There was a tap on the door and they looked around, surprised to be disturbed, but it was only Margaret Richmond, who arrived in the room carrying a tray with a pot of coffee and three cups balanced precariously alongside it.
‘Sorry to disturb,’ she whispered as she approached them, placing the tray on a side table. ‘I thought you might like some coffee.’
‘Margaret, you’re a lifesaver,’ said Stella gratefully, standing up and pouring three cups out and handing them around.
She stood there nervously, wringing her hands as she was wont to do, and looked at her two former charges.
‘Everything all right, Margaret?’ asked Montignac, noticing her still standing there.
‘Fine,’ she said. ‘If there’s anything you need, just call me.’
‘Thank you, Miss Richmond,’ said Sir Denis in a loud voice, dismissing her with a wave of his hand. ‘I think we just need a little privacy if you don’t mind.’
Margaret nodded and left the room quickly, closing the heavy doors behind her and Montignac turned back to the other two with the hint of a smile on his face.
‘She seems a little frazzled this morning,’ he said.
‘She was a witness to the will,’ explained Sir Denis. ‘Perhaps it’s a little unnerving for her to know it’s about to be read out.’
Montignac shrugged, unsure why that would be the case, and went over to add a little cream to his coffee.
* * *
ONLY ONE OF THE other galleries on Cork Street had their lights switched on at this time of the morning and Montignac glanced through the window as he passed by to see Arthur Hamilton, the manager of the superior Clarion Gallery next door, prising open some large wooden delivery containers with the help of some assistants. Hamilton saw him looking and raised a hand in greeting. Although considerably older than him—he had been working on Cork Street before some of Montignac’s artists had even been born—the two neighbours got along very well and he made a mental note to visit later and see what new work was on display. They had enjoyed many long conversations about their favourite artists and Montignac felt at times that he had learned more from the gallery owner next door than he had from most of the ageing dons at Cambridge during the years he had spent there.
Montignac had studied history of art at the university and had originally hoped for a career in painting himself but he had no talent for it; a year’s worth of unoriginal canvases had seen off that particular ambition. His passion was for the French artists of the nineteenth century—the urban preoccupations of Manet, the impressionist landscapes of Pissarro, the symbolism of Paul Gauguin—something he put down to the fact that he himself was French on his mother’s side and had spent his first five years near Clermont-Ferrand before being claimed back for the English by his uncle, Peter Montignac.
Unlike many of his wealthy friends, however, he was not the sort who was happy to laze around all day, lunching and drinking and gossiping in their clubs, and was glad to have a job to go to, particularly as he was in charge of the gallery and could run it as he saw fit. It was an elegant life, the only negative being Mrs Conliffe’s insistence on displaying only young artists, most of whom had barely a scrap of talent as far as he was concerned. In recent times he had started to make a particular point of buying the very worst canvases he could find—complicated pieces with no central theme, no unity of expression whatsoever, replete with bad brushwork and jarring colours—or the most perverse sculptures simply in order to see how gullible the wealthy art buyers of London actually were. And he had his answer: very.
He let himself into the Threadbare and switched on the lights. He liked the gallery at this time of the morning, before his assistant Jason had arrived. Before the customers started parading through with their bad taste on display for the whole world to see. Before the scruffy artists appeared sheepishly at his desk with their alleged masterpieces under their arms.
The design of the gallery was particularly pleasing to him, fifteen hundred square feet of space over two floors with a balcony on the mezzanine level from where one could see down to the ground floor and out through the windows along Cork Street, from the Burlington Arcade on one side to Clifford Street on the other.
‘It was all one building originally,’ Mrs Conliffe had explained to him on his first day there as she showed him around. ‘This, the Clarion next door, the Bellway to our left. Then of course it was sold as three separate units. They’re all quite different now. Ours is by far the most modern,’ she added with pride. ‘Although the storerooms at the top of the buildings are not in the best condition. Hamilton next door transformed his beautifully. He uses it as a restoration room, of course, but we’ve never done that. Our work is too new to need restoring after all.’
He locked the door again and took off his coat, walking into the small kitchenette out the back to make some tea as he looked through the post and found, among other things, a note from Margaret Richmond asking him to call her as she had been unable to get in touch with him herself.
He had been very fond of Margaret when he was a child, but he resented the fact that she had known about his uncle’s will before he did. He found it disloyal that she would not have warned him in advance and he had repaid this ever since by refusing to take her calls and ignoring her messages. He felt a pang of remorse for that now and left the note on top of the pile, considering a reply later in the day.
He could only imagine how she had felt, standing in the hallway at Leyville while Sir Denis Tandy told them the news.
‘Your uncle’s will is a somewhat complicated affair,’ he explained. ‘As the wills of extremely wealthy men often are. But for the purposes of this meeting I think it’s best if I just summarize it for you.’
‘I don’t imagine there are any great surprises in there,’ said Stella, a little bitterly.
‘As you know,’ continued Sir Denis, ignoring her. ‘Traditionally the Montignac fortune has been inherited through the male line. Under normal circumstances your grandfather would have left his estate to your father, Owen, but of course that proved … impossible.’
Montignac raised an eyebrow. His father had been cut off from the family after eloping to France with one of the housemaids; he wasn’t sure he liked that crime being passed over so politely.
‘And then, of course, your father was killed in the war anyway so the estate passed to your father, Stella.’
‘And now I imagine it’s going back where it originally should have been,’ said Stella.
‘Well no, actually,’ said Sir Denis. ‘Your father decided that on this occasion the tradition would be broken. The landownings, the house here at Leyville and the bulk of the capital are to be left intact, with you, Stella, as titular owner without, however, the right to sell or transfer any of the properties in your lifetime. The income from the various bank accounts and the rent from the properties will be paid directly to you every month.’
Montignac and Stella both stared at him in surprise.
‘What was that?’ asked Stella, unsure whether she had heard him correctly.
‘To put it simply, you have inherited your father’s estate but only after your death will your own heirs be able to sell or transfer any of the assets. However, the income you will receive for the rest of your life will be enough for an extremely comfortable existence.’
Stella’s mouth dropped open in surprise and she looked across at her cousin in shock.
‘And what about me?’ asked Montignac. ‘What do I get?’
Sir Denis sighed; he couldn’t bring himself to look the boy in the eye. ‘I’m afraid Mr Montignac hasn’t made any provision for you, Owen,’ he said.
Montignac sat back in his chair, racking his brain for anything he might have done recently to displease his uncle but could think of nothing. He had been cut off, disinherited, just as his father had been before him. The poor relation. It had all been for nothing.
A tap on the door snapped Montignac out of his thoughts and he looked down to
see his young assistant standing outside and went to let him in. He checked his watch—it was five minutes past eight—and without so much as a good morning he informed the boy that the next time he was late he might as well turn on his heels and walk back home as he would be out of a job.
2
GARETH BENTLEY WOKE TO the sound of tapping on his bedroom door. He groaned to himself and crawled further underneath the covers, hoping that whoever was out there would simply go away, and soon enough, to his surprise, the tapping stopped only to be replaced by a voice speaking sharply to him from inside the room.
‘Gareth,’ said the voice. ‘Gareth, wake up.’
He eased his head slowly out from underneath the blankets and prised his eyes open to find his mother, Jane Bentley, standing over him with a mug in her hands. She stared at him, her lips pressed tightly together, distinctly unimpressed.
‘I’ve brought you some tea,’ she said. ‘I want you to drink it, then I want you to get up, have a bath and get dressed. You can’t lie around in bed all day like some sort of invalid, you know.’
He groaned again and stuck his tongue out to dampen his dry lips. He could feel the suspicion of a hangover lurking sleepily behind his eyes and tried to make no sudden movements for fear of rousing the beast within.
‘What time is it?’ he asked.
‘It’s gone ten o’clock,’ she said, placing the mug on the bedside table and looking down at the ground where he had strewn his clothes from the night before. ‘Honestly, will you look at this mess? You could at least put your clothes in the laundry basket before you go to bed. What time did you get in at last night anyway?’
‘It was almost one I think,’ he said. ‘Not too bad, all things considered.’
‘Not too bad? One o’clock in the morning?’
‘It was my birthday, Mother,’ he replied in a grumpy tone, sitting up and putting the pillows behind his back as he reached for the tea. ‘Thanks for this,’ he said, taking a hesitant sip as he checked the temperature.
‘I know it was your birthday,’ she replied, sitting down on the bed and pushing his legs over a little beneath the sheets. ‘I hope you weren’t drinking.’
‘Mother, please.’
‘Were you drinking?’
He shrugged his shoulders, feeling like a naughty teenager again. ‘I may have had a few glasses of champagne,’ he admitted. ‘Just to celebrate, you know.’
‘Oh, Gareth,’ she sighed in exasperation. ‘And how do you feel now?’
‘Not too bad. Slight hangover.’
‘You didn’t do anything bad, did you?’
‘Not that I can recall.’
‘How do you mean?’
He shook his head to reassure her. ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘I remember everything from last night, I did have a couple of drinks but only in moderation and nothing untoward happened.’
‘You shouldn’t drink at all,’ she said, only partly satisfied. ‘You know that.’
‘I know. And I don’t. Normally.’
She nodded and reached across to sweep his messy fringe away from his eyes. ‘Well all right,’ she said. ‘I suppose on your birthday it can’t do any harm. Actually that’s why I need to speak to you.’
He looked across at her warily; he hated lectures, particularly early in the morning.
‘You’re twenty-four years old now, Gareth,’ she said. ‘Have you thought about what comes next?’
‘Twenty-five?’ he asked.
‘Don’t be funny,’ she snapped. ‘It’s unbecoming. You should think yourself lucky that it’s me and not your father who’s having this discussion with you. He’d be a damn sight less polite.’
‘Perhaps we could talk about it later, Mother?’ he asked. ‘When I’m feeling a little better. And I look a little more presentable.’
‘We’re going to talk about it now,’ insisted Jane. ‘It’s all I can do to keep your father from coming in here and dragging you into a suit of clothes and off to chambers with him, and I can’t hold him off forever. Do you know, I ran into Eleanor Tandy yesterday in Harrods and she was telling me all about their Damien and how he’s being promoted again in the Bank of England. They say he might be a director by the time he’s thirty-five.’
‘Damien Tandy and I are very different people, Mother,’ said Gareth, who had gone to school with the Tandys’ son and had always considered him to be an arrogant poseur, despite their once close friendship. ‘Believe me, we have very different outlooks on our futures.’
‘Yes, but at least he’s actually carving out a future for himself. And what are you doing? Lying around in bed all day, that’s what.’
‘It’s ten o’clock in the morning!’ protested Gareth. ‘It’s hardly all day.’
‘Ten o’clock on a Wednesday morning,’ she corrected him. ‘If it was the weekend perhaps I could understand. But a Wednesday? Your father’s been up for hours and he isn’t even sitting today.’
Gareth sighed. He had known that this conversation would have to be endured at some point during the week but he hadn’t expected it to come quite so soon.
‘Then why is he up?’ asked Gareth. ‘Why isn’t he having a rest?’
‘Because he’s not one to let life pass him by, that’s why. Because if he has some time to himself then he wants to make the most of it.’
‘Well,’ said Gareth in a grumpy tone. ‘Father and I are very different people too. Perhaps he’d be happier if Damien Tandy was his son.’
‘Oh don’t behave like a petulant child,’ said Jane in frustration before continuing in a more gossipy tone. ‘By the way, while we’re on the subject, the other piece of news I had from Eleanor is that Damien is getting married.’
‘Married?’ asked Gareth, bursting into a laugh and placing the cup down again in case he spilled its contents over the bedsheets. ‘You can’t be serious.’
‘Well of course I’m serious,’ she said, frowning. ‘Why would I make a joke of such a thing?’
‘No reason, I suppose. I’m just … very surprised, that’s all.’
‘Why, for heaven’s sake?’ asked Jane. ‘Because he realizes he isn’t a child any more and wants to put down roots? Very admirable, if you ask me.’
‘No,’ said Gareth firmly. ‘I just didn’t think he was the marrying kind, that’s all.’
‘Damien Tandy? He’s a very handsome young man, isn’t he?’
‘Oh yes,’ admitted Gareth with a snort. ‘I think that was generally agreed upon.’
‘Well I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean,’ she said dismissively. ‘And I’m not sure I care to. All I know is that he’s engaged to be married and about to set forth on a decent life and my son, my son, is doing nothing at all. Every time one of my friends asks me about you I don’t know what to say. It’s embarrassing, Gareth, don’t you realize that?’
‘Tell them I passed away. That’ll make it easier. Tell them there was a freak accident involving a streetcar which resulted in the untimely passing of Bentley Minor.’
‘Gareth! What a thing to say!’ she cried, appalled by how easily the young people made light of such things.
‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t be sorry. Just sort yourself out. I won’t have you mooching around here any longer. It’s time you earned your keep. Now, I’ve made an appointment for you at Ede and Ravenscroft for later this week for a fitting and I don’t want to hear any complaints about it, is that understood?’
Gareth raised an eyebrow and stared at her. ‘A fitting?’ he asked. ‘What am I being measured for exactly? My coffin?’
‘For a wig and gown, of course. You’re to begin your pupillage at your father’s chambers next Monday and you’ll need something for your appearances in court. He’s planning on asking Quentin Lawrence to take you on as his pupil. You can take a note for him at various appearances while you learn the ropes and then, hopefully, you can start to handle your own cases. You know, you could be head of chambers yourself one day if you would only
apply yourself.’
Gareth’s mouth dropped open in surprise. He knew that they wanted him to join the family firm but the fact that appointments for the prison uniform were being made on his behalf was too much. Why, at any moment Alistair, his father’s clerk, might burst into the bedroom brandishing a brief for him.
‘I’m not sure if that’s at all likely,’ said Gareth. ‘And besides, I certainly can’t make time for a fitting this week.’
‘And why not?’ asked Jane sternly. ‘A good answer, please.’
He racked his brain for a moment trying to think of a suitable reason and then the memories of the previous evening began to return to him. His heart sank a little as he recalled the thirty pounds he’d gambled away at the roulette table but then he remembered the conversation he’d had with that friend of Alexander’s, the one with the startling white hair, in the taxicab home and the things he had said to him as he was leaving. He’d claimed to be around the same age as him but he’d seemed a lot older; not in appearance, perhaps, but in confidence. Now, in the face of this latest assault from the enemy, he summoned the events back to his mind and began to put his faith in them.
‘Because, Mother,’ he said smugly. ‘I may have a different job lined up.’
‘Really?’ she asked suspiciously. ‘Doing what?’
He wasn’t sure and didn’t want to admit it. ‘It’s all a bit hush-hush for now,’ he said. ‘A fellow I was talking to last night, runs his own business it seems and thinks there may be a position for me there.’
‘Oh really, Gareth,’ she said, frustrated. ‘You can’t be serious. You don’t just accept jobs from random people you meet on the street.’
‘He wasn’t a random person,’ he protested. ‘He’s a close friend of Alexander Keys.’