gaze of its former occupant from one of several framed photographs around the walls, Nick pressed on.
In the bottom drawer of the cabinet, he found it: a bulging manilla file with his name written in faded black felt-tip on the leading edge of the folder. He heaved the folder out on to the desk and leafed apprehensively through the contents. As he had feared, it was all there: letters to and from his college and the hospital he had been sent to, tracking his breakdown and subsequent treatment over a five-year period. There were bills too, substantial ones, from his psychiatrist.
But they were one tranche of financial documentation Baskcomb had no need to see. Nick closed the folder and leaned forward, his hands pressing down on the cover as he shut his eyes and winced at the sudden rush of memories. Then they were past and behind him. It was a sensation he had at one time experienced frequently and now realized he had almost succeeded in forgetting altogether. It was foolish to have supposed it would never recur. In the wake of his father's death, it was bound to, even without Elspeth's unintentional prompting. He opened his eyes and pulled open one of the unlocked desk drawers in search of an envelope large enough to hold the contents of the folder. They would be leaving with him and reaching no other hands.
In his haste, he yanked the drawer out as far as it would come. A slew of paperclips, rubber bands, pencils, stray strands of tobacco and assorted envelopes slid forward with the momentum, leaving the rear of the drawer empty. Except, Nick noticed, for a short strip of black insulating tape, stuck to the base. There was an object held beneath it. He stretched
93
out his hand and ran his fingers over the small bulge. It felt like what it undoubtedly was: a key.
Nick prised the tape loose with his thumbnail, picked up the key and slid it into the keyhole of the locked drawer. The lock released at the first turn. He sat slowly down in his father's worn old leather swivel-chair and pulled the drawer open.
Inside there was just one object: a large white envelope, bearing the words, written in his father's hand, Last Will and Testament. Nick lifted the envelope out. The flap was folded in, but not sealed. He raised the flap and slid the contents out. There was a single sheet of paper. It was certainly his father's will. But it was not the one lodged with Baskcomb. And the date on it was much more recent.
The document was handwritten, succinct but legalistically worded, and utterly shocking.
This is the last will and testament of me Michael Godfrey Paleologus of Trennor Landulph Cornwall which I make this fifteenth day of January 2001 and whereby I revoke all previous wills and testamentary dispositions.
I hereby appoint my cousin Demetrius Andronicus Paleologus of Palazzo Falcetto San Polo 3150 Venezia Italy to be the sole executor of this my will.
I give my house the aforementioned Trennor Landulph Cornwall and all its contents to my cousin the aforementioned Demetrius Andronicus Paleologus absolutely.
I give the remainder of my property real and personal in equal shares to my children.
Nick stared at the words, transfixed. His father had written them. There was no doubt about it. And he had signed his name beneath them. Two witnesses had also signed.
Signed by the testator in the presence of us both present at the same time who at his request in his presence and in the presence of each other have hereunto set our names as witnesses.
94
Frederick Davey of 3 Butcher's Row Tintagel Cornwall retired quarryman.
Margaret Davey of 3 Butcher's Row Tintagel Cornwall housewife.
Nick had never heard of a cousin Demetrius, nor of retired quarryman Fred Davey and his wife. They were strangers to him. But one of those strangers, if this will was valid and genuine, as it certainly appeared to be, was now the rightful owner of Trennor.
'Keyless in Trennor isn't a lot better than eyeless in Gaza,' said Basil, re-entering
In the bottom drawer of the cabinet, he found it: a bulging manilla file with his name written in faded black felt-tip on the leading edge of the folder. He heaved the folder out on to the desk and leafed apprehensively through the contents. As he had feared, it was all there: letters to and from his college and the hospital he had been sent to, tracking his breakdown and subsequent treatment over a five-year period. There were bills too, substantial ones, from his psychiatrist.
But they were one tranche of financial documentation Baskcomb had no need to see. Nick closed the folder and leaned forward, his hands pressing down on the cover as he shut his eyes and winced at the sudden rush of memories. Then they were past and behind him. It was a sensation he had at one time experienced frequently and now realized he had almost succeeded in forgetting altogether. It was foolish to have supposed it would never recur. In the wake of his father's death, it was bound to, even without Elspeth's unintentional prompting. He opened his eyes and pulled open one of the unlocked desk drawers in search of an envelope large enough to hold the contents of the folder. They would be leaving with him and reaching no other hands.
In his haste, he yanked the drawer out as far as it would come. A slew of paperclips, rubber bands, pencils, stray strands of tobacco and assorted envelopes slid forward with the momentum, leaving the rear of the drawer empty. Except, Nick noticed, for a short strip of black insulating tape, stuck to the base. There was an object held beneath it. He stretched
93
out his hand and ran his fingers over the small bulge. It felt like what it undoubtedly was: a key.
Nick prised the tape loose with his thumbnail, picked up the key and slid it into the keyhole of the locked drawer. The lock released at the first turn. He sat slowly down in his father's worn old leather swivel-chair and pulled the drawer open.
Inside there was just one object: a large white envelope, bearing the words, written in his father's hand, Last Will and Testament. Nick lifted the envelope out. The flap was folded in, but not sealed. He raised the flap and slid the contents out. There was a single sheet of paper. It was certainly his father's will. But it was not the one lodged with Baskcomb. And the date on it was much more recent.
The document was handwritten, succinct but legalistically worded, and utterly shocking.
This is the last will and testament of me Michael Godfrey Paleologus of Trennor Landulph Cornwall which I make this fifteenth day of January 2001 and whereby I revoke all previous wills and testamentary dispositions.
I hereby appoint my cousin Demetrius Andronicus Paleologus of Palazzo Falcetto San Polo 3150 Venezia Italy to be the sole executor of this my will.
I give my house the aforementioned Trennor Landulph Cornwall and all its contents to my cousin the aforementioned Demetrius Andronicus Paleologus absolutely.
I give the remainder of my property real and personal in equal shares to my children.
Nick stared at the words, transfixed. His father had written them. There was no doubt about it. And he had signed his name beneath them. Two witnesses had also signed.
Signed by the testator in the presence of us both present at the same time who at his request in his presence and in the presence of each other have hereunto set our names as witnesses.
94
Frederick Davey of 3 Butcher's Row Tintagel Cornwall retired quarryman.
Margaret Davey of 3 Butcher's Row Tintagel Cornwall housewife.
Nick had never heard of a cousin Demetrius, nor of retired quarryman Fred Davey and his wife. They were strangers to him. But one of those strangers, if this will was valid and genuine, as it certainly appeared to be, was now the rightful owner of Trennor.
'Keyless in Trennor isn't a lot better than eyeless in Gaza,' said Basil, re-entering
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