Page 17 of The Missing Page
“I was in my bedroom, and you brought up a tray of tea and biscuits.” James had no idea why he had been in his bedroom. Probably to keep him out of the way of the policemen. He remembered peering out the window at the police inspecting the grounds while eating the biscuits Camilla had brought him.
“Oh goodness,” Camilla said. “You do have a memory.” She looked at him shrewdly. “Perhaps Father knew what he was about, making sure you were a part of this.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
After seeing James to the dining room, Leo went in search of the telephone. He already knew there was no extension in the drawing room, so the first place he tried was the library. There he found Marchand and the old lawyer. Trevelyan sat at the desk and Marchand paced from one end of the room to the other. Leo slid out of view, concealed by the half-closed door.
“The man had hundreds of thousands of pounds,” said Marchand. “And God knows he didn’t spend a shilling in the past two decades.” He gestured around, presumably indicating the faded curtains and the general state of shabbiness prevailing in Blackthorn. “He didn’t entertain. I think I would have heard if he was in the habit of buying racecars or boats.”
“I couldn’t say,” said Trevelyan.
“You mean you won’t say,” countered Marchand.
“What Icansay is that the estate comprises five thousand pounds, after all the named bequests have been addressed. That’s no mean amount.”
“I know that. And I don’t need it, of course,” he added hastily. “I only want to know what became of the rest. It’s my duty.”
“I rather think it’s my duty.”
“If you’ll beg my pardon, I think you’ve been more than a little derelict in your duty in this whole affair. That will!”
“I had nothing to do with the drafting of Rupert’s will, although, as I said, it’s perfectly valid.”
“Who witnessed it?”
“The vicar and his wife.”
“Hmph. Rupert was eighty years old, and he drafted this will only a few years ago. Surely, he had previous wills. Did your firm draft any of them, or did you simply leave him to his own devices?”
Mr. Trevelyan hesitated. “He was in the habit of drafting a will every few years and sending it to my office. He wasn’t a lawyer, but he was a man of business and perfectly aware of the legal requirements for a binding will.”
“He never sent this one to you, though. Why do you think that might have been?” Marchand’s tone was barely concealed resentment.
“I’d have thought it was obvious. He didn’t want anyone to attempt to persuade him to do something more reasonable.”
“And doesn’t that tell you that Rupert knew he was behaving madly?”
“What it tells me is that he didn’t want to waste his last months having precisely this quarrel. If you’ll beg my pardon, Sir Anthony, if you’re in urgent need of funds—”
“I’m not in urgent need of anything! It galls me from a professional standpoint to know that my father-in-law was evidently suffering from a severe mental imbalance and nobody saw fit to alert me. Martha didn’t, you didn’t, the vicar didn’t. The man could have been helped.”
Leo was surprised to find that Marchand sounded sincere. He probably also wanted the money, but he seemed genuinely distressed to think that old Rupert Bellamy had been suffering.
“There’s no evidence that Rupert was anything other than perfectly sane,” said the lawyer.
“Ha! That will isn’t the product of a sane mind. Besides, with a family history like this one’s, I’m inclined to be concerned.”
“Family history?” There was a chill in the lawyer’s voice.
“I’m speaking of Rose, obviously.”
“Rose never left any peculiar wills, as far as I know.”
“Damn it, Trevelyan. I mean that she did away with herself, and we both know it.”
The lawyer was silent for a long moment. “I know nothing of the sort. There was precious little evidence of suicide at the time, and apparently Rupert was of the same mind.”
Nobody spoke, and Leo could imagine Marchand glaring at Trevelyan. “Are you suggesting that someone killed her?”
