Echo

Terry.'

'Oh, right. Why didn't he say that, then?'

Deacon turned to the wall and banged his head against it for several seconds. Finally, he took a deep breath, mopped his eyes with his handkerchief, and faced the room again. 'It's a touchy subject,' he explained. 'My family didn't like Clara very much.'

'What was wrong with her?'

'Nothing,' said Hugh firmly, afraid that Deacon was going to embarrass him and Terry with references to tarts and slots. 'What are you both having? Lager?'' He escaped to the bar while they divested themselves of their coats and sat down.

'You can't hit him,'' said Terry. 'Okay, he's a pillock, but he's about six inches shorter than you and ten years older. What did he do, anyway?'

Deacon propped his feet on a chair and placed his hands behind his head. 'He insulted me in my mother's house and then ordered me out of it.' He smiled slightly. 'I swore I'd deck him the next time I saw him, and this is the next time.'

'Well, I wouldn't do it if I were you. It don't make you any bigger, you know. I felt well gutted after what I did to Billy.' He nodded his thanks as Hugh returned with their drinks.

There was a painful silence while Hugh sought for something to say and Deacon grinned at the ceiling, thoroughly enjoying his brother-in-law's discomfort.

Terry offered Hugh a cigarette which he refused. 'Maybe if you apologized, he'd forget the beating,' he suggested, lighting his own cigarette. 'Billy always said it were harder to hit someone you'd had a natter with. That's why guys who do violence tell people to keep their mouths shut. They're scared shitless of losing their bottle.'

'Who's Billy?'

'An old geezer I used to know. He reckoned talking was better than fighting, then he'd get rat-arsed and start attacking people. Mind, he were a bit of a nutter, so you couldn't blame him. His advice was good, though.'

'Stop meddling, Terry,' said Deacon mildly. 'I want some answers before we get anywhere near an apology.' He lowered his feet from the chair and leaned across the table. 'What's going on, Hugh? Why am I so popular suddenly?'

Hugh took a mouthful of lager while he weighed up his answer. 'Your mother isn't well,' he said carefully.

'So Emma told me.'

'And she's keen to bury the hatchet with you.'

'Really?' He reached for the cigarette packet. 'Would that explain the daily phone messages at my office?'

Hugh looked surprised. 'Has she?'

'No, of course she hasn't. I haven't heard a word from her in five years, not since she accused me of killing my father. Which is odd, don't you think, if she wants to bury the hatchet?' He bent his head to the match.

'You know your mother as well as I do.' Hugh sighed. 'In sixteen years I've never heard her admit being wrong about anything, and I can't see her starting now. I'm afraid you're expected to make the first move.'

Deacon's eyes narrowed suspiciously. 'This isn't what Ma wants, is it? It's what Emma wants. Is she feeling guilty about stripping Ma of her capital? Is that what this is about?'

Hugh toyed unhappily with his beer glass. 'Frankly, I've had about as much of your family squabbles as I can take, Michael. It's like living in the middle of a war zone being married to a Deacon.'

Deacon gave a low chuckle. 'Be grateful you weren't around when my father was alive then. It was worse.' He tapped his cigarette against the ashtray. 'You might as well spit it out. I'm not going anywhere near Ma unless I know why Emma wants me to.'

Again, Hugh appeared to weigh his answer. 'Oh, to hell with it!' he said abruptly. 'Your father did make a new will. Emma found it, or should I say the pieces, when she was sorting through your mother's things while she was in the hospital. She asked us to pay her bills and keep everything ticking over while she was off games. I suppose she'd forgotten that the will was still sitting there although why she didn't burn it or throw it away-' He gave a hollow laugh. 'We stuck it back together again. His first two bequests were made out of duty. He left the cottage in Cornwall to Penelope, plus enough investments to provide her with an income of ten thousand a year, and he left Emma a lump sum of twenty thousand. The third bequest was made out of love. He left you the farmhouse and the residue of the estate because, and I quote, 'Michael is the only member of my family who cares whether I live or die.' He made it two weeks before he shot himself, and we assume it was your mother who tore it up as she's the only one who benefited under the old will.'

Deacon smoked thoughtfully for a moment or two. 'Did he appoint David and Harriet Price as executors?''

'Yes.'

'Well, at least that vindicates poor old David.' He thought back to the furious row his mother had had with their then next-door neighbors when David Price had dared to suggest that Francis Deacon had talked about making a new will with him as executor. 'Show it to me,' she had said, 'tell me what's in it.' And David had had to admit that he had never seen it, only agreed in principle to act as executor should Francis revoke his previous will. 'Who drew it up?'

'We think your father did it himself. It's in his handwriting.'

'Is it legal?'

'A solicitor friend of ours says it's properly worded and properly witnessed. The witnesses were two of the librarians in Bedford general library. Our friend's only caveat was whether your father was in sound mind when he made it, bearing in mind he shot himself two weeks later.' He shrugged. 'But, according to Emma, he had been right as rain for months prior to his suicide and only became really depressed the day before he pulled the trigger.'