The story so far:
In Abbot’s Friscombe, the nearby home village of the Smith family, Jennifer Althorpe, a journalist for a major national newspaper devoted to sabotaging Joe’s brother Ian Palliser’s political career is at work, trying to stir up a scandal story by rekindling anger over Joe’s reputed involvement in Rodney Smith’s fatal motoring accident, some years before.
Meanwhile, unaware the net is closing, Joe accepts Sophie’s invitation to go horse riding together – a lyrical day out culminating in an act of love which Joe unwittingly destroys by blurting out the name of Marian, his deceased lover.
For the whole of that night Joe lay uneasily in his bed, applying the salves of drink and deductive reasoning to his wounded conscience. But the more he explored his thoughts and feelings, the more he had to accept there was no logic to be found. Sophie was as perfect a companion, perhaps even a partner, as he could ever wish for; he was attracted to her and yet he had used her. Brilliantly though Sophie’s star shone, at one spontaneous, disastrous moment it was Marian who had filled his heart. Just as once, in another unforgettable instant, Emma Blanchland had worn Sarah Halsey’s mask; Emma Blanchland who was now Emma Peterkin and lost to him forever. Why? What part of him insisted he should not move on, but always cling to the impossible, to the memory, to the romantic dream? He was fairly certain he could fall in love with Sophie – if it were not too late.
In the afternoon when Joe returned Julia had a letter for him from Carnaby, his solicitor, suggesting they appoint to meet, so he had telephoned: the old man seemed to think there was a matter of some importance to resolve, and Joe had promised to visit him at eleven the next morning. Before he left for the town, he called Sophie, counting himself fortunate that it was the daughter, not her mother, who picked up the ‘phone.
“Mr. Palliser; how considerate of you to call.” If words were knives their cut could have been no deeper.
“Please, Sophie, don’t be angry with me!”
“No? You have other expectations?”
“I know I messed up, and right now it must seem unforgiveable, but Sophie…”
“Alright; alright. Completely unforgiveable. And I wish I could explain it, I really do. You can’t imagine how wretched I feel!”
“Oh, I believe I can! About as wretched as you made me feel, and a little worse, I hope!” Sophie sighed, letting her anger dissipate, then said, in a more subdued tone: “It was a mistake, Joe – an awful misjudgement.”
“Something terrible possessed me. I can’t explain how, but there’s so much that’s good between us, so much that feels right, and I… ”
Sophie cut in: “You might as well know, I’m driving up to London with Daddy this evening. He thinks it’s time I made use of my Two-One in Art History, as do I. He knows the owner of a gallery who will offer me some work.”
“When will you be back?”
“I don’t believe I will. The Bayswater flat is big enough for us both and I shall live there. Daddy will continue to come back at weekends, of course, but I rather think I will stay in town, at least for a while. It’s time I built an existence of my own.”
“So that’s it? One stupid mention of a name, and it’s all over?”
“I think it’s for the best. On a personal note, Joe, there are things you need to sort out. When you’ve found that brother of yours, see if you can find yourself.” Her voice was chill. “Until you have, I believe I should keep well clear; for my own sake, do you see?”
Before he could make any riposte, the line went dead.
Had he means to see, to hear, Sophie after she replaced her receiver, Joe might have bitten back the helpless frustration he felt. For the Sophie that her mother saw, across the hallway of their home was pale, with eyes dark-shaded where she had not slept.
“He matters, doesn’t he, darling?” Emily Forbes-Pattinson said.
Sophie nodded in silent reply. “Do you know the one thing he didn’t say, Mummy? Not once. He didn’t say he was sorry.”
Joseph set off for his meeting with Carnaby in Braunston with Sophie’s words still churning in his thoughts, and only the urgent compulsion to find Michael driving him on. He could harbour no illusions – his solicitor’s urgency must mean the result of Marian’s autopsy had arrived, and he was giving way to some form of panic, beginning to feel the need to put physical distance between this place, these emotions, and himself. Perhaps Emma’s advice and Ian’s offer would not have been such bad choices after all. With this conclusion refusing to take a sensible form he parked up outside Carnaby and Pollack. Carnaby was in reception when he arrived and greeted him cordially.
“Joe, Joe! Come in; do. Take a seat.” Carnaby waved a bunch of papers in one hand as he sat behind his desk, stirring up a small flurry of dust from the tooled leather. “Here!” He said triumphantly, as though he had just discovered the papers: “These! Are you sitting comfortably, my dear boy?” Joe nodded, waiting. A pause, then, with sudden gravity: “Are you ready for a shock?”
Joe did not answer – could not.
Shock! Marian, dead in his arms, filled with the drugs he had bought her – the moments of that night he could not remember, no matter how hard he tried. Second autopsy, police investigation: oh, god, what had he done? A surge of sheer fright rose in his chest: he could hear his genie’s insane laughter, see the mist rising.
“Dear chap! You look quite ill!” Carnaby pressed his intercom, summoning aid. Struggling to breathe, Joseph recovered sufficient consciousness to discover he was accepting a glass of water from an attentive secretary. The elderly solicitor was bending over him, his face a mirror of concern. Joe drank deeply.
“I really did not mean to alarm you, dear chap; I am so, so sorry!” Carnaby fussed. “Do you feel better now?”
The secretary was called Naomi and she was, Joe thought, quite pretty. Her large dark eyes were anxious. “Should I call the doctor, do you suppose?” She asked.
Joe raised a hand. “No, it’s all right. I get this sometimes, I’m not ill. Did I pass out?”
“Very nearly, I think.” Carnaby told him. “Have you had this looked into, Joseph?”
Joe said that he had, that the doctors had told him it was all to do with stress.
“Well, I have good news then.”
Joe was incredulous, and must have looked it. “Good news?”
The solicitor nodded to Naomi, who retreated, closing the door behind her. “Yesterday I received these…” He waved the papers again. “The full copy of Marian Brubaeker’s Last Will and Testament. The terms of the will make it clear you are Mrs Brubaeker’s principle beneficiary. There are some details to be worked out, of course, but you may rest assured. You are heir to virtually her entire fortune.”
Joe was still trying to clear the buzzing in his head. He blinked at Carnaby: “But I thought her husband…”
“No longer. Mr Brubaeker won’t contest it. That’s final.”
“Weren’t the police involved?” The journalist – Lynd – had he been lying?
Carnaby shook his head. “Brubaeker was asking for a second autopsy at one stage, but of course with the information now at our disposal, he won’t want to proceed. No point, dear boy, is there?”
“Information?” Joe repeated stupidly.
“There! You see? You haven’t had the letter! Third party in this matter is so inefficient! I’ve never dealt with such a slipshod firm! (Carnaby’s opinion of a no doubt beleaguered Mr Gooch had obviously altered in the course of their dealings – such reversals in Alistair Carnaby’s estimation were not uncommon) You should have been told, Joe, because you obviously didn’t know. Marian Brubaeker had congenital heart disease – she would have been aware of it, especially because, it seems, in her case corrective surgery didn’t work. I obtained a full diagnosis from the record of her medical history, which, if anyone else had bothered to examine it in detail, would have saved us all a lot of trouble. My take on this is that Mr Brubaeker was well aware of his wife’s condition, but completely unaware of you until her will was read to him. The second autopsy threat was nothing more than that – a threat. He hoped to see you scurry away at the proposition of a police investigation. Bless her, she could have popped off at any moment.”
“So she died of a heart attack?”
“Heart failure,” Carnaby nodded. “Hastened possibly because she was in the habit of taking stimulants, but there was no doubt as to the cause of death. The day before she died she had seen her consultant: he foresaw an event and tried to persuade her to stay in hospital, but she wanted to die in her own home. So that was that – dreadful affair, absolutely tragic. Poor woman!
“But if I may be so indelicate this makes you a rich man, Joseph. Because Mrs Brubaeker had been examined by a highly qualified consultant close to her time of death we have the best possible testimony that she was of sound mind, therefore her husband – they were virtually estranged, by the way, did you know that? – has no grounds to contest the will!” He slapped the papers down on his desk then performed a small act of contrition, tidying the sheets into a neat stack. “I will proceed with the details at this end, if in the meantime you seek some advice as to the disposition of funds. I can help you with that, too, if you so wish. Take time to consider, Joseph; that’s my recommendation. Oh, and one more thing…” Carnaby pulled a sealed envelope from his desk drawer: “Amongst Mrs Brubaeker’s effects we found this – it’s addressed to you.
“Of course, the assurance of this money will grease the axles of your house purchase considerably, unless your plans will now change? I imagine you could afford something rather larger. I’ll send you the paperwork. Now, do you want me to order a car for you? I don’t believe you should drive yourself, at least not for a while.”
Around the corner of the street there was a café Joe had used occasionally in the days when he was Carnaby’s clerk. Still somewhat disorientated, he sat heavily at a table, ordering coffee and sandwiches from a fragile-looking waitress. Then, with some apprehension, he opened the envelope Marian had addressed with the simple word ‘Joseph’, and unfolded the letter it contained.
“My dearest, dearest Joe,
Oh, how should I begin this letter? The very fact that you are reading it means that now you know a truth I could never bring myself to tell you. You see, I have the mark of The Reaper upon me as surely as you have the mark of Cain upon you. We both know our destinies, don’t we?
I told you once, Joe, that although you have many gifts, earning your own living does not feature among them. So I have made certain you will never have to, my dear. I don’t expect you to run my businesses if you don’t want to, in fact I wonder really if you should. Janessa Marchant, whom you know, would make a very able Managing Director if you wish them to continue. I took the small liberty of offering her an interim contract until you decide what to do. My solicitors are arranging valuations, so you will be able to sell them for quite a handsome sum if you elect to do so.
Darling boy, you have given me a life; something no amount of money can ever repay. Our years together have been such a wonder to me, more precious than words can express. Thank you for each minute of each hour of each day we spent together, for your patience with my silly tantrums, your understanding of my moods and needs.
Don’t mourn me, please. Don’t feel grateful: the gratitude is all mine. If you keep the Alsace house, as I hope you will, when you visit there in one of those glorious summers spare a moment to remember me? I cannot imagine anyone else but you inside those walls, my darling. We were so happy there, weren’t we?
Take very special care of yourself. Live, love someone who understands you, be happy, my sweet Joe.
In my last sleep, with my last breath, I will think of you.
My deepest love,
“You alright, mister?” The waitress asked him.
There was nothing that Joe could do with the rest of that day, or most of the day that followed. So profoundly affected was he that thoughts of Sophie, or Michael, or the Parkin murder and everything that arose from that were pushed to the back of his mind for a while. Instead, he was filled with the recollection of his last night with Marian; with his new understanding of her behaviour in those few final hours, which shamed him now because of the tawdry manner in which he had attempted to cover up his involvement in her death. Although he could only consign that dreadful morning to the past, he resolved to accord her memory the respect he denied to her body in death. He would walk with her forever in his thoughts. Without regret or apology, Marian would always have a place in his heart.
On the evening following his appointment with Carnaby, Joseph told his aunt and uncle of his inheritance. How should he not, when its consequences would affect all their lives so profoundly? To his surprise, Owen’s was the gentler, intuitive reaction: “I suspected there was something more to tell, Joseph. You know old chap, for such a secretive person you’re deplorably bad at keeping secrets.”
Julia was infuriated. “How dare you not tell us, Joe? How could you keep something like that from us? That poor woman!”
But it was a tempest that soon blew itself out. They were happy for him because they shared Marian’s assessment of Joe’s character, and they could be content now, knowing that at least he would be comfortably off.
Although Marian had forbade him to mourn, Joe grieved for her in ways he could not share with his aunt and uncle, for Marian was no more than a name to them. Instead, he ‘phoned someone who had known her well. “Is that Janessa? I thought it only fair you should hear this from me. I’d like you to stay on as Managing Director, if you would. Yes, I will be keeping the companies on, but I’ll be only distantly involved. Marian had great faith in you.”
“I’m so glad,” Janessa rejoined; “I’ll get on with the Winter collection. It’s good that something she achieved will survive in her memory. We all loved her, you know.”
“As did I,” Joe said.
For an hour, or very nearly, he and Janessa shared words that expressed their remembrance of Marian, opening gates that perhaps had been closed to them both. And if it is not remembered who wept and who did not, at least this mutual expression of grief was a way for them both to rise above depths of woe; which in Joe’s case allowed him to begin thinking rationally again – thinking, that is, of Michael.
“Ah, I was expecting you.” It was something less than a welcome. Margaret Farrier surveyed Joseph from the shelter of her doorway. “You’d better come in, I suppose.”
Hatton House was a smart, double fronted stone building towards the west end of Cross Street, the road which ran from Church Lane by St. Andrew’s Church to Feather Lane at the corner where stood the now-closed King’s Head pub. Margaret’s Georgian front windows overlooked most of Hallbury to the Common beyond; then beyond again to the grey backcloth of the Calbeck Hills.
Margaret Farrier was something of an enigma as far as the village was concerned; very tall, almost six feet in height, with a pride of bearing which spoke of a distinguished family whose history in the Parish traced back a number of generations, Her appearance was that of a woman twelve years younger than her true age; her skin still moist and youthful, her eyes lively, her mouth firm. The hair on her head was almost jet black, tied back so it shone. She was in all ways an impressive lady, with an indomitable disposition.
Her associations also served to impress. The meadow across the street from her house was Farrier’s Meadow, named after her great grandfather: a roadside bench on Church Hill bore the family name; a steep rise behind the house was Farrier Hill. Even the old wrecked thresher that lay crumbling in Flodder Field was known as the Farrier machine. Then there was a scholarship to the local High School, a prize for the Shire’s most promising artist. Yet distinguished as she was Margaret was in her forties now and unmarried. Her only close relationship, as far as was known, was with her brother. Patrick did not live in the same house (he rented a room with the Pardin’s on Feather Lane) but would, for example, always accompany her to church, or take her to Braunston, if she had need. General opinion agreed that neither of them would ever marry, and it was almost certain that with their departure, the Farrier family line would die, too.
Margaret led Joe briskly to her drawing room, motioning to a chair.
“I’m not to your liking.” Joe said, as he sat down.
She stared. “What makes you say that?”
“I make ripples?”
“You are given to cause disruption, yes, that is true. However, that is not always such a bad thing, young man. You should be careful with your relationships, perhaps. You have the village fairly buzzing with rumours.” She sat opposite him, folding her knee-length skirt carefully across her legs. “Now, what do you want of me?”
“I want to ask you about witchcraft.” Joe said.
© Frederick Anderson 2019. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from the author is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Frederick Anderson with specific direction to the original content.
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