Chapter 5: Eleanor Plays Her Hand
Graham Whitfield's office was on the fourth floor of a building that smelled like old paper and central heating.
He was seventy-one, semi-retired, and had handled Hargrove family legal matters for thirty years before Eleanor had quietly steered the estate work toward a younger firm after the funeral.
He had not complained.
He had not forgotten.
He read Rosa's copy of the codicil without speaking.
Then he read it again.
"This is your father's handwriting," he said.
"Yes."
"And these witnesses." He tapped the two signatures.
"Arthur Bellamy I know.
The other — Margaret Forsythe.
Do you know her?"
"Not yet."
Graham set the paper down carefully, as if it were fragile.
"If both witnesses are alive and willing to testify, this document is valid.
It supersedes the will Eleanor has been administering." He looked at Ethan over his glasses.
"Which means every distribution she has made from that estate in the past eighteen months has been made without legal authority."
"How much are we talking about?"
Graham opened a drawer, pulled out a folder, and slid it across the desk.
"I've kept my own records.
Out of habit." He paused.
"Or perhaps out of something closer to suspicion." He let Ethan open the folder.
"Approximately nine hundred thousand pounds has moved out of the estate accounts since probate was granted.
Some of it to legitimate expenses.
Some of it—" He stopped.
Ethan looked up.
"Some of it to a private account registered to a company I cannot find any record of," Graham said.
"I tried.
Twice."
Ethan sat back.
"She's been taking it," he said.
"It appears so.
Yes."
The office was very quiet.
"I need you to file an emergency application to freeze the remaining estate assets," Ethan said.
"Tonight if possible.
Tomorrow morning at the latest."
"I can do that."
"And I need you to contact Arthur Bellamy.
Claire has his number.
He's expecting to be contacted."
"Understood." Graham folded his hands on the desk.
"Ethan.
Eleanor will know by morning that something is moving.
She has contacts at the probate registry.
She has contacts everywhere." He paused.
"She will not sit still."
"I know."
"She may attempt to destroy the original document."
"She already has it.
She took Claire's bag at the house."
Graham was quiet for a moment.
"Then we need to move before she realizes the copy exists." He reached for his phone.
"I'll make the calls now.
You should go back to the hospital.
Be with your sister." He looked at him steadily.
"And Ethan — the message you received.
The unknown number.
Don't ignore it."
"I'm not ignoring it."
"Do you know what it means?
The part about your father changing the will back?"
Ethan was quiet for three seconds.
"Not yet."
He was back at the hospital by ten o'clock.
The corridor outside Claire's room was empty.
He pushed the door open quietly, in case she was sleeping.
She wasn't.
She was sitting up, and she was not alone.
Eleanor was standing at the foot of Claire's bed.
No coat.
No bag.
Her arms at her sides, her posture completely composed.
She had walked into a hospital room at ten o'clock at night and she looked like she owned the building.
Ethan stopped in the doorway.
"How did you get in here?" he said.
"I'm listed as next of kin," Eleanor said.
"For both of you.
Your father arranged it years ago.
No one stopped me."
Claire had not moved.
Her face was unreadable.
"Get out," Ethan said.
"In a moment." Eleanor turned to look at him fully.
"I want to talk to both of you.
Together.
Before this goes any further." She paused.
"I want to make an offer."
"There is no offer."
"Hear me out." Her voice was perfectly calm.
"The document Claire brought today — yes, I have it.
And yes, I know what it says.
But there are things about that document that neither of you understand.
Things your father chose not to tell you." She looked at Claire.
"Things about why he changed his mind."
Claire spoke for the first time.
"He didn't change his mind.
You buried the codicil."
"I protected this family," Eleanor said.
"The way I have always protected this family.
From decisions your father made when he was not well.
When he was being — influenced."
"By who?" Ethan said.
Eleanor looked at him.
"By Claire."
The monitor beeped.
"That's a lie," Claire said.
Her voice was flat and steady.
"Is it?" Eleanor reached into the pocket of her jacket and placed something on the end of the bed.
A photograph.
"Your father and Claire.
Taken three weeks before he wrote that codicil.
At a meeting neither of them told me about." She paused.
"With a man named Daniel Forsythe."
Ethan looked at the photograph.
Then at Claire.
Claire's expression had changed.
Not guilt.
But something close to it — the look of someone who had been keeping a secret that was about to become complicated.
"Who is Daniel Forsythe?" Ethan asked.
Neither woman answered immediately.
May you like
Eleanor smiled.
"That," she said, "is exactly the right question."
