The Legacy (25 page)

‘Mrs Manning,' Rolf Wallberg said, ‘I'd like to start with you. And then if your husband has anything to add?'

The housekeeper settled her hands in her lap, and her husband nodded. It seemed rather odd that this lawyer was taking statements while Mrs Farrington was away. They'd loaded the school trunk into the car and said goodbye to Belinda, then two days later the lawyer had telephoned asking to come down and see them. Mrs Manning had referred him to the Spanniers where Christina was staying. Permission given, they waited with a mixture of excitement and curiosity. He wanted to take statements from them which could then be turned into affidavits for use in court.

‘We've got to be careful, Joy,' her husband insisted. ‘Don't say anything without thinking; these solicitors are crafty people.'

‘But he's on her side,' his wife pointed out.

‘Even so, I'd watch what you say,' he insisted.

‘I'm going to. He won't get much out of me.'

The lawyer had booked into the local pub; the Mannings were relieved about that; they'd been uneasy about having a stranger staying while Mrs Farrington was away.

He interviewed them in their sitting-room, taking a quick stock of the comfortable furnishings. They were well set up and obviously well paid, and also suspicious that he might trap them into saying something that could affect their position. Rolf set out to win the woman's confidence; she was the more important of the two.

‘Before I put a few questions to you,' he said, ‘let me explain the situation. Mrs Farrington's stepson is alleging that she influenced his father to change his will when he was very ill and unable to judge what he was doing.'

Mrs Manning looked up sharply. ‘That's nonsense! It wasn't like that at all!'

Rolf smiled. ‘I'm sure it wasn't and that is really what I want you to say, but first let me ask a few general questions. How long have you worked for the Farringtons?'

‘About twelve years. We came in the winter, didn't we George? 1983? Yes, that's right. I remember it was the winter because we thought it might be a cold old house like most of them are and we weren't too happy about that. I can't work if I'm not warm.'

‘Presumably there was a housekeeper here before you?'

‘Oh, yes. A Mrs Warren. Been here for years. She'd left when we were interviewed.'

‘After Mr Farrington remarried?'

She was visibly relaxed now, on familiar ground. ‘Quite soon after. The cleaning ladies told us she'd had things all her own way with the first Mrs Farrington, her being always ill and in and out of clinics. She didn't fancy a new woman running the place, so she started being difficult and Mr Farrington sacked her.'

‘Mr Farrington, not Mrs Farrington?'

‘Oh, no. He ran the staff. He did the interviewing when we came here. She was there too, but she was so young, and I remember saying to George, she looked quite out of her depth. She left everything to him.'

Rolf asked a question, more for his own curiosity than because it was relevant. ‘And what was he like, Mrs Manning?' The answer proved to be very relevant.

‘Quite a formidable gentleman. Knew exactly what he wanted. No beating about the bush there. Wages, conditions and what we were expected to do; it was all very fair and satisfactory and we took the job, but he was the employer, not that young girl. Of course, she learned her way round and took charge after she'd had Belinda; she'd got confidence by then. She was very nice to work for, very considerate and friendly, and she didn't change things much. “I want Mr Farrington to be happy,” I remember her saying that. She didn't redecorate, like some second wives do, just for the sake of it, not for a year or two, and then she asked him about everything.'

‘And would you describe them as happy? This doesn't compromise you in any way, Mrs Manning. Whatever you say won't be included in an affidavit if you don't want it to be.'

She didn't hesitate. ‘Yes, Mr Wallberg. I'd say they were the happiest married couple we've ever worked for and we've been in domestic work all our lives. He absolutely doted on her, and on Belinda. He was a hard man, in some ways, especially with his sons, but she couldn't do wrong, Mrs Farrington couldn't.'

‘It sounds ideal,' Rolf remarked. He could see the affidavit shaping up. He could also see Mrs Manning under cross-examination in the witness box if she had to be called.

‘You said he was a hard man with his sons,' he said after a pause. ‘In what way?'

She pulled a face. ‘He didn't get on with them,' she answered. ‘Alan was a lout, no other word for him. He left home soon after we came here, so I'm only repeating what I heard from the other staff, but neither of us liked him, did we?'

Her husband added, ‘No, we didn't. He was twenty-two going on fourteen, by the way he behaved. The other boy wasn't bad—James.'

‘I was sorry for him in a way,' his wife said. ‘He never seemed to get it right with his father. He went off not long after Alan did.'

‘This is a difficult question, but I'd appreciate it if you can give me an answer. How was Mrs Farrington with the stepsons? How did she react to them?'

‘She didn't,' Mrs Manning said firmly. ‘She tried at first, but Alan behaved like a thug to her from the start. She backed right off and left her husband to cope. They weren't here more than a few months anyway. I was glad to see them both go; the atmosphere in the house was so different after they went.'

Rolf said gently, ‘And when he was ill? When he was dying? Did Mrs Farrington take control of things then?'

‘She looked after him,' was the answer. ‘He had nurses, but she never left him, not even for a day; she was the one he wanted. But he was the boss, right up to the day he died. He sent for both of us and for Bob Thorn, the estate manager, and told us we had to take care of Mrs Farrington after he'd gone. Clear as a bell, he was, in his mind. He passed away two days afterwards.'

Rolf nodded and finished his notes. ‘He left you a legacy, didn't he? Five thousand pounds?'

She stiffened. ‘Yes. It was very generous of him, but that's not why I'm saying all this.'

‘I know that,' he responded. ‘In fact, it's a testimony to both of you. He doesn't sound the sort of man who'd leave money to anyone unless he felt they deserved it. Mr Manning, have you anything to add to what your wife has told me?'

‘Not much. I worked mostly on maintenance in the house; I didn't have a lot to do with Mrs Farrington, more with him. But I go along with what Joy says: she never influenced him to do anything he didn't want to; she wasn't that sort anyway. It was those sons who were greedy. I remember that Alan saying to his brother one day, “When that bastard dies, I'm going to sell everything he liked. I'll change this place so nothing reminds me of him.” I was shocked, I can tell you.' Rolf wrote something briefly, then closed the notebook.

‘Thank you very much for your time, you've been very helpful. I'll work on these and get the affidavits typed up so you can read over them, and change anything if you want to. I'd like to see the estate manager. I'm going to be here for a few days, so if you'd ask him to contact me at The Crown?'

‘I will,' George Manning offered, ‘I'll see him this afternoon; there's some insulation on the roof over the garages that needs replacing. I'll tell him to ring you.'

Rolf left them then. Outside the air was wintry and cold, with the lowering grey skies that depressed him so much. He pulled the thick anorak closer and got into his car. The Mannings had given him exactly the kind of information he had hoped for. A good counsel like Ken Hubert would paint a very convincing picture of the young Swedish wife, thrust into an alien and powerful family, already deeply enmeshed in old hatreds. Richard Farrington was in clear focus now: dominant, autocratic … a hard man, as the woman had described, but deeply in love with his wife, so much that his dying instructions to them had been to take care of her. Let Alan and his legal cohorts try and make undue influence out of that.

The Crown was originally an old coaching inn on the main road to London; it had been bypassed in the last century and become little more than a run-down pub for the local farm labourers. After the war it was bought by a big brewery and renovated; planning permission was not an issue then, and extra rooms and bathrooms were added. The accommodation was small, ten rooms in all, but it catered for the growing rural tourist trade, as English holiday-makers, restricted by currency laws, explored the hinterland and the great cathedral cities of their own country.

Rolf rather enjoyed the experience of staying there. His room was in the old part of the building; the low ceilings and heavy beams were a hazard to someone so tall, but the atmosphere intrigued him. The bed—mock-Tudor oak—was hard and uncomfortable, and there were no reading lights apart from a small bedside lamp with a loathsome pink shade, fringed with nylon. The bathroom was cramped and the hot water inadequate by European standards, and there was no shower. Even the discomforts were part of the experience. He asked for, and got, an anglepoise lamp, which he suspected came from the office. He was known to be Mrs Farrington's lawyer and so got special treatment.

He bathed in the narrow bath, soaping hurriedly in the tepid water, then he changed from the more formal trousers and jacket he'd worn during the day. He'd brought thick shirts and sweaters after being warned by Humfrey about English central heating in ancient English pubs, and casual slacks and a jacket, in case this was required in the tiny restaurant. It wasn't, so he pulled on a heavy polo-neck sweater and settled down to put the Mannings' statement into the form of draft affidavits.

He had spent an hour and a half with the manager, Bob Thorn. He was a straightforward type of country man in his late thirties, educated and intelligent, and he insisted on showing Rolf around the estate. The size was a shock to him; it brought the bare statistic of acreage to life. He saw the farms, the woodland, the workshops and saw mills and the giant machines, all serviced on the estate in the maintenance sheds. The management was a life's work; the financial aspect as demanding and tight as any urban industry, with the added hazard of the weather. ‘Always the bloody weather,' Bob Thorn had told him. ‘You get a really wet summer and you can lose your harvest. Doesn't matter how much you mechanize and manage, you've got to put the weather into the calculation.'

When he went back to the manager's house for tea and to take the statement, he had won the man's trust. The response was much the same as the Mannings': Mrs Farrington was very nice, always friendly. No, she never interfered in the running of the estate. Her husband was the boss; very much so, he had added. The previous manager had been sacked eight years ago for raising the rents on two farms; he had mentioned it as an idea, but hadn't waited for Richard Farrington's given approval. Thorn liked Richard Farrington, but he knew not to take liberties.

‘And I respected him for that,' he had said, while his wife poured Rolf more tea. It was a drink he hated, but he accepted with a smile.

‘He knew his stuff, not like some of the jumped-up people who buy places like this as status symbols and leave everything to managing agents. He'd been to agricultural college and he was as much a farmer as any of the tenants round here. I never minded taking orders from him, but let me make it plain, Mr Wallberg, orders is what he gave.'

He had, he assured Rolf, been
compos mentis
right up to the day he died, going through everything with him, no matter how weak or doped up to ease the pain. He paused for a moment, then made an obvious decision. ‘He told me, in absolute confidence, that he was passing RussMore on to Belinda. He wanted my assurance that I'd stay on and help Mrs Farrington. He said, “I trust you, Bob. Nobody else knows. I want Belinda to grow up here and make it her home. Will you see them well on the road before you think of making a change?” And I said, “I can't see myself ever moving from here. I'll look after things and I'll help your wife to understand how it all works. You can rely on me.” And I meant it. I'll give evidence if you think it would help.' It might, Rolf agreed. He would make an impressive witness.

It had been a very productive day. The next thing was to interview the family doctor. He had made an appointment to see him between surgery times. It was all going very well, he thought. He had a laptop computer and he put the transcripts down on disks; he could go over them again in the morning and edit some more of the non-essentials out. He felt in need of a drink and unusually tired; it must be the Lincolnshire air. He went down to the bar, where there was a wood fire burning, and he found a small table near to it. The size of old-fashioned English fireplaces fascinated him. He admired the brightly polished horse brasses, and regretted the dim lighting which made reading impossible.

He ordered vodka on the rocks; having once tried tepid English beer, he had never repeated the experience. There were a few people propped up by the bar: locals, drinking the pub brew; a couple of girls in very short skirts with their men friends and a middle-aged man in dense black with a startlingly white shirt and a black tie. He glanced over at Rolf and exchanged a few words with the woman serving drinks, then he turned and looked speculatively at the stranger by the fire, drinking alone. Rolf felt the scrutiny and looked up. Their glances met; the man nodded, and Rolf nodded back. He picked up his glass, full of dark ale, heavy as treacle, and moved across. ‘Good evening,' he said.

‘Good evening,' Rolf agreed. He didn't make it welcoming.

‘Cold night outside.' He warmed his back by the fire. He wasn't going to move away. After a pause he said, ‘Madge says you're working for Mrs Farrington.'

Madge, polishing glasses, was pretending not to listen.