Chapter 23
Having first known Oscar as an amateur actor and briefly as a murder suspect, Julia always found him as the besuited lawyer a confusing sight.
Yet, here he was, in efficient, legal mode, watching her intently through his spectacles. Having failed to reach Emily earlier that morning, Julia had phoned Oscar, thinking that he would know how to investigate a person’s property ownership.
He’d answered her by launching into an extensive explanation of the history and current state of the Land Registry, which made her rather regret asking him.
The history was not the slightest bit riveting.
She’d remembered then that Oscar was one of those people who was not to be deterred once he’d begun to speak.
‘It is an excellent system, although perhaps rather complicated for a layperson,’ he’d said eventually, having spent about ten minutes speaking without imparting a single useful fact.
‘If you are going to be in the village today, you might pop in and I’ll help you through it.
Sometimes it’s easier to show you what I mean. ’
She’d leapt at the offer.
And now, here she was.
‘Deeds are a matter of public record, Julia. We can simply look up the information you require,’ he said, fingers poised over his keyboard. ‘Now, give me the address and you’ll have the owner’s name in a jiffy.’
‘Um, I need to do it the other way round. I have the name, but not the address.’
‘Ah, well, I can’t help you there,’ he said, leaning back from the computer. ‘It’s an issue of privacy. You see, the way it works is that you input the property owner’s address…’
He looked over his glasses at her as if he were the teacher and she a rather dim child.
‘I understand, but—’
‘Let me give you an example,’ Oscar continued, talking over her. ‘If I were to look up, say…’ He thought for a moment, eyes rolled to the ceiling. ‘Let’s say Greystone Manor.’
His fingers pecked at the keyboard.
‘Yes, thank you, Oscar, I do underst—’
He was not to be deterred from his demonstration of the intricate workings of HM Land Registry.
He also seemed to have the impression that she was not very bright, or perhaps it was her age that made him describe the process so slowly and carefully: ‘I type in the property name, here, you see. In this little block. And in no more than a minute, the information appears… There.’
Finally – and rather to Julia’s surprise – Oscar fell silent.
‘What on earth…?’ He frowned. His face went white, then red, then drained of colour again.
‘What is the matter, Oscar?’ asked Julia. ‘Are you feeling all right?’
‘Well, it’s most peculiar… I can’t imagine… How did I…? Who…? Goodness.’
He was now a pale, sickly colour like dough. His fingers, poised above the keyboard, shook.
‘What is it, Oscar?’
‘Greystone Manor…’
‘What of it?’
‘It’s most irregular. There seems to be some… mistake.’
Julia waited, trying not to show her impatience.
‘Greystone Manor is registered to Marigold Beacon,’ Oscar said.
‘To Marigold? Clarence’s sister? But she’s—’
‘Dead, yes.’
‘And what about the colonel? Isn’t he—’
‘Apparently not.’ He clicked a few keys.
‘I can’t believe it. The property was registered in Marigold’s name five years ago, according to the records,’ he said.
Emotions ranged across his face – confusion, shock, and what looked like fear.
‘I’m the family lawyer… How could I…? This is most irregular… ’
This Oscar was a much diminished man from the enthusiastic and knowledgeable over-explainer of mere minutes before. He looked up at her and said sadly, ‘I don’t understand, Julia. I just don’t understand.’
‘Let’s calm down and think this through,’ said Julia, walking over to a sideboard that held a tray with a jug of water and a few glasses.
She poured two and took one over to Oscar.
‘Five years,’ she said, more to herself than to him.
‘I wonder what happened to make him put the house in his sister’s name? ’
‘Whatever it was, neither Colonel Loxton nor Marigold is around to tell us,’ said Oscar. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Bird, but I’m going to have to ask you to leave. I need to think. I need to revisit Clarence Loxton’s will. Oh dear, oh dear me… What a terrible mess.’
Julia got up to go. ‘Good luck, Oscar. I hope you manage to sort this out without too much drama. I hope that Gregory and Clara see that it’s an honest mistake.’
Oscar made a strange, strangled yelp of a noise, and his whole body convulsed. ‘Gregory and Clara. They need to know that they are no longer… Oh dear… I’ll be lucky to escape this without being sued for negligence. What if I’m disbarred! Oh lord…’
He seemed to be losing it. Now he was muttering to himself. ‘But Marigold, the sister… With her gone. Her daughter, what’s her name again?’
‘Emily,’ Julia said. Oscar looked startled, as if he’d already forgotten she was there.
‘That’s it, Emily. Do you know her?’
‘Yes, a little. She’s a lovely young woman.’
‘And a very wealthy young woman now, so it would seem. Emily is now the heir to Greystone Manor.’
So, it seemed, Marigold had not been going into some sort of dementia – she had been informing her daughter of her inheritance.
‘Oh dear, oh dear… I’ll have to call a family meeting,’ said Oscar. He paled at the thought, and then continued, speaking forcefully as if convincing himself. ‘There’s no time to waste. I will call a meeting this very day and resolve this terrible misunderstanding.’
He picked up the phone.
‘Good luck, Oscar.’
His confidence wavered: ‘What am I going to tell them?’
‘Try to keep calm and just tell them the truth, the simple truth. New information has come to your attention, and you need to resolve matters in light of that. That’s all you can do.’
‘You’re a social worker, aren’t you?’ he said, remembering.
‘Yes. Retired,’ she said, turning for the door. ‘Goodbye, Oscar.’
‘Wait!’
Julia stopped, her hand on the door handle.
‘Will you come with me to speak to the family?’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘You have to!’ He was almost shouting.
She gave him a stern look, her left eyebrow raised in a threatening kind of arch.
‘Sorry,’ he said, sadly. ‘I meant to say please. Please come with me to speak to the family. I can’t do it on my own.’
‘I have no standing in this matter, and no place in that discussion.’
‘As a friend of the family.’
‘Hardly a friend.’
‘You know them all, a bit.’ He saw her sceptical look, and added, ‘And for moral support. For me. To help explain how things went down. Please. I’m begging you.’
Julia sighed, and against her better judgement agreed.
‘Thank you.’ He took a deep breath, and dialled.
So it was that Julia found herself back in the study where the colonel had died mere weeks before.
Beth leaned back on the sofa, her hands resting on her big belly. Greg sat next to her, one hand on her knee. Clara and Emily were on the two wing-back chairs. Julia took a seat in the corner, intending to say nothing, and to remain as unobtrusive as possible.
In his nervousness, Oscar – seated at the colonel’s desk – retreated to the forest of impenetrable legalese.
His preamble ranged from the workings of the Land Registry, to the history of primogeniture, to the General Data Protection laws that prohibited the sharing of certain types of personal information.
When he paused to take a sip of water, Emily said, ‘I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘Me neither. Why are we here?’ asked Clara.
Oscar cleared his throat. ‘It’s about your father’s estate. There have been some developments.’
‘Is this to do with the house? Because everyone knows the firstborn son lives in the house,’ said Greg. ‘It’s always been that way. Always.’
‘The ownership of the property – including the house, of course – is somewhat more complicated than it first appeared,’ said Oscar.
‘What are you talking about?’ asked Clara, exasperated. ‘The will was very clear. Everything split equally. Not a word about firstborn sons.’
‘Investigation has uncovered that Greystone Manor – the entire property – did not belong to Clarence Loxton when he passed away.’
‘Don’t be absurd,’ said Greg. ‘The house belonged to the oldest son. Him. And now me.’
‘It appears that the place belonged to someone else.’
‘Belonged to whom?’ said Clara, exasperated.
‘To his sister, Marigold.’
‘To my mum?’ Emily asked, amazed.
‘Of course not,’ said Greg rudely. ‘She was the youngest child.’
‘Yes, it did,’ said Oscar. ‘I’ve checked with the deeds office. Greystone Manor, the house and the land, was transferred to Marigold Beacon about five years ago. Sadly, Mrs Beacon is no longer with us, which means that as her heir, Emily, you—’
‘Preposterous!’ said Greg.
There was a knock on the door.
‘What is it?’ Greg shouted.
‘Tea,’ said Biddy, opening the door. Greg flicked his hand dismissively to indicate towards the sideboard, without even looking at her.
She moved quietly as directed and put the tray down.
The others barely registered her presence.
Biddy and Julia were as noticeable as two bits of stage furniture, as far as the Loxton family was concerned.
‘This is ridiculous. The house belonged to Clarence Loxton, and it goes to his oldest son… Everyone knows that’s how it works.
It’s the oldest son!’ This from Beth, who was rubbing her hard, round belly, perhaps thinking of the oldest son that she might be carrying.
The next generation of Loxtons. The future son and heir.
A clatter of china drew attention to the continued presence of Biddy.
‘That will be all, thank you, Biddy. Clara can pour the tea,’ said Beth, imperiously.
She seemed to be taking rather well to the role of lady of the manor, just as it was being whipped away from her.
Biddy righted the cup that had slipped in its saucer, and exited the study.
Greg spoke again, this time his voice had taken on an oily, wheedling tone. ‘In any case, if this is true – and I’m sure there must be a mistake – Emily will do the right thing, I’m sure.’
All eyes were now on Emily.
‘The right thing, Greg?’ she said, calmly. ‘Now, what would that be?’
‘The right thing would be to insist that I – the eldest son, and the rightful heir – take over the house and property, so it stays in the family, as it has for hundreds of years. And as my father – your uncle – intended.’
‘Stays in the family?’ she said, less calmly. ‘I am family, Greg.’
Beth gasped.
‘Of course, of course!’ Greg said, back-pedalling. ‘I didn’t mean to suggest anything else. You are a dear cousin. But I’m the son and heir. I’m sure you understand that, whatever the paperwork says—’
‘The “paperwork”, Greg?’ Emily said, not calmly at all. ‘It’s not “paperwork”, it’s the title deed to the property. Official legal proof of ownership that says that my mother owned Greystone Manor. She owned this land and everything on it, including this house.’
‘Well, that’s as may be. It’s a formality, granted, but you could make this right. And of course, you could stay on in the Coach House…’ He waved his arm in a gesture of largesse, as if granting Emily a generous gift.
‘Are you actually mad, Greg?’ his cousin asked. ‘If, as the lawyer says, the manor belonged to Mum and now belongs to me, why would I give it to you?’
Greg fumbled to articulate an answer, and came out with, ‘Tradition…?’
But he progressed no further, interrupted as he was by his wife’s hand clutching at his arm, and her strangled cry: ‘I think the baby’s coming.’