Ivy Tree by Mary Stewart Read Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mary Stewart
There has to be luck, certainly, and there has to be careful planning. But it's like murder, isn't it?"
I stared at her. "Murder?"
"Yes. You only know about the ones that are found out. Nobody ever hears about the ones that get away with it. All the counting's on the negative side."
"I suppose so. But—"
"You say that Brat Farrar's only a story, and that in real life anyone who walks into a family claiming to be a—well, a long-lost heir, would merely land in trouble, like this Tichborne man."
"Yes. Certainly. The lawyers—"
"That's the whole point That's not what you'd be doing. The lawyers wouldn't come into it, I'm sure of that. The point is that you'd not be claiming anything from anybody; there'd be nobody to fight you. The only person who'd lose by your reappearance is Julie, and she has enough of her own. Besides, she adored Annabel; she'll be so pleased to see you, that she'll hardly stop to think what it'll mean in terms of money ..."
"Julie?"
"Annabel's young cousin. She's not at Whitescar now, but she'll be coming some time this summer. You needn't worry about her, she was only ten or eleven when Annabel went away, and she'll hardly remember enough about her to suspect you. Besides, why should she? I tell you, it's not a risk, it's a certainty. Take it from me, Con and I wouldn't dare take risks, either! We've everything to lose. You wouldn't even find it nerve-racking. Apart from the daily help, and the farm-hands you need hardly see, you'll be mostly with Con and myself, and well help you all we can."
"I don't understand. If Julie isn't there, who are you trying to—?"
"And the point about the old man is that he's never believed Annabel was dead. He simply won't have it He'll never even question you, believe me. You can just walk in."
I was staring at her, my cigarette arrested half-way to my mouth. "The old man? Who? Who are you talking about?"
"Old Mr. Winslow, her grandfather. I spoke of him before. He thought the world of her. He kept half a dozen pictures of her in his room—"
"But surely... I understood he was dead."
She looked up in surprise. "Where did you get that idea? No, he's very much alive." Her mouth twisted suddenly, incongruously, into a likeness of that not-so-pleasant smile of Con's. "You might say that's the whole cause of this—situation. What made you think he was dead?"
"I didn't think. But I somehow got the impression ... When you spoke of 'the old man' before, you used the past tense. You said 'he was Annabel's grandfather*."
"Did I? Possibly. But, of course, the past tense," she said softly, "would be for Annabel."
"I see that now. Yes. But it was added somehow to an impression I got on Sunday . . . your brother said something, I forget what.. . Yes, of course, he said—implied, I suppose, would be more accurate—that he owned the farm. No, he stated it flatly. I'm sure he did."
She smiled then, genuinely, and for the first time I saw the warmth of real feeling in her face. She looked amused, indulgent, affectionate, as a mother might look when watching the pranks of a naughty but attractive child. "Yes, he would. Poor Con." She didn't take it further, merely adding: "No, he doesn't own Whitescar. He's old Mr. Winslow's manager. He's ... not even Mr. Winslow's heir."
"/ see. Oh, lord, yes, I see it now."
I got up abruptly, and went over again to the window. Opposite, in one of the tall, drab houses, someone came into a bedroom and switched on the light I caught a too-familiar glimpse of yellow wall-paper with a writhing pattern of green and brown, a pink plastic lampshade, the gleam of a highly-polished radio, before the curtains were twitched across the window. The radio was switched on, and some comedian clacked into the night. Somewhere a child wailed, drearily. In the street below, a woman was shouting a child's name in a wailing northern cadence. "What do you see?"
I said, slowly, still staring out at the dark: "Not much, really. Just that Mr.
I stared at her. "Murder?"
"Yes. You only know about the ones that are found out. Nobody ever hears about the ones that get away with it. All the counting's on the negative side."
"I suppose so. But—"
"You say that Brat Farrar's only a story, and that in real life anyone who walks into a family claiming to be a—well, a long-lost heir, would merely land in trouble, like this Tichborne man."
"Yes. Certainly. The lawyers—"
"That's the whole point That's not what you'd be doing. The lawyers wouldn't come into it, I'm sure of that. The point is that you'd not be claiming anything from anybody; there'd be nobody to fight you. The only person who'd lose by your reappearance is Julie, and she has enough of her own. Besides, she adored Annabel; she'll be so pleased to see you, that she'll hardly stop to think what it'll mean in terms of money ..."
"Julie?"
"Annabel's young cousin. She's not at Whitescar now, but she'll be coming some time this summer. You needn't worry about her, she was only ten or eleven when Annabel went away, and she'll hardly remember enough about her to suspect you. Besides, why should she? I tell you, it's not a risk, it's a certainty. Take it from me, Con and I wouldn't dare take risks, either! We've everything to lose. You wouldn't even find it nerve-racking. Apart from the daily help, and the farm-hands you need hardly see, you'll be mostly with Con and myself, and well help you all we can."
"I don't understand. If Julie isn't there, who are you trying to—?"
"And the point about the old man is that he's never believed Annabel was dead. He simply won't have it He'll never even question you, believe me. You can just walk in."
I was staring at her, my cigarette arrested half-way to my mouth. "The old man? Who? Who are you talking about?"
"Old Mr. Winslow, her grandfather. I spoke of him before. He thought the world of her. He kept half a dozen pictures of her in his room—"
"But surely... I understood he was dead."
She looked up in surprise. "Where did you get that idea? No, he's very much alive." Her mouth twisted suddenly, incongruously, into a likeness of that not-so-pleasant smile of Con's. "You might say that's the whole cause of this—situation. What made you think he was dead?"
"I didn't think. But I somehow got the impression ... When you spoke of 'the old man' before, you used the past tense. You said 'he was Annabel's grandfather*."
"Did I? Possibly. But, of course, the past tense," she said softly, "would be for Annabel."
"I see that now. Yes. But it was added somehow to an impression I got on Sunday . . . your brother said something, I forget what.. . Yes, of course, he said—implied, I suppose, would be more accurate—that he owned the farm. No, he stated it flatly. I'm sure he did."
She smiled then, genuinely, and for the first time I saw the warmth of real feeling in her face. She looked amused, indulgent, affectionate, as a mother might look when watching the pranks of a naughty but attractive child. "Yes, he would. Poor Con." She didn't take it further, merely adding: "No, he doesn't own Whitescar. He's old Mr. Winslow's manager. He's ... not even Mr. Winslow's heir."
"/ see. Oh, lord, yes, I see it now."
I got up abruptly, and went over again to the window. Opposite, in one of the tall, drab houses, someone came into a bedroom and switched on the light I caught a too-familiar glimpse of yellow wall-paper with a writhing pattern of green and brown, a pink plastic lampshade, the gleam of a highly-polished radio, before the curtains were twitched across the window. The radio was switched on, and some comedian clacked into the night. Somewhere a child wailed, drearily. In the street below, a woman was shouting a child's name in a wailing northern cadence. "What do you see?"
I said, slowly, still staring out at the dark: "Not much, really. Just that Mr.