by Nevil Shute
‘Any idea whereabouts in North Wales?’ I asked.
‘Not a clue,’ he said. ‘I think the only thing that you can do now is to proceed with the funeral.’
‘I think it is,’ I replied. ‘But tell Harris to go on all the same, because apart from the funeral we’ve got to find the heirs. I’ve just been to the bank, and there is quite a sizeable estate. We’re the trustees, you know.’
I spent the rest of that day packing up all personal belongings, and letters, and papers, to take down to my office. Furniture at that time was in short supply, and I arranged to store the furniture of the two rooms, since that might be wanted by the heirs. I gave the clothes to Mr Doyle to give away to needy people in Ayr. Only two of the budgerigars were left; I gave those to the Doyles, who seemed to be attached to them. Next morning I had another interview with the bank manager and telephoned to book my sleeper on the night mail down to London. And in the afternoon we buried Douglas Macfadden.
It was very cold and bleak and grey in the cemetery, that January afternoon. The only mourners were the Doyles, father, mother, and daughter, and myself, and I remember thinking that it was queer how little any of us knew about the man that we were burying. I had a great respect for the Doyle family by that time. They had been overwhelmed when I told them of the small legacy that Mr Macfadden had left them and at first they were genuinely unwilling to take it; they said that they had been well paid for his two rooms and board for many years, and anything else that they had done for him had been because they liked him. It was something, on that bitter January afternoon beside the grave, to feel that he had friends at the last ceremonies.
So that was the end of it, and I drove back with the Doyles and had tea with them in their sitting-room beside the kitchen. And after tea I left for Glasgow and the night train down to London, taking with me two suitcases of papers and small personal effects to be examined at my leisure if the tracing of the heir proved to be troublesome, and later to be handed over as a part of the inheritance.
In fact, he found the heir without much difficulty. Young Harris got a line on it within a week, and presently we got a letter from a Miss Agatha Paget, who was the headmistress of a girls’ school in Colwyn Bay. She was a sister of Arthur Paget, who had been killed in the motor accident in Malaya. She confirmed that his wife, Jean, had died in Southampton in the year 1942, and she added the fresh information that the son, Donald, was also dead. He had been a prisoner of war in Malaya, and had died in captivity. Her niece, Jean, however, was alive and in the London district. The headmistress did not know her home address because she lived in rooms and had changed them once or twice, so she usually wrote to her addressing her letters to her firm. She was employed in the office of a concern called Pack and Levy Ltd, whose address was The Hyde, Perivale, London, NW.
I got this letter in the morning mail; I ran through the others and cleared them out of the way, and then picked up this one and read it again. Then I got my secretary to bring me the Macfadden box and I read the will through again, and went through some other papers and my notes on the estate. Finally I reached out for the telephone directory and looked up Pack and Levy Ltd, to find out what they did.
Presently I got up from my desk and stood for a time looking out of the window at the bleak, grey, January London street. I like to think a bit before taking any precipitate action. Then I turned and went through into Robinson’s office; he was dictating, and I stood warming myself at his fire till he had finished and the girl had left the room.
‘I’ve got that Macfadden heir,’ I said. ‘I’ll tell Harris.’
‘All right,’ he replied. ‘You’ve found the son?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I’ve found the daughter. The son’s dead.’
He laughed. ‘Bad luck. That means we’re trustees for the estate until she’s thirty-five, doesn’t it?’
I nodded.
‘How old is she now?’
I calculated for a minute. ‘Twenty-six or twenty-seven.’
‘Old enough to make a packet of trouble for us.’
‘I know.’
‘Where is she? What’s she doing?’
‘She’s employed as a clerk or typist with a firm of handbag manufacturers in Perivale,’ I said. ‘I’m just about to concoct a letter to her.’
He smiled. ‘Fairy Godfather.’
‘Exactly,’ I replied.
I went back into my room and sat for some time thinking out that letter; it seemed to me to be important to set a formal tone when writing to this young woman for the first time. Finally I wrote,
DEAR MADAM
It is with regret that we have to inform you of the death of Mr Douglas Macfadden at Ayr on January 21st. As Executors to his will we have experienced some difficulty in tracing the beneficiaries, but if you are the daughter of Jean (née Macfadden) and Arthur Paget formerly resident in Southampton and in Malaya, it would appear that you may be entitled to a share in the estate.
May we ask you to telephone for an appointment to call upon us at your convenience to discuss the matter further? It will be necessary for you to produce evidence of identity at an early stage, such as your birth certificate, National Registration Identity Card, and any other documents that may occur to you.
I am,
Yours truly,
for Owen, Dalhousie and Peters,
N.H. STRACHAN
She rang me up the next day. She had quite a pleasant voice, the voice of a well-trained secretary. She said, ‘Mr Strachan, this is Miss Jean Paget speaking. I’ve got your letter of the 29th. I wonder – do you work on Saturday mornings? I’m in a job, so Saturday would be the best day for me.’
I replied, ‘Oh, yes, we work on Saturday mornings. What time would be convenient for you?’
‘Should we say ten-thirty?’
I made a note upon my pad. ‘That’s all right. Have you got your birth certificate?’
‘Yes, I’ve got that. Another thing I’ve got is my mother’s marriage certificate, if that helps.’
I said, ‘Oh yes, bring that along. All right, Miss Paget, I shall look forward to meeting you on Saturday. Ask for me by name, Mr Noel Strachan. I am the senior partner.’
She was shown into my office punctually at ten-thirty on Saturday. She was a girl or woman of a medium height, dark-haired. She was good-looking in a quiet way; she had a tranquillity about her that I find it difficult to describe except by saying that it was the grace that you see frequently in women of a Scottish descent. She was dressed in a dark blue coat and skirt. I got up and shook hands with her, and gave her the chair in front of my desk, and went round and sat down myself. I had the papers ready.
‘Well, Miss Paget,’ I said. ‘I heard about you from your aunt – I think she is your aunt? Miss Agatha Paget, at Colwyn Bay.’
She inclined her head. ‘Aunt Aggie wrote and told me that she had had a letter from you. Yes, she’s my aunt.’
‘And I take it that you are the daughter of Arthur and Jean Paget, who lived in Southampton and Malaya?’
She nodded. ‘That’s right. I’ve got the birth certificate and mother’s birth certificate, as well as her marriage certificate.’ She took them from her bag and put them on my desk, with her identity card.
I opened these documents and read them through carefully. There was no doubt about it; she was the person I was looking for. I leaned back in my chair presently and took off my spectacles. ‘Tell me, Miss Paget,’ I said. ‘Did you ever meet your uncle, who died recently? Mr Douglas Macfadden?’
She hesitated. ‘I’ve been thinking about that a lot,’ she said candidly. ‘I couldn’t honestly swear that I have ever met him, but I think it must have been him that my mother took me to see once in Scotland, when I was about ten years old. We all went together, Mother and I and Donald. I remember an old man in a very stuffy room with a lot of birds in cages. I think that was Uncle Douglas, but I’m not quite sure.’
That fitted in with what he had told me, the visit of his sister w
ith her children in 1932. This girl would have been eleven years old then. ‘Tell me about your brother Donald, Miss Paget,’ I asked. ‘Is he still alive?’
She shook her head. ‘He died in 1943, while he was a prisoner. He was taken by the Japs in Singapore when we surrendered, and then he was sent to the railway.’
I was puzzled. ‘The railway?’
She looked at me coolly, and I thought I saw tolerance for the ignorance of those who stayed in England in her glance. ‘The railway that the Japs built with Asiatic and prisoner-of-war labour between Siam and Burma. One man died for every sleeper that was laid, and it was about two hundred miles long. Donald was one of them.’
There was a little pause. ‘I am so sorry,’ I said at last. ‘One thing I have to ask you, I am afraid. Was there a death certificate?’
She stared at me. ‘I shouldn’t think so.’
‘Oh …’ I leaned back in my chair and took up the will. ‘This is the will of Mr Douglas Macfadden,’ I said. ‘I have a copy for you, Miss Paget, but I think I’d better tell you what it contains in ordinary, non-legal language. Your uncle made two small bequests. The whole of the residue of the estate was left in trust for your brother Donald. The terms of the trust were to the effect that your mother was to enjoy the income from the trust until her death. If she died before your brother attained his majority, the trust was to continue until he was twenty-one, when he would inherit absolutely and the trust would be discharged. If your brother died before inheriting, then you were to inherit the residuary estate after your mother’s time, but in that event the trust was to continue till the year 1956, when you would be thirty-five years old. You will appreciate that it is necessary for us to obtain legal evidence of your brother’s death.’
She hesitated, and then she said, ‘Mr Strachan, I’m afraid I’m terribly stupid. I understand you want some proof that Donald is dead. But after that is done, do you mean that I inherit everything that Uncle Douglas left?’
‘Broadly speaking – yes,’ I replied. ‘You would only receive the income from the estate until the year 1956. After that, the capital would be yours to do what you like with.’
‘How much did he leave?’
I picked up a slip of paper from the documents before me and ran my eye down the figures for a final check. ‘After paying death duties and legacies,’ I said carefully, ‘the residuary estate would be worth about fifty-three thousand pounds at present-day prices. I must make it clear that that is at present-day prices, Miss Paget. You must not assume that you would inherit that sum in 1956. A falling stock market affects even trustee securities.’
She stared at me. ‘Fifty-three thousand pounds?’
I nodded. ‘That seems to be about the figure.’
‘How much a year would that amount of capital yield, Mr Strachan?’
I glanced at the figures on the slip before me. ‘Invested in trustee stocks, as at present – about £1550 a year, gross income. Then income tax has to be deducted. You would have about nine hundred a year to spend, Miss Paget.’
‘Oh …’ There was a long silence; she sat staring at the desk in front of her. Then she looked up at me, and smiled. ‘It takes a bit of getting used to,’ she remarked. ‘I mean, I’ve always worked for my living, Mr Strachan. I’ve never thought that I’d do anything else unless I married, and that’s only a different sort of work. But this means that I need never work again – unless I want to.’
She had hit the nail on the head with her last sentence. ‘That’s exactly it,’ I replied. ‘Unless you want to.’
‘I don’t know what I’d do if I didn’t have to go to the office,’ she said. ‘I haven’t got any other life …’
‘Then I should go on going to the office,’ I observed.
She laughed. ‘I suppose that’s the only thing to do.’
I leaned back in my chair. ‘I’m an old man now, Miss Paget. I’ve made plenty of mistakes in my time and I’ve learned one thing from them, that it’s never very wise to do anything in a great hurry. I take it that this legacy will mean a considerable change in your circumstances. If I may offer my advice, I should continue in your present employment for the time, at any rate, and I should refrain from talking about your legacy in the office just yet. For one thing, it will be some months before you get possession even of the income from the estate. First we have to obtain legal proof of the death of your brother, and then we have to obtain the confirmation of the executors in Scotland and realize a portion of the securities to meet estate and succession duties. Tell me, what are you doing with this firm Pack and Levy?’
‘I’m a shorthand typist,’ she said. ‘I’m working now as secretary to Mr Pack.’
‘Where do you live, Miss Paget?’
She said, ‘I’ve got a bed-sitting-room at No 43 Campion Road, just off Ealing Common. It’s quite convenient, but of course I have a lot of my meals out. There’s a Lyons just round the corner.’
I thought for a minute. ‘Have you got many friends in Ealing? How long have you been there?’
‘I don’t know very many people,’ she replied. ‘One or two families, people who work in the firm, you know. I’ve been there over two years now, ever since I was repatriated. I was out in Malaya, you know, Mr Strachan, and I was a sort of prisoner of war for three and a half years. Then when I got home I got this job with Pack and Levy.’
I made a note of her address upon my pad. ‘Well, Miss Paget,’ I said, ‘I should go on just as usual for the time being. I will consult the War Office on Monday morning and obtain this evidence about your brother as quickly as I can. Tell me his name, and number, and unit.’ She did so, and I wrote them down. ‘As soon as I get that, I shall submit the will for probate. When that is proved, then the trust commences and continues till the year 1956, when you will inherit absolutely.’
She looked up at me. ‘Tell me about this trust,’ she asked. ‘I’m afraid I’m not very good at legal matters.’
I nodded. ‘Of course not. Well, you’ll find it all in legal language in the copy of the will which I shall give you, but what it means is this, Miss Paget. Your uncle, when he made this will, had a very poor opinion of the ability of women to manage their own money. I’m sorry to have to say such a thing, but it is better for you to know the whole of the facts.’
She laughed. ‘Please don’t apologize for him, Mr Strachan. Go on.’
‘At first, he was quite unwilling that you should inherit the capital of the estate till you were forty years old,’ I said. ‘I contested that view, but I was unable to get him to agree to any less period than the present arrangement in the will. Now, the object of a trust is this. The testator appoints trustees – in this case, myself and my partner – who undertake to do their best to preserve the capital intact and hand it over to the legatee – to you – when the trust expires.’
‘I see. Uncle Douglas was afraid that I might spend the fifty-three thousand all at once.’
I nodded. ‘That was in his mind. He did not know you, of course, Miss Paget, so there was nothing personal about it. He felt that in general women were less fit than men to handle large sums of money at an early age.’
She said quietly, ‘He may have been right.’ She thought for a minute, and then she said, ‘So you’re going to look after the money for me till I’m thirty-five and give me the interest to spend in the meantime? Nine hundred a year?’
‘If you wish us to conduct your income-tax affairs for you, that would be about the figure,’ I said. ‘We can arrange the payments in any way that you prefer, as a quarterly or a monthly cheque, for example. You would get a formal statement of account half-yearly.’
She asked curiously, ‘How do you get paid for doing all this for me, Mr Strachan?’
I smiled. ‘That is a very prudent question, Miss Paget. You will find a clause in the will, No 8, I think, which entitles us to charge for our professional services against the income from the trust. Of course, if you get into any legal trouble we should be glad to act
for you and help you in any way we could. In that case we should charge you on the normal scale of fees.’
She said unexpectedly, ‘I couldn’t ask for anybody better.’ And then she glanced at me, and said mischievously, ‘I made some enquiries about this firm yesterday.’
‘Oh … I hope they were satisfactory?’
‘Very.’ She did not tell me then what she told me later, that her informant had described us as, ‘as solid as the Bank of England, and as sticky as treacle’. ‘I know I’m going to be in very good hands, Mr Strachan.’
I inclined my head. ‘I hope so. I am afraid that at times you may find this trust irksome, Miss Paget; I can assure you that I shall do my utmost to prevent it from becoming so. You will see in the will that the testator gave certain powers to the trustees to realize capital for the benefit of the legatee in cases where they were satisfied that it would be genuinely for her advantage.’
‘You mean, if I really needed a lot of money – for an operation or something – you could let me have it, if you approved?’
She was quick, that girl. ‘I think that is a very good example. In case of illness, if the income were insufficient, I should certainly realize some of your capital for your benefit.’
She smiled at me, and said, ‘It’s rather like being a ward in Chancery, or something.’
I was a little touched by the comparison. I said, ‘I should feel very much honoured if you care to look at it that way, Miss Paget. Inevitably this legacy is going to make an upset in your condition of life, and if I can do anything to help you in the transition I should be only too pleased.’ I handed her copy of the will. ‘Well, there is the will, and I suggest you take it away and read it quietly by yourself. I’ll keep the certificates for the time being. After you’ve thought things over for a day or two I am sure that there will be a great many questions to which you will want answers. Would you like to come and see me again?’