Chapter 26
As the bus passed through villages on its way toward Ipswich, Bridie’s stomach tightened with every passing mile. Barney was at home with Hannah, who – after Bridie had told her everything – had all but pushed her out of the door with strict instructions not to overthink things.
Easy for her to say, Bridie thought.
Bridie clutched the solicitor’s letter in her lap, the envelope now soft at the corners after another week of being shoved into pockets and bags. It was Friday, and Hannah had given her the morning off work to attend the pre-arranged appointment.
Bridie hadn’t spoken to Reggie since she’d found out the contents of the letter. She had been busy, it was true, but that was just an excuse. She hadn’t exactly gone out of her way to visit him across the yard again since finding out that she owned the theatre.
She knew that it was silly of her. She wanted to see the shoebox full of photos and memorabilia that Hannah had mentioned was in Reggie’s possession, especially after Maisie had described it to her.
Bridie had met her for the first time one morning when she’d arrived at the shop with her mum before school.
She knew that Reggie and the contents of that shoebox might shed some light on who had owned the theatre and the reason they had left it to her.
When she had crossed the yard after closing time one evening, to introduce herself as Hannah’s new shop assistant, and to tell him she was living above the shop now, he’d been overjoyed to see her, and to find out she was his new neighbour.
But he had been on his way out to meet a friend, and so Hannah hadn’t had a chance to see the old photos and memorabilia or ask him what he knew of the theatre’s previous owner.
Reggie had told her to call in again after work and he’d be sure to show her what he had. He’d been keen to chat some more about the old theatre.
But finding out that she now owned the theatre had put Bridie off going to see him.
If Reggie found out, he would have questions she wouldn’t be able to answer.
She didn’t want anyone other than Oliver and Hannah to know about the letter until she’d seen the solicitor and found out exactly what was going on: who had left her the theatre – and why?
She could have travelled to Ipswich by car, but now she was living and working in Aldeburgh, and there was really no need for a car – parking her car in the town all day, every day, would cost her a small fortune – she’d left her car back at her parents’ house.
Hannah would have driven her over to collect it, but until she’d seen the solicitor and had found out what it was all about, Bridie didn’t want to tell her parents. Instead, she’d got the bus from Aldeburgh.
She slipped the letter back into her bag. She’d read the dry legal wording so many times, yet none of it had prepared her for this strange, unexpected summons.
The office was in an old Georgian townhouse overlooking a square of winter-bare trees. Inside, it smelled faintly of polish and old books. The receptionist led her into a wood-panelled room where a man in his sixties rose from behind an oak desk.
‘Ms Hart,’ he said warmly. ‘I’m Mr Carter. Please, sit.’
She did, clutching her handbag as though it might steady her.
‘I imagine you have many questions,’ he said, settling into his chair.
‘I do,’ Bridie admitted. ‘I was hoping you could tell me who left me the theatre.’
The solicitor gave an apologetic wince. ‘Ah. Yes. That is the question I cannot answer.’
Bridie blinked. ‘You … can’t?’
‘No. Your benefactor insisted on anonymity.’ He offered a sympathetic shrug. ‘I’m afraid I agreed to their terms.’
Benefactor. The word felt grand and ridiculous all at once.
‘But what I can tell you,’ he continued, ‘is that the theatre comes with certain … conditions.’
Her pulse spiked. ‘Conditions?’
‘Yes. One in particular.’ He folded his hands neatly. ‘The previous owner wished for you to bring the theatre back to life. Just for one play. After that, if you wish to sell the property, you may do so.’
Bridie stared at him. Her mouth dropped open. ‘I – I’m sorry. You mean I can’t just sell it?’
‘It is legally yours to sell,’ he clarified, ‘but the benefactor hoped you might honour their wishes.’
There it was again – the word benefactor. Bridie frowned. ‘Hang on, you just said I had to—’
‘Oh, no,’ he interrupted, smiling gently. ‘You don’t have to do anything. I’m only advising you, as your representative, that it would be wise to carry out the request of the person who gifted you the property.’
Her confusion deepened. ‘Wait. Did you just say gifted me the property? Are you saying the owner isn’t dead?’
‘You are the owner,’ he said simply.
‘No, I meant the previous owner,’ she said, her voice thin. ‘Are they alive?’
Mr Carter hesitated. ‘Oh dear.’ He gestured toward the envelope peeking from her bag. ‘I didn’t mention inheritance in the letter, did I?’
Bridie snatched the letter out of her bag and reread it. He was right. The word inheritance wasn’t there. Not even implied. Bridie realised she’d made an assumption – or rather Oliver had when he’d read her the letter.
‘I don’t understand.’ She looked up, bewildered. ‘Who … who would do this? Who would give me their property? Nobody in town knows who owns the place.’
‘I’m afraid I cannot reveal your benefactor. They have insisted on anonymity. But they assure me they have your best interests at heart. Otherwise, I would not have agreed to act for them.’
‘They?’ Bridie repeated sharply.
‘It is not more than one person,’ he said hastily. ‘But I am not at liberty to divulge their name or even …’
‘Their pronoun?’ she said dryly.
‘Exactly.’ He offered a sheepish smile. He reached into a drawer and withdrew a new envelope – thick, heavy. ‘Here are the keys,’ he said, sliding it across the desk, ‘and the deeds to the theatre.’
Bridie stared at it. ‘Don’t I have to pay tax or something on a gift?’ The last thing Bridie needed was to discover she owed money after all this.
‘No. As long as they don’t die in the next seven years, you’re fine.’ He softened. ‘They said they’ve no intention of pegging it.’
Bridie’s lips twitched. ‘They sound like they’ve got a sense of humour.’
‘It’s just sound inheritance tax planning,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘Many people gift money or property early to avoid leaving beneficiaries with large tax burdens.’
Bridie nodded, still dazed.
Mr Carter stood, smoothing his suit jacket, and offered his hand. ‘You know where I am if you need anything. Call or visit – whichever you prefer.’
She rose on shaky legs and took his hand. ‘Thank you.’
He walked her to the door. ‘I hope it all works out well. And I trust I’ll receive an invitation to your theatre production?’
Bridie blinked. ‘How do you know I’ll go ahead with that?’
‘Because you seem like a nice person,’ he said. ‘And I expect you feel you owe it to your benefactor to carry out his wish.’
Her smile faltered. ‘His wish?’
Mr Carter visibly winced. ‘Oh dear. That was a slip. Please – forget I said that.’
Bridie stepped back into the crisp Ipswich air, the winter wind cutting across her face.
Forget it?
Not a chance.
And as she looked at the sealed envelope in her hand – the keys to a theatre no one was supposed to know she owned – her heart thudded with a mix of fear and something else. Something close to hope.
She couldn’t be more thankful for Hannah, and her little job in the shop – especially the flat above that went with the job – but she wasn’t sure Cobblers Yard was where she truly belonged.
Someone else was looking out for her, and maybe this was the opportunity she needed to get her life back on track.