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“My name is Neil Osborne and I’m the estate agent in charge of the sale of this property. Are you an interested party?”
“Certainly not. I am simply visiting my old friend Kelly Mellor. Does she still live here?”
“No, she moved out soon after instructing us to put the house back on the market.”
“Has she moved somewhere locally?”
“Perth.”
“In Scotland?”
“No, Australia.” That silenced Virginia for a moment, and allowed the young man to complete a second sentence. “All I can tell you, Lady Virginia, is that Kelly instructed us to send the proceeds of the sale to a joint bank account in Perth.”
“A joint bank account?”
“Yes, I only met Barry once, quite soon after they became engaged. He seemed a nice enough fellow,” Osborne added as he looked over Virginia’s shoulder. “Are you Mr. and Mrs. Campion?” he asked a young couple who were walking up the driveway.
* * *
When Virginia received a second letter from HM Inspector of Taxes, she realized there was only one person left she could turn to, although he wasn’t someone who would believe a story about an investment that couldn’t fail.
She chose a weekend when the Hon. Freddie Fenwick would be at boarding school, and her sister-in-law, a woman Virginia had never much cared for, and she suspected the feeling was mutual, would be visiting an elderly aunt in Dumfries.
Virginia didn’t take the sleeper, a misnomer in her opinion, because she could never manage more than an hour’s sleep while the carriage rattled over the points. Instead, she opted to travel up to Scotland during the day, which would give her more than enough time to go over her plan, and prepare for any awkward questions her brother might come up with. After all, when she’d rung him to say she wanted his advice and needed to see him urgently, she knew he would assume that “advice” was another misnomer, although she accepted that he might consider £185,000 a bit steep, unless he was willing to support her claim that …
Archie sent the car, if you could call a clapped-out 1975 Vauxhall estate a car, to pick her up when she arrived at Edinburgh Waverley. Her ladyship was driven to Fenwick Hall accompanied only by the smell of Labradors and spent cartridges, without once addressing the chauffeur.
As the butler accompanied Lady Virginia to the guest bedroom, he informed her that his lordship was out shooting but was expected back in time for dinner. Virginia took her time unpacking, something that would have been done by a lady’s maid in her father’s day, followed by a soak in a warm bath that she’d had to run herself. After dressing for dinner, she sharpened her nails in preparation for the encounter.
Dinner passed smoothly enough, but then they didn’t discuss anything consequential until after coffee had been served and the servants had retired.
“I’m pretty sure you didn’t come all this way simply to find out how the family are, Virginia,” said Archie after pouring himself a brandy. “So tell me, what’s the real reason for your visit?”
Virginia put down her coffee cup, took a deep breath, and said, “I’m giving serious consideration to challenging Father’s will.” After she had delivered her well-prepared opening salvo, it was clear from the expression on her brother’s face that he wasn’t surprised.
“On what grounds?” he asked calmly.
“On the grounds that father had promised to leave the Glen Fenwick Distillery to me, along with its annual profits of around £100,000 a year, which would have allowed me to live comfortably for the rest of my days.”
“But as you well know, Virginia, in his will Father left the distillery to Freddie, whom you abandoned several years ago, leaving me with the responsibility of bringing your son up.”
“He isn’t my son, as you well know. He’s no more than the offspring of my former butler and his wife. So he has absolutely no claim on Father’s estate.”
Virginia eyed her brother, waiting to see how he would react to this bombshell, but once again, not a flicker of surprise furrowed his brow.
Archie bent down and stroked Wellington, who was sleeping by his side. “Not only am I well aware that Freddie isn’t your son, but it was confirmed beyond doubt following a visit from Mrs. Ellie May Grant, who told me in great detail about the charade you set up when her fiancé was staying at the Ritz some years ago, and your subsequent claim that you were pregnant and that Cyrus was Freddie’s father.”
“Why did that woman want to see you?” demanded Virginia, somewhat thrown off course.
“To find out if I was willing to pay back any of the money you’d fraudulently claimed from her husband over the past decade.”
“You could have offered her the income from the distillery until the debt was cleared, which would have solved all my problems.”
“As you are well aware, Virginia, it isn’t mine to offer. Father left the distillery to Freddie and stipulated that it should be managed by me until the boy reaches his twenty-fifth birthday, when it will automatically become his.”
“But now you know Freddie isn’t my son, surely you’ll support my claim that in an earlier will, which both of us saw, Father left the distillery to me.”
“But he later changed his mind. And it wasn’t until Mrs. Grant told me what her husband’s favorite 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
