The Wheel of Fortune

by Susan Howatch

  My future immediately became very murky indeed.

  Of course my father would have changed his will if he’d lived but that was beside the point. The point was that he had ordered that the lands should be sold and the proceeds invested for the benefit of my four sons and Marian’s two daughters. There was still nothing to stop me selling my Gower properties and moving elsewhere, but if I did I would be reduced to buying an estate of a similar size, and to be frank I now wanted more from life than a career as a working gentleman farmer. I had been content to sweat away at a second-rate estate while I had cherished the illusion that Oxmoon might miraculously drop into my lap, but with that myth exploded I was no longer content to be a big fish in a small pond.

  The more I thought about my dilemma the more intractable it seemed to become. I was still keen to move. At the same time common sense cautioned me against it. Farming requires capital and if I moved to an unknown area I would inevitably incur considerable capital outlay. Moreover one bad mistake could land me promptly in a financial quagmire from which extraction might prove both painful and difficult. I wouldn’t have the capital to set myself straight. Besides, on a small estate it’s tougher to recoup one’s losses. Repeating to myself the maxim “Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t,” I found myself strongly tempted to remain in Penhale.

  These thoughts alone were sufficient to distract me from meditating on Kester, but I continued to be distracted by the other reverberations from the will. My father had possessed three fortunes to devise. The Armstrong fortune, as already mentioned, went to charity and to Francesca (on trust); it also obligingly paid the death duties on the whole estate. The Lankester fortune went not only to my mother’s grandchildren but also to Marian (on trust) in order to bring her legacy vaguely in line with mine. That left my father’s personal fortune. I received the Gower lands but not the money accumulated by my father during his notable career as a boardroom ornament and a gambler on the stock exchange; this money was left to Bronwen (on trust) for life with the remainder to my Canadian siblings. Bronwen was fifty-three and could well expect to live another twenty years. Meanwhile those children got nothing and she couldn’t touch the capital in order to give them a helping hand. I felt very sorry for them and particularly sorry for Gerry who earned no salary as an articled clerk. It was true he would eventually qualify as a solicitor and earn a substantial income, but he was long past the age when he could easily accept being financially dependent on his mother and a sizable legacy would have been invaluable to him.

  The trouble was, as I pointed out to Gerry, that although my father must have known that his will should reflect his current situation, he had nonetheless refused to consider the possibility that he might die while his third family were all struggling at the start of their careers. For a hardheaded businessman his attitude had hardly been the last word in unsentimental common sense.

  So much for the will. It was small wonder that a great deal of my time after my father’s death was occupied in discussing this testamentary disaster with my fellow victims, but as a first-class hypochondriac I still found the odd moment or two to wonder if I might be about to die of polio. I didn’t. The incubation period passed and I found I’d survived. I decided that that had to rank as some sort of triumph but once I stopped worrying that I might die of polio I started worrying that I might be murdered by Kester. I tried to convince myself I was being neurotic but I didn’t succeed. I tried to convince myself that for my own good I still had to leave Gower but I didn’t succeed in believing that either. What was I to do? I dithered. I couldn’t make up my mind.

  Yet perhaps all the time I knew that Kester was going to make up my mind for me. Kester had no idea that I’d told my father I wanted to move. Kester still thought he had me on his doorstep forever, and soon after the funeral his nerve snapped, all my worst fears proved justified and he took a swipe at me.

  That sealed our fate. My patience was exhausted. At once I found myself fanatically determined that he shouldn’t get away with any further iniquity, and abandoning all thought of retreat I settled down to swipe at him in return.

  III

  He stole my land. Not Penhale Manor. He had no claim on that, but he grabbed Martinscombe and Little Oxmoon and without the income those two properties represented to me I was financially ruined. It would have been quite impossible, as he well knew, for me to remain at Penhale Manor. I would have had to move to much humbler surroundings elsewhere.

  I was having breakfast with Humphrey when the charlady stumped in with the morning’s post. It was March but the other boys hadn’t yet returned for the holidays. Humphrey was talking about how he wanted to be a spaceman.

  “… and I shall go to Mercury, Mars, Venus …”

  Discarding the bills and circulars I opened the typed envelope from Swansea. It was from my father’s solicitors.

  “Dear Mr. Godwin—” That gave me a jolt. Old Freddy Fairfax had called me Harry since I’d been Humphrey’s age. Checking the signature I found that my correspondent was a new partner, a certain P. D. St. J. Carmichael.

  “Daddy, you’re not listening to me!”

  “Just a moment, Humphrey.”

  “I write on behalf of our client Mr. Christopher Godwin,” wrote P. D. St. J. Carmichael, “about a matter relating to the will of your late father, Mr. John Godwin, the news of whose recent decease I received with profound regret. May I, in passing, offer you my sincere condolences on your bereavement.”

  This Carmichael sounded like a smooth bugger. I read on with increasing alarm.

  It has been drawn to your cousin’s attention that under the terms of your father’s will you inherit the property known as Martinscombe Farm which incorporates the dwelling known as Little Oxmoon. On behalf of your cousin I respectfully beg to inform you that this bequest unfortunately cannot be valid since your father had no legal title to this land. Your father believed he had inherited the property from his brother Robert, but this belief was in fact erroneous as Mr. Robert Godwin himself had no legal title to devise by will.

  According to the papers which are in our keeping there is no evidence that your grandfather, Mr. Robert Godwin senior, ever donated the land to his eldest son by a formal deed of gift. Nor did your uncle, the younger Mr. Robert Godwin, live long enough to acquire the property under the Statute of Limitations. Consequently it must be construed that your grandfather still owned the Martinscombe property when he died in 1929, and therefore the land, including both farm and bungalow, automatically devolved at that time to Mr. Christopher Godwin, his heir.

  Our client desires to inform you that he now wishes to reclaim this property …

  I stopped reading. The letter was shaking in my hand. “My God!”

  Humphrey jumped. He’d been trying to hide scrambled egg under his plate and he thought my anger was directed against him.

  “No, it’s all right, Humphrey.” As I spoke, the Llewellyns’ car came up the drive and he ran off to get his satchel. I thanked God it wasn’t my week for driving the children to school. I was so angry I might have rammed the car into the nearest wall.

  “Calm down” was Dafydd’s advice when I collared him five minutes later. “He’s pulling a fast one. Don’t let the sod drive you off your rocker.”

  I did calm down sufficiently to drive to Swansea without having an accident, but then I unleashed my fury and stormed the offices of Fairfax, Walters and Wyn-Williams. Poor old Freddy Fairfax, trembling behind his mustaches, started to babble how sorry he was.

  “Sorry!” I shouted, making him cringe. Then I remembered Dafydd’s advice not to go off my rocker and I managed to say in a level voice, “Before I wash my hands of your firm I’d like some information. When did my uncle Robert Godwin acquire control of the Martinscombe lands?”

  The poor old boy was too senile to remember. He feverishly pressed a button on the intercom and the next moment in glided P. D. St. J. Carmichael, a smooth individual of about forty wearing an Old Wykehamist
tie. That was bad news. Winchester schoolboys were famous for their brains.

  “According to our client Mr. Kester Godwin,” said Carmichael, “Little Oxmoon was completed in 1920 but obviously it took some months to build and I would assume your grandfather’s decision to allow his son the use of the Martinscombe land was taken in 1919. But there’s nothing to indicate that a formal deed of gift was ever made.”

  “Did your firm act for the Oxmoon estate then, Mr. Fairfax?”

  “No, the Oxmoon solicitors were Owens, Wood for many years but after the war—the First War—old Owens died and young Owens approached us with the idea of a merger—”

  “You took over the firm.”

  “Yes. In 1922. And that was when I became your grandfather’s solicitor.”

  “Is this chap young Owens still alive?”

  “No, he was killed in the war—the Second War.”

  “Could there be any clerks still alive who might remember what the hell went on at Oxmoon in 1919?”

  “Young Owens did have a clerk, of course,” said Fairfax. “But he was well over sixty in 1922. I think he died in—”

  “The point is,” said Carmichael, terminating these meanderings, “that we have the Oxmoon papers, all the deeds relating to the estate, and there’s no record of a deed of gift among them.”

  “That proves nothing. The copy could be lost, the original could be lodged with some unknown solicitor—”

  “I would most strongly advise you,” said Carmichael, “to take independent legal advice.”

  I gave him some strong advice of my own and walked out. I then telephoned Gerry, who was articled to another leading firm of Swansea solicitors, and ordered him to meet me at the Claremont Hotel.

  I had become fond of Gerry since he had revealed himself as my supporter two years before. Periodically he would consult me about his problems, which were usually female, and a picture had slowly emerged of a lonely insecure young man, unable to talk frankly to either of his parents and not sure what he wanted to do with his life. He didn’t care much for his legal studies but he saw the law as the gateway to Big Opportunities which would satisfy his burning ambition to Be Accepted. Gerry talked a great deal about Being Accepted and Getting On and Finding the Right Role to Play. After playing the Canadian at Oxford he had decided that no one Got On unless he was an English gentleman, so he was now busy trying to acquire a BBC accent. He told me pathetically that he never missed the nine-o’clock news.

  That day at the Claremont I bought him a three-course lunch which he could never have afforded, and then having demonstrated what a kind generous brother I was I described Kester’s bombshell and asked for some free advice.

  Gerry was much intrigued. “There’s something shady going on there, Harry—they’re not telling you the whole story.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Well, to start with there’s got to be some sort of deed in existence. There must be. How else could Uncle Robert have transferred the property to Dad?”

  “But Freddy Fairfax isn’t a crook—if there is a deed he must obviously think it’s invalid.”

  “What I’d like to know is why this problem’s suddenly surfaced. When did Uncle Robert die?”

  “ ’28. But it’s no mystery, Gerry. Kester has a genius for excavating skeletons in the family closet. Once he’d decided to force me out of Gower he’d naturally attack my bank account, and once he started calculating how he could halve my income it was inevitable that he should start thinking about my property and thumbing his way through the family deeds.”

  “But you can’t let him get away with this!”

  “Why do you think we’re here? I want you to beat your brains out and drum up the script of what must have happened back in the Twenties. I can’t fight Kester while I’m in the dark.”

  Gerry obediently put his legally trained brains to work. Finally he said, “Let’s assume they’re right and there was no deed of gift in 1919. Let’s remember that Uncle Robert was a lawyer who knew he was dying. Let’s not forget that Grandfather was senile in the late Twenties and probably legally incompetent. I think Uncle Robert must have figured out a way to pull a fast one—probably for the best possible motives. Leaving Martinscombe and Little Oxmoon to Dad was his way of saying Thank you, wasn’t it?”

  “I’m quite sure Father wouldn’t have connived at anything illegal.”

  “True, but he hero-worshiped Uncle Robert, didn’t he? And if Uncle Robert had told him he had an absolute moral duty to help him out—”

  “Of course.” I was remembering my father’s deep and inexplicable embarrassment when he discovered he had inherited the property under the terms of Uncle Robert’s will. Kester had even remarked on it to me at the time. “Uncle Robert probably told him he wanted to make sure Aunt Ginevra inherited a good title to the property,” I said. “I can just see Father thinking it was his moral duty to help regularize the position. … But how do we know Father was involved?”

  “If this happened near the end of Robert’s life when he was too paralyzed to write—”

  “Yes, he’d have needed help. … All right, how did Robert pull the fast one?”

  “I’m just trying to think. 1928. Land Registration was in force. If I were him I’d have tried to register the property—in fact he must have registered it, I can’t see how else he could have passed it on to Dad, but how the hell did he register it without Grandfather’s consent?”

  “Maybe Grandfather did consent.”

  “If that was so, then Fairfax would have a record of it. Did Dad have a power of attorney for Grandfather?”

  “Yes, but not until Uncle Robert was at death’s door and surely Robert would have wanted to regularize the position earlier than that.”

  “That’s true. But how the devil did Robert do it?”

  We went on beating our brains out. I ordered some brandy to help us along.

  “Well, never mind that for now,” I said at last. “Let’s just assume Robert pulled a fast one. Where does that leave me?”

  “Up the creek.”

  “I was afraid you’d say that. So Kester’s on a good wicket?”

  “Not necessarily. You might be able to prove Robert’s fast one was legal after all, I don’t know, we don’t have sufficient information. But the point is, Harry, that this case would be a lawyers’ playground. You could take years going around this particular mulberry bush and it could cost you a fortune. You might win in the end, but—”

  “I’d be ruined. A Pyrrhic victory.” I was so angry that I flagged down the nearest waiter and demanded a second brandy. “That damned Kester, I could bloody kill him!”

  “Take it easy. Come back to the office and consult Roland Davison, the partner I work for. You need a qualified prognosis, not just the opinion of an articled clerk.”

  This was sensible enough. “I could at least engage him to track down some facts for me,” I conceded and added as an afterthought: “If Robert did register the land, I suppose this would be on record at the Land Registry?”

  “Of course. And once we establish that the land was registered in Robert’s name—”

  The same thought struck us both at the same moment.

  “Oh my God,” I said, “they had the same name—Robert Charles Godwin. Kester’ll claim the Robert Charles Godwin on the deed is Grandfather and I won’t be able to prove that he’s wrong.”

  “But by law,” said Gerry, “not only the name and address but a description of the owner must appear on the Land Registry records in order to differentiate between—”

  “Yes, but can’t you see? Robert would have picked a description that would apply to both of them—he probably described himself by some meaningless term like ‘gentleman’ which applies equally to a landowner like Grandfather and to a barrister prematurely retired through ill health like himself! I’ll bet you any money you like that the land is simply registered in the name of Robert Charles Godwin, gentleman, of Oxmoon in the parish of Penhale!
”

  “But Robert didn’t live at Oxmoon!”

  “Yes, he did. At the time of registration he could claim with perfect truth that he lived on the Oxmoon estate. Gerry, this must have been how Robert did it, it must have been—”

  “Okay, but you realize what this means, don’t you? It means he registered the land legally in the name of the true owner but then fooled his solicitors into thinking he was the Robert Charles Godwin in the Land Registry records.”

  My heart sank at this brutal summing up of Robert’s machinations. “I suppose that has to be fraud.”

  “Of course. Harry, Kester’s got you by the balls.”

  “Christ.”

  “Look, get someone to negotiate between you—Uncle Edmund, for instance—”

  “Edmund couldn’t even negotiate between us if we had a dispute at Ping-Pong.”

  “Well, maybe Evan—after all, he’s a clergyman—”

  “Let’s keep God out of this.”

  “Hell, if only we could get the Statute of Limitations to work in your favor, but it won’t—Robert didn’t occupy the land continuously for the right amount of time and anyway if fraud was involved—”

  “Fuck the Statute of Limitations. Now, look here, Gerry, let’s call a spade a spade. That property may be legally Kester’s. I don’t know and damn it, I don’t care. The point is that it ought to be mine—I’m sure Grandfather meant to give it to Robert and I’m sure Robert would never have stooped to fraud unless he believed he was morally justified and I’m sure Father would never have got involved if he hadn’t believed he was merely regularizing a situation that already existed.”