She wasn’t prepared for the effect his words had on her, as if something had kicked her insides – hard – causing a real physical pain.
‘You can’t leave,’ she said hurriedly, before collecting herself, taking a breath. Herv had become as much part of Wychwell as Lilian’s lake and Little Raspberries. He belonged to it now. ‘I mean, that would be a real shame, Herv. You’re happy here. Lilian thought so much about you.’
‘And you,’ said Herv. ‘She loved you. She worried about you. She asked me to keep an eye on you if anything happened to her.’
Now, say it now, prodded a voice in her head.
‘Herv, I’m so sorry about running off from you that night. It was so rude of me.’
He smiled. ‘Don’t worry about it. Lilian told me—’
But he didn’t get the chance to finish his sentence because Titus’s booming voice cut off his words. ‘Come on, everyone, now, into the great lounge. Time for the reading of the will.’
With a gentle hand on her back, Herv marshalled Marnie back into the dining room where they followed the others into the drawing room, newly relabelled by Titus. No doubt he would have new tags for all the rooms by end of play: the conservatory would become the orangery, the dining room would become the grand dining room, the snug would revert to being known as the gentleman’s smoking room again. Hilary would probably be banished out of his sight to the ladies’ sewing room (i.e. tower) – if she was lucky.
The room had been set with all manner of motley chairs collected from around the house. There weren’t two vacant ones together so Marnie ushered Herv forwards to the one Ruby had saved for him and was obviously desperate for him to occupy, if her manic waving was anything to go by, whilst she herself insisted on taking the one in the back corner, next to the cabinet containing Lilian’s favourite broken/mended ceramics. She couldn’t see a lot of what was going on at the front of the room because her chair seemed to be lower than everybody else’s plus she was positioned behind the very large Derek.
The man in the pinstripe suit was standing in front of the beautiful desk by the window. He called loudly for order and all twittering instantly stopped.
‘Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. For those who haven’t seen me before, my name is Falstaff Wemyss of Wemyss, Whitby and Sons, solicitors at law. For those who have seen me before, you will know that it has always been a matter of tradition that the reading of the Dearman will takes place on the day of the funeral. Usually a formality, give or take personal disbursements to the staff.’ He unfolded the arms of a pair of gold-rimmed half-moon glasses, put them on to read and, after a throat-clearing cough, got straight down to business.
‘The last will and testament of Lilian Mathilda Dearman. To my loyal housekeeper and her family Cilla Oldroyd, I leave the sum of twenty thousand pounds. To my gardener Herv Gunnarsen, I leave the sum of five thousand pounds. To my friend Lionel Alistair Temple I leave the sum . . .’ Mr Wemyss broke off, sighed, took off his glasses and gave the arm a quick chew before continuing. ‘To my friend Lionel Alistair Temple, I leave the sum of twenty thousand pounds. David Parselow – five thousand pounds, Emelie Tibbs, two thousand pounds, the Maud Haworth home for cats – three thousand pounds, Miss Marnie Salt fifty thousand pounds . . . blah blah.’
The gasp that arose then seemed to suck all the air out of the room. Then chatter, raised voices, mumbles of surprise, shock, anger. Marnie felt heads turn to each other, then further round to seek her out and she wished her chair was even lower. If she had been nearer to the window, she might have jumped out of it. Titus Sutton was on his feet, glaring at her with the full force of his big bulging eyeballs.
‘Please sit down, everyone,’ said Mr Wemyss, wearily. ‘It doesn’t really matter what this will says because there isn’t any money so I’m afraid no one is getting a penny.’
Titus, having just sat back down, sprang up again. ‘What? What are you talking about, Wemyss?’ He could barely be heard against the rising babble.
‘It’s quite simple, I’m afraid. Miss Dearman didn’t have any cash.’
‘Don’t be stupid,’ yelled Titus. ‘She owned a bloody village.’
‘Yes, she did,’ replied Mr Wemyss, matching Titus for volume. ‘But she spent her whole personal savings on the upkeep of the said village because the village pot is almost dry. And the said village has been left in its entirety to a person or persons who wish to remain anonymous.’
Even Mr Wemyss was having trouble being heard above the chatter in the room now. ‘And that person, in accordance with the wishes of Miss Dearman, has requested that Miss Marnie Salt should manage the estate for them in return for a nominal stipend.’
The level of noise in the room went off the scale. Titus was throwing up his hands in all directions, so much so that he looked as if he were breakdancing.
‘WILL YOU PLEASE SIT DOWN AND BE QUIET,’ roared Mr Wemyss. ‘And that includes you, Mr Sutton.’ Like water thrown on a fire, the volume dropped, first to a hiss, then eventual silence.
‘Thank you,’ said Mr Wemyss. ‘Now, as I said, Miss Dearman died virtually penniless. The estate, from what I believe, has been entirely funded by Miss Dearman from her own personal fortune: wages, maintenance et cetera. It will fall to the aforesaid Miss Marnie Salt, as estate manager, to reconstitute the fortunes of Wychwell and restore it to its former self-financing glory. Or as Lilian put it so masterfully in her instructions – unbugger it up.’
‘I absolutely reject this,’ Titus protested loudly.
‘I’m afraid you have absolutely no choice in the matter and must legally hand over all records,’ said Mr Wemyss, in a voice as calm as Titus’s was enraged. ‘To withhold them will incur criminal charges,’ he added with a warning note.
‘Who is the new owner? I insist you stand up,’ said Titus, leaping out of his seat yet again to face the villagers and scan the expressions of every one of them for clues.
‘As I said, Mr Sutton, the new owner wishes to remain anonymous,’ Mr Wemyss repeated, sounding bored now by Titus’s big man act.
‘How did they know they’ve inherited it if this is the reading of the will?’ asked Una Price in a huffy voice.
‘I think it’s quite obvious that Miss Dearman told them before she died,’ replied Mr Wemyss, looking at her over the rim of his glasses as if she were a fly he’d quite like to swat.
Titus was still livid. ‘It’s outrageous. I shall be seeking legal advice.’
‘I am the legal advice,’ growled Mr Wemyss. ‘There are no loopholes, Mr Sutton, so don’t be wasting your money, for a change.’
‘What did you mean by your money for a change? What are you insinuating?’
Mr Wemyss, refusing to get into a slanging match, especially with a man he was delighted to see in a delicious state of hubris, lifted up his brown battered briefcase, said a parting ‘Good day to you all,’ strolled down the aisle in the middle of the chairs but turned right to reach over to Marnie in order to hand her his business card before he walked out through the door.
‘Miss Salt, please ring my office at your earliest convenience for a meeting.’