Ursula's Secret (3 page)

Lexy was tempted to point out that, like their erstwhile client Ursula, she was not a coffee drinker unless it was guaranteed to be fair trade, but knew that would just sound petty. There was something about this place, though, that brought out the rebel in her. That made her feel more uncomfortable than the high-heeled shoes she’d thought she should wear or the confines of the crumpled suit that hadn’t travelled well from London and had responded with indifference to Ursula’s iron.

Ms Hamilton, when she finally arrived nearly twenty minutes later, did nothing to improve Lexy’s mood. She was crisply dressed, perfectly coiffed and, of course, poised and attractive. A classier and more expensive version of Frosty Lips. The lawyer sat, deftly adjusted her chair to a preferred height and placed a folder on the cherrywood in front of her. Lexy tried to sit straighter in her chair, wishing she’d thought to adjust her own seat height so her feet could touch the floor and give her some leverage. Ground her. But she’d missed her moment. Chances were she’d come off badly if she tried it now, so she’d just have to dangle.

“Sorry to have kept you waiting, Miss Shaw. I was on the phone to our people in Malawi.”

“Malawi?”

“Yes, we’d hoped to have all that documented for you, too, for today, but sadly that’s proved impossible. Coffee?” A manicured hand waved in the general direction of a sideboard, where the contents of the receptionist’s coffee pot would be little better than tepid by now. Unless the coffee pots had been designed by NASA too.

Lexy shook her head, wondering what Malawi had to do with anything.

“Right, let’s get to business then, shall we?” Ms Hamilton opened the thin Manila folder and Lexy caught a glimpse of a photo of herself paper-clipped to the inside cover. Ms Hamilton glanced at it and back at Lexy as if to confirm that she was indeed in the right meeting and then extracted a single page, closed the folder again and began to speak.

“Aside from a few small legacies and a recently added codicil leaving a small bequest to her cleaner, Jenny Kennedy, Miss Reid has left her entire estate to you. Well, to your mother initially – my condolences, by the way – but as you are sole beneficiary of Mrs Shaw’s estate, Miss Reid’s will also pass on to you. We would be happy to continue to handle matters on your behalf just as we handled everything for Miss Reid, should you wish to instruct us to do so, and I know I speak for our associates in Malawi in assuring you that they too would be happy to offer you their services – and absolute discretion – in continuing to manage the interests there and, of course, the financial arrangements between Miss Reid and her son.”

Lexy wasn’t sure she’d heard correctly. “Miss Reid and her son?”

“Yes. Now unfortunately, as I’ve already indicated, I’m not in a position to give you up-to-date detail on the Malawi situation, but I hope to have a full and consolidated report shortly. In the meantime, we can discuss the Scottish portion of her estate and what you would like to do with that. That is indeed much more straightforward …”

Ms Hamilton’s voice faded as Lexy grappled with this new information. Ursula had a son. Alive and in Malawi, it would seem. So why had Ursula left everything to Isobel, her one-time ward, and not to her own son?

Enough. This was all too much. Lexy was exhausted. She couldn’t deal with any more surprises. She was still reeling from her mother’s death, that pointless, stupid hit-and-run that had set all this in motion and just kept raising question after question. She didn’t want secrets and mysteries. She wanted to cling to the certainties of her life before the horror started and find some kind of peace or solace in a familiar world.

“Ms Hamilton, please stop.”

The solicitor looked up in surprise.

“I’m struggling to cope with all this, I’m afraid. It’s a lot to take in and I’m not sure I’m quite ready to … make any decisions or even listen any more. Perhaps we could meet again in a couple of days or so, when I’m feeling a little clearer?”

“Of course, Miss Shaw.” The lawyer didn’t skip a beat. “I quite understand. You’ve been through a lot.” Lexy was surprised at the note of sympathy in the other woman’s voice. “I’ll have my PA find us another time. Or why don’t you ring when you’re ready? I’ll do my best to make myself available to suit you.” Now that, Lexy was sure, was a real concession on the part of this high-flying, and no doubt high-charging, lawyer.

“I appreciate it, Ms Hamilton. Thank you.” Lexy had been too shocked, too numb to cry at her mother’s funeral, yet this small kindness was in danger of reducing her to tears. She swallowed hard and looked down at her hands. It was always there, beneath the surface, her grief, that overwhelming sea of sadness, ready to drown her at the most inappropriate and unpredictable moments.

“Not at all. I should have thought.” Lexy’s head jerked up again at the squeal of Ms Hamilton’s chair being pushed back. The lawyer walked round the table, then touched Lexy briefly on the shoulder before stepping back. Legalese for a consolatory hug.

“We always try to act swiftly in these matters, Miss Shaw. For the sake of continuity. But perhaps that’s not always appropriate. Look, why don’t you take this with you?” The Manila folder was placed in front of Lexy and she stretched her fingers out to touch its nearest edge.

“You don’t need me to read it to you, I’m sure,” Ms Hamilton continued as she walked over and opened the conference room door. “You can go through it at your leisure. It might be easier to review it in your own time, think things through and then ask me any questions you need to when next we meet. I’ll have the Malawi side compiled by then, too; you have my word.”

Still fending off tears, Lexy slipped the folder into her bag and followed the solicitor down the corridor towards the reception area.

French-manicured fingernails tapped a code into a panel set on a short pillar in front of the glass door. “You’ll find details of the property in Ross-shire in the folder, too. Should you wish to visit it, our receptionist can give you keys and details of how to reach it.” There was a buzz and Ms Hamilton held the door back with one arm and extended her other to shake Lexy’s hand. “Well, Miss Shaw, I look forward to hearing from you when you’re ready.”

The door had swung shut again, leaving Lexy on its far side before she could ask what property in Ross-shire that might be, although she knew she should be getting used to the surprises by now.

The late afternoon sun was warm on her face as she stepped out into the quiet heart of Edinburgh’s New Town. She walked slowly along the cobbled street before turning left and up the hill towards George Street. She’d seen some pavement cafes there and decided she’d have a glass of wine in the sunshine. There was nothing to rush back to the flat for, and she needed to stop and take stock. There was so much to take in. So much that wasn’t as she’d thought it would be, so many questions she couldn’t answer – and she didn’t know who, if anyone, could. Her mother had let her believe Ursula was dead but had been in touch with her for, it would seem, some time, keeping her up to date with Lexy’s own development. And Isobel, so Jenny said, had even been planning a visit to the old woman. A visit she’d not told Lexy about. Would she have, if she’d lived, or would she have kept it secret somehow?

Lexy felt a chill run over her arms. She pulled her jacket off the back of the chair and draped it over her shoulders, shrugged it off again almost immediately. They’d been so close, the two of them, so in tune. She’d been so young when her father died that it seemed it had always just been Izzie and Lexy united against the world. There’d been no one else, no cousins, no distant relatives sending occasional birthday cards, no big family gatherings at Christmas. But it hadn’t mattered. They’d had each other. She’d never doubted her mother’s absolute love, and she’d never imagined how bereft she would be without her.

The chill returned, and with it a flicker of doubt. Izzie could have tried to make sure Lexy wasn’t left alone, that there would be someone else to love her, somewhere else for her to belong should anything happen to Izzie herself. But she hadn’t. She’d kept Lexy from Ursula, denied her a grandmother figure in her life. And if she’d done that, what else had she kept from her?

Lexy finished her wine, signalled to the waiter for another one, tried to suppress her growing disquiet. Nothing seemed certain any more, and even the life of a retired hospital matron now looked as if it had been far from straightforward. Ursula, too, had had secrets, it seemed. She had a property in the Highlands and interests in Malawi that had never been mentioned, as far as Lexy could remember, although that was less surprising. Perhaps they were recent acquisitions. She doubted that, though. Malawi was in the past. It was where her parents had met, in the same hospital where Ursula had once worked. That much was part of familiar family lore.

But all of that paled into insignificance in the face of the big one. Ursula had a son. Had Isobel known? With Ursula as Isobel’s legal guardian, he would, in effect, have been a kind of brother to Isobel. An uncle to Lexy. Family of sorts, when she’d thought there was no one left. Not a blood tie, true. But the next best thing. Why hadn’t anyone told her about him? She felt a flutter of excitement. Hope, really. Hope that there might be someone, some sort of family, that she might still have somewhere to belong.

The second glass of wine didn’t make the answers any clearer. Lexy’s cheeks were growing warm, and not from the fading sun. Food. She should eat. After an initial burst of hunger that morning when she’d devoured almost half of Jenny’s biscuits, she’d had nothing, and wanted nothing, her appetite long gone. No wonder she felt light-headed. Fuel required.

When she got back to Ursula’s flat, the post had arrived. She scooped the letters up from the mat. A couple of brown envelopes and one white one which no matter how hard it tried couldn’t hide the fact it was a bill. Holding letters addressed to a dead person felt wrong, disrespectful. She’d felt the same way when she’d gone to her mother’s house for the first time after she’d died. She hated the way that life carried on without pausing to acknowledge that this person was gone. Unreasonable, she knew, irrational even. How could anyone know what had happened? But it felt cruel, nonetheless. Callous. Unfair.

Suppressing a small stab of unfocused anger, she threw the envelopes onto the table with the rest of the pile waiting to be tackled. She watched it overbalance and cascade onto the tiled floor.

“Bugger.” She gathered them up again, picturing the look of disapproval on both her mother’s face and Ursula’s. “Bugger,” she repeated defiantly. She’d get to the post later this evening. Maybe. But for now, she needed a cup of tea and something to eat. Toast seemed simplest. Jenny had said there was bread in the freezer. Time enough to worry about good nutrition when she had less on her mind.

Her phone beeped with a text as she was waiting for the toaster to throw out her supper. Jenny.

Hope went ok today. Remember here to help if U need me.

Kind of her, and above and beyond the call of a cleaner and carer. But then it was clear she’d forged a special relationship with Ursula and seemed happy to extend that to include Lexy. Or perhaps she just wanted to be sure Lexy did right by Ursula in clearing the flat and so on. Remembering the “recently added” codicil, though, Lexy felt a twinge of suspicion and wondered if there was something less wholesome behind Jenny’s cheery chat. But if so, what could her objective be? Money, or something that could be turned into it, most likely. Looking around, though, there didn’t seem to be much, but then Lexy was no expert. Plenty of paintings on the wall and a few African-looking bits and pieces that could be more than mere bric-a-brac. She’d have to get someone in to value it all.

The toaster popped and snapped her back to the moment. She was being uncharitable. She should just accept that there were genuine, caring people in the world and Jenny was one of them. She was letting the aftershocks of her mother’s death cloud her judgement. But it was hard not to, when you knew a stranger had left your mother to die on a quiet suburban street. A drunk, probably, the police had said, classic hit-and-run, and leafy suburbs didn’t tend to yield much by way of CCTV or witness statements so best not expect too much. No, not easy to trust in the milk of human kindness after something like that. And especially not after discovering that that same mother, the person you trusted most in the world, had been holding out on you.

She dunked a teabag in a mug of hot water just long enough for it to colour into something that passed for tea, splashed in milk and then took it with the toast through to the sitting room. She didn’t put the light on immediately but stood for a moment looking out at the long shadows cast by the last of the sun. No one around this late on a weekday evening apart from the odd dog-walker. Yesterday’s barbecuing revellers had disappeared. There was a movement at the foot of one of the trees across the road from the flat, at the edge of the Meadows, and Lexy instinctively drew back. Was there someone there, hiding behind the broad trunk of a sycamore? Watching the flat? Watching her? She waited, looked along the shaded path. There was no one in sight, and, when she turned back to the tree, nothing except shadows of branches and leaves, twitching in the breeze. It’d be UFOs and little green men next.

She turned away and sat in one of the old high-backed armchairs, tugging off the ill-judged shoes, stretching her feet and wriggling her toes to get the circulation going again before dragging a footstool closer. Balancing the mug precariously on the arm of the chair and the plate of toast on her knees, she rested her head back. She’d close her eyes for just a moment, let the quiet and the gathering darkness soothe—

She jolted upright at the rattle of the letter box, sending toast and plate skittering across the floor and lukewarm tea splashing into her lap. So much for the smart skirt. Hobbling out to the hallway, holding out the bottom of her skirt to try to contain as much of the milky liquid as possible, she saw a letter lying on the floor inside the door. Its edges were bordered with something she hadn’t seen in years: the blue and red chevrons of an airmail envelope.