by Henry Wade
Mr. Christendome paused to bow ceremoniously to David, who flushed uncomfortably.
“There are, of course”, continued the solicitor, “certain bequests of personal property, and these are embodied in the will which I shall now read to you.”
Adjusting his glasses, Mr. Christendome plunged into the technical phraseology of ‘the last will and testament’ of Howard Hendel. Of his considerable personalty, Howard had left a substantial sum to his wife, absolutely, but the bulk of it was to be held in trust to provide an annuity for her, reverting to the holder of the settled estate upon her death. To the Trustees of this fund, David Hendel and Richard Christendome (son and partner of Mr. William Christendome) were left sums of £500 each. A legacy of £2,000 went to Julia Carr; £500 to Desmond Hendel (David’s invalid son); £500 to Patience Stone (grand-daughter of Henry Hendel); £500 to his personal secretary, George Purdis; £200 to Reginald Stotworthy, secretary of the firm of Hendel Brothers; £50 to Eustace Hendel; £50 to Albert William Tagg. . . .
Eustace heard no more of the recital. He was conscious of a rush of hot blood into his face, followed by a feeling that every drop of it had left his body, leaving him cold and stiff. Fifty pounds! Pushed in somewhere among a lot of clerks and servants! Fifty pounds! To him, Eustace Hendel, who had kept a flat in St. James’, horses at Bicester, a thousand-guinea Bentley, Sylvia Vaughan and Denise Herron—and who now desperately needed £500 or £1,000 to keep Jill Paris and his own head above water. Fifty pounds! A bloody insult! Shoved in among a lot of Taggs and Stotworthys, quill-drivers and boot-polishers! Deliberate. A deliberate insult. Howard, blast him, knew perfectly well that things had been going badly with him and he had taken the opportunity to rub it in by a bit of cheap charity. Fifty pounds! . . .
There was a scraping of chairs on the wood floor, a clatter of tongues. The formal affair was over. Blanche Hendel, beginning at last to show signs of the strain which she had endured, was saying good-night.
“Do stay down here a few days, Eustace. It’s such lovely air and I should like to see something of you after all this time. Julia’s going to talk to you.”
Sweet of her. No nonsense, no pose; she meant it. Again Eustace felt his anger cool down. He would have liked to stay, but he couldn’t stick that damned fellow, David.
“Eustace, won’t you come up here tomorrow for a day or two? David’s going by the early train, and Patience can’t stay either. It would be so nice if you’d come and help me with the children; there’s golf, if you care for it, and bathing of course. Oh!”
It was Julia speaking now. Silly woman, making a faux pas like that and then calling attention to it.
“Henry will have to be seeing to things”, went on Julia Carr hurriedly. “It would really be kind of you if you’d come. Dick and Helen are such a handful, and Blanche and I would love to have you.”
There was no particular warmth in her voice. Blanche had put her up to it, of course. Still, it might be rather nice; a change and all that. And Blanche was a topper—and very lovely.
“Awfully good of you”, muttered Eustace. “But . . . well, I’ve only got these clothes and some evening things. Not much use down here.”
“Don’t let that worry you.”
Henry Carr put a friendly hand on his shoulder.
“I can fit you up with some slacks and a flannel shirt and a pull-over. Come along by all means; I shall be glad of your company.”
So it was settled. Eustace walked back to The Boatswain’s Mate with Mr. Christendome. He paid little attention to the lawyer’s tactful conversation. The old man had noticed the effect which the reading of the will had had on his companion; he had, in fact, rather sympathized with his obvious feelings. He made no reference to the subject now, but talked of Blanche Hendel and of Julia Carr and her children. The two sturdy youngsters, awed by the solemnity of the occasion, but unable always to repress their natural high spirits and curiosity, had appealed to the old lawyer; he rambled on about the attraction of youth and health while Eustace chewed morosely the cud of his discontent.
The Boatswain’s Mate proved to be comfortable enough, if rather overcrowded, and the food was excellent. After dinner the two men drank a bottle of vintage port in the little private sitting-room which Mr. Christendome had rather miraculously managed to reserve. Mellowed by the wine, Eustace forgot his grievance and tried to pump the solicitor about the family affairs, but Mr. Christendome, though he too was enjoying himself, was too well seasoned to allow his palate to influence his tongue. He disclosed an encyclopædic knowledge of family history, but evaded Eustace’s not very subtle attempts to investigate the settlement of the Hendel estates. Eustace was disappointed, but not deterred; if this old stick wouldn’t talk he had another string to his bow; Henry Carr was pretty sure to know all about it and it should be no difficult job to get it out of him while he was staying in his house.
Chapter Four
Settled Estate
THE following morning was clear and beautiful, with every promise of a hot noon. As he shaved, Eustace felt his spirits rise. The view from his window looked straight over the Channel, clear green and calm and dotted with craft of all descriptions. It was years since Eustace had been to the sea, apart from crossing it occasionally in a ship, and he was conscious now of a re-awakened thrill that he had not felt since his boyhood. A car came down the village street; as it passed Eustace caught a glimpse of the handsome face of David Hendel, unsmiling and cold. In his own improved spirits he felt almost sorry for the fellow, stuck-up ass though he was; there couldn’t be much fun to be got out of life when one was as proud and disagreeable as all that.
After breakfast he made his way up to the Carrs’ house and was fitted out in a pair of grey flannel trousers, a flannel shirt and some old sand-shoes. Henry Carr’s figure was much the same as his own; a year or two ago the trousers would not have met round his waist, but the reduction of his standard of living had been reflected in Eustace’s figure. After a wasted day, as they naturally regarded it, the Carr children were clamouring to get down to the sea. Julia, not unreasonably nervous after her cousin’s accident, would not let them go without a grown-up and Henry Carr was busy clearing up arrears of business connected with the inquest, the funeral, and the continued search for Harold’s body. Eustace found himself a popular arrival and was soon being hustled off by Dick and Helen, all three loaded with baskets and towels, with orders not to return before tea and to be very careful.
“Regular old fuss-pot Mum’s getting”, declared Dick as soon as they were out of earshot.
“Well, you can hardly blame her”, said Eustace. “She naturally pictures you being drowned too, and I suppose you’re of some value to her.”
“We shouldn’t be such fools as to bathe in Davy’s Cut”, replied Dick. “I can’t think what induced cousin Howard to go there.”
“That’s a good word—‘induced’; where did you get it from?” asked Eustace, who had little experience of the modern child.
“Dick won a prize for long words at school”, declared Helen admiringly.
“It wasn’t for long words, fool”, retorted her brother with some heat. “It was the English Essay Prize. They teach English at Hailborough.”
“Must be an odd place”, said Eustace.
“Oh no, quite decent.” The boy was unconscious of irony. “But I say, I wonder Dad didn’t tell them about the Cut. When they went without him, I mean.”
“It never crossed his mind”, declared Helen solemnly.
“What d’you mean? How d’you know?”
“I listened.”
Dick took his sister by the arm and shook her
“Explain properly, can’t you”, he said. “Where did you listen? What to?”
“Th’Inquest. It was at the School. I listened outside the window. You were playing golf with mummy.”
This was too much for Dick. He was well aware that his mother had taken him to play golf in order to keep him away from the Inquest, which he had
passionately wanted to attend. Helen had complained of feeling sick and had been allowed to stay at home with a book. This was the result. Girls had no sense of honour.
“You shouldn’t have done that”, he said severely. “You were on parole—practically.”
“What’s p’role?”
“Never mind. What did you hear?”
Righteous indignation had given way to curiosity.
“Oh, lots and lots . . . but I’ve forgotten it.”
Irritating female.
“What did you mean about . . . about Dad not telling cousin Howard about the Cut?”
“Oh, I remember that now, ’cause you said about it. Someone asked: ‘did you warn them not to bathe in the Cut?’ and Daddy said: ‘it never crossed my mind’.”
“Your father had been bathing with them every morning before that, hadn’t he?” asked Eustace.
“Yes. He just happened to be indisposed. . . .”
“He had a belly-ache”, declared Helen, who preferred accuracy to purity of speech.
“Helen! That’s vulgar.”
“It’s what Jones told Mr. Marsh.”
“Jones is a vulgar man. It was indigestion.”
“Same thing”, declared Helen.
“What about yourselves?” asked Eustace. “Don’t you bathe before breakfast?”
“Oh yes, of course, but we didn’t get back from school till Tuesday night. Dad had to begin his holiday a week before us for some reason—something to do with the office, he said.”
“I see; that was lucky.”
“Oh no, I don’t think so, cousin Eustace. If we’d been here it wouldn’t have happened.”
“No, I suppose not. You’ve been here before? You know the place?”
“Yes, twice before”, said Helen. “It’s lovely. I say, let’s go down to the Cut and see if cousin Harold has been washed up.”
This certainly was a tempting proposal. It was eventually decided to bathe first in the safe waters of Coombe Cove, lunch on the cliffs, and then explore the Cut while digesting before the afternoon bathe.
Eustace thoroughly enjoyed the hours that followed. The hot sunshine, splashing about with the children in the clear water, Julia Carr’s delicious picnic lunch on the cliffs, and then the excitement of searching among the rocks of the Cut as the tide went down. It was a tempting spot for a bathe. Great rocks stood out in the deep water, offering magnificent opportunities for high diving; the absence of other bathers contrasted very favourably with the overcrowded beach of the Cove; the high cliffs, rising almost sheer from the sea on each side, gave an impression of majesty to the scene. Eustace could imagine that a keen swimmer who was unaware of the dangerous drag might well prefer this spot for his morning dip. It was easy to see how the accident had happened, but he wondered that there was no notice up to warn visitors. Anyhow, he wasn’t going to shed crocodiles’ tears over it; he had disliked Howard and had hardly seen Harold. If only David and his son Desmond had been in the party too, what a clearance it would have made! What a marvellous stroke of luck for him! Or wouldn’t it? He must find out some more about that settled estate. He really didn’t know who came next after Desmond. Not that Desmond counted; he wasn’t likely to have any children.
For the rest of the afternoon Eustace’s thoughts were never far from the subject. Succession to the peerage and estates! How magnificent it sounded. It meant Jill and comfort and money to play with and position—the House of Lords! Good Lord, what a prospect! If only David . . . so his thoughts whirled round in a cycle.
The rather ghoulish efforts of the Carr children to find their cousin’s body came to nothing and the party returned home in time for tea. Blanche Hendel was writing under a tree in the garden, looking, Eustace thought, a great deal more drawn and exhausted than she had on the previous day. She spoke cheerfully enough to him and the children, but he noticed her wince at the sight of their bathing things.
Eustace made no attempt to approach the subject of the Hendel succession that evening. He was going to be there two or three nights and he thought it wisest not to seem too eager. He found Henry Carr more agreeable than his first impression had led him to expect. He was friendly, interested in other people beside himself and his own family—a rare virtue, in Eustace’s experience; he avoided talking about the elder branch of the family, probably guessing that it was a sore subject with his guest, but he drew Eustace out about his own life, his father, and his Uncle William and cousin George. Eustace had a good deal of respect for his uncle, the wine-merchant, who had always been kind to him and had not attempted to lecture him on his extravagance. In the days of that extravagance Eustace had bought his wine from his uncle and he still occasionally went into the office and had a glass of sherry or madeira with him. The son, George, had just joined the business after three years at Oxford and two in France and Spain. He was a pleasant enough youth but, being unsuitable for poker parties, Eustace had not cultivated his acquaintance. This latter point Eustace did not explain to his host.
On Sunday Eustace went to church for the first time for many years. The Carrs seemed to take it for granted that he would accompany them and one of Henry’s suits was pressed into service. There was more bathing in the afternoon and evening, and after dinner that night Eustace felt justified in approaching the subject that was never far from his mind. Henry Carr had produced some good port, and after a second glass of it, Eustace launched his first ballon d’essai.
“That idea of entailing an estate that old Christendome told us about”, he said; “how does that work? What’s the point of it?”
Henry Carr smiled.
“The point of it is to keep the estate in the family”, he said. “It’s fairly common in old families and with large estates. Without an entail the owner, if he was an irresponsible fellow with no family pride, might leave a fine old family property to his cook, as the saying goes, or more probably to some attractive woman or some special crony. Where the estate is entailed, the tenant for life has only a life interest; it must pass to the tenant in tail. In this case, the second Lord Barradys settled the estate upon his son Chandos for life and upon the heirs of his body. That meant that Chandos, the present Lord Barradys, had only a life interest in the estate; it was bound to pass to his lineal descendants, just as his title was bound to pass to them. As it has turned out, Chandos’s son Albert, who was the first tenant in tail, died before his father and his son Howard became tenant in tail; Howard has also died before his grandfather, and if he also died before his son, Harold became tenant in tail for the few minutes or seconds by which he survived his father. It’s an academic point really, because as they both died the entail passes to David.”
“And from him it must pass to Desmond?”
“Yes—unless he bars the entail. A tenant in tail can break the entail with the consent of the tenant for life, but Lord Barradys would never give his consent, I’m sure. It’s been a family rule ever since old Andrew’s day and I can’t see it being broken. As a matter of fact there are ways and means of breaking an entail without consent of the tenant for life, creating a base fee, and so on, but you won’t want to bother with a lot of legal quirks. I take it you just want to know how the estate goes?”
“Oh no, no.” Eustace was not anxious to appear too curious. “I was just wondering how the thing worked. ‘Tail male’, and all that. I’ve heard about it but never understood what it meant.”
Henry Carr glanced at him keenly, opened his lips as if to speak, but closed them again. Eustace remained silent for a time, thinking over what had been told him. It seemed pretty clear. The estate went by lineal descent, just as the title did, Carr had said. If David and Desmond were to die the title must come to him because the elder line, Bevis’s line, would be extinct, so far as male descendants were concerned; Bernard Stone didn’t count as he was descended through women and, thank goodness, the Salic law applied in England—so much he remembered from his schooldays. Frederick, Andrew’s second son, had died childless, so
the third son, Augustus’s, line came into the succession, and of that line he was now the head.
Eustace had become so deeply absorbed in his thoughts that he did not realise how long the silence had lasted; nor did he realise that his host was watching him with an amused smile on his lips. He started as Henry Carr pushed the decanter towards him.
“If I were Sherlock Holmes I should tell you where your thoughts had got to now”, said the solicitor. “No, don’t worry; I won’t. Have another glass; it can’t hurt you.”
Eustace had not intended to drink any more, but, feeling slightly embarrassed by his host’s remarks, he did as he was bid.
“It’s interesting, all that”, he said. “Then Desmond is bound to succeed after David?”
“To the title, yes, but not necessarily to the estate. As tenant in tail David can bar the entail, but, as I said, there’s no likelihood of that happening.” Henry Carr paused for a moment, watching the smoke of his cigar curl up in the candle light. “Unless he marries again”, he added.
Eustace felt his spirits drop sharply.
“You mean he might have more children.”
Carr nodded.
“Desmond, poor fellow, isn’t likely to live long. If David had a son by a second wife he might break the entail and re-settle on the younger son to avoid an extra set of death duties.”