‘Bit early for a drink,’ said Martin. ‘But later on we could shoot down to The Royal Oak at Meavy, if you fancy it.’
‘Let’s get this house business over first, shall we? How much do you think Allhallows is worth now?’
‘Oh… not a lot more than one and a half million, I’d say. Dad couldn’t get planning permission for the upper field, could he, and let’s face it – this is the arse end of the back of beyond. That’s assuming we put it on the market, of course.’
‘Why wouldn’t we?’
‘For a start, one of us might want to live here.’
‘Well, Vicky and I certainly don’t. Don’t tell me that you and Katharine do. You couldn’t possibly commute to the City from here, and Petulia’s still at school at Tormead, isn’t she?’
‘Gracey might want to. Who knows?’
‘Why would Gracey want to live in an eight-bedroom house with three and a half acres of land to take care of? It’s not even as if she and that Portia will ever have any children.’
‘They might adopt. Plenty of gay couples do.’
‘Get real, Martin. They’re going to adopt seven children? Besides, I can’t see Portia leaving her job, whatever it is. Gender equality führer for Islington Council, something like that.’
‘Well, yes, but it seems a pity to sell it. Historic houses like this are always a good investment. We could let it out, couldn’t we?’
‘I suppose so. But it would probably cost more to keep it up than we could charge in rent. And we’d have to install smoke alarms and fire doors and God knows what. And I can’t think who on earth would want to rent it.’
Vicky came back into the drawing room.
‘I found Timmy some tonic water in the fridge. Now he’s gone exploring.’
‘Martin doesn’t think Allhallows is worth more than one-point-five million,’ said Rob.
‘Only as little as that? Oh, well, I suppose you can’t complain. You’ll all get five hundred thousand each.’
‘Now, hold on,’ said Martin. ‘We haven’t seen Dad’s will yet.’
‘Surely he’s divided his assets equally among the three of you.’
‘We don’t know yet, do we? Gracey was always the apple of his eye.’
Rob was about to say that, yes, Herbert had doted on Grace; but at the same he had made it no secret that he had favoured Martin over Rob. Maybe it was because Martin had inherited his bullish looks, and had chosen to pursue what he considered to be a ‘pragmatic’ career in finance. He had shown little or no appreciation of art and had dismissed Rob’s paintings and drawings as ‘daubs and doodles’. ‘Even Van Gogh was poverty-stricken, while he was alive.’
Then again, Herbert’s preference for Martin could be connected to a blazing argument that Rob had once overheard from his bedroom window when he was about thirteen years old. His father had shouted at his mother, ‘Of course he’s nothing like me! And we both know why that is!’
He had never dared to ask his mother what his father might have meant.
4
Grace and Portia arrived shortly after eleven. Martin opened the front door for them and helped them to carry in their overnight case, and then he ushered them into the drawing room. Rob immediately had the impression that the two of them had been arguing. Portia was usually holding Grace’s hand or wrapping her arm around her waist and giving her affectionate but also proprietorial squeezes – I love her, and she belongs to me.
‘Good trip?’ asked Katharine, still perched on the arm of Herbert’s throne.
‘Bloody awful, as a matter of fact,’ said Portia. ‘Some idiot had decided to throw himself in front of a train at Tisbury, and that held us up for over an hour. I honestly don’t know why they don’t build a special branch line for people to commit suicide, so they don’t inconvenience the rest of us.’
‘Dad’s solicitor will be here in a minute,’ said Martin. ‘I asked her about funeral arrangements but she said they won’t be releasing his body until they’ve completed the post-mortem, and that’s going to take at least another three or four days.’
‘I suppose we could hold the funeral service here, at St Mary’s,’ said Grace. ‘I know Dad wasn’t religious, but it’s close to the prison, isn’t it, if any of his old wardens want to pay their respects.’
‘Not religious?’ said Rob. ‘Pff! That’s the understatement of the century. The only god he worshipped was himself.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Martin. ‘The last time I came down, he seemed to be quite worried about something. He asked me if I thought he’d led a good life.’
‘Oh, you mean he was worried that he might go to hell. He gave me that impression, too, once or twice.’
‘Any chance of a cup of tea?’ asked Grace.
Vicky went up to Grace and gave her a hug and a kiss on the cheek. ‘Of course, Grace. How are you? We haven’t seen you since that Leonardo exhibition.’
‘We’ve been busy decorating our new flat,’ said Portia sharply. ‘We’ve made a start but we still have so much to do.’
In other words, thought Vicky, don’t expect to see us for quite some time in the future, either.
Like Rob, Grace strongly resembled her mother, but she had more of her father in her than Rob. She was tall and full-figured in her olive faux-fur-collared anorak, with coppery hair and green feline eyes and a squarish chin. Vicky could picture her leading an army of Scottish rebels over the border, wearing an impressive iron breastplate and waving a claymore. In reality, though, she was gentle and softly spoken and shy.
Portia was wearing a brown leather biker jacket and tight black leggings and brown leather boots. She was pretty and slim, with large hazel eyes and a little turned-up nose and short black razor-cut hair. There was no question who was the dominant partner in their relationship. Rob and Vicky knew from experience that if they wanted to invite Grace and Portia to visit them,
