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“Mr. Hawthorpe Senior said that you wanted to talk to me about the postnuptial agreement,” he says, once I’ve placed two mugs in front of us.
“Is it actually valid?” I ask. “What I mean is, when I asked for a pound doubled for each day that Ned and I remained married, I had no idea what it would come to because I’d never worked it out. I would never have expected him to honor it and I suspect he would have found a way not to, if it did happen to be valid.”
“It’s absolutely valid. But as his spouse, you are the beneficiary of his estate in any case.”
“I don’t want any of it. Whatever is due to me, I want to donate it to the Hawthorpe Foundation. I hope that won’t be a problem.”
“That can certainly be arranged. I’ll just need you to sign a document to that effect.”
“Do you have it with you? I understand that it might be months or even years before his estate is settled but I’d rather get it over and done with.”
“As a matter of fact, I do,” he says, delving into his bag.
I smile. “I see Mr. Hawthorpe has already informed you of my wish.”
He neither confirms nor denies it, and as he places a file on the table and slides out a document, another thought hits me. Maybe it was the kidnappers who told him. I’d already worked out that for the kidnappers to have used the doubling method on Ned, they must have known about the terms of the postnup—and the only person who could have told them about the postnup was Paul Carr. Maybe there’s more to him than I first thought. Was he, and is he still, working for the kidnappers? I study him for a moment, but his face gives nothing away.
I read the document, sign it.
“You said you’d been instructed to look after me until after the funeral,” I say, passing it back to him. “Can I ask by whom? I doubt it was Jethro Hawthorpe.”
He gives me a gentle smile. “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say. However,” he goes on, and I look at him hopefully. “I have some information for you.”
“What sort of information?”
“Soon after your marriage to Mr. Hawthorpe, I was contacted by an attorney, a Mr. Barriston. He has a practice in Reading and saw reports of Ned’s marriage in the newspapers. When he saw your name, he realized you were the daughter of one of his clients, who died some years back. Your father, Eduard Lamont. Mr. Barriston was eager to makecontact with you and contacted me, as Mr. Hawthorpe’s attorney, to ask if I could tell him your whereabouts.”
“I didn’t know my father had an attorney,” I say, frowning.
“Mr. Barriston has instructed me to tell you that the house where you lived in Reading was left to you by your father in his will, and is yours to do with as you see fit.”
I stare at him. “My father made a will?”
“Yes.”
It’s a struggle to understand. Why would Papa have made a will when he didn’t have anything to leave me? The wordhousepenetrates my consciousness.
“There must be a mistake. My father can’t have left me the house. It wasn’t his, we only rented it.”
He draws a sheet of paper from the file. “I have the details here. It seems that he bought it with money left to him by his mother-in-law, your maternal grandmother. If I understand correctly, it took awhile for her estate to be settled after she died, but when the inheritance came through, your father arranged with the landlord to buy the property.”
My head spins. “I didn’t know, he didn’t tell me that he bought the house. Are you sure he did?”
“Quite sure.”
“And he left it to me?”
“Yes.”
“I can’t believe it. I mean, it’s… it’s wonderful, it means I have somewhere to go. But I still can’t believe it.”
“Will you go there after the funeral, do you think?”
“I don’t know—I mean, can I? Can I just go there?”
“I don’t see why not.”
“Today?”
