Page 6 of The Missing Page
“I learned you were in the neighborhood and decided to call on you,” Leo murmured. “All the other details are the same.”
James gave a quick nod. “Mr. Page,” he said, loudly enough to carry and in a creditable simulation of politely repressed surprise, “whatcanyou be doing at Blackthorn?”
“I’m visiting my sister in Looe,” Leo said, matching his tone. He had no sister, either in Looe or anywhere else, and James knew it. “And Miss Pickering rang to tell us that you were only minutes away. Of course Susan insisted that I motor over to give you her love and to ask you for tea tomorrow.”
“I should love nothing more than to see Susan,” James said. “We’ve just finished dinner. Do come in for some coffee.”
Leo followed James across the stone floor of an imposing hall to a sitting room filled with people who, to Leo’s relief, did not seem to be actively engaged in attempts to slip poisons into one another’s drinks. In short order, Leo found himself being introduced to this odd assemblage of guests, James simply presenting him as Mr. Page, a friend from home.
Leo assessed each person he met. A grim-faced but rather distractingly attractive doctor. His wife, a dark-haired woman with the most appallingly posh accent. Their daughter, who was none other than the actress who played Viola in the production ofTwelfth Nightthat he and James had seen the previous month. A mousy, middle-aged spinster who Leo gathered was a sort of fixture in the house, and who looked as tired as Leo felt. A—good God—what was that creature with all the scarves? And a man so old and frail he looked to be at death’s door.
At first glance it seemed to be an ordinary family group with two glaringly obvious outsiders—the actress and the woman who looked like somebody’s idea of a fortune teller. But evidently the actress was in fact family. And James, who appeared to be family, only barely was. The entire picture was slightly off, just enough to set Leo’s teeth on edge.
“You look well,” James said when the introductions were complete. A stranger might not have noticed the question lurking in that statement.
“I’m quite well,” Leo said. And he was. No serious injuries, no imminent likelihood of foreign governments trying to assassinate him in his sleep—he was as well as he’d ever been.
“You might be interested to hear about the peculiar situation in which we all find ourselves,” James said casually. As James recounted the contents of his uncle’s will and the challenge the legatees had been issued, the uneasiness that had been lurking in Leo’s gut solidified into real fear.
“How very thrilling,” he said instead of dragging James out of the house and taking him someplace safe.
“It can’t be legally binding,” interjected the doctor, a Sir Anthony somebody-or-another, in a tone that made Leo think he had been repeating the same phrase intermittently for hours. “We’ll challenge it in court,” Sir Anthony went on. “He must have become senile. It happens, however little we like to admit it. Rather negligent on your firm’s part, Trevelyan, to let him follow through with this delusional scheme of his.”
“He wasn’t in the least bit senile,” said the spinster, whom James had introduced as Miss Dauntsey but addressed as Cousin Martha.
“Even if that were true, how is anyone to verify what happened twenty years ago?” the doctor continued. “There won’t be any proof. This estate will spend an eternity in probate.”
“An excellent question,” said the ancient lawyer with the air of a teacher congratulating an apt pupil. “Mr. Bellamy’s will included a proviso that I am to be the judge of the solution.”
“In other words,” said Lady Marchand, the doctor’s wife, “he’s leaving it up to you to decide who gets it all.”
Mr. Trevelyan cleared his throat. “I rather think your father would say that he was leaving it up to you.”
And wasn’t that an interesting way to put it. Clearly James’s uncle had thought one of his legatees knew what had happened to his daughter all those years ago, and it sounded like the solicitor was of the same mind.
Cora and Edith—whom Leo was usually inclined to trust on all matters of intelligence—said that Rose Bellamy was popularly understood to have died in a swimming accident. Had her father suspected that someone had been to blame for the accident? Or had he believed that there was a more sinister explanation for his daughter’s death?
“The way I see it,” said Lady Marchand, “is that we’d better abide by Father’s little scheme. Otherwise somebody else might go to Mr. Trevelyan with any manner of likely-sounding solution, and then Blackthorn could go to a stranger.” She glanced vaguely at Madame Fournier, not with any particular enmity, but more as if she had forgotten that the woman could hear her. “Or to that charity. Imagine Blackthorn packed to the rafters with lady criminals.”
“It’s a very respectable charity, Camilla. I’ve spent my career—”
“I’m rather enjoying the image of Blackthorn packed with lady criminals,” said the actress, with a faraway look that made Leo want to laugh.
“There is no need for you to flaunt the—thedevianceof the company you keep, Lilian,” snapped her father.
“This is all too bad for you, Martha darling,” said Camilla, ignoring both her daughter and her husband. “You’ve been done out of a house. You’ll come stay with us in London, of course.”
“It’s proof that poor Rupert was not in his right mind,” Sir Anthony said severely, glaring at Mr. Trevelyan. “I do wish someone had thought to call me in. I deal with senility cases with some frequency, after all.”
Leo watched as James hesitated with his coffee cup halfway to his mouth. A fleeting, pinched expression darted across his features.
“I assure you that Mr. Bellamy’s own doctor attended him almost daily,” said Mr. Trevelyan.
“I intend to give that doctor a piece of my mind if he failed to notice an imbalance.”
“I did always covet that Gainsborough,” mused Lady Marchand. “It’s rather sweet that the old dear remembered, even if he was out of his head at the end.”
“That’s hardly the point, Camilla,” her husband barked. “I dare say the bequests aren’t inane if taken individually. Martha is probably glad to have been left more than an ordinary servant, for example.”
