Solicitor #2
“As you wish.” She uses a thick black Biro and strikes out some of the text very loudly before placing the pen in front of me.
“In which case, could you sign where my secretary has marked, and initial where I have made amendments. Once completed, Mr Redbrick, this is non-reversible.” She indicates Day-Glo marker notes sticking out from the page, each a vibrant colour and each containing a huge black arrow.
Hovering over the page, I make up my mind to phone Alice and haul her out for drinks and something to eat. At the very least, she’ll be able to take me out of myself. We can savage the Callicos together and prise a smirk or two out of each other.
“So once I sign this, that’s everything?”
“Yes, that’s everything. As far as your late partner’s estate is concerned, Mr Redbrick, everything will be finalised, including our fees.
Once you’ve signed, your association with the Callico family is concluded.
Do you want to take the keys and a photocopy of the deeds to the Italian house?
Or shall I have them posted on to you? In which case, do you have a forwarding address? ”
“Italian house?” I ask, looking up.
“In Monticiano? Tuscany?” She traces a finger on the page. “Casa dell’Aquila. You have become the sole owner now.”
The remark catches me off guard, and I quickly disguise the moment of surprise by concentrating on signing all the paperwork. But Mrs Hammond-Clyde has already spotted my confusion.
“I think it means House of the Eagle, or Eagle House. The deeds are in joint names, and the house now reverts to you. The last time I saw Dr Callico, around five months ago—you were not with him—he gave me clear instructions to remind you about the house in case anything were to happen to him. The property is not a part of his will, but he seemed to think you might have forgotten. I have a copy of the legal papers here, signed by you at least two years ago. Not through me, I hasten to add, but unmistakably signed by you.”
In the past, I witnessed documents for Albert, primarily donations to charities he chose, ones his brother and sister would have questioned.
He would painstakingly explain the circumstances and had always been the first person to tell me never to put pen to paper unless I knew exactly what I was signing.
I vaguely remember Albert musing about needing a tangible hobby outside his research work, and his soft notion about buying an old property, a renovation project, somewhere in Europe.
I also remember the couple of weekends we spent apart while he flew to meetings and took extra time out to survey prospects.
Albert had never been given to bouts of whimsy, but since the original idea, I don’t remember him ever mentioning the project again.
But now that I think about it, I do recall Christmas Eve dinner, when Edward had chided him about his white elephant in Tuscany, much to the rest of his family’s amusement.
Alice and I had been chatting at the time, and I remember us both looking up because the Callicos rarely laughed together.
Or if they did, it was always at someone’s expense.
I’d assumed they had been talking about a bad financial investment, and by the time Albert and I had turned in for the evening, both the worse for wear, we had fallen straight to sleep.
By morning, I had forgotten about the remark.
“There are some pictures in the envelope, if you’d like to see?”
My first instinct is to tell her to turn everything over to Edward.
When she slides the large photographs across the table to me, I cannot help the snort that slips out.
Typical of Albert, the Italian house is derelict.
In one large room, where sunlight illuminates the interior because of the lack of a roof, the floor has completely fallen away into what I assume is a cellar.
Weeds grow in the corners of the room, and a bird’s nest sits in an empty window frame—although the past charm and grandiosity of the room are unmistakable.
Another photograph shows the kitchen, with one wall missing, sitting in rubble and open to the overgrown gardens beyond.
“Do I need to show any of this to Edward?” I ask. “I’m not sure he’d be happy knowing I profited in any way from the family.”
“To be frank, this matter has nothing to do with him, the family or Albert’s will.
Ownership of the property automatically reverts to you.
And I think you’ll find that Albert already told the family about the co-ownership some time ago.
But, if you prefer, you could always offer to gift this to Edward or—”
“No, I don’t want to gift him anything. But if I wanted to sell off the property, could I do that from here? From the UK?”
“Absolutely. There are plenty of estate agents in London specialising in the sale and purchase of European properties. Many British owners are doing the same right now. A simple search on the internet will pull up countless resources.”
“I see. Are the deeds in the envelope?”
“Photocopies. The originals are held by an Italian notary in Monticiano. Everything you need to know is in this envelope.”
As I place the photographs back into the envelope, I notice her pause, her manicured fingers coming together on the table, her features softening with sympathy.
“I know this must be a difficult time for you, Mr Redbrick—”
“Please don’t.”
I am beginning to despise the look people I barely know give me, like the Callico house staff, knowing what has happened and who I am.
A compassion fills their eyes, making me want to do or say something I might regret.
Edward has done me a favour by forbidding me from attending the funeral.
I wouldn’t have lasted long. Had any of these people known some of the things I had to endure to survive the streets of London in my teens and early twenties, they might treat me differently.
“I was there for Albert when he needed me. He no longer does.”
“Of course. I understand.” From her startled expression, I can see she doesn’t.
Wrapping things up, she puts the papers together in a neat pile and rises.
“Then we are done here. Would you mind waiting in the reception while Brittany makes the copies you need? She can also organise a taxi for you if you wish.”
“Thank you, but that’s unnecessary.”
Finally, back in the corridor heading towards the lift, I inhale a deep breath, largely to remove the stink of lilies from my nose.
With the rucksack over my shoulder, I feel less liberated than I’d hoped.
I’d wanted to leave free from the taint of the toxic Callico family, free from everything, and the knowledge of the land in Italy is an irritation.
A calming idea comes to me. I will find a way to donate the property to the Gateway Charity without making too much noise. Hand everything over to them. I make a mental note to contact the manager as soon as I have delivered the envelope to Callico House.