It was August and the retreat had fallen quiet. All the guests had gone back to their different lives, hopefully carrying with them a new sense of ease, or purpose, or at the very least a story worth telling. Suitcases had been wheeled over gravel, sleepy goodbyes exchanged, warm hugs given with the soft promise to return ‘one day’.
The barn was empty, its wooden floors silent after days of chatter and laughter and the rhythmic hum of breath during yoga and Pilates.
Zenya, Stan and Teo were dotted across the grounds, emptying yurts, folding blankets, scrubbing floors, and checking gas bottles. Their movements were efficient but unhurried, the calm after the storm. Even the goats seemed mellow, sunning themselves lazily in their pen, whilst the chickens could never put an end to their squabbling.
Rita had been patiently waiting for this day. Because some things, like revisiting old grief and dealing with the mess that Archie had left her, were easier to deal with without an audience.
Dickens, Bryant and Feathers, an old-school solicitors’ firm, was tucked away in one of the many back streets of Seahaven Bay. The polished wood and stacks of legal tomes lining the walls of the reception area gave the place an air of old-world gravitas. Rita felt like they should be in some fancy office in Holborn, not in a tourist town with seagulls cawing in the harbour below.
Rita had only ever been here once before, with Archie, when he had had some business to sort around the farm and the passing of his father. Just twenty, to Archie’s thirty, she had been so naïve then.
Behind the reception desk sat a young woman who looked out of place amid the traditional surroundings. Chloe was barely out of her twenties herself, with sleek chestnut hair pulled into a loose bun and pretty tattoos peeking from beneath the sleeves of her smart blouse. Her perfectly manicured nails danced over the keyboard as Rita approached.
‘Good morning.’ Rita tried to keep her tone casual. ‘I’m here to see Malcolm Feathers regarding my husband’s will.’ Chloe’s fingers froze mid-keystroke. ‘Rita Jory.’
For a moment, the young woman didn’t look up, and when she finally did, her eyes were quick to dart away… too quick.
‘One moment, please. I… I’ll check if Mr Feathers is available,’ she recited in shrill theatrical fashion whilst sending through a quick email to her boss.
Rita wasn’t sure if she was just being paranoid, but she caught the flicker of something – unease? Surely not guilt.
Noting his reply on screen, Chloe plastered on a polite, practised smile. ‘Please, take a seat; Mr Feathers will be with you shortly.’
A moment later, the door opened, and Malcolm Feathers appeared. He was in his late fifties, but looked far older, with silver-streaked hair neatly combed back and wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. His tailored suit fitted his slender frame impeccably, and his manner was calm, measured, everything you’dexpect from a man who’d spent decades navigating wills and estates.
He held out a spindly hand for Rita to shake and then ushered her into his office.
‘Sit, sit.’ The solicitor waved a hand toward the leather chair across from his desk as he closed the door behind her. ‘A drink of some sort?’
‘No, no, I’m fine.’ Rita’s mouth felt like the desert, but she just wanted to get on with it. Find out what this man, the keeper of her husband’s secrets, was about to tell her.
Malcolm opened the top drawer of his antique leather-topped bureau and pulled out a file. ‘This isn’t your husband’s current will, but I do have some information for you, Rita.’
As he opened the file, Rita sat upright, her heart suddenly pounding in her chest like a frightened bird.
‘Archie did make two amendments.’ The solicitor’s voice was careful. ‘But all I know from Mr Bryant is that these were to make a change to the executor status and to make a small bequest to somebody he hadn’t seen for a long time. Does that make sense?’
‘Sense?’ Rita felt tears prick her eyes. ‘I didn’t even know he’d made a will, Malcolm. And you’d think his wife should be the executor, surely?’
The solicitor cleared his throat. ‘Archie called the morning he passed away and spoke to young Chloe here. He said the new executor, a family member, was going to pick up a copy of the will.’
Rita felt the blood drain from her face. ‘Who was it?’ Despite knowing the answer already, she had to hear him say it.
‘Err… Rita. I… err…’
‘Just say it.’ Rita was getting tetchy. ‘It was my son, Thomas Jory, wasn’t it? It’s fine. I kind of knew already.’
The solicitor looked awkward, shifting uneasily. ‘I’m afraid it was a Monday. Chloe was on her own that day, with no one to ask, so she gave…’ Malcolm Feathers paused. ‘She gave… the family member… both copies. And, um… for some reason, we don’t have an electronic copy either.’
Rita shook her head. The fact that her son had blatantly lied to her cut her like a knife. ‘So, what you are saying is that my son now has both copies and somehow mysteriously everything else has been deleted from your computers – is that right?’
The solicitor stammered, unable to answer. Frustrated, Rita stood and marched to the reception desk. Chloe, who had been listening at the door, hurried back to her post.
Rita pulled up a photo of her red-headed son on her phone and thrust it toward Chloe. ‘Look carefully. Was this the man who picked up my husband’s will?’
The young woman looked terrified. ‘I… I’d only just started working here. I don’t really remember. He was handsome, like that, but I don’t remember red hair and I think… I think he was older.’
‘Well, try and bloody remember. Because whatever this will says, this is my future on the line, and I deserve to know where my husband’s money is going.’
