more sober paper
pointed out that the days of witch-hunts were over. Nothing could be gained by
persecuting the Murchie family. Plainly, the murder had not been planned by the
interested party, her son Daniel. Equally obvious was it that the will had been
changed in the ordinary course of the unfortunate Mrs Murchie’s illness: she
had not changed her will for fifty years. What more logical than that she would
wish to leave her fortune to the son who was of right mind? Her three
daughters, who, it was understood, in a prior action decided to contest the
will, had now withdrawn their case. The question had been settled out of
court. Reasonable people might now agree to leave the Murchies to their grief.
The
fuss blew over by the end of the year. Dan developed eye-strain and wore dark
glasses nearly all day, even in the Scottish winter. Greta paid up her racing
debts; got her brooch out of pawn, and sent cheques to Flora and Eunice,
lamenting the fact that their aunts, by contesting their grandmother’s will,
had ‘robbed’ them. ‘Think how much more we could have done as a family’, wrote
Greta, ‘if those aunts of yours hadn’t been so avaricious. Margaret is
wonderful. She refuses to touch a penny of her grandmother’s fortune. She says
she’s happier that way.’
The
fuss blew over, and two years later, when Hurley Reed and Chris Donovan were
planning their dinner party, and various of their friends were discussing the
newly married William Damien and Margaret, the Murchies’ name was only
something a few of them remembered seeing in the papers. Murchie or some name
like that. Some scandal, but probably, anyway, not the same Murchies as
Margaret’s family.
‘If
there is anything I could not bear to do,’ said Margaret to her father, ‘it is
to profit by darling Granny’s death.’
Dan
looked at his daughter through his dark glasses, as a rabbit might look at a
stoat: dismay, fear, despair. If she had been greedy for her grandmother’s
money, now her father’s, at least he could have understood. But beautiful
Margaret was here detaching herself from any blame. But was she to blame? Dan
felt, not with his mind, but deeply within the marrow of his bones, that she had
sent the maniac to her grandmother.
‘Not a
penny would I touch,’ said Margaret. Dan went cold. He was sure his daughter
meant it.
Magnus
again came to St Andrews for the Sunday, dressed in his gaudy clothes. ‘Let’s
go for a walk,’ said Dan; which was unusual, for it was known he didn’t like to
be seen with Magnus, dressed like that. Who would? Only Margaret. She didn’t
care what Uncle Magnus looked like.
They
possessed a stretch of woodland, narrow but long. Greta from the window saw
them walking between the trees, with large Magnus’s bright blues and reds
flashing. She thought perhaps it was time, now that the financial side was
settled, that Dan gave up Magnus as a guru and a guide. It was weakness on
Dan’s part; madness. They were not a mentally stable family, those Murchies.
What
Dan was consulting his brother about, there in the woods walking along the edge
of the dank pond, was Margaret. ‘Do you think her capable of murdering Mama?’
‘I
think her capable of anything,’ roared Magnus. ‘An extremely capable girl, very
full of ability, power.’
‘But
murder? Provoking a murder? Causing someone else to do it?’
‘Oh,
that, yes, I dare say.’
‘Magnus,
this is completely beyond me. It’s terrible. She refuses to touch any of our
money, now. She won’t touch her grandmother’s money, not a penny.’
‘She is
naturally a girl of high principle. I would have expected that.’
‘Sometimes
I wonder, Magnus, if you advise us right.’
‘Who
else have you got?’ Magnus bellowed. ‘Third-rate lawyers, timid little bankers
from London. No guide whatsoever for a Scot.’
‘Magnus,
keep your voice lower. Hush it.’ Magnus lowered his voice. ‘Who do you have’,
he said, ‘but me? Out of my
pointed out that the days of witch-hunts were over. Nothing could be gained by
persecuting the Murchie family. Plainly, the murder had not been planned by the
interested party, her son Daniel. Equally obvious was it that the will had been
changed in the ordinary course of the unfortunate Mrs Murchie’s illness: she
had not changed her will for fifty years. What more logical than that she would
wish to leave her fortune to the son who was of right mind? Her three
daughters, who, it was understood, in a prior action decided to contest the
will, had now withdrawn their case. The question had been settled out of
court. Reasonable people might now agree to leave the Murchies to their grief.
The
fuss blew over by the end of the year. Dan developed eye-strain and wore dark
glasses nearly all day, even in the Scottish winter. Greta paid up her racing
debts; got her brooch out of pawn, and sent cheques to Flora and Eunice,
lamenting the fact that their aunts, by contesting their grandmother’s will,
had ‘robbed’ them. ‘Think how much more we could have done as a family’, wrote
Greta, ‘if those aunts of yours hadn’t been so avaricious. Margaret is
wonderful. She refuses to touch a penny of her grandmother’s fortune. She says
she’s happier that way.’
The
fuss blew over, and two years later, when Hurley Reed and Chris Donovan were
planning their dinner party, and various of their friends were discussing the
newly married William Damien and Margaret, the Murchies’ name was only
something a few of them remembered seeing in the papers. Murchie or some name
like that. Some scandal, but probably, anyway, not the same Murchies as
Margaret’s family.
‘If
there is anything I could not bear to do,’ said Margaret to her father, ‘it is
to profit by darling Granny’s death.’
Dan
looked at his daughter through his dark glasses, as a rabbit might look at a
stoat: dismay, fear, despair. If she had been greedy for her grandmother’s
money, now her father’s, at least he could have understood. But beautiful
Margaret was here detaching herself from any blame. But was she to blame? Dan
felt, not with his mind, but deeply within the marrow of his bones, that she had
sent the maniac to her grandmother.
‘Not a
penny would I touch,’ said Margaret. Dan went cold. He was sure his daughter
meant it.
Magnus
again came to St Andrews for the Sunday, dressed in his gaudy clothes. ‘Let’s
go for a walk,’ said Dan; which was unusual, for it was known he didn’t like to
be seen with Magnus, dressed like that. Who would? Only Margaret. She didn’t
care what Uncle Magnus looked like.
They
possessed a stretch of woodland, narrow but long. Greta from the window saw
them walking between the trees, with large Magnus’s bright blues and reds
flashing. She thought perhaps it was time, now that the financial side was
settled, that Dan gave up Magnus as a guru and a guide. It was weakness on
Dan’s part; madness. They were not a mentally stable family, those Murchies.
What
Dan was consulting his brother about, there in the woods walking along the edge
of the dank pond, was Margaret. ‘Do you think her capable of murdering Mama?’
‘I
think her capable of anything,’ roared Magnus. ‘An extremely capable girl, very
full of ability, power.’
‘But
murder? Provoking a murder? Causing someone else to do it?’
‘Oh,
that, yes, I dare say.’
‘Magnus,
this is completely beyond me. It’s terrible. She refuses to touch any of our
money, now. She won’t touch her grandmother’s money, not a penny.’
‘She is
naturally a girl of high principle. I would have expected that.’
‘Sometimes
I wonder, Magnus, if you advise us right.’
‘Who
else have you got?’ Magnus bellowed. ‘Third-rate lawyers, timid little bankers
from London. No guide whatsoever for a Scot.’
‘Magnus,
keep your voice lower. Hush it.’ Magnus lowered his voice. ‘Who do you have’,
he said, ‘but me? Out of my
Similar Books
