Wherever Lynn Goes (17 page)

“I knocked and knocked,” he said timidly, “but no one heard me. That noise—”

“The handyman is putting new latches on the window,” I said, taking great satisfaction in referring to Bartholomew Cooper as such.

“Are you Miss Lynn Morgan?”

I nodded. I noticed that he was carrying a worn leather briefcase. In front of the house, I could see a small, ancient black car, sadly in need of a new paint job. Bart's racket had drowned out any sounds of its approach.

“I … uh … my name is Mortimer Brumley,” he began in a mild, hesitant voice.

“Mortimer?” Mandy inquired.

“This is my friend Amanda Hunt, Mr. Mort—Mr. Brumley,” I said quickly, giving Mandy a severe look. “Did you wish to see me about something?”

“Y—yes. I'm afraid there's been a shocking mis—uh … I'm a lawyer, Miss Morgan. I have my practice in the next village. I—there's something we need to discuss.”

“Won't you come in?”

His manner was meek and apologetic. Nervously gripping his briefcase, he followed me into the parlor. Mandy, not about to be left out, was right behind him. Her eyes were filled with amusement as she looked at the spats again, and I gave her another silent reprimand as Mortimer Brumley set the briefcase beside a chair and ran his finger about his tight collar, looking thoroughly uncomfortable. The noise from the library had diminished considerably. I supposed Mr. Cooper had realized just how far he could go.

“Please sit down, Mr. Brumley.”

He sat down, and Mandy and I did likewise. Mandy was showing quite a lot of leg, the sight of which seemed to disconcert our guest even more. He cleared his throat and looked in the other direction.

“You wished to discuss something with me?” I prompted.

“Yes. There's … uh … there's been a most unfortunate misunderstanding, Miss Morgan. Most unfortunate. I don't suppose anyone's to
blame
, under the circumstances, but there are bound to be … uh … shall we say, bad feelings? Hampton can't be held responsible, of course. He was working under a perfectly natural assumption that the will—I assumed, naturally, that your aunt had informed him of the change. Evidently she hadn't.”

Mandy was suddenly very alert.

“This has something to do with the will?” she asked.

Mortimer Brumley nodded miserably. “I didn't
know
, you see. My sister was taken ill suddenly. Mumps. At her age. Poor girl was embarrassed as could be. I had to go down to Cornwall and take care of her, watch after the kiddies. She's got four, and rowdy youngsters they are, too. That George—most unsettling experience. Gussie's a widow, you understand, and there was no one else she could call on.” He shook his head, blanching a bit at the memory of the four children.

“Please continue, Mr. Brumley. What does all this have to do with my aunt's will?”

“Before it was all over with, George caught them, too. Mumps.” His eyes suddenly twinkled, and there was a faint smile on his thin lips. “Did my soul good to see the little bas—uh … anyway, I was gone for over three weeks and was totally out of touch during that time. My practice is a humble one, Miss Morgan, and I don't have a secretary. If I had, she would have informed me of your aunt's death.”

“You're trying to tell me my aunt made a new will?”

He nodded. “I didn't learn of her death until this morning, you see. I got back only last night, and as I was having my toast and marmalade this morning I happened to see the funeral notice in the paper. It was quite a shock, I don't mind telling you, and when I read that you, Miss Morgan, were her sole heir—well, I was taken aback. I knew immediately there'd been a dreadful mix-up.”

“A mix-up?” I said lightly.

Mortimer Brumley looked pained, shifting uneasily in his chair. “Your aunt came to see me about three and a half months ago, Miss Morgan. She was in … uh … quite a state. Seems she'd had a violent argument with her regular lawyer. She swept into my office like a thunderstorm and for fifteen minutes did nothing but vilify Clive Hampton, said he was a scoundrel, a total incompetent, a—well, she said quite a few other things I needn't mention. Your aunt had a rather impressive vocabulary. At first I thought she intended to sue him and wanted me to prepare the case, but she finally calmed down enough to inform me that she was taking her legal business elsewhere and had chosen me as the elsewhere. I mean …” He hesitated, knitting his brows. “She said she'd have Hampton transfer all her papers to my office, and in the meantime she wanted to make a new will. I agreed to help her with it.”

“And the will was made?”

“Yes indeed. I have it right here in my briefcase. I didn't ever hear from Hampton. I assumed he would get in touch with me, but he didn't. I kept intending to phone his office and check with him, but then Gussie took sick and I had to go lend a hand and—this is
very
distressing, Miss Morgan.”

“I'm sure it must be.”

It was so typical of Aunt Daphne, I thought. She was always quarreling with people. Since he had handled all her legal affairs and had to see that her taxes were paid, Clive Hampton would have been a prime target for her wrath. Probably they had had some minor disagreement, and Aunt Daphne had gone to Brumley to spite him. Then, after a few gins, she had forgotten all about it, greeting Clive Hampton the next time he called as though nothing had ever happened.

“I'll have to contact Hampton, of course,” Brumley continued. “We'll have to work this thing out. I thought … uh … I felt it would be better if I came to see you first, though. Soften the blow, that sort of thing. I hope you understand my position.”

“I understand perfectly, Mr. Brumley. Might I see the will?”

Looking more pained than ever, he pulled the briefcase into his lap and began fumbling with the strap. He dug nervously among the papers, finally finding what he wanted and extracting it. He handed it to me, avoiding my eyes. It wasn't a long document, but I could see at a glance that it was flawlessly executed, signed, sealed, tied up in a neat legal bow. Mortimer Brumley might have an absurd name, and he might look like a timorous, inept little man, but he was obviously a good lawyer. It took me only a minute to read the will, and then I gave it back to him.

“It seems quite satisfactory,” I said calmly.

“Oh yes,” he replied, putting it back into the briefcase. “This is her legitimate will. No question about it, legally. It supersedes any previous document.”

Mandy could hardly contain herself. “Come
on
, Lynn. What did it
say?
”

“It said,” I replied, “that the Hon. Bartholomew Cooper is my aunt's sole heir.”

“What!” he roared.

I don't know how long he'd been standing there in the doorway, hammer in hand, but he made his presence known now, a look of utter amazement on his face. Mortimer Brumley turned pale, gripping the arms of the chair in mortal terror as the stalwart fellow in sweatshirt and jeans came charging into the room, waving the hammer like a madman. Bart's cheeks were flushed a bright pink. His blue eyes were snapping with anger. Tangled raven locks spilled over his brow.

“This is outrageous!” he cried. “I had no idea—”

“I'll just bet you didn't,” I said icily.

“Listen, I didn't have anything to do with this! She must have been off her rocker. Sure, she liked me—I liked her, too—but she had no right to do something like
this!
”

“She had every right. It was her property.”

“You think I—”

“Your performance is excellent. You really should be on television.”

“Now listen here—”

Mortimer Brumley took a deep breath. His hands were shaking visibly. Bart turned on him, eyes fierce, the hammer still gripped firmly in his hand. Brumley flattened himself against the chair.

“What—who—” he stammered.

“The Hon. Bartholomew Cooper,” I said acidly.

“There's been a mistake!” Bart exclaimed. “Where's that will? I want to see it.” He took the will and read with a hard, determined look in his eyes.

When Bart finally handed the will back to him, Brumley put the papers in his briefcase, fastened it, and stood up on shaky legs.

“I … uh … I'll contact Hampton, Miss Morgan. I'm sure we can work this all out.”

“There's nothing to work out,” I replied. “The will is quite clear. Mr. Cooper inherits everything.”

“Now, just a minute,” Bart began, brows lowered, “if you think for one minute I'm going to accept one lousy penny of that inheritance, you've got another think coming!”

“Oh?”

“Listen, Lynn, you've got to be reasonable about this.”

“I've had my say, Mr. Cooper. I never expected anything from my aunt. I never wanted anything from her. It's clear you put in quite a bit of time and effort to get her to make that will, and you're welcome to the lot. It's not a large amount, but after you sell the property you should have a nice little stake. I suggest you go to the Riviera. I understand there are a number of lonely old ladies there, far richer than Aunt Daphne ever hoped to be.”

“You're asking for it—”

“Come on, luv,” Mandy said lightly, taking Bromley's arm. “I'll walk you to the car.”

Brumley didn't hesitate. Still shaken, he was more than eager to get out of what he obviously considered a madhouse. They left, and Bartholomew Cooper and I stood facing each other. Most of his anger seemed to have left him, and he looked like a confused and slightly belligerent little boy.

“I know it looks bad, Lynn, but, dammit, you know what a quixotic, eccentric old dame she was. She did things on the spur of the moment, crazy things. I
did
help her with little jobs around the place. I did listen to her talk sometimes. I liked her. I found her amusing. She took a fancy to me—I couldn't help that. It was wicked and unpardonable for her to change her will like that, but it'll be quite simple to remedy. We won't have much trouble proving she was unstable when she made it. Hell, she was dotty! We both know that.”

I stood in front of the settee, looking at him. In a strange kind of way, I was enjoying myself. He was miserable, a beseeching look in his eyes. I almost felt sorry for him.

“Lynn, listen to me—”

“I've heard quite enough.”

“Don't be like this!”

“You expect me to pat you on the back?”

“You actually think I chiseled you out of your inheritance? You actually think I'm a—an
adventurer?
”

“That's precisely what I think.”

“Christ! I don't believe it. I just don't believe it. Next thing you know you'll be saying I murdered her!”

“Did you?” I asked calmly.

He looked stunned. For a moment he stood absolutely still, blue eyes filled with incredulity, and then he curled his fists into tight balls, the rage mounting again, far more fearsome than it had been before. Two bright spots of color burned on his cheeks, and his nostrils were flaring. My heart began to pound rapidly. I took a step backward, realizing I had gone much too far.

“I—I'm sorry,” I whispered. “I really didn't mean that.”

He reached me in one long, athletic bound, seizing my arms in a tight, painful grip. He shook me, and when he threw his arm around the back of my neck I actually thought he intended to strangle me. He wrapped his other arm around my waist and jerked me up against him with such force that the breath was almost knocked out of me. Before I could cry out, his mouth was over mine and all that savage anger was going into the kiss. He swung me around in his arms, and I clung to his shoulders, afraid we were both going to fall. His mouth continued to punish and probe, and my head whirled as I struggled, and then, when I ceased, when I was totally limp, he released me, giving me a shove that sent me reeling back onto the settee with a resounding thud.

“You're an absolute bloody idiot!” he cried. “I love you, you bloody fool, and you're without question the most obstinate, the blindest, the most infuriating creature I've ever met!”

He stormed out of the room. The front door slammed with a violent bang that caused the windows to rattle. A moment or so later another door slammed, the door to the rooms over the carriage house. Mandy came inside. She had the tact to tiptoe past the parlor and go on upstairs. I sat there on the settee for a long, long time.

CHAPTER TEN

I had almost forgotten about meeting Cassie. Bart's emotional pyrotechnics had driven everything else out of my mind. It was ten minutes till six, and I was still on the settee, filled with a heavy sadness, wanting to cry but unable to do so. I felt lost, like a little girl who has broken her only toy, and I couldn't understand the feeling. Those last words of his kept repeating themselves over and over again in my mind, and I knew I had been grossly unfair to him. I had taunted him, all the while knowing he spoke the truth.

He wasn't an adventurer. I couldn't really believe that. I didn't know why he had chosen to take the rooms over the carriage house, but I knew it wasn't because he'd hoped to bilk Aunt Daphne of her money. She didn't have that much, for one thing, and—and he just wasn't that kind of person. Why, then, had I been so unyielding? Why had I pretended to think the worst of him? Sitting there as the fading rays of sunlight spilled in through the windows and stained the floor with dark gold, I came close to some truths about myself. I fought with Bartholomew Cooper because I was afraid, not of him but of myself.

The moment I first saw him, moving so confidently into the front hall, an old, long-dormant feeling had stirred inside of me, bewildering me, and I had resisted it by striking out at him. Mandy had hit the nail right on the head. I had had a violent childhood crush on that rough, ebullient boy with his wooden sword and lusty shouts, and the emotion had never quite left me. We were adults now, but it had taken only the sight of him to bring that old feeling back to life.