They had taken a taxi directly from Paddington Station to the solicitor’s office in Lincoln’s Inn. There they had been greeted by the elderly Mr Parker, who shook their hands warmly and led them through the elegantly furnished chambers and into his private office. As they had followed him, Samantha had been aware of heads turning. The clerks and assistants were watching them and that gave her an inkling of what she was about to hear. It was like being famous. She had seen people behave the same way when Melissa James came into the room. They know about us, she thought. And what they know is going to change our lives.

She had been right. She wondered why they had even gone back to this room in Alleyn’s, a tatty hotel in a Victorian terrace in Earls Court. It wasn’t even a hotel really, just two houses knocked together, with cheap carpets and the smell of frying oil and old laundry. Their bedroom was small and they weren’t going to get much sleep, not with the traffic thundering past outside. Shouldn’t they have moved into the Ritz or the Dorchester?

Seven hundred thousand pounds.

It was like winning the pools – not that Samantha ever gambled. It was more money than she had ever dreamed of. More money than she could even understand.

The kindly Mr Parker had explained it all to them. First of all, there would have to be probate. They would appoint an agent to realise all Mrs Campion’s assets, including the flat in Manhattan, the art collection, the stocks and shares. Although Samantha was the sole relative to benefit, Mrs Campion had left money to a library, a children’s home and several charities. But at the end of the day, a sum approaching seven figures would be sent to the young woman she remembered so fondly and who was now Mrs Samantha Collins. It was beyond belief.

‘I had no idea!’ Leonard said. For once, even he seemed stunned into submission. ‘I mean, when we got that letter I thought it might be a few grand. I know I joked with you. But I never thought, not really … ’

‘What are we going to do?’

‘I don’t know, my dear. It’s your money. You’ll have to decide.’

The two of them stared at the food that was rapidly congealing on the plates.

‘Maybe I can suggest one thing,’ Leonard went on.

‘What?’

‘Well, we’re behaving as if it’s bad news. Look at the two of us, sitting here in silence, not even looking each other in the eye. Shouldn’t we be celebrating?’

‘I don’t know. Money—’

‘I hope you’re not going to say it’s the root of all evil.’

‘No.’

‘Or that it can’t buy you happiness. Both those things might be true, my dear, but just think what it can do for us. Bedside Manor’s falling to pieces. We’ve got that leak in the roof, and all the carpets upstairs need replacing. We always buy Mark and Agnes clothes that are two sizes too big so they can grow into them, and it’s been ages since you treated yourself to a new dress.’

‘You’re right.’ She reached out and took hold of his hand. ‘I’m sorry, Leonard. Sometimes I think you must find it very difficult being married to me.’

‘Not really. You were the only one who’d have me!’

She laughed. ‘I’m going to use this money for both of us, for the whole family. And I’ll give some to the church too.’

‘The organ fund.’

‘Yes.’ Suddenly she was serious. ‘I don’t think the Lord would have sent us this money if he didn’t want us to enjoy it.’

‘For richer and for poorer. That’s what we promised. And if we’re richer now, it’s hardly our fault!’

‘We’re going to start right now.’ She let go of his hand, taking her knife and fork and laying them determinedly on her plate. ‘I don’t think we should change hotels. It’s only one night and anyway, we’re not going to splash out any money until I really know it’s in the bank. But nor am I going to sit here and eat this slop. I’m sure there must be a little trattoria or something in the neighbourhood.’

‘I think I saw one near the station.’

‘Then let’s go out.’

‘A night on the tiles!’ Leonard Collins got up and kissed his wife.

It was only later, as they left the hotel arm in arm, that Samantha turned to him. ‘What about Algernon?’ she said.

‘What about him?’

‘We’re going to have to tell him, Len. If it’s as much money as Mr Parker said, he’s going to find out anyway.’ She sighed. ‘And really, I think we ought to share some of it with him. After all, we grew up together. It doesn’t seem fair.’

‘Well, that’s up to you, Sam. He’s your brother. But if I may say so, it’s not what your aunt wanted and you know he’ll only blow it on – well, you know the sort of thing he gets up to.’ She said nothing so he continued. ‘If you want my advice, you won’t say anything yet. If Algernon finds out before everything’s been sorted out, he’ll only make trouble. I say we wait until the dust has settled.’

There was a trattoria on the corner just ahead of them. It looked homely and welcoming, with yellow light spilling out of the windows onto the pavement. It still seemed to be open.

‘Spaghetti and meatballs!’ Leonard Collins exclaimed.

‘And a glass of fizz!’

‘Now you’re talking!’

They hurried in.

IV

At that moment, Algernon Marsh was sitting in his bedroom – or rather, the bedroom he had been given all too temporarily – at Church Lodge. He had a large glass of whisky in one hand. In the other, he was holding the letter he had found in the bottom drawer of his brother-in-law’s desk. He had read it several times. ‘Joyce Campion, married to Harlan Goodis. A bequest … ’

He hadn’t exactly been snooping. That would suggest an actual interest, a desire to find out more about Samantha and Leonard’s private life. The truth was, apart from the occasional sanctuary they offered him, the free meals and the booze, he had no interest in them at all. A slightly bumptious country doctor in a dead-end town married to a religious maniac who probably made his life a misery – that was how Algernon saw them.

But he had known something was up. From the moment he had arrived at the house, Samantha and Leonard hadn’t been behaving normally. There had been whispered conversations, exchanged glances, a sudden silence whenever he entered the room. And then, only that morning, he had come into the kitchen to find Samantha sitting at the table, reading a letter. She had folded it away the moment she’d seen him, but not before he had noticed the formal letterhead and the smart, white envelope it had come in. It was a solicitor’s letter. He had recognised it at once.

‘Bad news?’ he had asked solicitously, pretending not to take too close an interest.

‘No. It’s not important.’

It was the way she had folded the letter away that had alerted him to the fact that she was lying: closing it up and sliding it underneath her cardigan, keeping it close to her heart in more ways than one. And then there was this trip to London, suddenly announced, as if the decision to travel five hours each way and stay overnight in some cheap hotel was completely normal behaviour.

The moment he had found himself alone, he had made a phone call. He had a friend in London who had spent three years working in the advertising industry in New York before a misunderstanding about his expenses allowance had resulted in his immediate firing. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Algernon was sure he had worked for Harlan Goodis.

‘No. I never worked for him,’ Terry had told him. ‘But I met him a couple of times and everybody knew him. He did campaigns for Minute Maid and Paper Mate and he helped launch Best Western Hotels. He started as a copywriter but by the end he had his own agency on Madison Avenue.’

‘How rich was he?’

There’d been a snigger at the end of the line. ‘Why are you interested, Algie? It’s a bit late. He’s been dead two years.’

‘I know.’

‘He was loaded. He had an apartment looking out over Central Park. Not just an apartment – a penthouse! He drove a Duesenberg convertible. Beautiful car. I wouldn’t mind getting my hands on it, I can tell you. I don’t know how much he sold the agency for, but I could probably find out.’

‘Could you do some digging for me?’

‘What’s in it for me?’

‘Come on, Terry. You owe me.’ There was silence at the other end. ‘I’ll buy you lunch at the club. But we’ve got to move quickly on this. It could be important. He left all his money to his widow, a woman called Joyce Campion. Maybe there’s a public record of the amount.’

‘There are some people I can call. But they’re in America. You’ll have to pay me back.’

‘Just do it,’ Algernon had said and put down the receiver.

SOLE BENEFICIARY.