David Dickinson: Death of an Old Master

‘We brought nothing into this world,’ the vicar sounded hoarser now, ‘and it is certain we can carry nothing out. The Lord gave and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord.’

Edmund thought bitterly that his father, contrary to the words of the book of Job, had brought a great deal into this world. But had he left anything behind? Edward gazed sadly at the drip continuing its monotonous journey from ceiling to floor. He thought of the estate steward shaking his head as he pored over the account books. What would be left? How much would be left? How would it be divided?

Roger Bilton, the de Courcys’ closest neighbour, had risen to read the second lesson. He was a tall, stooping man, reputed never to have travelled any further from his home than the city of Norwich. He spoke the words in a high querulous tone, as if he didn’t believe them.

‘Now is Christ risen from the dead, and become the first fruits of them that slept. For since by man came death, by man came also the resurrection of the dead. For as in Adam all die, even so in Christ shall all be made alive.’

Another memorial on the floor echoed the words of St Paul’s Epistle to the Corinthians. Thomas de Courcy was portrayed on his brass in full armour, holding a very long sword, as if about to go into battle. Edmund remembered the full description of the armour with its archaic vocabulary of gorgets and vambraces, tassets and epaulieres, jambarts and rerebraces, genouillaires and sabbatons.

Livest Thou Thomas? Yeas. Where? With God on Highe.

Art thou not dead? Yeas. And here I lye.

I that with men on earth did live to die

Died to live with Christ eternallie.

The vicar was praying now, the prayers interrupted by his hacking cough, praying that the dead man’s sins might be forgiven so he could be received into God’s gracious mercy and protection.

Three of his father’s transgressions were sitting but three feet away from him, Edmund thought to himself, casting a quick glance at the alternative family in its pew. The mother was impassive, the boy and girl taking their cue from their mother and staring resolutely straight ahead. Julia and Sarah had managed to stand right at the front of their box pew so they could look sideways without being noticed. Alice, their mother, was still huddled against the wall.

The prayers were punctuated by the regular drip on to the floor, sounding another note of desolation and decay, as if not only the body of the dead man but the very fabric of the buildings on his estate was beginning to rot away.

There was no sermon from the vicar. He found it impossible to know what to say in such circumstances.

At last, at twenty minutes past eleven, it was all over.

‘The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, and the love of God, and the fellowship of the Holy Ghost, be with us all evermore. Amen.’

Scarcely had the word ‘Amen’ died away when the smartly dressed young man sitting beside lawyer Smithson unlatched his door, opened the door of the pew in front of him and escorted the French party out of the church as fast as decency allowed. Just once Edmund met the eyes of his father’s mistress. Julia and Sarah had one quick glimpse of the half-brother and sister they had never seen before. Almost before the congregation realized what was happening the French party had fled the field.

The bell began to toll again. Smithson had a brief word with Edmund and his mother as they stood at the gate of the church, staring out at what had been their fields, but might be their fields no longer.

‘They’re not going to come to the house,’ he said, trying to reassure the widow, ‘they’re going back to their hotel.’

Smithson paused. He suspected that the ordeal of having to listen to the dead man’s will being read out, surrounded by his mistress and the bastard offspring, might prove too much for Alice de Courcy.

‘The young man who took them away is called McKenna, Richard McKenna. He works for Finch’s Bank. McKenna’s going to tell them the details of the will there before they go back to France.’

How long did it take, Edmund wondered, to travel from the south of France to a remote house in Norfolk for a service that had lasted less than half an hour? Perhaps it was the will, an unknown financial future, not family piety that had brought them on their long journey into the rain and the wind that surrounded St Peter’s Church. Just visible on the long drive that led to the main road, the French carriage was making good speed as if they wanted to escape as fast as they could.

‘I thought,’ Smithson went on apologetically, ‘that a rest would be a good idea before the reading of the last will and testament. Mr McKenna and I propose to call on you at three o’clock this afternoon. Would the library be suitable, do you think?’

‘Of course,’ said Edmund and steered his mother back across the fields to de Courcy Hall. The congregation drifted off. The vicar wondered yet again if he could afford another pair of boots. The great bell rang out across the countryside and almost reached the sea. This afternoon, it would be decided. This afternoon, they would know their fate and their future.

‘“I, Charles Edward Windham Fitzmaurice de Courcy, formerly of de Courcy Hall in the county of Norfolk, currently resident at the Chateau de Fontcaude, Grasse, Alpes Maritimes, France, do hereby cancel, revoke and annul all previous wills and testaments.”’

Mr Smithson, the lawyer from Fakenham, had put on his glasses. The library was on the first floor of de Courcy Hall, great oak bookcases rising almost to the ceiling. Many of the books had been purchased in Rome or Geneva, Naples or Venice, by earlier de Courcys on the Grand Tour, shorter visits to Europe than the dead man who had stayed there fifteen years. There was a large mahogany table in the middle of the room. Mr Smithson and his banker companion sat at the head, with the family below them. Outside the rain was still falling. The wind was battering against the windows. Even with a fire the room was cold.

Julia started at the mention of the word ‘Chateau’. She had visions of some enormous palace filled with tapestries and exciting histories of romance and elopement. Edmund was wondering how much a chateau would cost to run, even a little one.

There was a lot more legal preamble. Smithson read this as fast as he could. Then he paused. Richard McKenna was looking at what appeared to be a first edition of Dr Johnson’s dictionary, the dust sitting thickly on the top as if nobody had checked the meaning of a word for over a hundred and forty years.

‘“I come now to my testimonary dispositions.”’ Smithson glanced at the dead man’s family, Alice looking pale, the girls interested, Edmund apprehensive. ‘“De Courcy Hall, its contents, furniture, pictures, ornaments and everything else pertaining unto it, I leave to my son Edmund George Windham de Courcy.”’

The girls looked relieved. They had never lived anywhere else. They would be safe. Smithson coughed. He looked slightly embarrassed as he read on.

‘“My estates, farms, woods, horses, cattle and sheep and all other farm animals”’ – there followed a precise geographical description of all these properties – ‘“I leave absolutely to Madame Yvette de Castelnau of Grasse for her sole use and that of her children, Francois and Marie-Claire.”’

Charles de Courcy had done the unthinkable. He had failed to keep one of the oldest rules of the English gentry in disposing of their property. He had broken it up. In his wish to accommodate his two families he had separated the house from the lands which supported it. None of the women seemed to understand what had happened. Perhaps they had been hypnotized by the legal prose, the dead language of lawyers come to impose its will on the living.