Читать книгу: «The Family Secret», страница 2

‘There’s no need to explain.’ She busied herself with the stack of cups in the sink.

‘I think it was rather rotten of him,’ Thomas said. ‘This is a brutal business, Cat. Consider it a blessing you are no longer involved in it.’

‘Admittedly, I feel a bit used,’ Cat said. She didn’t meet Thomas’s eyes. ‘He expected me to do things without proper training, promised me a job. It’s not about the money. I wanted to do something useful, something I was good at. I don’t understand what happened.’

‘Me neither,’ Thomas lied. He knew full well that Cat had made a mess of things. Undercover operatives – at least those who report to Sir Reginald Wright – never end up in the newspapers.

‘I’ve found other ways to be useful. And I don’t blame you, Thomas. Honestly.’ She tossed the tea towel on the counter and refilled Thomas’s lemonade. They sat back down at the table.

‘What’ve you been up to?’ He glanced at the two stacks of papers, which sat next to Cat’s leather notebook and a fancy fountain pen with a gold nib. An inkwell rested on a small plate, small drops of blue ink spattered here and there. He smiled as he thought of all the times Cat had filled her pen and spilled ink everywhere. It had become a joke between them.

‘I’m on some committees, trying to get people with no soil around their house access to garden space to grow vegetables. We’re hoping to plant a garden in the square. I’m also working on a fundraiser for three new fire trucks. You’ll be pleased to know I’ve nearly got enough money for one of them.’ She flipped through the stack of papers, set them down, and folded her hands on top of them, as though in repose. Thomas’s heart beat faster. He waited. She looked up at him with soft eyes and a trusting look which made Thomas lose his reason. God, he loved her. When she spoke her voice was soft and full of worry.

‘We never talked about what happened before I left.’

He nearly groaned. The near kiss. The hint of a promise. The one thing that had kept Thomas going during his convalescence. He continued. ‘We don’t have to talk about it. It’s in the past. If it makes you uncomfortable, and you don’t want to work with me anymore—’

‘Of course I want to work with you! Why would you think otherwise?’ She put her hand on Thomas’s arm. ‘I owe you an explanation. I am afraid I was sending mixed signals.’

‘You owe me nothing. Really. I came here with a plan to get you and Annie – and Lydia, if we can convince her – out of the city.’

She cocked her head. ‘Out of the city?’

‘It’s not safe here. The bombs will come. I’m sure of it. And I would rest much easier if you weren’t here when they did.’ Thomas met her eyes, careful not to show his feelings. He knew Cat had yet to recover from the brutality of her marriage to Benton Carlisle. He understood her reluctance to open her heart. This small show of affection would have to do. For now.

She didn’t look away. Instead, she took a deep breath, as if savouring the heat between them. They sat like that for a few moments, neither of them speaking. A small frisson of hope bloomed in Thomas’s chest. Cat smiled as she leaned back in her chair and shook her head. ‘I hadn’t thought of actually leaving. It seems as though we’re running away.’

Thomas shook his head. ‘We’re at war. London will come under fire. Why stay when there’s no reason for you to? And I’ve got a commission, if you’re still wanting to work with me.’

‘I do! Let’s hear your plan.’

Thomas resisted – for what seemed like the hundredth time today – the physical pull he felt towards Cat.

‘I’ve been commissioned to write a series of books about monastic houses in Cumberland. I’d like you to take the pictures and help with layout, like you did last time. I’m going to move to Rivenby. There’s a church nearby whose vicar apparently has a canon of research – his life’s work actually – that he’s offered to share with us. Do you want your job back? You’d spend the bulk of your time tromping around old churches taking pictures. I hope you don’t think me forward for suggesting you leave, Cat. I’m not trying to tell you what to do. But I think you, Annie, and Lydia would be better off in the country.’

‘I can’t believe you’re going to Rivenby. I grew up there.’ She gazed dreamily over his shoulder. ‘It’s been years since I thought about home. I wonder if the house where I grew up is still standing. This is a wonderful idea, Thomas. Annie will be pleased. I’ve missed working with you.’

When she reached for a fresh piece of paper and her fountain pen – the sure sign that soon she would start making lists – he knew she was in agreement.

‘I know of a house you could rent. But you’ll have to call the agent today. Evacuees are going north in droves. Housing will be difficult to find.’ He didn’t tell her the house had already been arranged, and the phone call requirement was just a ruse to lend authenticity to Reginald’s scheme to get Cat to move. Thomas reached into his pocket and pulled out a card. ‘The house is called St Monica’s. It’s got five bedrooms, four baths, and a big kitchen with lots of light. There’s five acres attached to it, so you can grow all the vegetables you want.’

‘How ever did you stumble across St Monica’s? I used to love that place as a child.’ Her eyes danced. ‘I used to daydream about living there. Beth – my childhood friend – and I would sit outside the property and gaze at the house, making up stories about our pretend husbands and servants.’ She shook her head. ‘I hadn’t thought about Rivenby in a long time. I’m rather looking forward to going home.’

‘I was looking for a place for myself, and the agent mentioned the house. I’ll be staying at the inn.’

‘The family who owned it back then had a daughter who used to hitch her goat up to a cart and ride through town. What was her name? Gwendolyn? They used to throw a Christmas do every year, with carolling and an old-fashioned Christmas tree with candles.’ She shook her head. ‘I know Lydia won’t come with me. She’s ordered a Morrison shelter for the basement. She wanted to get one for me, but I couldn’t bear the thought of getting into it. It’s nothing more than a small cage. This will do well for Annie. I wasn’t sure what to do about her. We’re so close to the police station, the sirens keep us up at night. Annie hasn’t slept in ages. The poor thing’s scared to death, and she feels guilty for it.’ Her eyes took on that familiar softness that reduced him to adolescent longing. ‘And in you come, with the perfect solution to this mess. Thank you, Thomas.’ A look of worry passed over her face.

‘What is it?’

‘What about Annie’s studies? Lydia has been giving her art lessons. The child’s been working herself to the bone. And she’s sold a few paintings. She’s got talent, Thomas. I mean she’s really good. I’ve never seen anyone work so hard. It seems cruel to take something she loves so much away from her.’

‘There’s a day school for her there. Surely Lydia can give her projects to do. They could communicate via the post.’

They made arrangements. Thomas waited while Cat called the agent and agreed to lease the house. He sipped his lemonade as Cat took notes about furnishings, linens, and other mundane household items. She hung up the phone, excited, focused, and busily making lists.

‘I’ll have to give away most of my clothes. I don’t see how I can possibly take them all on the train.’

Thomas shook his head. ‘Clothes will be rationed at some point.’

‘Clothes? Surely not.’

‘It’s bad, Cat. All of the extra leather and fabric will go for shoes, uniforms, parachutes, you name it. Save your clothing. All of it.’

Their eyes met as the gravity of the situation sunk in.

‘How will I get there? Surely I can’t take all the trunks on the train.’

‘I’ll see to it. Pack all your clothes, linens and the like. I’ll arrange a lorry. Can you be ready the day after tomorrow?’

‘Yes,’ Cat said, serious now.

‘Thank you for agreeing to leave. I’ll sleep better because of it.’ Thomas stood. ‘Can you and Annie see yourselves to the train? I’ve things to tend to here, but hope to leave within a few days. I’ll send the lorry for your belongings the day after tomorrow and send word when I arrive in Rivenby.’

‘Of course.’ She capped her fountain pen and stood up. ‘I’ll show you out.’

They walked upstairs together, talking of Cat’s childhood in the country. When they reached the door, she turned to him, rose up on her toes and kissed his cheek. It took every ounce of discipline not to wrap his arms around her.

‘Thank you, Thomas. I should have known you would save the day.’

‘Glad to be of service.’ Thomas tipped his hat. ‘Safe travels.’

‘To you as well,’ Cat said. ‘See you in a few days.’

Thomas waited while Cat shut the door behind him and slid the bolts in place. Once he knew she was locked in the house, he headed towards the square where – if providence smiled on him – he would find a taxi. His heart swelled. He had seen the promise in Cat’s green eyes. His question had been answered.

* * *

Cat leaned against the front door, weak-kneed, surprised at the physical reaction to seeing Thomas again. One look at him had opened the flood gates. The emotion she had so successfully been hiding rushed over her. She loved him. After her failed attempt at working with Sir Reginald, Thomas had championed her photographs and had used them in his books, ultimately lettering her serve as art director for the last book they had worked on together. Thomas’s support had galvanized the bond between them. Their creative work had become a partnership. The sum of their whole – the books they produced – a marriage of Thomas’s keen prose and Cat’s pictures. One critic had said that the photos in the book had their own personality and evinced an emotional response. Cat would never forget Thomas’s supportive friendship while she had dealt with the fallout of her husband’s murder and his massive estate. She liked the work. She liked her independence. She loved Thomas. And that had been the problem.

Thomas loved her. She knew it. By all methods of logic, they should be married right now. But they weren’t. And it was all because of Cat, and the internal war that raged within her. If there had been any questions about her feelings for him, they were answered these past few months while he had been away. Her heart ached with longing for him, while her mind worried for his wellbeing. And yet – wasn’t there always an ‘and yet’ – whenever Cat let the fantasy run its course, whenever she envisioned herself married to Thomas, sharing his house, his life, his bed, she was overcome with a sense of panic so strong it knocked her to her knees. Her heart loved Thomas Charles. Her mind was scared to death of committing to him. She simply wasn’t ready to share a house with anyone – except Annie, of course.

Lydia – who could see the conflict of emotions and anxiety in her niece – suggested that Cat see a psychiatrist. But Cat resisted, trusting that her troubles would sort themselves out. And then she and Thomas had nearly kissed. For a brief moment, Cat had let herself go. One moment she had been swept away, weak-kneed as a school girl. Seconds later, she tasted bile. She had pulled away – ran away – like an adolescent. The next day, Thomas left without a word.

And now he’s come home, so it’s time to repair things between us. In truth, moving to Cumberland was the answer to everything. It would be best for Annie, and Cat could only hope it would provide an opportunity for her to make things right with Thomas. She had to manage this relationship somehow. Thomas deserved that.

With fresh resolve, Cat spent the entire afternoon calling the members of her various committees, handing off her responsibilities to any able-bodied soul who would take them. She explained her decision to take Annie to the country, as the child was nervous and on edge. Most of her fellow members were supportive. Those who responded with irritation changed their ways when Cat promised a generous cheque in lieu of her hands-on efforts. With each call the idea of the move became more agreeable. How perfect it would be to return home, where the summers weren’t so sweltering, where Hitler’s bombs would be less likely to fall. How lovely of Thomas to arrange it all.

When the last call had been made and the papers filed away, Cat sat at the kitchen table for a moment, thinking of Rivenby, the place she had called home until her parents had been so tragically taken from her nearly twenty-two years ago.

That morning, she had gone walking on the moors. On her way back home, she had seen Beth kissing the boy who Cat thought was the love of her life. She hadn’t confronted them. Instead, she had run home to her mum, hot tears running down her cheek. In her mind’s eye, she conjured the kitchen of her childhood, with the flagstone floor, the warm Aga, and the curtains billowing in the afternoon breeze. How desperate she had been for her mother’s comfort. But her mum wasn’t there. Her Aunt Lydia sat at the table, crying into a handkerchief, a cold cup of tea before her on the table. ‘It’s your parents, pet …’

Cat shook her head, tamping down the memories that threatened. Lydia had swept her away to London and had done her best to help Cat forge a new life.

Reaching for another piece of the thick linen paper she favoured, Cat started a new list of the things she had to do before she and Annie moved. Tomorrow she would start getting things sorted. She and Annie would need new coats, sweaters, Wellies, and other necessities for life in the country. By the time Annie and Lydia returned home, Cat had a plan in place.

Annie and Lydia found her in the darkened front room, the curtains drawn against the sun, drinking a large cup of tea. Lydia took one look at her and raised an eyebrow. She sent Annie off to wash up.

‘So you’ve talked to him? Told him how you feel? Annie’s been talking about the two of you all day. She’s fantasized the wedding, the dress, and she hopes to be in the wedding party.’

‘Whatever gave her that idea?’ Cat set her cup down.

Her aunt gave her a knowing look. Cat ignored it. She patted the spot next to her on the sofa. ‘Before Annie comes down, I need to talk to you.’

Lydia sat.

‘Thomas has offered me my job back. He’s been commissioned to write a series of books on monastic houses in Cumberland. I’ve decided to go with him. Annie will be safe there. The research should be interesting.’

Lydia snorted. Cat pushed on.

‘You can come with us, if you’d like. I’d feel better if you were out of the city.’

‘No. I’ll stick it out. I’ll have my cage in the basement to keep me safe from the bombs. I’ve lived in this house for over thirty years. I’ll not be pushed out by the likes of Adolf Hitler.’ Lydia put a cigarette in her mouth. ‘The child is on edge. A motor-car backfired today. Annie dropped her paint brush and promptly burst into tears. She needs to get out of London. How perfect of Thomas to ride in on his white horse and save the day.’

‘I’ll pretend that I don’t hear the undertone of sarcasm, darling,’ Cat said. ‘What about Annie’s lessons? She won’t be happy there without her art work.’

‘I’ll give her a list of projects that will take years. I’ll come for a good long stay at Christmas. How about that?’ Lydia said.

‘Perfect. We’ll have an old-fashioned country Christmas, like we used to do when my parents were alive. Maybe you’ll like it so much, you’ll stay.’

‘Don’t get your hopes up.’ Lydia smiled to take the sting out of her words. ‘Revisiting the past leads to inevitable disappointment.’

‘Thanks, Lydia.’

She looked at Cat in surprise. ‘For what?’

‘For letting Annie and me stay here these past few years, for standing by me.’ Cat would miss her aunt, their artsy friends, the hours of intellectual conversation with people who didn’t judge her. She would miss London, but she had Annie to think about. ‘I wish you’d come with us.’

Lydia patted Cat’s hand. ‘Don’t be afraid of him. Thomas Charles is not Benton Carlisle. The man loves you. Take a chance, love. Follow your heart.’

‘I can’t,’ she said.

‘Why? Just tell me. I’ve watched you mope around this house since April. You love him. Why won’t you let yourself be happy?’

‘Because we’ll go along fine for a while. Then, slowly but surely, he’ll be telling me what I can and cannot do. Or he won’t, and he’ll ask me to marry him. Then what? I’ll have to say no. I’ve grown accustomed to my freedom, Lydia. Do you realize that I have yet to live in my own house, with furniture and paint and curtains that I pick out for myself?’ Cat shook her head. ‘Surely you of all people can understand that.’

‘That’s not it, and you know it. What are you afraid of? He’s a decent man, Cat. He’s foolish over you.’

‘What happens if he changes?’

‘Thomas? Don’t be absurd. He’s solid as a rock, that one.’

‘Ben changed.’ Cat met Lydia’s eyes. ‘Ben seemed solid, too. Ben loved me. He was kind, and tender, and utterly devoted.’

‘For how long, three years?’ Lydia gave her head a tiny shake. ‘He didn’t change, love. I knew what he was made of when I first laid eyes on him. Tom isn’t like Ben. I wish you’d just take my word for it. You’re about to turn 40. You’re lonely. I don’t want you to look back on your life with regret of a chance not taken. Of course, you could always take him as a lover. Just think, you could sneak around some quaint country village, spending the night in each other’s beds and creeping to your own house in the gloaming.’ Lydia spoke before Cat reacted. ‘Never mind. I know that’s not your style.’

Cat giggled.

‘In the end, you’ll do what’s best. Just keep your mind open. A solid relationship with a good man shouldn’t feel like a prison sentence.’ Lydia stood. She put her hands on her lower back and stretched. ‘We’ll leave it for now. At least he’s back and that cloak of doom that’s been hanging over you has lifted. You’re working together again. That’ll have to do for now.’

Chapter 2

Phillip Billings sat in his solicitor’s office, waiting for his mother’s will to be read, thinking of Lady Penelope Blythedale, the bitch who tried so hard to ruin his life. After today, he would be a man of independent means. Oh, how he wished he could travel to Edinburgh and flaunt his newfound wealth. He could just imagine the look on Lady Blythedale’s face, as he drove by in a brand-new fancy car. He sighed out loud, not realizing that his cousin and her daughter – who also sat in the chairs opposite the solicitor’s desk – looked at him strangely.

About time my luck has changed. Lady Fortune will now be sitting on my shoulder!

The past two years had been difficult. Granted, he did play a small role in the collapse of the life he had so carefully created. So what if he had taken his boss’s wife as a lover? Lady Penelope had made the first move, after all. These were modern times. And women – especially women of means – took lovers just as frequently as men. In addition to being married to Phillip’s employer, Lady Penelope Blythedale, a blond socialite with money and connections, had a voracious sexual appetite that nearly wore Phillip out. Nearly. Had Martha, Penelope’s young maid, not been so eager, he would have been faithful to Penelope. Sleeping with Martha – in his own bed, no less – had been a mistake. Phillip realized that. He would never forget the look on Penelope’s face when she caught them in flagrante delicto.

Lady Blythedale – Phillip was only allowed to call her Penelope when they were in bed together – shopped and lunched with her lady friends on Wednesdays. In a natural series of circumstances, Martha and Phillip had started having their weekly trysts during this time. Soon the affair escalated, fuelled by delicious secrecy. Wednesday afternoon soon became a standing date. They would spend their afternoons in Phillip’s opulent bedroom, tangled in the sheets, drinking expensive champagne – all paid for by Lady Blythedale. Someone must have told her about the affair. Why else would she have come home early and burst into the room? He cringed at the thought of the ensuing row, the crystal glasses thrown against the wall. Martha scarpering away, grabbing her clothes as she ran. Phillip spent about three seconds wondering what would become of poor Martha, sure in the knowledge that a reference would not be forthcoming.

After Martha had fled, Lady Blythedale had tossed a beautiful chair, covered in sky-blue silk, at a closed window. It crashed through and fell two storeys to the courtyard below. She surveyed the wreckage and cast a knowing glance at Phillip. The look in her eyes had chilled him to the bone. Without a word, she turned and walked out of the house. He thought about going after her, but changed his mind. She would come around. They always did. He would go to her house with champagne and a token of his affection – charged to her account, of course. Phillip had no money of his own and had become accustomed to the lifestyle that Lady Blythedale had provided him. She really had been very generous. He lived in the gatehouse on her vast property, had access to any number of her automobiles, and enjoyed a generous allowance which she deposited into his bank account every week like clockwork. They had too much invested in their affair to let it go. Surely this one indiscretion would be forgiven. He’d talk her around. Once he told her how things stood, Phillip felt certain she would forgive him.

Phillip had showered and dressed. After arranging for one-dozen long-stemmed red roses to be delivered to the big house – where Lady Blythedale resided – Phillip walked up the long curving driveway. No one seemed to be home. After knocking for a good fifteen minutes, he started to walk around the back of the house where a burly gardener intercepted him.

‘She wants you off the property,’ the man said.

‘This is too ridiculous. It was a simple misunderstanding. Please go and tell her to at least speak to me. I can explain.’

‘She doesn’t want to see you. Doesn’t want you here. Now get off the property before I throw you off.’ The man’s hands were clenched into ham-sized fists.

‘What about my things?’ Phillip had whined.

‘They ain’t yours. Paid for with her money, weren’t they? The locks on the gatehouse are being changed right now.’

Given no other choice, Phillip had left. At the bank, he had tried to cash a cheque, only to discover that his account had been closed. Luckily, he had enough money to lodge for a night or two at a cheap hotel.

The next day, the police had come to question him about a diamond necklace that Penelope had claimed had been stolen. Not wanting trouble with the police, he left on the next train south, where he wound up at his mother’s house two days later, with only the clothes on his back.

During his absence his cousin Beth and her daughter, Edythe, had moved in with his mother, Win. Beth’s husband had died, leaving the woman alone with a daughter and little money. Phillip imagined that Win appreciated having Beth do the cooking and cleaning. She was a marvel in the kitchen. And although Beth was rather shy and quiet, his cousin was sweetly disposed. Edythe was another matter altogether. Headstrong, with fancy ideas of being a professional dancer, Edythe would have to be taken in hand.

His mother had not been overjoyed when he showed up at her door, his clothes rumpled, in need of a bath and a hot meal, not a penny to his name. Win Billings had never minced words. ‘Beth’s taken your old room. You can have the bed in the attic.’ He had taken a hot bath, thinking that his mother would see to his clothes. She had begrudgingly found something for him to wear, old clothes of his father’s that – by the smell of mothballs – must have come straight from the attic. A set of clean sheets lay folded on his bed.

‘I’ll not be your servant, Phillip, and neither will the girls. I’ll give you a roof over your head and a place at the table. Nothing more. You’ll need to find a job and support yourself for a change.’

‘What about those?’ He eyed the pile of dirty clothes that he had tossed on the floor.

‘What about them?’ His mother had turned on her heel and walked away.

Weeks later, his mother’s frosty indifference still hadn’t thawed. Phillip looked for work but couldn’t find anything to suit him. Following his natural proclivities, he had started gambling. It didn’t take long for him to accumulate a sizable debt, even though he had no way to pay it. And then, by some fortuitous stroke of circumstance, someone had tampered with his mother’s brakes, had murdered her in cold blood. And all of Phillip Billings’ problems had been solved.

He wondered if Edythe and Beth would stay on now that Win was dead and Phillip would inherit everything. He could pay his cousin a stipend and allow her to serve as his housekeeper. As for Edythe, she would respond to some proper discipline, of that Phillip was certain. If Edythe behaved properly, Phillip would consider paying for her schooling. Provided, of course, that Beth stayed on as housekeeper.

His cousin sat next to him, picking at her cuticle, lost in her own thoughts. When Beth met his gaze, he noticed the dark smudges under her eyes. She really was in desperate straits. He winked as he offered her his handkerchief. She grabbed it, careful not to let his fingers make contact with hers in the process.

The only light emanated from the solitary banker’s lamp that sat on the solicitor’s desk. In the shadows, old law books and stacks of files were arranged in bookcases against the walls. The desk, as big as a ship and made of dark wood, was covered in the clutter that accompanied a busy schedule. The chair behind the desk was empty. Mr Broadbent – the Billings family solicitor – was running late. When they had arrived, the secretary, Miss Hinch, had arranged three chairs in front of the desk – one for Beth, one for her daughter Edythe, and another for her cousin Phillip.

Phillip felt certain Broadbent was deliberately keeping them waiting. He sat in his chair, his hands clasping his knees, confident at his sudden change in circumstances. He moved into his mother’s bedroom twenty-four hours after the police had arrived on the doorstep with the news of the car accident that had killed her. As was his god-given right, he demanded regimented meal times. When he had approached Beth with the proposition she pay him a small fee when she used the kitchen to bake the cakes she sold, she had recoiled. He bit back the irritation. How dare she? She had stepped into his family home and insinuated herself into his mother’s good graces. Once the will was read, Phillip intended on setting things right. Beth and Edythe would be living in his home. As long as they remembered that, they were welcome. If not, other arrangements would need to be made.

Edythe sat with her head bowed, one lock of honey-gold hair coming untucked from her best hat, an expensive felt concoction – purchased on the last trip to London – fashioned in a shade of green that flattered the girl’s complexion. He wondered how much his mother had paid for that hat. Surely Beth didn’t have money for clothes like that.

Beth started to cry, gentle silent sobs.

‘Mum, what’s wrong?’ Edythe put her arm around Beth.

‘I can’t believe she’s dead. Who would want to kill her? Why would someone tamper with her brakes like that? I can see her lying there, mangled, wishing someone would come to save her.’ Beth covered her face with her hands and sobbed like a baby. Phillip looked away, uncomfortable with the overt display of emotion. He had little time for female histrionics. His mother was dead. The police were investigating the murder. He had an inkling that he was a suspect, but he didn’t care. The police couldn’t prove anything. There was nothing else for them to do. Sobbing certainly wouldn’t bring her back. He placed a large hand on Beth’s thigh. She recoiled and flicked it off.

Phillip ignored the slight. ‘I’m sure she didn’t suffer. The impact – it would have been immediate. I’m sure of it. It will be all right, Beth. I’ll help you get through it. I’ll see you’re provided for financially.’

Beth looked up at Phillip’s words, feeling the heat as her pale cheeks flushed. ‘We don’t want your help, Phillip.’

‘I know my mum gave you an allowance, and I know you depend on it. You won’t go without. Neither will Edythe.’

‘And what will we have to do in return? Will you make my mum your maid?’ Edythe said. ‘What about our house? Are you going to make us move?’

Phillip smiled at her. So we’ve come to the truth of the matter. You greedy little bitch. Edythe didn’t care about his mother. She cared about money, and expensive hats from London. He pushed his anger aside. This was not the time.

‘What do you expect me to do?’ Phillip said. ‘I need a place to live, and you know it. That’s my childhood home. And although my mum has let you stay with her all this time, surely you couldn’t expect the arrangement to be permanent.’

Beth didn’t get a chance to respond. David Broadbent hurried into the room, a thick folder under his arm.

‘Sorry to keep you waiting. A bit of an emergency.’ His thatch of blond hair and smattering of freckles over his nose and cheeks gave him a somewhat childish air. But the lines on his forehead and the puffiness under his eyes bore witness to his age and – in all likelihood – the stress of a domineering wife and a headstrong daughter. Phillip had never liked David Broadbent, but he pushed his feelings aside as the solicitor sat at his desk.

‘Would anyone like tea? No? Then let’s get down to business.’ He took an old document, the pages yellowed with age, out of an envelope and set it down on top of the folder. They waited while he took yet another envelope out of the file, this one newer, pristine and white. He took his time opening this envelope.