“Miss Violet Debenham,” he said.
Violet lifted her hand as Manning had instructed. The bracelet of runes melted again into the disc of purple wax, which Violet laid on the desk in front of her.
“Thank you for answering our summons,” said Walter. “As Senior Advisor to the Assembly, I will convene this affair, which will be heard by Assemblymen Cowling and Singh, and Deputy Chief Minister Prest.”
Jack knew two of the names. Bertrand Cowling was of the same dusty generation as half of the House of Lords: a drawn, white-bearded man with a permanent frown and fussy little eyeglasses.
Singh, he didn’t know, although the man was exchanging nods of acknowledgement with Edwin. He looked younger than the other two on the panel, with strong features beneath a dark red turban and a thick Sikh beard without a hint of grey.
“Lord Hawthorn,” said Richard Prest, meeting Jack’s gaze with a hint of bluster. “What a pleasant surprise. I’d understood that you no longer involved yourself in magical affairs.”
Jack’s mother had brought him up to speed on Assembly politics during his visit to Cheetham Hall. Prest was an acquaintance of Lord Cheetham, though not a close one. He’d served two terms as Deputy Chief Minister and was expecting to be elected Chief Minister this time, as the current holder of that office was old and ill enough to have already stepped down if it weren’t an election year. Clearly Prest was trying to calculate if Jack was still an influential Alston or if his black-sheep status made him safe to antagonise.
“I make exceptions,” drawled Jack. Let the man chew on that one.
“And both sides have a magician to stand dicentis,” said Walter.
Manning gave a little bow, as did the last man in the room, who now stood alone behind the second desk. He was a middle-aged chap with a bare dome of scalp pushing through thinning dark hair, and he shuffled his papers incessantly.
“Are there two sides?” asked Violet, who was either impressively uncowed by this room full of men or was doing an excellent job of acting it. The line between the two was often unclear, with Violet. Manning tugged at her sleeve, encouraging her down into a chair, but she shook him off. “I see another dicentis over there, but I can’t see whose voice he is.”
“Mr. Evers stands for an involved party whose identity need not be disclosed in this initial hearing,” said Walter.
“Like hell,” said Robin indignantly. Singh winced a little. Edwin dragged Robin down into a chair, more successful than Manning had been with Violet.
There were only four chairs to each table. Jack remained standing, deliberately radiating the impression that he was not in the habit of fetching his own furniture. Prest cleared his throat at Evers, who hastily brought across one of the free ones on his own side.
Jack took a seat. Violet whispered, “Bravo,” under her breath.
“Who’s the Indian fellow?” Jack asked Edwin in a murmur.
“That’s Adelaide’s brother-in-law—her sister Catherine’s husband,” said Edwin. “Manraj Singh. I’ve met him once or twice.”
“He volunteered for the panel,” said Manning. “That’s why I was late, Miss Debenham—I was trying to find out who was sitting. Normally Assemblymen have to be hauled onto hearings like this via roster. And Mrs. Kaur—”
“If we could begin, Courcey,” said Prest loudly. “I understand this is an inheritance matter?”
Walter Courcey informed the room that doubt had been cast on Miss Violet Debenham’s inheritance of the estate belonging to the late Mrs. Taverner, née Lady Enid Blackwood. Mr. Evers produced the will in question, which was presented to the panel. Violet let Manning deliver her letter to them as well. The Assemblymen pored over the documents for a few minutes.
“Seems in order,” said Cowling. “What’s the issue?”
“There is reason to believe,” said Evers, “that this is an early version of Lady Enid’s will, and a more recent one may exist. With different beneficiaries. You’ll note,” he added, over Violet’s sound of outrage and Manning’s sudden paging through one of his books, “that both will and letter are dated several years ago.”
“Reason to believe?” said Manning. “What reason?”
“Conversations the deceased had with other family members,” said Evers. “Including the party I represent.”
“It’s Aunt Caroline, isn’t it? And after I—” Violet cast a look of hatred at Walter, but stopped talking. She’d made a generous gift of money to her aunt Caroline Blackwood and cousin Clarence, but she’d done it on the agreement that Clarence stop cooperating with Walter himself, who’d pressed Clarence into trying to wheedle information on the knife out of Violet.
“I am not here to provide full evidence at this time,” Evers went on. “Merely to establish an intent to challenge.”
“If you have no evidence to present today, then why was this hearing called?” Singh had a deep, fluid voice with a strong accent.
“Quite simple.” Evers cast a glance at Walter as if for reassurance. No wonder Violet was being so ornery; she was familiar enough with theatre to recognise that this was a piece of it, and Walter Courcey was its choreographer. The only question was what it was designed to achieve.
Evers went on, “I propose that Miss Debenham vacate the property known as Spinet House while her inheritance is under challenge.”
“There it is,” muttered Robin.
There it was. Manning, who was clearly getting the measure of his client, put a hand out to prevent Violet’s next angry outburst.
“Ridiculous,” said Manning. “You propose to kick her out onto the streets?”
“Miss Debenham is rich in friends,” said Walter silkily. He gave their crowded desk a pointed look. “I’m sure she will be offered hospitality while this matter is worked through.”
“More to the point,” said Evers, “it will allow a neutral party to search the house for a more recent will, if one exists. I’m sure you will agree that Miss Debenham can’t be trusted to locate it herself. It would be in her best interests to destroy it if found.”
Edwin looked almost sick as he stared at Walter. Even Jack’s stomach sank. He got to his feet and waited for silence.
“This is a farce,” said Jack, making firm eye contact with Prest. “Why would Lady Enid not have lodged her most recent will with her solicitors and asked them to destroy any previous versions?”
“It wasn’t with solicitors,” said Evers. “It was found in … a drawer of her desk, after her death.” He’d noticed the trap Jack had laid, but couldn’t do anything about it.
“A perfectly common practice with magical estates such as Spinet,” said Edwin promptly. “And the argument about recency stands either way. The house would provide the correct will.”