Page 13 of The Tuscan Child
“Oh, I see. Thank you. This way, please,” I stammered. I led them through to the sitting room.
“There’s some pictures, too. We’ll be back,” the one who spoke first said.
“I have to leave now to catch a train,” I said. “Just put them in the sitting room with the trunk, would you?”
And I left. Barton and Holcroft’s offices were in an elegant Georgian building at one end of Godalming High Street. Nigel Barton appeared from an inner office before I could announce myself.
“We’ll be back in an hour, Sandra,” he said to the receptionist. He ushered me out of the door, down the street, and into The Boar’s Head. It was one of those quaint old pubs with leaded panes in the windows and a quiet hum of conversation from the few people standing around the bar. Good smells came from the kitchen. Nigel found us a high-backed oak booth and went to order our drinks. He came back to report that there was roast lamb or fish pie. Normally I would have selected something lighter at lunchtime, but I found I was starving and willingly accepted the roast lamb. As he had predicted, it was excellent. I suddenly realised how long it had been since I’d had good food—not really since my mother had died—and how much I enjoyed it.
When our plates were clean, Nigel stacked them to one side. “Now to business,” he said. “I take it you found no will.”
I shook my head. “There is a savings book, a receipt from a building society for some shares, and his bank book. But probably not over a thousand pounds in total.”
He nodded. “You’ll need the death certificate before they’ll hand over any of that money. And I’ll have to write a solicitor’s letter. Apart from that there are no assets?”
“A couple of good pieces of furniture that I might put up for auction. I think I’d like to keep the desk, but I’m not sure where I’d put it.”
“I’ll have to locate your brother before you do anything,” he said.
I didn’t think I’d heard right. “My brother? I’m an only child.”
“Your half brother. From your father’s first marriage.” He took in my shocked face. “You didn’t know your father had been married before?”
“No. I was never told. I knew that my parents had both married late in life and that I was a complete surprise to them, but I had no idea...” I let the rest of the sentence drift away as I tried to come to terms with this news. “When was this?”
“Your father was married before the war and had a son. The marriage was dissolved when he returned at the end of the war. His wife married again and took the child to live in America. Lord knows how I’ll trace him now. I believe the stepfather adopted him, but I presume he’d still inherit the title, if he wanted to do such a thing in America.”
I was still in shock. How could my father have lived with me all those years and never even mentioned his son? And more to the point, why had his son never been in contact with him since the end of the war?
“I’ll get in touch with the American embassy,” Nigel said. “But I wouldn’t worry. I think it’s quite clear that your father would have wanted you to inherit what little he left.”
And if it wasn’t quite clear?I was thinking.If the law decided that an oldest son should inherit everything?A thousand pounds would make all the difference to me now, especially at this uncertain time. If my law firm wouldn’t take me back, then I could still survive with that money.
“If his stepfather legally adopted him, then presumably he’d have no claim,” I said. “He’s no longer a Langley.”
“Complicated matter, if American law is involved,” he said. “Still, more interesting than most of the cases I’m given. Is your practice more exciting than that of a high-street solicitor?”
“Not at all,” I said. “I expect it’s pretty much the same. Lots of conveyancing.”
“You chose to be a solicitor and not a barrister?” he asked. “You wanted the comfortable, quiet life rather than the excitement?”
I looked down at the worn oak table. “Actually, I’d have very much liked to be a barrister,” I said. “I got a good degree, but I had more than one thing against me. Money, for starters. The chambers at which I interviewed were quite keen on me when they heard I was the daughter of Sir Hugo Langley and thought it meant I was part of the county set with good connections. They lost interest when they found out they were wrong and we were penniless. And then there’s the fact that I’m a woman. The elderly head of chambers told me outright that I was wasting my time. If I became a barrister, I’d get none of the juicy cases. No solicitor worth his salt would want to put his case in the hands of a woman, when almost all judges are male and most juries are male, and none of them would take a woman seriously.”
“That’s preposterous,” Nigel said.
“But true.”
He nodded. “I suppose it is true. Still, there are plenty of interesting things to do once you qualify: corporate law, international law, as well as criminal.”
“Yes.” I gave him a bright smile. “I haven’t quite decided what I’d like to do yet. Pass that wretched exam first, right?”
“I’m sure you’ll ace it.” His smile seemed a little too friendly for comfort.
“So what’s next?” I asked. “For my father’s estate, I mean.”
“I’ll see to the death certificate, try to contact your brother, and, if you like, I could send an appraiser to see if anything you have is worth sending to an auction.”
“You’re very kind.”
