The Death of Mrs. Westaway

by Ruth Ware

  “Yes. Yes, I do.”

  Her throat hurt with the truth of it. Time healed, they said, but it wasn’t true, or not completely. The first raw wound of loss had closed and silvered over, yes, but the scar it had left would never heal. It would always be there, aching and tender.

  Ezra brushed again at an imaginary speck of sand, and then, almost reluctantly, Hal thought, he handed the picture to her with a smile that held something of her own barely covered grief.

  “I do too,” he said. And then he turned and headed into the house, as though there were nothing more he could bear to say.

  CHAPTER 24

  * * *

  “So, in view of all that, it looks like we are stuck until Monday,” Harding said wearily, slumping back on the drawing room sofa. He picked a cup of tea off the tray that Mitzi had just put in front of him and took a gulp.

  “You are kidding me.” Abel put his head in his hands. “I can’t stay away until Tuesday. I’ve got client meetings on Monday afternoon.”

  “Well, I suggest you postpone them,” Harding said irritably. He smoothed his shirt, which was gaping across the middle, exposing soft white skin like uncooked dough. “Might I add, it’s partly your fault for not being present at the meeting in the first place. Between you and Ezra, I have the feeling that I’m the only person trying to sort out this mare’s nest.”

  “I had no idea Mother had made me her bloody executor!” Abel said. “What in God’s name possessed her?”

  “What in God’s name possessed her to do any of this,” Harding snapped. “Including disinheriting all of her children.”

  “Spite, pure and simple,” Ezra said from the corner of the room. He rose, took a cup from the tray and a digestive biscuit from the plate. “I’ve no doubt the one thing that amused her on her deathbed was the thought of the unpleasantness she was leaving behind.”

  Abel nodded bitterly.

  “I could believe that. She probably thought that a protracted legal wrangle swallowing up all the estate’s resources would keep the unpleasantness going for years.”

  Protracted legal wrangle. The words made Hal’s stomach seem to drop away, and she felt a spike of fear course through her. There was no way any papers she could forge would survive such a process. It would all come out—the truth about her mother, her grandmother—everything.

  But there was no way back now—she had gone too far. There was no longer any possibility she could credibly pass off this deception as an honest mistake.

  She imagined herself in a court of law, the prosecuting barrister saying, with false confusion, “Run this past me again, Miss Westaway. It was your honest belief that your maternal grandmother had changed her name from Marion to Hester and moved from a modest council house in Surrey to an estate in Cornwall after her own death?”

  Hal felt the confession rising up inside her again. Impostor. I’m an impostor.

  There was only one way out. It wouldn’t save her from Mr. Smith—but then nothing would, that was becoming clear. Even if, by some miracle, she managed to get hold of fake papers good enough to pass muster, and to bluff her way through the interviews, there would be no money in time for his deadline.

  No. She would just have to cut her losses and get out, while she still could.

  She stood, shoving her hands in her pockets to prevent them from shaking.

  “Listen, I’ve been thinking—”

  “Not now, Harriet,” Harding said. He dunked his biscuit in his tea, and then tutted as the edge crumbled.

  “Yes, now!” Hal said firmly. She felt a kind of desperation choke her—the knowledge that she was blundering deeper with every day that passed, and that soon there might be no escape route at all. “I’ve been thinking—about the legacy—I don’t—”

  She stopped—searching for words, searching for the right way to say this. But before she had found her tongue, Ezra cut into the silence.

  “Look, Abel’s right. Very probably Mother did want us to spend the money on litigation and quarreling. I can’t see any other reason for her doing this. But let’s be honest—do any of us deserve a penny from her?” He looked at Harding, then at Abel. Abel shrugged. “Do we want a penny? I certainly don’t. Isn’t the best thing just to foil Mother’s wish and let it go?”

  From the corner of the sofa, Kitty began humming the Frozen theme.

  Abel laughed.

  “Let it go. I like it, Kitty. There’s something rather . . . freeing about the idea. Well, for my part, I never expected anything, and I certainly don’t want Trepassen like a millstone around my neck. I’d be glad for it to go to Harriet.”

  “No!” Hal said desperately. The words burst out of her, and she spoke without thinking, without holding back what she really meant. “You don’t understand—I don’t—I don’t want this.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Harding turned towards her, one brow raised.

  “I don’t want—this.” Hal waved her hand at the house, the grounds outside the window. “This isn’t what I thought I was signing up for when I came here. When I got Mr. Treswick’s letter, yes, I admit, I was hoping for a legacy.” The words tumbled out, spoken from the heart, too rapidly to consider whether she was doing the wise thing. “But not this—not everything. I never wanted such a huge responsibility—all I ever wanted was to pay my heating bill and some of my debts. Isn’t there any way I can—I don’t know—can’t I renounce this?”

  There was a long silence, broken only by Kitty still humming “Let It Go” beneath her breath, and the subdued hiss of Freddie’s earphones.

  “Well,” Mitzi said at last, her tone bright and rather brittle, “I call that very handsome of you, Harriet.”

  “It . . . it’s certainly something to consider,” Harding said. He stood, tucked his shirt more firmly into his pleated trousers, and paced to the window. “I believe there is something called a deed of variation, which enables beneficiaries of a will—providing everyone involved agrees—to vary their shares of the inheritance . . . but we must of course consider whether that would be morally right, given Mother’s wishes—”

  “I don’t want her money,” Ezra said bluntly. “I don’t want it from her, and I don’t want it from Harriet.”

  “Look,” Abel said. He put his arm around Hal’s shoulders, squeezing her tight. “It’s a lovely gesture, there’s no doubt about it, and I’m very proud of Harriet for suggesting it. But it’s not something to be decided lightly. I suggest we all sleep on this—not least Harriet—and perhaps we”—he glanced at his brothers—“ought to talk about this separately. And then discuss, before we meet Mr. Treswick on Monday. Agreed?”

  “Agreed,” Harding said. “Harriet?”

  “Okay,” Hal said. She realized that her fists were clenched inside the sleeves of her jumper, the muscles tensely resisting Abel’s hug. “But I’m not going to change my mind.”

  CHAPTER 25

  * * *

  It was several hours later, and Hal was walking the grounds in the growing dusk, trying to work out what the hell to do. Her sense of intrepid Robin Hood daring had completely vanished, and she felt only a growing panic, swelling inside her, threatening to suffocate her.

  Abel had tried to take her aside after the tea and talk to her, but she had broken away, unable to take his well-meaning concern. The pats on the arm, the platitudes, the overaffectionate hugs, they were all making her feel stifled, and she had made an excuse about feeling tired and wanting to go up to her room, and he had let her go.

  When she had got up there, though, the feeling of suffocation had only increased, and she lay in the narrow metal cot, with the bars looming over her like a prison cell. She could not stop thinking about the bolts on the door, and the tiny, crabbed HELP ME on the glass of the window. What had happened here? Why had her mother never mentioned this part of her life? Had something so terrible happened that she could not bear to talk about it?

  In the end, she had got up and tiptoed quietly down the stairs, past the drawing r
oom, where Mitzi was holding forth to her children about homework and revision, and out into the twilit garden.

  Dew was falling, turning the grass silver in the light from the drawing room windows, and when she looked back up the hill she could see the trail she had left, and feel the wetness of her jeans, the damp seeping through her boots.

  She walked without purpose or aim, until she found herself back at the copse of trees she had seen the first day, the one she had noticed before Abel pointed out the maze.

  This time, she could see clearly through the trees the glimmer of water, and she made her way along the overgrown path, weaving past nettles and brambles, to the shore of a small lake. Once, she thought, it might have been a lovely spot. But now, with night falling and the winter coming, there was something terribly sad about it, the lake choked and peat-colored with rotting leaves, the shores impassable banks of black mud. In the center was a little island with a scraggle of trees and bushes, and across the other side was a dark shape, some kind of building, Hal thought, though her eyes struggled to make it out in the dim light.

  She took off her glasses, polishing them to try to make out the shape better in the gloaming, when she heard a crack behind her and whipped around to see a tall figure silhouetted against the lights of the house.

  “Who—” she managed, her heart thudding in her chest, and she heard a laugh, deep and amused.

  “Sorry.” It was a man’s voice, and as the figure came closer, she scrabbled her glasses back on with shaking hands, and recognized the face. It was Edward. “I didn’t mean to startle you. It’s dinner—didn’t you hear the gong?”

  “How—” Hal found she was trembling, her shock out of all proportion to Edward’s looming presence on the dark path. “How did you kn-know I was here?”

  “I followed your footsteps in the dew. What on earth possessed you to come here? It’s a pretty depressing spot.”

  “I don’t know,” Hal said. Her heart in her chest was still thumping, but it was slowing. “I—I wanted a walk. I needed to get out.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Edward said. He put his hands in his pockets, digging for something, and for a minute Hal wondered what it was, but then he pulled out a cigarette, tapped his forefinger to his nose, and lit up. “Don’t tell Abel. He doesn’t like it.”

  The smoke drifted up, pale against the darkening sky, and Hal found herself wondering about this man. She had barely seen him since his appearance last night. What had he been doing?

  “Shall we head up?” she asked, and he nodded.

  “Slowly, though, I need to finish this.” He took another drag, and Hal began to pick her way back towards the lawn. It had grown much darker since she came down this way, and it was hard to see the path now. She felt a nettle swipe at her arm and winced, drawing in her breath with a hiss of pain.

  “Bramble?” said Edward from behind her.

  “Nettle,” Hal said briefly. She sucked at the side of her hand, feeling the bumps of the sting with her tongue. It was going to hurt.

  “Ouch,” Edward said laconically, and Hal heard the crackle and flare of his cigarette as he inhaled.

  “Tell me,” she said, more as a way of distracting herself from her stinging hand than from real curiosity, “what’s the building on the other side of the lake?”

  “Oh . . . it used to be a boathouse,” Edward said. “Back in the day. I doubt you could get a boat across the lake now, too weed-choked.” He threw his cigarette butt behind him, and Hal heard it sizzle as it made contact with the water, sinking into the murky depths. “It needs to be dredged. It stinks in the summer.”

  “I thought you never came here?” Hal asked in surprise. The words were out before she could think better of them, but Edward didn’t seem to have taken offense at her questioning. She heard him laugh, softly, behind her in the darkness.

  “Bit of poetic license on Abel’s part. His mother did cut him off, you know. I think that for several years at least the whole ‘darken my doorstep’ stuff was quite real. But they had a bit of a rapprochement in recent years.”

  “People often mellow as they get older, don’t they,” Hal said carefully. They came out of the trees, and Edward fell into step beside her.

  “Maybe,” he said. “But I don’t think that was it. The impression I got was that Hester had become, if anything, more unpleasant. But Abel . . . well, he’s an odd soul. Rather too forgiving for his own good. He can’t bear to feel there’s bad blood between himself and other people. He’d do almost anything—swallow any amount of insults, walk over hot coals, generally abase himself—rather than feel there’s animosity. It’s not his most attractive trait, but it does make for an easy life in some ways. The last few years he came down here quite a bit.”

  Hal was not sure what to say to that. The thought crossed her mind that Edward didn’t seem to like his partner very much. But perhaps it was just the effect of a long-term relationship.

  As they crossed the lawn, Hal could see that the dining room was still shuttered and dark, and she was rather relieved when they reached the graveled path and Edward turned left, leading them along the façade to the conservatory she had seen earlier that day, and in through it to the room where they had eaten breakfast.

  The others were waiting, Harding seated in the wing chair at the head of the table, Freddie slouched low in his seat, playing on his DS, and the other two children surreptitiously checking their phones under cover of the tablecloth. Mitzi was seated between Abel and a chair that had Edward’s jacket slung over the back of it, discussing her plans for the journey home. Only Ezra was not yet there.

  Hal sat quietly in a spare place next to Richard and tried to disappear into the background, but she had scarcely pulled in her chair when the door to the conservatory opened and Mrs. Warren limped in holding a huge crock of stew.

  “Oh, Mrs. Warren!” Mitzi said. She jumped up. “Let me help you.”

  “ ‘Let me help you,’ she says.” Mrs. Warren put on a mincing version of Mitzi’s cut-glass vowels. She banged the pot down on the table, thin gravy slopping onto the cloth. “Didn’t hear none of that when I spent all afternoon chopping.”

  “Mrs. Warren,” Harding said stiffly, “that was rather uncalled for. My wife was out attempting to sort out the business of my mother’s will, along with the rest of us. And if you feel the work of catering is too much for you, you have only to say and we’ll be glad to help you out.”

  “I’m not having strangers messing about in my kitchen,” Mrs. Warren retorted.

  “Really, Mrs. Warren, we’re hardly strangers!” Harding snapped, but Mrs. Warren had turned and left the room. “For heaven’s sake, she’s becoming impossible!”

  The door banged shut.

  “She’s very old, darling,” Mitzi said placatingly. “And she looked after your mother fairly devotedly. I think we can cut her a little slack on those grounds, don’t you?”

  “I agree, Mit, but we must begin to get our heads around the problem of what we do with—”

  He broke off as Mrs. Warren came back in with a plate of baked potatoes, which she thumped down, and then turned to leave without a word.

  Mitzi sighed, and beckoned to Freddie for his plate.

  “Come on then, let’s get this served up before it goes cold.”

  The stew was gray and unappetizing, and Freddie’s face, as his mother handed him back a plate of gnarled brown lumps and a watery wash of liquid, was dismayed.

  “Urgh, Mum, this looks gross.”

  “Well, it’s supper, Freddie, so you’ll have to manage. Take a baked potato,” Mitzi said. She took Kitty’s plate and began ladling. Kitty picked up a potato with her fingers, and pulled a face as she put it on the side of her plate.

  “Those potatoes are rock-hard. They look like dinosaur eggs.”

  “For goodness’ sake!” Mitzi snapped. She put a plate down in front of Richard and then began to help Edward.

  “I must say, it does smell a little unappetizing,” Ed
ward ventured as she passed the plate to him. He took a piece of meat—beef, was Hal’s guess, though it could have been anything from mutton to venison—and chewed cautiously. “Do you think I dare ask for some mustard?” He spoke around the lump in his mouth.

  “Personally, I wouldn’t risk it,” Abel said. He was sawing at his meat with rather grim determination, and he put a piece in his mouth, grimacing slightly. “It’s actually not too bad,” he managed.

  “What did I miss?” The voice came from the doorway, and Hal turned to see Ezra standing there, shoulder propped against the doorframe.

  “Oh, it’s you,” Harding said, rather sourly. “How nice of you to deign to join us.”

  “I didn’t miss much, judging by Abel’s face,” Ezra said. He pulled the chair out next to Hal and sat down, resting his tanned forearms on the table. “So. What’s for supper then?”

  “Gray vomit and dinosaur eggs,” Kitty said with a giggle.

  “Kitty!” Harding thundered. “I’m thoroughly fed up with you today.”

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake, Harding.” Mitzi slammed a plate in front of him. “Leave the child alone. It’s not her fault you’re in a foul mood.”

  “I am not in a foul mood,” Harding snarled. “I am simply asking for basic manners at the dinner table.”

  “Look, Mrs. Warren is very old, and she’s done her best,” Abel began, but Ezra interrupted him.

  “Oh, give it a rest, Abel. The girl’s right. Mrs. Warren’s cooking has always been terrible; it’s just that as kids, we only had boarding school dinners to compare it to, so we didn’t realize quite how bad it was. Harding’s lot are lucky enough to have higher standards of comparison.”

  Hal’s bowl had made its way down to her, and she poked cautiously at the gray lump of meat, and abandoned the stew in favor of the baked potato. The skin was wrinkled, but when she sliced into it, she could feel the middle was raw.