The Beaumont Bequest by Lynne Jones
(Original cover image courtesy of Š iStockphoto.com/dimdimich)
CHAPTER 1 As the hearse bore Rex Beaumont through the iron gates of his old home for the last time, Patrick Peto clanged them shut behind it and marched back up the driveway to inspect his latest asset. From a distance Heartsease appeared chocolate-box perfect, but a closer examination revealed the full extent of the house’s decline. Roof ridges sagged, rain gutters drooped like loose bunting, and bottle-green patches of damp crept along every wall. Shivering in the October chill, he hurried round to the back of the house and peered into the room where his uncle had wasted the last forty years in futile attempts to resurrect a long-dead writing career. There were few traces of the recent tragedy other than a crumpled rug to show where the paramedics had done their best to revive him, and a bundle of papers that had dropped to the floor. The French doors had evidently not seen a lick of paint for decades so he poked his car key into the frame to test its condition, cursing mildly as it sank to its haft in the rotten wood. The doors were locked, so he carried on across the terrace to the back door leading into the breakfast room and climbed the step into the kitchen. Nothing had changed in the thirty years since his last visit, and it had felt ancient even then with its cold, flag-stoned floor and butler’s sink, striped and grainy where dripping taps had gone untended for years. Even the old gas cooker was still there, half the burners broken and one corner supported by a crumbling brick. Someone had placed a brown padded bag on the table and attached a note, weighed down with a bunch of keys tied together with string. ‘To the Peto Family, I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am for your loss. Rex was my friend for many years and I’ll miss him very much. I’d just popped in on my way home from work to deliver this package and found him unconscious at his desk. I called the ambulance right away but I’m afraid he was already gone when they got here. I thought you would need the keys so I’ve collected all the ones I know about, including the one Rex gave me. If there is anything else I can do, please let me know. My contact details are on the card. Kind regards Barbara Dane.’ Under the note lay a vivid turquoise business card bearing a company logo and the text: ‘Jesmond Systems Integration Solutions Barbara Dane, Senior Consultant’ Below that were a couple of telephone and fax numbers and an e-mail address. On the back were scribbled the words “home office”, and a Brighton phone number.
Patrick opened the bag, tipped out a bundle of papers held together with a clip, and turned it the right way up to read the words printed on the front page:
The Langerstone Shroud a short story by Rex Beaumont 1 October 2004. With a snort of contempt at the theatrical title, he thrust the bundle back into the bag and dropped it into the pedal bin. He was about to do the same with the card and note but changed his mind at the last minute and stuffed them into his pocket, making a mental note to get his wife to drop Barbara Dane a thank-you in the post when she had time. A quick check of the downstairs rooms revealed the same patina of disuse and neglect he had found in the kitchen. Upstairs, the unused bedrooms in the old part of the house had been left much as they had been when he had stayed there as a child, but an inspection of the New Wing revealed a hotchpotch of bric-à-brac crammed at random into every available space, while the once-grand Edwardian bathroom was now peppered with mildew and reeked of blocked drains. Only Rex’s own room, with his personal belongings scattered around, reflected any sign of human warmth. Patrick checked his watch. There was nothing more he could do at the house, and he had promised Eleanor he would be home for dinner by half past six, so he made his way down the main staircase, ready to lock up for the night. As he reached the bottom step, a quick glance into the library stopped him dead. Projected on the far wall was the lean silhouette of a man, a top hat tipped forward on his head, and a thin cigar clenched tightly between his lips. Patrick took an involuntary step forward, his throat dry as he whispered the creature’s name. ‘Vincent?’ He held his breath, dreading to see the familiar head turn and fix him with its glowing-ember eyes, but the moments passed and the figure did not stir. Slowly, he walked over to the library entrance, reached out and switched on the overhead light. The shadow dissolved; merely an illusion generated by a reading lamp scattering its beam onto a jumble of odds and ends. Annoyed at himself for lapsing into childish panic, Patrick switched off both lights and made his way back to the kitchen in search of something to soothe his nerves. Finding no hidden stocks of booze in the pantry, he decided to settle for something hot. He selected the least-chipped mug from a cupboard and picked up the kettle to fill it at the sink then drew back in disgust at the thick crust of lime scale on the taps. And yet, despite all the superficial evidence of decay, his delight in his prize was undimmed. After years of resistance, his sisters had at last agreed to sell him their shares of their uncle’s legacy, unaware of his secret plan for Heartsease that would leave them with only a fraction of the estate’s true worth.
* Patrick’s second secret was that Rex Beaumont had decided not to bequeath Heartsease to his nephew and nieces after all. Almost one year to the day before his death, Rex had travelled all the way up to his nephew’s legal chambers in London bearing a document he needed to get witnessed. ‘I’ve still left some money to Diana because I know she’s hard up, but you and Meredith have both done really well for yourselves and don’t need anything from me.’ ‘But uncle Rex,’ Patrick protested, ‘this is a big step. Heartsease has been in the Beaumont family since the fifteen-hundreds. Are you sure you want to commit yourself to such a huge break in tradition?’ ‘Nothing lasts forever, Patrick. A tradition can become a heavy burden if you let it go on too long. It’s a big, wide world out there, and Heartsease - much as I love the place – can be a prison as well as a home. I’d be doing none of you any favours by lumbering you with its upkeep. It’s time to pass it on and let other people make good use of it.’ The document Rex had brought with him was a new will that revoked the old man’s original intentions to leave his property to his sister Irene’s children. It stated that Heartsease and its surrounding land and outbuildings were to be sold at a knock-down price to a charity that ran a number of writers’ retreats throughout the country. Following the sale, a hundred thousand pounds in cash was to go to Diana; Meredith was to receive a couple of paintings she had always liked, while Patrick was to get the old bureau at which his uncle had sat to write his stories. As Patrick spread the papers across his desk, all the better to absorb the devastating news, he barely registered the thunk of a solid object hitting the floor. ‘This is a good picture of the boys, Patrick? How old are they now?’ ‘What?’ Patrick looked up, unable to comprehend the question as he contemplated the ruin of his lifetime’s dream. ‘The boys; how old are they?’ Rex held up the silver-framed photograph that he had retrieved from the carpet. Patrick barely managed to focus on the image of his two sons. ‘Guy was fourteen last birthday and Acer’s ten. Eleanor gets one of these done every summer before they go back to school. Damn thing’s always falling on the floor. Here, let me have it.’ ‘Really? They don’t look that...’ Patrick failed to register the old man’s tone of surprise as he snatched the picture from his hand and stuffed it into a drawer, sweeping aside any further enquiries about his family as his mind raced, searching for arguments to dissuade his uncle from his chosen course of action; but Rex stood firm and, in the end, Patrick had no choice but to call in two of his staff to witness the new will. As he watched his uncle fold his copy into its envelope, one last desperate ploy occurred to him.
‘Uncle Rex, don’t you think you ought to leave that with me? Especially after all that commotion when you lost the last one?’ Rex paused, the document halfway into his coat pocket. ‘I’m not bloody senile you know. Anybody can mislay things. Besides, it turned up again.’ ‘Only after you and Mother spent ages turning that damn great house upside down looking for it!’ Patrick forced an unconvincing chuckle. ‘I’d feel a lot happier knowing it’s locked up in our safe. If you need to look at it again you only have to let me know and I’ll have it sent down. Better still, I’ll bring it myself.’ ‘I’m sure I’m capable of looking after a piece of paper,’ Rex replied, tetchy at being reminded of one of his infrequent, but vexing, lapses of memory. Patrick tilted his head and fixed his uncle with a genially reproving look. For a heartstopping moment he thought Rex was going to be obstinate, but after a short standoff, the old man gave in and slapped the envelope down on Patrick’s desk. ‘It’s a good job you’re family,’ he said. ‘I don’t trust bloody lawyers.’ Somehow Patrick managed to maintain a façade of conviviality throughout an eternally long lunch at which he could do no more than swallow the odd mouthful while Rex chatted away happily, enjoying the rare outing; but as soon as he had waved the old man off in his taxi, the thunderclouds descended. Before the car had turned the corner of the street, Patrick had raced back up the stairs to his chambers and reduced every copy of Rex’s carefully crafted testament to shreds. * A third secret, so trivial in comparison with the other two that it barely even grazed his consciousness, was a letter from Rex - an afterthought dated just one month after his visit to Patrick’s chambers - stating that he wanted to add a codicil to his latest will. In it the old man expressed a wish to: “leave all my books to Barbara.” Patrick had instructed his secretary to write back to him, stating that the lawyer was involved in a complex case at the present time, and promising that he would attend to his uncle’s wishes as soon as possible. Rex Beaumont’s letter had been duly filed and forgotten, the identity of the intended beneficiary unknown.