Part 5
“I was frightened,” Celia said. “And I said something wrong.”
“Of me?”
“No. Of what would happen.”
“What will happen?”
The question passed through the adults without finding an answer.
Nathan touched one of Poppy’s loose braids.
“We’re going to find out.”
The rain had softened by the time Nathan and Celia crossed the south lawn. He carried a torch and an old golf umbrella. Celia wore boots beneath her nightdress and cardigan, a combination that would have amused him on any other night.
They did not speak.
Ashcombe Manor rose behind them, every ground-floor window bright. The house had been built in stages, each generation adding rooms it could afford and pretending the result had been intentional. In daylight, the honey-colored stone made the place look warm. At night, with rain shining on the walls, it looked watchful.
The greenhouse stood beyond a yew hedge, attached to a low brick potting shed. Most of the glass panes had been replaced after a storm two winters earlier. Nathan remembered Richard complaining about the cost for weeks and then ordering imported citrus trees that died within months.
The outer door was unlocked.
Inside, rain ticked against the roof. Damp earth, tomato vines, and old fertilizer filled the air. The beam of Nathan’s torch crossed empty benches and clay pots stacked upside down.
Celia moved carefully over the wet tiles.
“You should wait by the door,” Nathan said.
“Don’t begin.”
“I am thinking about the baby.”
“So am I. Constantly. Even when everyone else briefly forgets.”
The old potting room was behind a swollen wooden door. Nathan had to shoulder it twice before it opened.
The room contained a sink, rusted tools, a metal desk, and shelves of ledgers left by estate gardeners who had retired or died. Cobwebs sagged from the corners.
Celia shone her phone light along the wall.
“Edmund said it was under the desk.”
Nathan knelt.
A steel panel, painted the same green as the skirting board, had been set into the brickwork. It was small enough to escape notice unless someone knew to look.
He took out the brass key.
The ribbon brushed his knuckles.
The key entered the lock but would not turn.
“Try lifting the door,” Celia said.
He pulled upward on the small handle and tried again.
The lock opened.
Nathan felt Celia move closer behind him.
Inside the compartment lay a brown document wallet tied with cotton tape, a black accounting ledger, and a sealed envelope.
His name was written across the envelope in Richard’s handwriting.
Nathan remained kneeling.
The sight of those sharp, impatient letters brought back the smell of his father’s office: leather, coffee left too long on a warming plate, the lemon polish used on the desk. He remembered being twelve and waiting outside that office after breaking a greenhouse pane with a cricket ball. Richard had made him stand for almost an hour before saying the glass was not the problem. Carelessness was the problem. A man who did not account for consequences became a burden to everyone around him.
“Nathan,” Celia said.
He reached for the envelope.
A hand closed around his wrist.
Edmund stood in the doorway.
His coat was wet across the shoulders. His silver hair had darkened in the rain, and he was breathing harder than the short walk from the house justified.
“How did you know?” Nathan asked.
“Your mother telephoned me.”
“Of course she did.”
Edmund looked at the open compartment.
“Do not read that letter until you have seen the ledger.”
Nathan pulled his wrist free. “You no longer get to arrange the order of things.”
“No. But your father did.”
Celia stepped between them as much as the narrow room allowed. “Why did you come?”
“To stop you making decisions tonight.”
“You mean reporting you,” she said.
“I mean any decision. You are both angry, tired, and frightened.”
Nathan stood with the envelope in his hand. “You lied to me for eighteen months.”
“Longer.”
“How long?”
Edmund glanced at the ledger.
“Eleven years.”
Celia exhaled.
Nathan felt strangely calm. “Tell me.”
“Not here.”
“Here is exactly where you tell me.”
Rain struck the greenhouse glass in scattered bursts. Edmund removed his wet coat and folded it over the back of the metal chair, as if preparing for a meeting.
“Your father’s estate company was in serious difficulty after the financial crisis,” he said. “The bank was threatening to call in loans. Several developments had failed. Richard believed the land would recover in value if he could hold on for two or three years.”
“So he borrowed from Margaret Wren’s trust.”
“At first, yes.”
“Was she aware?”
“She authorized one loan.”
“How much?”
“Six hundred thousand pounds.”
Celia stared at him. “My mother never mentioned it.”
“She expected repayment within twelve months. Richard made two interest payments, then stopped. He came to me with a proposal for a second loan.”
“And you approved it,” Nathan said.
“I prepared documents.”
“Did Margaret sign them?”
“No.”
The room seemed to tilt around the answer.
Nathan looked at the ledger. “Whose signature is on them?”
Edmund said nothing.
Celia’s voice was flat. “You forged my mother’s signature.”
“No.”
“Then Richard did.”
Edmund looked at Nathan. “Your father produced signed resolutions and letters of consent. I knew the signatures were questionable.”
“Questionable?”
“I knew.”
Nathan laughed under his breath. “There it is.”
“I told myself the assets were secure. The estate owned land worth far more than the borrowing. I told myself Margaret would be repaid before she needed to know.”
“But she found out,” Celia said.
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Shortly before her illness was diagnosed.”
Celia leaned against the desk.
Nathan moved toward her, but she lifted a hand to stop him.
“What did she do?” she asked.
“She demanded full repayment. Richard asked for time. She gave him three months.”
“She died two months later.”
“Yes.”
May you like
“And after she died?”
Edmund’s eyes lowered. “Richard said a claim would destroy the estate. He said you had inherited enough wealth not to feel the loss.”
