The Rest is Silence (Billy Boyle World War II Mystery) (35 page)

I finally gave up, remembering what my dad always said. Trust your unconscious mind. If you don’t understand something in the light of day, let your subconscious work on it at night. Generally being in favor of cutting ZZZs and letting another guy do the work, I punched the pillow and called in the third shift for the heavy lifting.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

M
ATTHEW
F
ARNSWORTH LOOKED
every inch the country solicitor. From the last century, which was when he probably started his practice. The wing-tip collar was from the same long-ago era, but it suited him. He’d asked the servants to be present, and said it would be useful for Kaz and me to attend as witnesses. No one seemed to have a problem with that. Big Mike had gone off to Greenway House to check in with Harding and let him know our plans. Not that there was much to tell.

My subconscious had worked overnight, and I planned to talk to a few people after the reading. Since everyone was a bit on edge this morning, I’d decided it could wait until after the main event, which was about to get underway. Williams, Mrs. Dudley, and Alice Withers filed in to the library and stood behind the family members seated in chairs facing Farnsworth. He had his papers spread out on a small writing table and was busy cleaning his glasses, which gave him an excuse not to look directly at any one person. Crawford had taken a straight-backed chair in a far corner, once again slightly presumptuous without quite overstepping the bounds. Kaz and I leaned against the bookshelves, which afforded us a good view of all concerned.

“I apologize for the necessity of this reading,” Farnsworth said, placing pince-nez glasses firmly on his nose. “However, Sir Rupert stipulated that his will be presented, and explained if necessary, in this fashion.”

“His will be done,” Edgar said, which earned him a few nervous chuckles, as well as daggers from Meredith.

“If there are no objections, I will dispense with a full reading of the Last Will and Testament of Sir Rupert Sutcliffe, and summarize the disposition of his estate.” Farnsworth peered over his glasses at the two daughters, their husbands, Lady Pemberton, and the servants. No one had the slightest interest in waiting any longer.

“The first point I was instructed to make was that the stipulation regarding Lady Pemberton’s ongoing residence here is to stay in force. This was Sir Rupert’s wish and also an obligation of the previous inheritance. To ensure that Lady Pemberton’s final years are spent in comfort, he left the sum of five hundred pounds to supplement her income and investments.”

Farnsworth looked up and nodded to Great Aunt Sylvia, who smiled and returned the gesture.

“As for the servants, Sir Rupert left the sum of five hundred pounds each to Roger Crawford, Charles Williams, and Beryl Dudley. One hundred pounds is to go to Alice Withers, the lesser amount due to her shorter tenure at Ashcroft House.”

“Oh!” Alice exclaimed, then clapped her hand over her mouth. Williams frowned at her, but the two thousand or so bucks he was getting had left him in a good mood, and he reverted to his usual stone face. Crawford smiled, but his expression had a bitter edge to it, as if he’d expected to be remembered with a bit more cash.

“The sum of five thousand pounds shall go to Helen Sutcliffe Martindale,” Farnsworth said, giving Helen a polite smile and avoiding eye contact with Meredith.

Farnsworth read off a few smaller sums to go the village church, library, and some local charities. Meredith was kneading an embroidered handkerchief in her hands, and I waited for the stitching to come loose as she became more and more impatient. Helen gripped David’s hand, her eyes riveted on the solicitor.

“That concludes the smaller items,” Farnsworth said. “The bulk of his estate, Ashcroft House with adjoining properties, and the remaining bank accounts total slightly over two hundred forty-six
thousand pounds after the aforementioned dispositions. There is also an annual income from rents totaling six thousand pounds.”

“Oh!” This time it was Meredith. She must have been startled at the amount. I was. It was nearly a million dollars, if my arithmetic was right. Oh indeed.

“Sir Rupert’s original will stipulated the following,” Farnsworth said, clearing his throat and fiddling with his papers. He looked nervous, adjusting his glasses before continuing. I wondered why he’d referred to the
original
document. If there was a new will, why not skip it? Had Sir Rupert known more than he let on about Peter Wiley?

“Original?” Helen said, looking to Meredith with confusion written over her face.

“Yes, that is why I am here, to be certain that the new will is understood and to clarify the circumstances under which it is to be carried out,” Farnsworth said. He took a deep breath and began again. “The previous will had Ashcroft House going to the government for whatever purposes it deemed necessary. The monies in Sir Rupert’s accounts were to be used for its maintenance. The only stipulation was that any usage was to be appropriate to Lady Pemberton’s continuing residence.”

“The bastard!” Meredith exclaimed.

“Yes, ahem,” Farnsworth said, soldiering on. “However, shortly before his death, Sir Rupert came to me and had a codicil added. The long and the short of it is, he directed that instead of the government being given title to the estate, it should go to Peter Wiley, an American, should it be demonstrated reasonably that the young man was the issue of Sir Rupert, the legitimacy of the birth notwithstanding.”

“What? Reasonably? What the bloody hell does that mean?” Edgar said, his face red and his voice tight with rage. Around the room, other voices were raised in confusion laced with anger.

“Please,” Farnsworth said, holding up one hand. “I will explain as soon as there is quiet.”

“Don’t tell
me
to be quiet!” Edgar said, but he managed to nonetheless. I was ready for him to stalk out of the room, but his curiosity overcame his anger, and he relaxed back into his seat. Now I
understood why Farnsworth had been eager to have Kaz and me present as witnesses.

“Please, Mr. Farnsworth,” Helen said, leaning forward, eyes brimming with tears. “Please tell us what this means.”

“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” Meredith said. “Father had an affair with the maid. Such a cliché.”

“How do you know that?” Helen said, turning to Meredith in a fury. “What a horrible thing to say!”

“Wake up, darling,” Meredith responded. “Aren’t you listening to Farnsworth? When Peter Wiley showed up here, Father must have realized, or at least seen the resemblance. And don’t forget the ring the American was wearing. Why else would Julia Greenshaw give it to her son?”

“Be that as it may,” Farnsworth said, “Sir Rupert asked Captain Boyle to look into the matter for him, to determine whether Peter Wiley was in fact his son, born of Julia Greenshaw.”

“What?” Edgar said. “You mean the maid who married the groundskeeper and went to America? Ah, now it becomes clear.”

“Mr. Farnsworth, please continue,” Great Aunt Sylvia said. “And excuse the interruption; this has been most difficult for us all.”

“Understandably, Lady Pemberton,” he said. “Sir Rupert came to me most distraught. He had tried for years to communicate with Miss Greenshaw, or I should say Mrs. Wiley, by that time. She never responded to his letters, and he gave up hope of any news from America. When young Peter Wiley came here recently, he said it was his last chance to do right by the boy.”

“Right by him?” Helen said. “What about Meredith? He left her nothing. Is that right?”

“My role here is not to pronounce upon morality, Mrs. Martindale. All I can do is communicate Sir Rupert’s instructions. If there is any evidence at all that would indicate his paternity, then the estate goes to Peter Wiley. He left it to my discretion, with the understanding that paternity need not be proved legally, but simply to my satisfaction.”

“Peter Wiley is dead,” I said. It was about time someone said it.

“I am sorry to hear that,” Farnsworth said. “But it does not matter in regard to the will. I am obligated to carry out the wishes of my client. Captain Boyle, have you any evidence to suggest that Sir Rupert Sutcliffe was the father of Peter Wiley?”

“No, I don’t,” I said. “There is a family resemblance, but I had no time to look into the matter or even speak to Peter about it. I’m sorry.”

“I don’t see how it matters, but I can give you some proof, if you like,” Meredith said. Every eye in the room swiveled in her direction. “I knew Peter Wiley was Father’s offspring with that maid. I have known for years. I shall be right back.”

The room went silent. The sound of Meredith’s heels clattering through the foyer and up the stairs echoed in the stunned silence. Helen looked to David as if he might be able to explain what was happening, but all he could do was shake his head. Only Edgar shook off the shock of Meredith’s announcement and stood to speak.

“I think, Williams, that you and the rest of the staff may return to your duties. Congratulations on your good fortune,” he said with a good deal of graciousness, which was noteworthy considering his own lack of good fortune. The four of them dutifully trooped out of the library as Meredith hurried down the stairs and back into the room. She sat and took a deep breath, composing herself.

“I dislike airing family issues like this, but it does seem necessary to clear this matter up, distasteful though it may be,” she began. “It’s no secret Father and I did not get along. The state of our relationship is obvious from his will alone. The source of our discord was his dalliance with Julia Greenshaw. I was only a young girl when Father came home from the last war, but I was not ignorant of the ways in which it had changed him. There was nothing of the carefree mother and father I remembered from before the war. Even though Helen was born within a year of his return, there was a sadness in the house. I have memories of laughter and gaiety before the war, although perhaps they are merely a child’s delusion.”

“Do you have some proof of the paternity in question?” Farnsworth asked, giving the clock on the mantel a quick glance.

“I’m getting to that, Mr. Farnsworth,” Meredith said. “This is quite difficult, you know.”

“My apologies,” he said. “Proceed.”

“I believe it began while Mother was carrying Helen,” she said. “I would see Father and Julia together at odd moments. He was never one to interfere with the running of the household, so it was puzzling to me, even as a small child. One day I followed them into the garden, my curiosity piqued. They kissed. I ran away before I witnessed any more. It was horrible, quite shattering.” She dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief. “Later he and Mother apparently had a major row. I can still hear them screaming at each other. Do you recall, Great Aunt Sylvia? I remember seeing you in the hall when I ran to find out what the matter was.”

“Yes, dear,” Lady Pemberton said. “I remember quite clearly. An unhappy time. Even when Helen was born, it did not bring them closer.”

“I know,” Meredith said. “In my childish way, I had thought it would. But a few months later, Mother said she needed a rest and went to stay with a friend in the Lake District. I begged her to take me, but she said it was peace and quiet she required. Father stayed in London for a while, I think.”

“He did,” Lady Pemberton said. “We hired a nursemaid for Helen and a tutor for Meredith. We felt it best that they did not witness their parents quarreling or bickering about each other. And Rupert began work with the Foreign Office in London at that time.” That jibed with what Sir Rupert had told me the day he died.

“Do you concur that this affair between the maid and Sir Rupert took place?” Farnsworth asked Lady Pemberton.

“Sadly, I must,” she said, and gestured to Meredith to continue.

“Mother returned at some point, though I cannot say when,” Meredith went on. “That is when Julia Greenshaw discovered that she was with child. Father must have arranged a rendezvous or two during Mother’s absence. As I understand it, the marriage between her and Ted Wiley was arranged with a substantial gift of money and on condition that they leave for America.”

“Why was the maid not simply sacked?” Edgar asked.

“We wished to avoid a scandal,” Great Aunt Sylvia said. “To work things out, discreetly.” I’d bet Lady Pemberton was very good at that, then and now.

Farnsworth leaned forward, waiting for Meredith to continue. He’d dropped his impatient demeanor and was caught up in the story Meredith was weaving, as were the others in the room. Kaz idly raised an eyebrow in my direction, which for him meant he was riveted as well.

“Several months later we were preparing for our voyage to India. It was all rather exciting, and I hoped that the adventure of it all would bring Mother and Father closer together. I had lost respect for him, but I still wanted a normal family life, if only for Helen. And I wanted Mother to be happy as well. I could see that she was distraught over the affair.”

“When was this?” Farnsworth asked.

“Early 1921,” Meredith answered. “I know because this letter came days before we were due to depart.” She held up the yellowing envelope with the three-cent stamp. “I was the first to see the post, and I noticed the letter from America, with the name Wiley on the return address. It looked like a woman’s writing, so I took it. I couldn’t bear the thought of that Greenshaw person writing to Father. Or worse, the possibility that he might answer.”

“You kept it all this time?” Edgar asked, leaving unsaid the fact that she had never told him the story.

“I don’t know why I did. I don’t even know if I should be telling you all about it. Once we arrived in India, I told Father that I had taken the letter and burned it. He was livid. He didn’t have their new address, and of course he couldn’t ask the servants for it. I taunted him about it, never letting on that I had kept it safe. We fought and of course grew distant. I suppose today I got my reward for being so horrible to him.”

“May I see the letter?” Farnsworth asked. Meredith nodded, the handkerchief now held to her face, and handed it to him. Farnsworth withdrew the flimsy airmail paper and scanned the two sheets. “I will not read it all. There is no need to disclose words of a highly intimate
nature.” He shook his head, as if the mail had been meant for something other than personal messages. “It is from Julia Wiley to Sir Rupert, whom she addresses as ‘my dearest Rupert.’ There is a return address in New York City, and the postmark is visible. I would say that the critical statement for our purposes is, ‘Baby Peter will always remind me of our time together at Ashcroft House, brief as it was.’ She also refers to a sojourn in London, but I see no need to go into details.” He handed the letter back to Meredith.