very picture of a high-level solicitor, sat with fingers steepled behind his departed client's impressive antique desk. All of them stared back at him with varying expressions.
When it came, it was like a great bolt from the blue. There was no new will.
Rex Kingsley had passed away before he had had a chance to sign the document. It had been drawn up under the worst possible circumstances, given the client's precarious state of health and doubts as to his lucidity of mind; he had been on strong medication.
Maitland, to save the family further distress-and by this presumably he meant Philip and Frances-had destroyed the handwritten unexecuted document as soon as he'd heard his client had died during the night. The only valid will at his
disposal-signed, properly witnessed and notarised-was the one he was now prepared to read.
It was dated a scant month after Catherine Tyson and her son had left Mulgaree Station after a terrible showdown with Rex Kingsley.
If Brock had genuinely expected his grandfather would make up to him for his repudiation of himself and his mother, all the wrongs he had done to them, he was now doomed to devastating disappointment. Nonetheless, he rallied strongly, voicing serious doubts.
"It won't wash, Gerald," he said very coldly. "And don't question my grandfather's state of mind. He'd cut back on the drugs at the very end. His nurse will verify that."
"So what are you saying, Brock?" Philip asked angrily. fixing his eyes on his cousin. "We have a will. Why don't you hear it? For all we know Grandfather didn't cut you out at all. I'm not such a bastard I'd want to see you totally ignored. You're a grandson, just like me."
"Not like you." Brock rounded on him. "I have grave doubts about what Maitland here is saying."
Gerald Maitland cheeks puffed up angrily. "No one has ever questioned my ethics. My aim is always to serve the best interests of my client. I think I can safely say my firm is very highly regarded."
"By yourselves," Brock snapped back. "What right had you to destroy that document?"
Gerald Maitland's eyes sparkled with outrage. "I judged it in the best interests of the family. I stand by my decision. I believe another solicitor would have done the same. Anyway, it's too late now."
"Why don't you read the will, Gerald?" Frances cut in, wanting desperately to put a stop to Brock. "The real will. I'm sure it's just as Rex promised."
Shelley, her nerves on edge, reached for Brock's hand, half expecting he would reject it. She could feel the waves of anger and outrage coming off him like hot spice.
"Please, Brock," she begged, very softly. "Hear what it says. Then you can decide."
He stared down at her for a moment, daunting in his anger, but after a moment resumed his seat.
Philip Goddard Kingsley was named as the main beneficiary, heir to the Kingsley fortune-which was considerable when Rex Burkett Kingsley's net estate was calculated to be about two hundred and fifty million dollars, maybe more. There were also bequests to institutions, relatives, and staff of long standing.
Frances, who had waited patiently to hear what the old man had left her, couldn't have been more shocked. She received a fraction of what she had confidently expected and her expression was livid-though her legacy was in the very early millions. She had been well provided for in life, and Philip would have more than enough to look after his mother's future needs.
Brock was totally disowned.
"I won't accept a word of this." He addressed the lawyer directly in a deadly quiet voice that eerily had overtones of Rex Kingsley. "My grandfather brought me home to tell me something. To atone, if you like. He was leaving me Mulgaree and everything that went with it. We had words to that effect just days ago. He had come to the conclusion I was the one to run it. Philip had his chance, but he couldn't deliver. He and Frances were to be properly provided for. Was that in the unexecuted will, Gerald? Can you tell us that?"
Gerald Maitland shook his head with great regret. "I gave my reasons for destroying the document, Brock. I knew speculation would only cause pain. I swear I tried to alter things in all fairness, but the terms of the unexecuted will were not as you hoped."
"Why should I believe you?" Brock asked, not disguising his contem
pt.
"I'm a highly respected lawyer."
"I have no great regard for your profession," Brock said with a hard edge. "Lawyers have lost a lot of ground. Their days people don't confuse the legal system with justice like they used to. Your prestigious firm is mainly into hefty fees. There's also the fact you've managed to get away with conducting an affair with a female member of my family-may I remind you, your clients-for many years now. I wouldn' i call that ethical."
Gerald Maitland threw up his hands, his florid skin blanching. Frances had convinced him no one in the family had an inkling of their affair because they'd been so discreet. So much for her smug beliefs. They weren't worth a bumper. The old man had known, and now Brock.