A Place of Hiding

“Yes, but that was before...” Forrest made a little gesture with his hands. Ruth took it to mean the cancer.

Yes. It made sense if Guy knew she was dying. He’d listen to the wishes of a sister not long for this world. Even Guy would do that. And to listen to her would have meant to leave his three children a legacy that at least equaled—if it did not exceed—that which he’d left to the two island adolescents, which was exactly what Guy had not wanted to do. His daughters had long made themselves nothing to him; his son had been a lifelong disappointment. He wanted to remember the people who had returned his love in the manner he’d decided love ought to be returned. So he’d cooperated with the laws of inheritance and left his children the fifty percent they were owed, freeing him to do whatever he wanted with the rest.

But not to tell her...Ruth felt as if she’d been set adrift into space, but it was a storm-tossed space in which she had nothing to grasp on to any longer. For Guy had kept her in the dark, her brother and her rock. In less than twenty-four hours she had uncovered a trip to California that had gone unmentioned and now a deliberate ruse to mete out punishment and reward to the young people who had disappointed him and the young people who had not.

“He was quite intent upon this final will,” Mr. Forrest said, as if to reassure her. “And the manner in which it was written would have left his children a substantial amount of money no matter what the other beneficiaries received. He started with two million pounds nearly ten years ago, as you recall. Invested wisely, this could have developed into enough of a fortune to make anyone happy even if they were left only part of it.”

Past the wrenching knowledge of what her brother had done to hurt so many people, Ruth heard the would have and could have of Mr. Forrest’s remarks. He seemed suddenly at a great distance from her, the space into which she’d been thrust whipping her ever farther away from the rest of humanity. She said, “Is there something more I need to know, Mr. Forrest?”

Dominic Forrest appeared to consider this question. “Need to know?

I wouldn’t say you need to. But on the other hand, considering Guy’s children and how they’re going to react...I thi nk i t’s wi se to be prepared.”

“For what?”

The advocate took up a piece of paper that lay next to the telephone on his desk. “I had a message from the forensic accountant. The phone calls I needed to make? Returning his was one of them.”

“And?” Ruth could see his hesitation in the way Forrest looked at the paper, the same sort of hesitation her doctor employed when marshaling his forces to relay bad news. So she knew enough to prepare herself, although that didn’t go far towards keeping her from wanting to run from the room.

“Ruth, there’s very little money left. Just under two hundred and fifty thousand pounds. A considerable amount in the normal scheme of things, yes. But when you consider he began with two million...He was a shrewd businessman, no one shrewder. He knew when, where, and how to invest. There should be far more than what there is right now in his accounts.”

“What happened...?”

“To the rest of that money?” Forrest finished. “I don’t know. When the forensic accountant gave his report, I told him there had to be some kind of mistake. He’s looking into things, but he’s said it was a straightforward affair as far as he could tell.”

“What does that mean?”

“Evidently ten months ago, Guy sold off a significant portion of his holdings. Over three and a half million pounds at the time.”

“To put in the bank? In his savings, perhaps?”

“It’s not there.”

“To make a purchase?”

“There’s no record of that.”

“Then what?”

“I don’t know. I’ve only just found out ten minutes ago that the money is missing, and all I can tell you is what’s left: a quarter of a million pounds.”

“But as his advocate, you must have known—”

“Ruth, I just spent part of the morning letting his beneficiaries know they were each to inherit something in the vicinity of seven hundred thousand pounds, perhaps more. Believe me, I didn’t know the money was gone.”

“Could someone have stolen it?”

“I don’t see how.”

“Embezzled it at the bank or the stockbroker’s?”

“Again, how?”

“Could he have given it away?”

“He could have. Yes. Right now the accountant is looking for paper trails. The logical person to have been slipped a fortune on the side is his son. But at the moment?” He shrugged. “We don’t know.”

“If Guy did give Adrian money,” Ruth said, more to herself than to the advocate, “he kept quiet about it. They both kept quiet. And his mother doesn’t know. Margaret, his mother?”—this to the advocate—“she doesn’t know.”

“Until we find out more, we can only assume everyone has a legacy much reduced from what it might otherwise be,” Mr. Forrest said. “And you should prepare yourself for a fair amount of animosity.”