The Silver Falcon (7 page)

‘So he gets what he wants even after death?'

‘That's not what Isabel means,' Ryan said sharply. ‘It's in his memory.'

‘I know what she means,' Richard answered. ‘Pass me the port, will you, Isabel – thanks. You want to do something for father, carry out his dying wish, and the rest of it. You're not interested in the glory or the money from your own point of view. Right?'

‘Yes. Absolutely right,' Isabel said. ‘What I hoped is that you would think it was a good idea. I hoped you'd share my feeling about it.'

‘If it will make you happy,' Richard Schriber shrugged, ‘then I think it's great.' He looked across at Tim Ryan.

‘My father and I weren't exactly buddy buddies,' he said. ‘In fact we didn't speak for the last ten years. Isabel tried to bring us together and I guess I was ready to be reconciled if he was. It was unlucky that I came too late. But don't expect me to feel the same about him as she does, or you do. All right, he wanted to win the Derby. He always wanted to win; not only with horses. But if she wants to go ahead, then I wish her all the luck in the world. Here's to the Silver Falcon.' He raised his port glass. Isabel did the same and after a second's hesitation, so did Tim Ryan.

‘After all,' Richard said, smiling at both of them. ‘Why shouldn't my old man win – he always did!'

There was no formal reading of the will. Charles's lawyer, Henry Winter, came over from Kellway, and lunched privately with Isabel. She had asked Richard to join them, but he had refused. ‘I don't think it's going to concern me,' he said. ‘And please believe me, I don't give a damn. I'm going to take off for the day; you can tell me all about it this evening.'

After lunch the lawyer cleared his throat and wiped his lips with his napkin.

‘I have to talk to you about the will, Mrs Schriber. And one other matter.'

She got up from the table. ‘Then let's go and talk about it over some coffee,' she said. ‘And we can go through our business at the same time.'

‘I think,' Henry Winter said, ‘that it would be better if I give you the copy of your husband's will first. I don't think you'll find it complicated, but I'll just explain the important points before you come to them. As I am sure you know, you are the beneficiary.'

Isabel poured the coffee. ‘So he told me. But that's all I know. I imagine it's on trust.'

‘No,' he said. ‘No, it's not. I must confess we advised him to set up a series of trusts for you, because that is the normal way when there's such a large estate involved, but he wouldn't agree. He has left you everything without restriction. Except one clause. Beaumont is yours, the stud, the bloodstock; his stock holdings, chattels, art collection, everything.' He paused. ‘I estimate the value of the whole estate at something like twenty million dollars.'

She drank some of the coffee and then put the cup down; a little of it spilled into the saucer. Twenty million dollars. Even when they were married she had never regarded herself as rich. It was his money. Twenty million.

‘I don't think I can cope with that, Mr Winter,' she said. ‘It's too much money. I don't need it.'

‘I should read the will,' he suggested. He drank his coffee and grimaced. He liked it decaffeinated.

Isabel had forgotten him. She was reading slowly. It was not so much a legal document as a testament of Charles Schriber's love for her and his gratitude for what he described as three years of perfect happiness, and the most tender devotion in the last months of his life. The words were very clear and free from legal jargon. ‘I give and bequeath to my beloved wife Isabel Jane, the house known as Beaumont House, with all its parks and amenities, the stud and all bloodstock therein, all chattels inside and outside the said house, to include my collection of sporting pictures and trophies; I also give and bequeath to the said Isabel Jane my racehorses and the following stock holdings and investments herein designated.…' There followed a long list of shares and Blue Chip investments. And then the clause the solicitor had mentioned. In the event of her remarriage, the estate reverted to a central trust fund in favour of any children she might have, the income to be hers for life. If she died unmarried within a period of two years from the date of the will, Beaumont with its stud and bloodstock was bequeathed to Dr Andrew Graham, his stock holdings to be held on trust for the Graham child who was his godson during his minority. His collection of sporting art was left to the Kellway Museum. There was a codicil, added a week before he died, in which there was a bequest of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars to Timothy Robert Ryan in the event of the Derby being won by Silver Falcon, and the said Timothy Robert Ryan being still in his widow's employment. The will stated that no bequest had been made to his son Richard Anthony, since adequate provision had been made for him under his mother's will. Isabel put the paper down and looked at Henry Winter.

‘I can't accept this,' she said. ‘He's left his only son without a dollar. I think it's dreadful.'

‘Richard Schriber was left two million in a trust fund by his mother,' the lawyer said. ‘I have copies of her will with me. I can assure you, Mrs Schriber; I know your stepson's financial circumstances and there is certainly no hardship.' He gave a brief smile which she didn't like. ‘He's an extremely rich young man. Which considering his mode of life is probably a pity. He was a great disappointment to Mr Schriber, and your husband had us draw up this will in such terms that if his son did decide to contest it, he wouldn't have a chance of winning. Your husband made his wishes and his devotion to you very clear. I don't think you need feel any embarrassment.'

‘Embarrassment is not the word,' she said. ‘I feel bewildered. I can't believe my husband could dismiss his son like that. Not a word of affection, not a personal token. All right so his mother left him everything. It doesn't justify treating him like this! What am I going to say to him –'

‘Well,' Henry Winter said. ‘That brings me to the other matter. I received a letter from Dr Graham. I know the doctor and I must say straight away, I have a great respect for his opinion. He asked me to prepare an application for an injunction, to prevent Richard Schriber from coming to Beaumont. I wonder if you'd consider signing it?'

‘No I certainly would not!' Isabel snapped. ‘My husband is dead. I live here now and I shall say who comes to visit and who doesn't. How dare Dr Graham do such a thing – I've never heard of such a disgraceful suggestion!'

‘Mrs Schriber,' the lawyer said. ‘Please. Consider your husband's wishes. And I assure you, the doctor is only acting in your best interests. He's trying to protect you!'

‘From what?' she demanded. ‘I'm not criticizing my husband, Mr Winter. He took a certain attitude towards his son and nothing I could say could change it. But I don't have to follow on. I shall tell Dr Graham myself what I think of his writing to you behind my back!'

Henry Winter stood up. ‘Very well, Mrs Schriber. As you please. There will be certain formalities until the will is probated but that shouldn't present any problem. If there is anything we can do for you, please don't hesitate to call.'

Isabel shook hands with him. ‘I won't,' she said. ‘Thank you for coming.' She went to the door with him and called Rogers to see him to his car. She went back into the study. Twenty million. The magnificent house and the stud, all his bloodstock. She didn't begin to understand the significance of that list of shares. She didn't feel elated; it suddenly seemed a crushing responsibility. She could do what she liked, travel anywhere, buy anything. And she didn't want it like that. It gave her the most awful sensation of loneliness. She went out to the hall and the entrance and walked down the steps onto the yellow gravel. It was a bitterly cold, grey day and she shivered. It was all hers. Just three and a half years ago she had come to Beaumont to work for a few weeks, and now it belonged to her. She turned back into the house. And she had made up her mind what must be done.

‘You really mean it, don't you?' Richard said. The inevitable glass of whisky was in his hand; he stood in front of the fireplace, warming himself. She had gone to find him as soon as Rogers told her he had returned. He seemed in a mischievous mood, mocking and casual; he had lifted her face by the chin and looked at her. ‘You're looking mighty grave,' he said. ‘Lawyers don't agree with you.'

‘I don't know how to tell you this,' Isabel had said. ‘In fact I can't. You'd better read the will for yourself.' She watched him carefully, searching for signs of hurt or anger on his face. It was unnaturally smooth and expressionless; not a flicker in the blue eyes or round the mouth. He put the will down and looked at her. There was a slight smile on his lips.

‘There's nothing I didn't expect. What's wrong, Isabel – you look unhappy. You ought to be flattered. It's quite a testimonial. I never knew he had it in him to love anyone.'

‘I am unhappy,' she said. ‘It's a dreadful will. He had no right to cut you out like that. I don't want the money.'

Her stepson actually laughed. It was a strange sound. ‘It was his money. He had the right to do what he liked with it. I tell you, if he hadn't married you he'd have left it to the local dogs' home before he gave anything to me. Or he'd have given it to our pal Andrew Graham. They were such close friends.' He drained the whisky down and went to re-fill the glass.

‘I wish you wouldn't drink like that,' Isabel said. ‘I know you're hurt whatever you pretend. You're his son; he could have given you something as a token, said something affectionate. It's not the money that matters.'

‘Just the sentiment,' Richard said. ‘I see. Well the only sentiment he had for me was pure gut loathing. He couldn't put that in the will.'

‘I want you to have half the estate,' Isabel said quietly. ‘I was thinking about it this afternoon. And that's what I want to do. The money isn't entailed in any way – the lawyer said so. I can do what I like with it. I'm going to make over half to you.'

And that was when he said it. ‘You really mean it, don't you?' He was rocking slightly in the way men have when they're standing on a curb in front of a fire, with a full glass in their hand.

‘You'd give me ten million dollars, just like that. Because you think my father wasn't fair to me?'

‘Yes,' she said. ‘I'm going to call Winter tomorrow and tell him that as soon as the will is probated, I want to transfer half the value to you. Will you take it in stock holdings and maybe some of the pictures? I don't know exactly what everything is worth.'

‘I don't know,' he said slowly. He frowned, looking into the whisky. ‘I'd have to take advice.'

‘Of course you would,' Isabel said. She came up and put one hand on his arm. ‘Richard, I'm so very glad. Take whatever you want. I feel so much happier.'

‘You know I'm not exactly short of money?' he asked. ‘My mother left me a couple of million, my grandmother left me half her estate; oddly enough I've invested very well. It's worth almost double. You still want to give me the money? You might change your mind tomorrow –'

‘I never change my mind,' she said. ‘When I make it up, that's the end of it.'

He finished his drink and lit a cigarette.

‘Don't be a damned fool, Isabel. I wouldn't take a cent of the money. I never asked for anything when he was alive and I wouldn't touch it with a twenty-foot pole now. But I appreciate the offer. It's not often I meet someone who wants to give me ten million dollars.'

‘Richard please,' she began, but he stopped her.

‘Don't mention the goddamned money again,' he said. ‘But there is something I would like to have. There was a portrait of my mother used to hang in the dining room. Where the Herring is, opposite the picture of my father. I'd like to have it.'

‘Of course,' Isabel said. ‘I don't know where it is, I've never seen a picture of her anywhere – not even a photograph.'

‘He got rid of them all after she died,' Richard said. ‘But she was painted by an expensive artist. Father didn't like wasting anything; I'll bet it's put away somewhere. Ask Rogers; he'll know.'

They went up to the attic floor together; Rogers showed the way. The top floor was used for storage; there were rooms full of cases and furniture shrouded in dust sheets. The butler picked his way through and stopped before a stack of pictures standing against the wall. He didn't look at Richard.

‘Ah think the picture's here, Mis Schriber,' he said. ‘Ah'll get it out for yuh –'

‘No,' Richard said abruptly. ‘I'll do it.' She knew that he didn't want the butler to stay; there was an atmosphere of hostility between them. ‘Thank you, Rogers.' He went out, and Richard glanced after him. ‘When I was a kid,' he said, ‘I caught that bastard screwing one of the maids. She was only sixteen; if they didn't lie down for him he got them fired. Here it is.'

It had been covered by a green cloth; there was no dust on it. It was a big picture, the companion to the three-quarter-length portrait of Charles Schriber downstairs. He turned it round to the light.

‘She was beautiful,' Isabel said. ‘She had your colouring.'

‘Yes,' Richard said. He propped the picture upright. ‘Red hair ran in the family. They were all good-looking. She was said to be one of the most beautiful girls in Carolina.'

The woman in the picture was in a white dress, cut low and showing a pair of sloping shoulders. She carried a posy of spring flowers on her lap. The face was a true oval, framed in long red hair styled in the fashion of thirty-odd years ago. The eyes were large and blue and they gazed at Isabel with a strange mixture of innocence and apprehension.