Legacy of the Dead - Charles Todd [147]
Trying to recoup his good opinion of her and conceal her ignorance, she asked, thinking it through, “Were these estates destined for my cousins? You see, my grandfather told me very little about them.”
He had told me nothing—
“They’ve been in his possession for many years. Quite sizable estates, in fact. Whether he intended to settle either of them on your cousins in due course, I don’t know. He didn’t confide in me,” It was grudgingly admitted. “I can tell you that the property that belonged to your uncle, Tristan Hatton, was sold at the time of his death. It would have been prudent for your grandfather to provide in some other fashion for his eldest grandson. Sadly, Mr. Simon Hatton is also deceased.
The first of the cousins to go to war . . . the first to die.
Francesca was still trying to absorb the fact that her grandfather had owned other estates. But if it was true, why had he always chosen to live in the isolated Exe Valley? It was the only home she had ever known. And as far as she was aware, that was true of her cousins as well. Even Simon had had only the haziest memory of his parents.
Why had he never taken us to visit houses in Somerset or Essex, if they were his? There hadn’t been so much as a casual, “Shall we spend Christmas in Somerset this year?” or “Since the weather is so fine, we might travel to Essex for a week. I ought to have a look at the tenant roofs . . .” If he had gone there at all, it had been a secret.
Secret . . .
The thought was disturbing. Why should secrecy have been necessary? Hadn’t he trusted her? Or had he never got around to telling her, when Simon was killed? Or after Harry’s death? He had lost interest in everything then, including the will to live . . .
“Before I summon the servants to hear their bequests, there is one other matter that your grandfather wished you to deal with. A recent Codicil, in fact.”
“Indeed?” she said again, still wrestling with the puzzle of the properties.
“It involves the Murder Stone, whatever that may be.”
Caught completely unawares, Francesca stared at him. “But—that’s nothing more than a jest—a largish white stone in the back garden that my cousins were always making a part of their games!”
“Nevertheless, your grandfather has included in his Will a provision for its removal from Devon to Scotland.”
“Scotland? My grandfather has never been to Scotland in his life!”
“That may well be true. But I shall read you the provision: ‘I place upon my heir the grave duty of taking the object known to her as the Murder Stone from its present loction and carrying it by whatever means necessary to Scotland, to be buried in the furthermost corner of that country as far away from Devon as can be reached safely.’ This was drawn up only last month.”
Mystified, Francesca said, “The death of my cousins must have turned his mind—”
“Perhaps this stone reminded him too forcibly of their lost youth,” Branscombe said gravely. “When men are old and ill, small things tend to loom large.”
Francesca shook her head. “It’s such an insignificant matter.”
“Perhaps to you, my dear, But I assure you that to your grandfather it was very important. I was under the impression that Mr. Hatton was rather—superstitious—about this matter.”
“He was never superstitious!And he allowed my cousins to use the stone as they pleased. It was always a part of their games—we were never warned away.”
“I can’t answer that question. But I can assure you that the responsibility is yours and must be regarded as a solemn charge.”
“But surely not right away—not while the war is going on and getting anywhere is so difficult?” She couldn’t imagine how she would manage to dig up the stone, much less arrange for it to travel to Scotland. Not when petrol and tires were so dear. The elderly gardener and the coachman between them couldn’t budge it—it must weight more than both men. Meant to remain forever where it lay—
“At your earliest convenience, of course.” Branscombe’s tone of voice indicated disapproval of excuses.
Francesca was still rattled, but the