“I’M SO SORRY, my dear,” said Arnold Simpson, as he looked across his desk at Arabella Wentworth. “Dreadful business,” he added, dropping another sugar lump into his tea. Arabella didn’t comment as Simpson leaned forward and placed his hands on the partners’ desk, as if about to offer up a prayer. He smiled benignly at his client and was about to offer an opinion when Arabella opened the file on her lap and said, “As our family’s solicitor, perhaps you can explain how my father and Victoria managed to run up such massive debts and in so short a period of time?”
Simpson leaned back and peered over his half-moon spectacles. “Your dear father and I,” he began, “had been close friends for over forty years. We were, as I feel sure you are aware, at Eton together.” Simpson paused to touch his dark blue tie with the light blue stripe, which looked as if he’d worn it every day since he’d left school.
“My father always described it as ‘at the same time,’ rather than ‘together,’ retorted Arabella. “So perhaps you could now answer my question.”
“I was just coming to that,” said Simpson, momentarily lost for words as he searched around the scattered files that littered his desk. “Ah, yes,” he declared eventually, picking up one marked LLOYD’S OF LONDON. He opened the cover and adjusted his spectacles. “When your father became a name at Lloyd’s in nineteen seventy-one, he signed up for several syndicates, putting up the estate as collateral. For many years, the insurance industry showed handsome returns and your father received a large annual income.” Simpson ran his finger down a long list of figures.
“But did you point out to him at the time,” asked Arabella, “the meaning of unlimited liability?”
“I confess,” said Simpson, ignoring the question, “that like so many others, I did not anticipate such an unprecedented run of bad years.”
“It was no different from being a gambler hoping to make a profit from a spin at the roulette wheel,” said Arabella. “So why didn’t you advise him to cut his losses and leave the table?”
“Your father was an obstinate man,” said Simpson, “and, having ridden out some bad years, remained convinced that the good times would return.”
“But that didn’t prove to be the case,” said Arabella, turning to another of the numerous papers in her one file.
“Sadly not,” confirmed Simpson, who seemed to have sunk lower in his chair so that he nearly disappeared behind the partners’ desk.
“And what happened to the large portfolio of stocks and shares that the family had accumulated over the years?”
“They were among the first assets your father had to liquidate to keep his current account in surplus. In fact,” continued the solicitor, turning over another page, “at the time of your father’s death, I fear he had run up an overdraft of something over ten million pounds.”
“But not with Coutts,” Arabella said, “as it appears some three years ago he transferred his account to a small bank in New York called Fenston Finance.”
“That is correct, dear lady,” said Simpson. “Indeed, it has always been a bit of a mystery to me how that particular establishment came across—”
“It’s no mystery to me,” retorted Arabella, as she extracted a letter from her file. “It’s clear that they singled him out as an obvious target.”
“But I still can’t work out how they knew—”
“They only had to read the financial pages of any broadsheet. They were reporting the problems faced by Lloyd’s on a daily basis, and my father’s name appeared regularly, along with several others, as being placed with unfortunate, if not crooked, syndicates.”
“That is pure speculation on your part,” said Simpson, his voice rising.
“Just because you didn’t consider it at the time,” replied Arabella, “doesn’t mean it’s speculation. In fact, I’m only surprised that you allowed your close friend to leave Coutts, who had served the family for over two hundred years, to join such a bunch of shysters.”
Simpson turned scarlet. “Perhaps you are falling into the politician’s habit of relying on hindsight, madam.”
“No, sir,” replied Arabella. “My late husband was also offered the opportunity to join Lloyd’s. The broker assured him that the farm would be quite enough to cover the necessary deposit, whereupon Angus showed him the door.”
Simpson was speechless.
“And how, may I ask, with you as her principal advisor, did Victoria manage to double that debt in less than a year?”
“I am not to blame for that,” snapped Simpson. “You can direct your anger at the tax man, who always demands his pound of flesh,” he added as he searched for a file marked DEATH DUTIES. “Ah, yes, here it is. The Exchequer is entitled to 40 percent of any assets on death, unless the assets are directly passed on to a spouse, as I feel sure your late husband would have explained to you. However, I managed, with some considerable skill, even if I do say so myself, to reach a settlement of eleven million pounds with the inspectors, which Lady Victoria seemed well satisfied with at the time.”
“My sister was a naïve spinster who never left home without her father and didn’t have her own bank account until she was thirty,” said Arabella, “but still you allowed her to sign a further contract with Fenston Finance, which was bound to land her in even more debt.”
“It was that or putting the estate on the market.”
“No, it wasn’t,” replied Arabella. “It only took me one phone call to Lord Hindlip, the chairman of Christie’s, to be told that he would expect the family’s Van Gogh to make in excess of thirty million pounds were it to come up for auction.”
“But your father would never have agreed to sell the Van Gogh.”
“My father wasn’t alive when you approved the second loan,” countered Arabella. “It was a decision you should have advised her on.”
“I had no choice, dear lady, under the terms of the original contract.”
“Which you witnessed, but obviously didn’t read. Because not only did my sister agree to go on paying 16 percent compound interest on the loan, but you even allowed her to hand over the Van Gogh as collateral.”
“But you can still demand that they sell the painting, and then the problem will be solved.”
“Wrong again, Mr. Simpson,” said Arabella. “If you had read beyond page one of the original contract, you would have discovered that should there be a dispute, any decision will revert to a New York court’s jurisdiction, and I certainly don’t have the wherewithal to take on Bryce Fenston in his own backyard.”
“You don’t have the authority to do so, either,” retorted Simpson, “because I—”
“I am next of kin,” said Arabella firmly.
“But there is no will to indicate to whom Victoria intended to leave the estate,” shouted Simpson.
“Another duty you managed to execute with your usual prescience and skill.”
“Your sister and I were at the time in the process of discussing—”
“It’s a bit late for that,” said Arabella. “I am facing a battle here and now with an unscrupulous man, who seems to have the law on his side thanks to you.”
“I feel confident,” said Simpson, once again placing his hands on the desk in a prayerlike position as if ready to give the final blessing, “that I can wrap this whole problem up in—”
“I’ll tell you exactly what you can wrap up,” said Arabella, rising from her place, “all those files concerning the Wentworth estate, and send them to Wentworth Hall.” She stared down at the solicitor. “And at the same time, enclose your final account”—she checked her watch—“for one hour of your invaluable advice.”