Dick Francis - Wild Horses

Dorothea’s frame stiffened under my embracing arm. I let it fall away from her shoulders and went with her out of Valentine’s room and back to the kitchen, flicking the harsh light off again as I went and looking back to the quiet old face in its semi-shadow. Permanent timeless shadow.

‘Of course , you must leave here,’ Paul was saying to his mother in the kitchen. ‘You’re almost eighty. I can’t look after you properly when you live so far away from me. I’ve already arranged with a retirement home that when Valentine died you would rent a room there. I’ll tell them you’ll be coming within a week. It’s less than a mile from my house so Janet will be able to drop in every day.’

Dorothea looked almost frightened. ‘I’m not going, Paul,’ she contradicted. ‘I’m staying here.’

Ignoring her, Paul said, ‘You may as well start packing your things at once. Why waste time? I’ll put this house on the market tomorrow and I’ll move you immediately after the funeral.’

‘No,’ Dorothea said.

‘I’ll help you while I’m here,’ her son said grandly. ‘All Valentine’s things will need sorting and disposing of, of course. In fact, I may as well clear some of the books away at once. I brought two or three empty boxes.’

‘Not the books,’ I said positively. ‘He left his books to me.’

‘ What? ’ Paul’s mouth unattractively dropped open. ‘He can’t have done,’ he said fiercely. ‘He left everything to Mother. We all know that.’

‘Everything to your mother except his books.’

Dorothea nodded. ‘Valentine added a codicil to his will about two months ago, leaving his books to Thomas.’

‘The old man was ga-ga. I’ll contest it.’

‘You can’t contest it,’ I pointed out reasonably. ‘Valentine left everything but the books to your mother, not to you.’

‘Then Mother will contest it!’

‘No, I won’t, dear,’ Dorothea said gently. ‘When Valentine asked me what I thought about him leaving his books and papers to Thomas, I told him it was a very nice idea. I would never read them or ever look at them much, and Valentine knew Thomas would treasure them, so he got a solicitor to draw up the codicil, and Betty, a friend of mine, and Robbie Gill, our doctor, witnessed his signature with the solicitor watching. He signed it here in his own sitting-room, and there was no question of Valentine being ga-ga, which both the solicitor and the doctor will agree on. And I can’t see what you’re so bothered about, there’s just a lot of old form-books and scrap-books and books about racing.’

Paul was, it seemed to me, a great deal more disconcerted than seemed natural. He seemed also to become aware of my surprise, because he groped and produced a specious explanation, hating me while he delivered it.

‘Valentine once told me there might be some value in his collection,’ he said. ‘I intend to get them valued and sold... for Mother’s benefit, naturally.’

‘The books are for Thomas,’ Dorothea repeated doughtily, ‘and I never heard Valentine suggest they were valuable. He wanted Thomas to have them for old times’ sake, and for being so kind, coming to read to him.’

‘ Ah-hah! ’ Paul almost shouted in triumph. ‘Valentine’s codicil will be invalid because he couldn’t see what he was signing!’

Dorothea protested, ‘But he knew what he was signing.’

‘ How did he know? Tell me that.’

‘Excuse me,’ I said, halting the brewing bad temper. ‘If Valentine’s codicil is judged invalid, which I think unlikely if his solicitor drew it up and witnessed its signing, then the books belong to Dorothea, who alone can decide what to do with them.’

‘Oh, thank you , dear,’ she said, her expression relaxing, ‘then if they are mine, I will give them to you, Thomas, because I know that’s what Valentine intended.’

Paul looked aghast. ‘But you can’t .’

‘Why not, dear?’

‘They... they may be valuable .’

‘I’ll get them valued,’ I said, ‘and if they really are worth an appreciable amount, I’ll give that much to Dorothea.’

‘No, dear,’ she vehemently shook her head.

‘Hush,’ I said to her. ‘Let it lie for now.’

Paul paced up and down the kitchen in a fury and came to a halt on the far side of the table from where I sat with Dorothea beside me, demanding forcefully, ‘Just who are you, anyway, apart from ingratiating yourself with a helpless, dying old man? I mean, it’s criminal .’

I saw no need to explain myself to him, but Dorothea wearily informed him, ‘Thomas’s grandfather trained horses that Valentine shod. Valentine’s known Thomas for more than twenty years, and he’s always liked him, he told me so.’

As if unable to stop himself, Paul marched his bulk away from this unwelcome news, abruptly leaving the kitchen and disappearing down the hall. One might have written him off as a pompous ass were it not for the fugitive impression of an underlying, heavy, half-glimpsed predator in the undergrowth. I wouldn’t want to be at a disadvantage with him, I thought.

Dorothea said despairingly, ‘I don’t want to live near Paul. I couldn’t bear to have Janet coming to see me every day. I don’t get on with her, dear. She bosses me about.’

‘You don’t have to go,’ I said. ‘Paul can’t put this house up for sale, because it isn’t his. But, dearest Dorothea... ’ I paused, hesitating.

‘But what, dear?’

‘Well, don’t sign anything.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘I mean, don’t sign anything . Ask your solicitor friend first.’

She gazed at me earnestly. ‘I may have to sign things, now Valentine’s gone.’

‘Yes, but... don’t sign any paper just because Paul wants you to.’

‘All right,’ she said doubtfully.

I asked her, ‘Do you know what a power of attorney is?’

‘Doesn’t it give people permission to do things on your behalf?’

I nodded.

She thought briefly and said, ‘You’re telling me not to sign a paper giving Paul permission to sell this house. Is that it?’

‘It sure is.’

She patted my hand. ‘Thank you, Thomas. I promise not to sign anything like that. I’ll read everything carefully. I hate to say it, but Paul does try too hard sometimes to get his own way.’

Paul, to my mind, had been quiet for a suspiciously long time. I stood up and left the kitchen, going in search of him, and I found him in Valentine’s sitting-room taking books off the shelves and setting them in stacks on the floor.

‘What are you doing?’ I asked. ‘Please leave those alone.’

Paul said, ‘I’m looking for a book I loaned Valentine. I want it back.’

‘What’s it called?’

Paul’s spur-of-the-occasion lie hadn’t got as far as a title. ‘I’ll know it when I see it,’ he said.

‘If any book has your name in it,’ I said politely, ‘I’ll make sure that you get it back.’

‘That’s not good enough.’

Dorothea appeared in the doorway, saw the books piled on the floor and looked aghast and annoyed at the same time.

‘Paul! Stop that! Those books are Thomas’s. If you take them you’ll be stealing .’

Paul showed no sign of caring about such a minor accusation.

‘He won’t take them,’ I told her reassuringly.

Paul curled his lip at me, shouldered his way past and opened the front door.

‘What is he doing, dear?’ Dorothea asked, perplexed, watching her son’s back go purposefully down the path.

‘It seems,’ I said, ‘that he’s fetching one of his boxes to pack the books in.’ I closed the front door and shot its bolts, top and bottom. Then I hurried through into the kitchen and secured its outside door in the same way, and made a quick trip through all the rooms, and both bathrooms, to make sure the windows were shut and locked.