‘How much?’ It came out as a strangled yell as Stevie spluttered tea down her chin. She dropped the cup back into its saucer with a loud clatter. ‘You can’t be serious!’ Her eyes widened in shock. ‘Can you?’
The rather elderly gentleman staring at her over his equally elderly desk nodded once, his eyes twinkling. Was it because he was having her on, or because he enjoyed imparting good news? She desperately hoped it was the latter. Please let it be true!
‘You’re sure you’ve got the name right? Peggy Langtree?’ Stevie asked.
Another nod.
‘But she didn’t have any money – only enough to bury her. She used to keep her “funeral funds”, as she called them, in a vase on the windowsill.’ Stevie smiled fondly.
‘She clearly had more than you thought,’ the solicitor pointed out, dryly.
‘What about Mum and Fern? Don’t tell me she left the same amount to them, too?’ Stevie gulped at the thought. ‘She must have been loaded.’
Mr Gantly shuffled forward in his chair and steepled his hands together, elbows on his desk, a faint whiff of mothballs emanating from his direction.
‘No,’ he said solemnly, after a dignified silence.
Stevie waited for him to elaborate, but he made no move to speak again.
After tapping her fingers on the desk and swinging her crossed leg, she asked, ‘No, she didn’t leave the same amount to Mum and Fern, or no she wasn’t loaded?’
‘The first option. She left differing amounts to your mother and your sister.’
‘Oh, I see,’ Stevie thought, still in shock, but thankful Aunt Peg had left them something, too. Whoever would have thought the old lady was worth so much?
The solicitor cleared his throat and the loose skin on his neck draped even further down over his knotted tie. Just how old was he? He reminded Stevie of a tortoise she’d had as a child. The reptile’s extendable neck had been an endless source of interest as she poked at his head each time the wizened creature had risked emerging from his shell, only for him to pull it in again with as much speed as he could muster. Her mother had told her that Ralph, as Stevie had oddly called him, had run away. Crawled slowly was more like it, Stevie had thought at the time, but she got the picture. She didn’t blame him. She’d have crawled away too, if she’d been in his shoes. Or shell.
A semi-hysterical giggle bubbled to the surface. She pushed it back down, resisting the urge to poke Mr Gantly on the nose to see what his head would do. She had visions of him retracting it down inside his shirt collar and popping it back out again.
Aware her mind was wandering (it must be the shock) she wrenched her attention back to the ancient solicitor, to find him patiently waiting, his chin still resting on the tips of his fingers, a faint smile on his face. She flushed, staring at him like a naughty schoolgirl facing the headmaster; a feeling she had once known very well indeed. The silence continued for a while until she realised he was waiting for her to ask a question. Not any old question – the question.
Stevie asked it. ‘How much did she leave Mum and Fern?’
The solicitor shook his head sadly. ‘Not nearly as much as you. One thousand pounds. Each.’
‘Bloody hell!’ Stevie’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘Er, sorry,’ she added, wondering how soon her family would demand their share of her not-inconsiderable booty. She hadn’t meant to swear, but he had said “each” as if it would make things any better. Her mother and sister would go ballistic. She’d have to split her inheritance precisely three ways else she’d never hear the end of it. Damn and blast. Not that she was greedy or anything, but in the current circumstances she could do with the money.
‘It’s so much to take in,’ she said, trying to excuse her bad manners.
‘No doubt,’ Mr Gantly agreed calmly, picking up his glasses and wiggling the arms behind his large hairy ears. He flicked a page or two.
‘Let me reiterate, in the interest of clarity,’ he said. ‘Peggy Langtree left you two hundred and sixty-three thousand and twenty-one pounds, and fifty-seven pence. Give or take,’ he added. ‘Mrs Taylor and Mrs Chalk were both left one thousand pounds. And if you try to give any of your inheritance to Mrs Taylor or to Mrs Chalk, then the cats’ home gets it,’ the solicitor added succinctly.
‘But, but… there’ll be hell to pay,’ Stevie wailed. ‘Why did Aunt Peggy do this to Mum and Fern?’
Mr Gantly reached across the desk and patted her hand. ‘I’m not privy to the late Peggy Langtree’s reasons, but perhaps she thought you deserve it more than they do. Or maybe she thought you might benefit from it more.’
‘She’s not wrong,’ Stevie said. ‘I’ve just lost my job.’
‘I’m so sorry. Your inheritance has come at an auspicious time, then,’ Mr Gantly said.
‘I was knocked down by a London double-decker bus. A red one.’
The old man’s lips twitched.
‘Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard all the jokes about getting run over by a bus,’ Stevie said.
‘Were you hurt?’
‘I broke my leg.’
‘That was lucky.’
‘Lucky? Huh! I don’t call being run over “lucky”. There was nothing “lucky” about it.’ Stevie knew she was ranting but couldn’t seem to stop herself. It must be the shock still.
‘I mean, it could have been much worse,’ Mr Gantly added. He looked at his watch.
‘No, it couldn’t! I lost my job.’ Her eyes filled with tears and she scrabbled around in her enormous handbag for a tissue, her fingers grasping a roll of toilet paper in lieu of a packet of the proper stuff. It would have to do.
Mr Gantly frowned when she broke a length off, and silently held out the box of tissues sitting on his desk. She took a couple – softer on the nose than loo roll. Although, with over two hundred and fifty thousand pounds in the bank, she could now afford to treat herself to a box or two of tissues.
She blew her nose. ‘Corky said he had to let me go.’
‘Corky?’
‘Corky Middleton. You must have heard of him?’
Mr Gantly shook his head. The soft folds of flesh under his chin wobbled and shook.
‘Corky Middleton, owns The Melon, always on the telly?’ Stevie persisted, ignoring the solicitor’s second, more obvious look at the time.
‘I’m afraid not,’ he said, rising creakily from his chair. With considerable effort, he got to his feet, wobbling unsteadily for a few seconds.
‘It’s only the most famous Michelin star restaurant in London,’ she said, twisting in her seat to watch the old man walk to the door. ‘When I landed the job, I was stupid enough to think I’d finally got it made. Oh, that must have made the gods laugh,’ she added bitterly. ‘I’m a pastry chef and a damned good one too, but bloody Corky sacked me just because I broke my leg!’ Stevie made no move to leave.
‘I’m sorry, but I have another appointment.’ The solicitor opened the door, then tutted. ‘Forgive me, but I nearly forgot.’ He trundled back to his desk and rifled through the various items lying on it, peeking under envelopes and lifting up flyers advertising pizza delivery. Stevie wasn’t sure whether it was his skin making the dry, rustling noise or the assorted papers.
‘I really miss her,’ Stevie said, blowing her nose again on the now-sodden clump of tissues. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t mean to cry, but I just can’t help it. It creeps up on you, you know?’ She paused, screwing up her nose, and peered at him over the tissue. ‘Are you sure she left it to me?’
‘Quite sure. Here.’ He found what he was looking for and handed it to her.
She stared at the pristine cream envelope in her palm. ‘Is this her last will and testament?’ she asked, baffled. Surely he needed to hold on to that?
‘It’s a letter from your aunt.’
‘Ah. Of course. It would be.’ Stevie was unsurprised. ‘Did she write it before or after she died?’ For a minute there, Stevie had the insane thought her aunt might have kept her threat to haunt her.
Mr Gantly raised his tufty eyebrows.
‘Sorry,’ Stevie muttered, coming to her senses. ‘Thank you for your help.’
‘I’ll have the documents ready for you to sign in a few days and we can transfer the money to your account,’ he said.
All at once the solicitor was pure business and Stevie was dismissed. Clutching the letter to her chest she got to her feet, but before she left, she turned back to look at the elderly man in his dusty old office and hesitated.
‘Yes,’ he confirmed, knowing what she was about to ask. ‘Two hundred and sixty-three thousand and twenty-one pounds, and fifty-seven pence. Enjoy.’