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As I’m brushing my teeth, I can’t help wondering about the letter. I don’t exactly get a lot of post; all the household bills go to Nan and Grandad, so my post is limited to bank statements and occasional letters to remind me that my car insurance is due for renewal. Although I’m dog-tired and just want to sleep, curiosity gets the better of me and I tiptoe into the kitchen to retrieve it. The envelope feels substantial, and I can tell that the stationery is expensive. As well as my address and the frank mark, the front bears a logo: ‘Moorhouse & Edgerley, Solicitors.’
Despite my tiredness, my anxiety goes up several notches. Why on earth would a firm of solicitors be writing to me? Am I being sued? I try to think what grounds anyone would have for taking legal action against me. Did I mess up someone’s accounts? But no, that wouldn’t come back to me, would it? Everything I do is double-checked by one of the chartered accountants and, even if they got it wrong, surely any lawsuit would be against the company and not an individual. I grab a knife from the block and carefully slit open the envelope.
There’s a single sheet inside and, like the envelope, it has the quality feel that you only get from expensive paper. I draw it out and unfold it. At the top is the same logo that I saw on the envelope, but the text takes me completely by surprise. I read:
Dear Ms Jones,
Please allow me to extend my condolences to you on the death of your great-uncle, Frederick Jones. I had the pleasure of meeting him and his wife, Nora, fifteen years ago, when they engaged our firm to draw up their last will and testament. We also had the immense privilege of being able to offer our services as executors of the will when the time came.
I am pleased to be able to inform you that this task is now complete, and probate on your great-uncle’s estate has now been granted. The reason that I am writing to you is that there are some aspects of the will that may pertain to you, subject to confirmation.
I would be extremely grateful, therefore, if you could contact me on the number below, so that we can find a mutually agreeable time to discuss these matters.
Yours sincerely,
Jonathan Moorhouse
Whatever I was expecting, it certainly wasn’t this. I wasn’t even aware that Great-Uncle Fred had died. What does he mean by ‘some aspects of the will’? I’m wide awake now and could really do with Nan and Grandad’s advice. However, the sound of snoring from their bedroom indicates that I’m not going to get anything from them until tomorrow morning. There’s a thin sliver of light under Katie’s door, however, so I knock and open it.
‘Everything okay?’ she asks.
‘Look at this.’ I thrust the letter at her. ‘What do you think?’
She reads in silence and then considers for a few moments before she speaks.
‘I think it means that Great-Uncle Fred has left you something in his will. It might be a bit of cash if you’re lucky, or some horrible piece of tat that had tremendous sentimental value to him if you’re not. Whatever it is, it won’t be anything big. We hardly knew them, did we?’
‘You’re right,’ I tell her. ‘I’ll call the guy on Monday morning. Let’s hope it’s cash and not a hideous china cat or anything like that, though. Thanks for that. Goodnight.’
‘Goodnight, Daisy.’
5
I show the letter to Grandad the next morning, but his opinion is much the same as Katie’s. I can’t understand why Great-Uncle Fred would have left me anything, though. As Katie said, we really hardly knew them. The last time I saw him would have been at Nora’s funeral, nine years ago. Nan and I had a hell of a battle over that, because it was only a year after Mum and Dad had died, and there was no way I wanted to go to any more funerals. She’d stood her ground, pointing out that we were pretty much the only blood relatives they had, and someone needed to represent our side of the family. I remember there being quite a few people there, but Fred had only appeared at the last minute, and had disappeared again the moment the service was over, so we didn’t get to speak to him. I’m not sure he even knew we were there, a point I made forcefully to Nan afterwards.
By the time Monday morning comes around, I’m bursting with curiosity, and I dial the number on the letter shortly after nine o’clock. The phone is answered by a woman that I guess must be the receptionist, although her cut-glass accent makes her sound more like royalty than secretarial staff. I explain the letter, and she offers to put me through. After a brief pause, during which I’m treated to some suitably tasteful orchestral hold music, a deep bass voice rumbles down the phone.
‘Jonathan Moorhouse speaking. How can I be of assistance?’
‘Ah, hello, Mr Moorhouse,’ I start. ‘My name is Daisy Jones. You wrote to me last week about my great-uncle, Frederick Jones?’
‘Indeed I did!’ he booms.
‘Would you be able to tell me more? I didn’t fully understand the letter, I’m afraid.’
‘Certainly, although there are some things we need to do first, such as verify your identity. Would you be able to come to my office? We’re based in Sevenoaks, which is not that far from you.’
‘I normally work in London,’ I tell him. ‘But I’m on holiday at the moment. If you could see me this week, I’d be very grateful, as it saves me having to arrange more time off.’
‘Let me have a look at my diary.’ There’s a brief pause during which I can hear him clicking his mouse.
‘I actually have an appointment free at two o’clock this afternoon, if that suits you? Otherwise, I could see you on Thursday at eleven.’
‘Two o’clock today is absolutely fine, thank you.’
‘Splendid. Now, I’ll need you to bring some identification with you. Your passport or driving licence would be ideal, as well as a copy of your birth certificate. Do you have those?’
‘Yes. I’ll bring them with me.’
