A Place of Hiding

The offices of Gibbs, Grierson, and Godfrey ended up as her selection. The alliteration was an annoyance, but the front door was imposing and the lettering on the brass plate outside was of a stark nature that suggested a ruthlessness which Margaret’s mission required. Without an appointment, then, she entered with her son and requested to see one of the eponymous members of the organisation. As she made her request, she stifled her desire to tell Adrian to stand up straight, assuring herself it was enough that he had—for her benefit and protection—earlier arm-wrestled that little hooligan Paul Fielder into submission.

As luck would have it, none of the founders were in their offices on this afternoon. One of them had apparently died four years earlier and the other two were out on some sort of quasi-important lawyerly business, according to their clerk. But one of the junior advocates would be able to see Mrs. Chamberlain and Mr. Brouard.

How junior? Margaret wanted to know.

It was a loose term only, she was assured.

The junior advocate turned out to be junior in title alone. She was otherwise a middle-aged woman called Juditha Crown—“Ms. Crown,”

she told them—with a fat mole beneath her left eye and a mild case of halitosis that appeared to have been brought on by a half-eaten salami sandwich which sat on a paper plate on her desk. As Adrian slouched nearby, Margaret disclosed the reason for their call: a son cheated out of his inheritance and an inheritance that was absent at least three-quarters of the property it should have comprised. That, Ms. Crown informed them with an archness that Margaret found a little too condescending for her liking, was highly unlikely, Mrs. Chamberlain. Had Mr. Chamberlain—

Mr. Brouard, Margaret interrupted. Mr. Guy Brouard of Le Reposoir, Parish of St. Martin’s. She was his former wife, and this was their son, Adrian Brouard, she announced to Ms. Crown and added pointedly, Mr. Guy Brouard’s eldest and his only male heir.

Margaret was gratified to see Juditha Crown sit up and take notice of this, if only metaphorically. The lawyer’s eyelashes quivered behind her gold-framed spectacles. She gazed upon Adrian with heightened interest. It was a moment during which Margaret found she could finally feel grateful for Guy’s relentless pursuit of personal accomplishment. If nothing else, he had name recognition and, by association, so did his son. Margaret laid out the situation for Ms. Crown: an estate divided in half, with two daughters and a son sharing the first half of it and two relative strangers —strangers, mind you, in the person of two local teenagers practically unknown to the family—sharing the other half equally between them. Something needed to be done about this.

Ms. Crown nodded sagely and waited for Margaret to continue. When Margaret didn’t, Ms. Crown asked if there was a current wife involved. No? Well, then—and here she folded her hands on the desk top and formed her lips into a glacially polite smile—there didn’t seem to be anything irregular about the will. The laws of Guernsey dictated the manner in which property could be bequeathed. Half of it had to go by law to the legal progeny of the testator. In cases where there was no surviving spouse, the other half could be dispersed according to the whimsy of the deceased. This was apparently what the gentleman in question had done.

Margaret was aware of Adrian next to her, of the restlessness that prompted him to dig through his pocket at this point and bring out a matchbook. She thought he intended to smoke despite there being no ashtray evident anywhere in the room, but instead he used the edge to clean beneath his fingernails. Seeing this, Ms. Crown made a moue of distaste. Margaret wanted to rail at her son, but she settled on nudging his foot with hers. He moved his away. She cleared her throat.

The division of inheritance prescribed by the will was only part of what concerned her, she told the lawyer. There was the more pressing matter of all that was missing from what should have legally been the inheritance, no matter who received it. The will made no mention of the estate itself—the house, the furnishings, and the land that comprised LeReposoir. It made no mention of Guy’s properties in Spain, in England, in France, in the Seychelles and God only knew where else. It mentioned no personal possessions like cars, boats, an aeroplane, a helicopter, nor did it detail the significant number of miniatures, antiques, silver, art, coins, and the like that Guy had collected over the years. Surely all this belonged in the will of a man who was after all a successful entrepreneur to the tune of several significant multi-millions. Yet his will had consisted of one savings account, one chequing account, and one investment account. How, Margaret inquired with a deliberate play on the words, did Ms. Crown account for that?

Ms. Crown looked thoughtful but only for the space of some three seconds, after which she asked Margaret if she was certain of her facts. Margaret told her huffily that of course she was certain. She didn’t run about attempting to employ solicitors—