Джеффри Арчер - This Was a Man

‘But he later changed his mind. And it wasn’t until Mrs Grant told me what her husband’s favourite whisky was that I realized the significance of father only leaving you a bottle of Maker’s Mark in his will, which rather suggests that he also knew Freddie wasn’t your son.’

‘I’ve received a tax bill for £185,000,’ blurted out Virginia, ‘that I can’t afford to pay.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Archie. ‘But from my experience, the taxman doesn’t send out demands for £185,000 unless the person concerned has made a capital gain of —’ he hesitated for a moment — ‘around half a million.’

‘I’ve spent every penny I made settling Cyrus’s claim, and now there’s nothing left.’

‘Well, I certainly don’t have that kind of money at my disposal, Virginia, even if I was willing to help you. Every penny I earn is ploughed back into the estate, which incidentally just about broke even last year, and as you can see, we’re not exactly living high on the hog. In fact, if I’m forced to make any more cutbacks, the next one will have to be your monthly allowance. The irony is that Freddie did better out of Father’s will than any of us.’

‘But all that would change if only I could get my hands on the distillery.’ Virginia leant forward and looked hopefully at her brother. ‘If you back me, Archie, I’d be willing to split fifty-fifty.’

‘Not a chance, Virginia. Those were clearly Father’s wishes, and in that same will, he instructed me to see that they were carried out. And that’s exactly what I intend to do.’

‘But surely blood comes before—’

‘Keeping your word? No, it doesn’t, Virginia, and I must warn you that if you were reckless enough to challenge Father’s will and the matter were to come to court, I wouldn’t hesitate to back Freddie’s claim, because that is no more than Father would have expected of me.’

On her return journey to London, Virginia concluded that once again, she would have to get in touch with her distant cousin in Argentina — and fairly urgently.

The following morning Virginia received a final reminder from HM Inspector of Taxes, which she screwed up and dropped into the nearest waste-paper basket. By the afternoon, she was reluctantly considering booking an economy class ticket to Buenos Aires, and had even started to pack, while thinking about the things she would miss if she were exiled, including Annabel’s, her friend Priscilla, Bofie and even the Daily Mail . She somehow doubted that the Buenos Aires Herald would have quite the same appeal.

She turned to Nigel Dempster to find out what her friends were up to. A photograph of a woman she didn’t care for dominated his column, although the news of her death didn’t cause Virginia’s heart to miss a beat.

It is with great sadness , Dempster reported, that I learned of the death of Lavinia, Duchess of Hertford, who was so admired for her beauty, charm and wit. That wasn’t how you described her when she was alive, thought Virginia. She will be sadly missed by her many friends — who could all have joined her for tea in a telephone box. But because she was so rich and powerful, everyone had always bowed and scraped to her. The funeral will be held at St Albans Abbey, and will be attended by Princess Margaret, one of the Duchess’s oldest friends. The Duchess leaves behind a son, Lord Clarence, two daughters, Lady Alice and Lady Camilla, and her devoted husband, the thirteenth Duke of Hertford. The funeral will take place on...

Virginia opened her diary, pencilled in the date and unpacked again.

Virginia may have been penniless but no one who saw her walk into St Albans Abbey that morning would have believed it. She was wearing a black silk dress with a pearl brooch her grandmother had left her, and carried a black Hermès handbag she still hadn’t paid for.

She entered the west door a few minutes before the service was due to begin, only to find the abbey was already full. She was looking around the packed congregation, anxious not to be relegated to a place near the back, unnoticed, when she spotted a tall, elegant man in a tailcoat carrying an usher’s rod. She gave him a warm smile, but he clearly didn’t recognize her.

‘I’m the Lady Virginia Fenwick,’ she whispered. ‘A close family friend.’

‘Of course, m’lady, please follow me.’

Virginia accompanied him down the aisle, past rows of mourners who knew their place. She was delighted when the usher found her a seat in the fifth row, directly behind the family, which fitted in neatly with the first part of her plan. While pretending to study the order of service, she glanced around to see who was seated nearby. She recognized the dukes of Norfolk, Westminster and Marlborough, along with several hereditary peers who had all been friends of her late father. She glanced back to see Bofie Bridgwater seated several rows behind her, but she didn’t acknowledge his exaggerated bow.

The organ struck up to announce a parade of the great and good who were led sedately down the aisle by the chief usher. The Mayor of Hertford was followed by the sheriff and the lord lieutenant of the county, all of whom were shown to their places in the third row. A moment later they were followed by the Lord Barrington of Bristol Docklands, the former leader of the House of Lords.

As Giles passed Virginia, she turned away. She didn’t want her ex-husband to know she was there. Not part of her well-choreographed plan. Giles took his reserved seat in the second row.

A moment later the congregation rose as one when the coffin, bedecked in white lilies, began its slow passage down the aisle towards the chancel. It was borne on the shoulders of six guardsmen from the First Battalion of the Coldstream Guards, the regiment the duke had served in as a major during the Second World War, and of which he was now honorary colonel.

The thirteenth Duke of Hertford, followed by his son and two daughters, walked behind the coffin, and took their places in the front row, while the coffin was placed on a bier in the chancel. The funeral service was conducted by the Bishop of Hertford, whose eulogy reminded those present what a saintly person the late duchess had been, emphasizing her tireless work as patron of Dr Barnardo’s and as chairman of the Mothers’ Union. The bishop concluded by expressing his heartfelt condolences to the duke and his family, finally adding that he hoped with the help of the Almighty they would come to terms with their loss.

Along with a little assistance from me, thought Virginia.

When the service was over, Virginia joined a select group of mourners who attended the burial, and then cadged a lift back to the castle for a reception she hadn’t been invited to. When she arrived she paused at the bottom of the steps, taking a moment to admire the Jacobean building as if she were a prospective buyer.

During the funeral service and the burial, Virginia had remained still, but once she entered the castle and the butler announced ‘The Lady Virginia Fenwick’, she never stopped moving.

‘How kind of you to take the trouble to travel up to Hertfordshire, Virginia,’ said the duke, bending down to kiss her on both cheeks. ‘I know Lavinia would have appreciated it.’

I wouldn’t have missed it for the world, she wanted to tell him, but restricted herself to, ‘Such a dear, kind lady. We’ll all miss her.’

‘How sweet of you to say so, Virginia,’ said the duke, not letting go of her hand. ‘I do hope you’ll keep in touch.’

You need have no fear about that, thought Virginia. ‘Nothing would give me greater pleasure, your grace,’ she said, giving him a slight curtsey.

‘His grace, the Duke of Westminster,’ announced the butler.