James Benn - The Rest Is Silence

“May I see the letter?” Farnsworth asked. Meredith nodded, the handkerchief now held to her face, and handed it to him. Farnsworth withdrew the flimsy airmail paper and scanned the two sheets. “I will not read it all. There is no need to disclose words of a highly intimate nature.” He shook his head, as if the mail had been meant for something other than personal messages. “It is from Julia Wiley to Sir Rupert, whom she addresses as ‘my dearest Rupert.’ There is a return address in New York City, and the postmark is visible. I would say that the critical statement for our purposes is, ‘Baby Peter will always remind me of our time together at Ashcroft House, brief as it was.’ She also refers to a sojourn in London, but I see no need to go into details.” He handed the letter back to Meredith.

“So what does this mean, exactly?” David asked, looking uncomfortable with such revelations.

“First, let me ask when Peter Wiley died,” Farnsworth said, turning to me.

“We are trying to determine exactly when,” I said. “It was during a training accident, and his death likely occurred in the early hours of the morning on April twenty-eighth.”

“After the death of Sir Rupert,” Farnsworth said.

“Yes,” I said. “The baron and I saw Peter after Sir Rupert died, in the hallway. And then briefly after we came back from the pub, later that night. That was the last time I saw him. Apparently he left early the following day.”

“Are there others who can attest to that?” Farnsworth asked, looking at the group. David, Kaz, Meredith, and Helen all concurred.

“I saw him later that evening,” Edgar said. “After Captain Boyle and the baron went off to the pub. He was in the library, looking for something to read. He was apologetic about being a houseguest under the circumstances. Perhaps that is why he left so suddenly.”

“All that matters for our purposes is that Sir Rupert predeceased Peter Wiley,” Farnsworth said. “Whether by minutes, hours, or days, does not matter. Lady Pemberton, can you attest to what has been said here? You are the only other family member who could do so.”

“Yes,” Great Aunt Sylvia said in a restrained voice. “The affair did occur, and I had suspected that Rupert continued it in some fashion while he was in London. I recall that Miss Greenshaw asked for time off to visit her mother in Taunton. That may have been the case, or she may have gone on to London.”

“And the arrangement for Julia and Mr. Wiley to marry and emigrate to America?” Farnsworth asked, his pen poised over his papers.

“I do not recall all the details,” Great Aunt Sylvia said, her chin held high. “But I do know there was a payment made.”

“Presumably to give the child a name and a decent start in America,” Farnsworth said.

“What other reason could there be?” Great Aunt Sylvia said.

“The arrangement was a surprise to Sir Rupert?” Farnsworth said.

“It was,” Great Aunt Sylvia said. “But he finally came to see the wisdom of it.”

“I take it the child was not born here,” Farnsworth said. “Did Julia Greenshaw and Ted Wiley marry before they left?”

“The marriage was recorded in the village church,” Great Aunt Sylvia said. “I was not privy to Julia’s giving birth. They left immediately after the marriage ceremony.”

“Rather abrupt,” Farnsworth said.

“That was the point, wasn’t it?” Great Aunt Sylvia said, the ghost of a smile on her lips.

“Very well then,” Farnsworth said, jotting a final note. “In the light of what has emerged this morning, I conclude that Peter Wiley was indeed the illegitimate son of Sir Rupert Sutcliffe. Therefore, he inherited the bulk of the estate upon Sir Rupert’s death.”

“But Peter is dead,” Helen said, glancing at the others with a confused look. “What happens now?”

“What happens, Mrs. Martindale, is that most likely you and your sister inherit from Peter Wiley,” Farnsworth said. Helen looked startled and Meredith gasped. Hard to blame her, with all that dough falling into her lap when seconds ago she’d had nothing. “As half-siblings, you each stand to inherit an equal share from his estate.”

“Most likely, you said?” David asked, his hand holding Helen’s.

“We must determine for certain that Peter Wiley was not married and had no children or other siblings,” Farnsworth said. “From what Sir Rupert told me, that seems to be the case, but we must confirm the facts. We must know whether he left a will himself, although in my experience young men do not consider such things, especially since his mother was still alive when he left America. It will be a simple matter for an attorney in New York City to investigate. Barring any unforeseen developments, the ownership of the property should be established within a matter of weeks. In the meantime, I can provide access to the accounts for any necessary expenditures. I imagine the upkeep of Ashcroft House to be no small matter.”

“Yes,” Helen whispered, a trace of surprise and shock in her voice. She looked to Meredith, who covered her mouth with the handkerchief, maybe to keep from gasping out loud again, or maybe to keep the whoops of joy contained until the elderly solicitor left. Farnsworth gathered up his papers and said his goodbyes, as somber as an undertaker. I had the feeling he’d found all this talk of love affairs and American bastards upsetting. Not your usual last testament.

Great Aunt Sylvia walked him out, and I heard Farnsworth tell her she could rely on his discretion. No one need know the convoluted route the inheritance took to end up with Helen and Meredith. Hushed tones and dirty secrets, all part of the service.

With some difficulty, I steered David away from the group after giving my congratulations.

“Last night at the pub, you mentioned seeing tire tracks,” I said. “Motorcycle tracks, right?”

“Yes,” David said. “What of it?”

“Could you show me where? It won’t take a second.” He agreed, shaking his head in puzzlement. He led me out the rear door and along a lane leading to a large barn with a stone foundation and several oversize doors. A greenhouse jutted out at a right angle, and there was a fenced-in garden nearby.

“Here,” he said, pointing to a depression between the lane and an open door to the barn. “You can still make them out, but not as clearly as I saw them just after that heavy rain.” He was right. The soil was crumbling, but the tread marks were clear. Inside, he showed me faint oil stains were the motorbike had been parked. “What’s this all about, then?”

“You didn’t see anything else? Anything odd or out of place?” I asked, avoiding the question.

“No. As I said, I was simply puttering about, looking at what was left in the barn. It was too much of a jumble to bother with, so I gave up.” He was right. This section of the barn was filled with junk: broken pieces of furniture, rusted machinery-there was barely enough space for us to stand in.

“Now I must get back, Billy,” David said. “This has all been quite a surprise.” He didn’t know the half of it.

I found Kaz and brought him to the barn to show him what was left of the tire tracks.

“It rained after Peter left here, quite hard,” Kaz said. “Perhaps he returned?”

“Or never left,” I said.

We drove to Greenway House, and I filled in Colonel Harding on Meredith and Helen’s windfall and the discovery of the motorbike tracks.

“It could have been anyone,” Harding said. “Maybe a visiting local.”

“Petrol is pretty hard to come by,” I said, taking a seat in Harding’s cramped office. “Most folks use bicycles for short trips.”