The Talisman (92 page)

‘Hello, Hennie – recognize me?’

Slowly the figure lifted the mourning veil and smiled. Miss Henderson gasped. ‘Why it’s Miss Jinks . . .’

‘I hate to be called that – Juliana, my name is Juliana.’

The memorial service was, as Barbara had planned, an ornate show of wealth and social contacts. Cars were parked along the Strand almost to Trafalgar Square. The small St Mark’s Chapel was filled to capacity and press photographers clustered outside snapping politicians, film stars, actors . . . It was an elaborate but exceptionally well-organized circus.

Barbara had invited four well-known Shakespearian actors to read verses, and they stood in the small vestry rehearsing their lines as though getting ready for a theatrical première. In some ways it was – out in the pews were some very famous people, and one never knew when luck would strike. Why not at Edward Barkley’s funeral?

Alex and Barbara were the last to arrive. Barbara’s grandchildren were acting as ushers. Every pew was filled, and the rows of elegantly attired people looked around to see who was there. Two rows of exceptionally beautiful women, all dressed in black, sat in the centre of the chapel. No one knew who they were, but all eyes were upon them. They looked neither to left nor right. Jodie and her girls mourned Edward Barkley, some of the older ones more than the new young breed of girls. Jodie had brought them all from the still-flourishing Notting Hill Gate house. She was soon to own it outright – Edward Barkley had remembered her in his will.

Jinks sat well back, her hat pulled over her face to make sure she was not photographed or pressured into giving an interview. Jinks was not emotionally disturbed in any way by the showiness of the occasion – far from it. She took surreptitious glances at her watch, wondering how long it would go on.

A few seats in front of her Miss Henderson wiped the tears from her eyes. She turned and gave Juliana Barkley a small, intimate smile.

Alex was growing impatient. Yet another actor stepped up to the small, lily-bedecked rostrum. His voice rang out as he began Christina Rossetti’s poem, ‘Remember me when I am gone away, Gone far away into the silent land; When you can no more hold me by the hand . . .’

Alex turned to Barbara in fury. ‘Who chose this? Why this?’

Barbara looked round the chapel quickly, then glared at Alex. She whispered that it was Dewint’s idea, apparently Edward had liked it. Alex bowed his head – it had been his mother’s favourite poem, the one she had recited to him when he was a child. He gripped the edge of his seat, gritted his teeth. He could hear his mother’s voice.

‘Damn Barbara, damn her interfering bloody memorial service . . .’ he cursed silently. ‘Damn you, Edward, for this charade.’ He could feel himself ready to explode, ‘I’ve got to get out of here . . .’

Alex half rose from his seat, and was saved an embarrassing moment as the congregation stood to sing the final hymn.

Standing hidden in the shadows at the very back of the church was Evelyn Barkley. He had only just made it. He had been released from prison ahead of time, his lawyers having requested for him to be present. He had watched Alex’s face during the proceedings, and his mother, sitting there like royalty. Before the end of the service he left, feeling unable to cope with everyone at the Savoy, unable to return to the house in Mayfair . . . His good intentions were already fading. He didn’t want to talk to his mother.

Evelyn arrived at the manor house, he had nowhere else to go and no money. Dewint came walking painfully up the overgrown gravel drive. He wore razor sharp creases in his trousers, his stiff-collared shirt and black tie, a thick black arm band around his jacket sleeve. He had to support himself with a stick, his arthritis was so bad. He had been allocated a seat at the very back of the church, and had wept through the entire service. When he saw the boy waiting, he couldn’t walk another step, he recognized him immediately but couldn’t speak.

‘Hello, it’s Dewint, isn’t it? I hope you don’t mind, I wondered if I could stay over for the night. It’s Evelyn, Evelyn Barkley.’

‘I know who you are – come in, sah, we’ll go the back way, Mr Edward put a new-fangled lock on the front door and I’m blowed if I can fathom it out . . .’ The pixie face crumpled, and he apologized as he took out a neatly pressed handkerchief. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, sah, but I just can’t get used to not having him come home.’

Evelyn helped the aged servant round to the back door, and they entered the kitchen. Having Evelyn there gave Dewint something to do, and he bustled around muttering about making up a bed, and that it would be best to use Mr Edward’s as the spare rooms had not been slept in for years. He appeared not to need his walking stick, and fussed over Evelyn like an old woman.

Evelyn wandered around the house. It was in dreadful disrepair, and creaked and groaned. Shutters banged, and it was obvious that Dewint had not dusted or cleaned for months. Evelyn pushed open the door to what had once been Jinks’ bedroom, the neat rows of toys still there, as if waiting for the child to return. Evelyn flushed as he remembered her – she was someone to whom he had to make amends, the funny little girl with the cross-eyes and lopsided pigtails . . . He had not seen her at the memorial service and he wondered how she had taken the death of her father.

Eventually he found his way to the master bedroom. The four-poster bed had been made up, and he touched the linen sheets. He noticed that his uncle’s initials were embroidered on everything, sheets, towels, pillowcases, even his shirts in the wardrobe . . .

Dewint smiled at Evelyn’s interest. ‘Oh, that was Miss Harriet, she took a course in it. I’ve even got a few embroidered tea towels. She did it with a machine, very professionally . . . If you have everything you need, sah, then I’ll say goodnight, sah.’

‘Goodnight, Mr Dewint.’

‘Will you be staying for the reading of the will, sah? The whole family’s coming, Mr Edward stipulated it. It’s to be read in the dining hall.’

‘If it’s all right with you?’

‘Oh, yes, I would like it, it’s good to have someone here.’

Evelyn waited until the old boy had gone up to his attic, then went back downstairs. The lounge was shuttered and dark. There were ashes left in the grate from the last fire . . . Then he realized there was something missing – he remembered there had been a large, ornate mirror over the fireplace.

He lifted the dusty lid of the old-fashioned record player, and twisted his neck to read the label of the record still on the turntable. He chuckled – it happened to be one of his favourite groups, The Doors, the lead singer long-since dead. He switched it on, settling back on the old, worn velvet sofa. Jim Morrison’s voice boomed out.

Evelyn switched it off, scratching the record in his haste. The room was stuffy, and he pushed open the french windows looking over the river. He breathed in the cold night air, then noticed something was written in the dust on the window. He deciphered the scrawl: ‘Evelyn . . . Evelyn . . . Evelyn MY SON . . . MY SON . . . MINE.’

Dewint tried to persuade Evelyn to contact his parents, but he refused. He remained in the manor house until the morning the will was due to be read.

Alex could not believe his eyes when Evelyn opened the door to him. ‘When did you get here?’

‘Just arrived, lawyers told me the will was to be read at the manor, so I came straight over.’

‘I see – well, you could at least have called me. You all right?’

‘Yes, yes – and you?’

‘Well, I’m fine, but I could do without all this business. Still, it’s typical. They’ll all be arriving, so I came early to get the old fella sorted out. Few bottles in the car need putting on ice, want to give me a hand? Jesus, this place gives me the creeps, and it’s not been dusted for months . . . It stinks! Dewint?’

Evelyn gestured for Alex to go into the kitchen ahead of him. Together they washed glasses and put three bottles of champagne on ice.

Some of the family arrived, and Alex bustled around giving orders for curtains to be drawn and windows opened to air the place. Barbara promptly followed him saying they should be closed as it was freezing. Evelyn hung back shyly, but Barbara swept him into her perfumed arms and said she was pleased to have him home. It almost made him laugh – like an outsider, he watched her daughters arriving with their husbands, saw the same sweeping gesture, heard the long drawn-out, ‘Daaaahhhling . . .’

They all appeared more as if they were arriving for a party than the reading of a will. Evelyn noticed that his father took the throne-like chair at the head of the dining table. He looked very elegant, and smoked a cigar similar to those Edward always used to have clenched in his teeth.

Three lawyers arrived, carrying bulging briefcases. Someone remarked that they hoped luncheon had been ordered as it looked as though it was going to be a long day.

Evelyn found it difficult to answer his cousins’ and aunts’ questions. He avoided them as much as possible, growing quieter and quieter as the family grew louder. In the midst of laughter and funny stories, no one, not one of them, referred to the reason they were all there. Edward’s name was not even mentioned.

Jinks had not yet arrived, and Evelyn kept one eye on the doors. Everyone else was there, and Alex began to get tetchy, checking his watch every minute or so. He asked the lawyers if they could begin as there was obviously a lot of paper to be got through.

Evelyn surveyed the members of his family. There was not a shred of feeling for Edward between the lot of them. Another dreadful portrait of him hung above Alex’s head. It must have been painted when Edward was in his thirties, with coal-black hair. He positively glared into the room. Although it was not a good painting, it was so powerful it dominated the sitter in the throne before it. But Alex was unconscious of it, he was more interested in getting the business over and done with. Evelyn couldn’t help but smile at the face in the painting, it was as though Edward knew exactly what was going on.

Just as the lawyers had agreed to begin, Dewint tapped on the door. ‘Excuse me, sah, Miss Juliana has just driven up.’

Barbara muttered, ‘About time too,’ and like the rest of the family she turned to face the double doors. Dewint was holding one open, and swung the other wide. Both doors stood open, but the marble hall was empty.

Jinks had waited for this moment. She had been parked across the street, watching them all arrive, and had timed it to perfection. The looks on their faces made every second of the wait worthwhile.

No film star, no top model, could have made a better entrance. She was swathed in a mink coat that Barbara could tell with one glance had set her back at least twenty thousand pounds. Her slightly wavy, long hair was gleaming, and as she tossed her head it swung back from her face. A beautiful face, finely sculptured, with little or no trace of make-up. She took her time walking the entire length of the room, and offered her cheek for Alex to kiss.

‘Uncle Alex.’

Alex rose to his feet – she was as tall as he was. She moved on to Barbara, bent and gave her the same non-committal cheek. She gave a languid handshake to the lawyers, two of whom bowed and scraped their chairs back, offering her their seats. One took her coat, the other seated her. At the same time she gave each of her cousins a soft, humourless smile. She said their names in turn – Annabelle, Selina, Lord Henry, Charles, James . . . her eyes lingering for a fraction of a second on each face. She paused a moment longer when she looked at Lady Annabelle’s daughters. The two teenage girls were open-mouthed with awe at their cousin. She hesitated over their names, not embarrassed, but amused by their gaping mouths . . . Her eyes slowly roamed around the table until they rested on his face – the one person she had not seen arrive, the one she had been waiting for and wanting to see.

‘Ahhh, Evelyn, how fortunate you were, being released from prison for this occasion. Well, isn’t it something, I think maybe I am wrong, but isn’t this the first time we have all been brought together? Oh, I am sorry, Uncle Alex – please, please don’t let me delay the proceedings any longer. I am sure you were just about to begin.’

Alex nodded to the lawyers to begin and they started by naming all the beneficiaries. Edward had forgotten no one. Dewint had been left more than five hundred thousand pounds. There were names no one had ever heard of: Jodie, Sylvia, and all the girls from Notting Hill Gate had been left five or ten thousand pounds. Many employees, including Miss Henderson, were generously remembered, of course . . . the list was endless.

Evelyn wanted it to go on, and on, and on – it gave him time to look at his cousin Jinks. He could not believe that this was the gawky, nervous girl from France. He continued to stare at her until she turned and gave him a look of total contempt. She pointed to a glass, and he filled it with champagne, passed it along to her.

At long last the lawyers turned to their last file. Alex puffed on his cigar. He couldn’t help wondering what Edward had left to his now exceptionally glamorous niece.

The lawyer coughed and someone passed him a glass of water, which he sipped, then he licked his lips. ‘We come now to the final section of the late Edward Barkley’s will . . .’

Alex leaned forward slightly, looking at the date on the will. He could see it quite clearly – 15 March 1987, shortly before Edward’s death. This meant it could not possibly be the same document Alex had passed to the lawyers. He made an involuntary move towards the document, and the lawyer hesitated. He coughed again, pulled the will closer, and began to read . . .

‘To my daughter, Juliana Harriet Barkley, I leave three million pounds, to be signed over immediately. On her twenty-first birthday, a further one million . . .’