Chapter 21
Up at the manor house, there was a buffet on the dining table that would have defeated Henry VIII, and trays full of champagne, or sparkling wine – Marnie’s palate wasn’t discerning enough to tell. She walked in, glad that Emelie was holding her arm because she might have chickened out otherwise, especially as she heard Kay say to Una, ‘What’s she doing here?’
‘Ignore her, Marnie,’ said Emelie. ‘Lilian was never fond of the Sweetmans. She called them the Sourmans.’ She let loose a childish giggle and it made Marnie chuckle too.
Lionel was heading towards them with two flutes of fizz which he handed to them.
‘You did very well, Lionel,’ said Emelie. ‘It can’t have been easy for you.’
‘It was the hardest service I’ve ever led,’ replied Lionel. He looked tired, thought Marnie. The whites of his eyes were pink, the usually conker-shiny irises a dull mud colour today.
‘It’s the end of an era,’ said Roger the postmaster, joining them. ‘Wonderful service, Lionel. Wonderful. Lilian would have been sad she missed it.’
‘She didn’t,’ said Emelie. ‘She was there. We could all feel her.’
‘I haven’t seen you for a while, Emelie. Someone said they’d seen you posting a parcel in Skipperstone. I hope you aren’t being unfaithful to me,’ said Roger with a grin.
‘Who would say such a thing?’ said Emelie, suddenly serious. ‘Village people can be such gossips.’
When Roger moved away, Emelie confided in Marnie. ‘I did post a parcel in Skipperstone. I didn’t want him asking who I was sending things to in London. He can be very nosey.’
A sudden burst of Titus’s laughter filled the room, interrupting everyone’s conversation.
‘All hail the new lord of the manor,’ Marnie overheard David say behind her. ‘Someone’s happy at least. He’ll have moved in here by twilight. You mark my words.’
It was obvious to everyone that Titus was counting down the minutes to accepting his title.
Marnie caught sight of Herv at the other side of the room. He looked like a Norse god who had decided to take a job in a bank. He was standing with Ruby who was nibbling delicately on a sandwich enjoying the temporary illusion of being in a couple with him, though it appeared as if he wished he were elsewhere. She watched him scan the room, felt his eyes lock with hers. He waved, he smiled then he made, Marnie presumed, his apologies to Ruby and headed across the room to her. Ruby’s expression turned murderous and Marnie thought, why is it that at every stage of my life I have made so many enemies? Herv was two steps away from her when Titus cut straight in front of him.
‘Herv,’ he bellowed so most of the room could hear him. ‘I hope you’re going to be staying around, at least. I need a good gardener.’
It was as if a bucket of water had been tipped over Marnie’s head. She hadn’t considered the full extent of what Lilian’s death would mean. There would be changes, lots of them. She wouldn’t be able to stay in Little Raspberries rent-free for a start. And Lilian herself had said that Titus didn’t want strangers in the village. There had been no written rental agreement; he could throw her out tonight if he chose to, unless she decided to sit tight as a squatter.
Marnie slid from the room and into the conservatory where she stood by the window and gazed out at the tranquil lake. She heard again Lilian’s account of the day when her father fell into the water trying to scare away a heron and her mother pressed his head under the water with an oar hoping to drown him. There were so many more stories of Lilian’s to tell, Marnie hadn’t known her long enough at all. And now, all the ones that weren’t in her memory or Lionel’s book were gone for ever. She was gripped by a sudden sense of it all being so unfair. She had loved and been loved by only two people in her whole life, two old ladies full of fun and joy and kindness. And she had lost them both.
‘Marnie, how are you doing?’
She felt Herv’s hand on her shoulder, large and warm before he lifted it away abruptly, as if fearing she would shrug it off. She wouldn’t have.
‘Well . . .’ she smiled sadly.
‘Of course, stupid question.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I’ve been thinking about you but I didn’t know . . . if I should . . . leave you alone.’
She really had scared him off that night of the Pink Lady sighting. She’d felt rotten about that since it happened and had the overwhelming urge to tell him that it wasn’t the idea of going to the cinema with him that had set her off running like Usain Bolt with a firework up his backside, but anyone. A nice man like him would be better staying away from such a fuck-up as herself. But here was neither the time nor the place.
‘Thank you, that’s very sweet of you but I’m a big girl . . .’
A very big girl now. Her mother’s voice came from nowhere. She ignored it and carried on.
‘. . . Anyway, how are you, Herv?’
‘I don’t know,’ he replied. There was no sparkle in his blue, blue eyes today. ‘I feel numb, I think. As if something very significant has gone from my life.’
His shoulders were slumped, weighted with sadness. She felt the need to reach out to him, comfort him, do something to convey that they were together in this, but she overcame it.
‘I don’t want to work for Titus,’ Herv went on. ‘I think I shall . . . probably leave soon.’
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.’
If Marnie had come to Wychwell to escape bad feeling, judging by the sea of eyes trained hard on her now, she couldn’t have made a worse move if she’d tried.