6. THE TREASURE CHEST

Braxton's inheritance.

Chantelle stood by the back door to Baxter Spendthrift’s comfortable bungalow and it crossed her mind that this wasn’t like the kind of back door that she knew. It was taller and wider, and it opened into a porch the size of a room in any normal home. The old man had slowly made his way across it and through a second door until he was out of sight, and she sighed.

Several minutes passed and she was on the verge of deciding to leave the spot where he had suggested she wait and return down the lengthy path that led to the orchard when she became aware of a scraping sound, and it was coming from inside the house, as though something heavy was being dragged along on stone flags.

Then the old man came back into sight, struggling as he dragged what looked like a heavy chest with metal bindings towards where she stood. And that chest, not huge by any stretch of the imagination, but solidly heavy in the way that something that has age and substance to it might seem solidly heavy.

He was half way across the huge porch and clearly out of breath when he paused and looked towards Chantelle.

“I know you don’t want to step into my home, but I’m only in the porch and this is heavy. How about meeting me half way? Will that still inspire your father to knock my brains out if he finds out?”

He looked at her sadly as she smiled faintly at him.

There had been that other woman, what was her name? Rosemary, yes, that was it, standing in exactly the same place that this young Chantelle was standing now.

The funeral was over, drinks had been taken in The Horse’s Mane, an exclusive enough pub, and he had started to make his way home. He’d chosen to walk though he could easily have brought his car, but there were things for him to think about and walking was as good a way as any of clearing his mind, making way for serious matters.

Like what to do about the letter.

He’d been given a letter by his father’s solicitor after the funeral, addressed to him in his father’s hand, and he was reluctant to open it. He didn’t know why he should feel like that, but he did. So, unopened, it was in his breast pocket waiting for the right moment.

He knew his father had sufficient wealth for them to have ridden out the storm of the recent war without suffering the least of hardships. Wealth had given his father a position of some importance in the war cabinet, and that in turn had smoothed away some of the more tiresome shortages brought about by a wartime economy.

So there was likely to be substance in the will that was due to be read on Friday next, the funeral and subsequent burial of the old man having taken place as soon as it could have been after his death. But he knew the gist of the document because there could only be one, that everything would pass to him. It had to: there was nobody else, and father had never been the sort to make charitable donations to anyone or anything, or pretend that he cared about those less fortunate than himself. No: the Spendthrift fortune, whatever that may be, would pass to him.

He needed to work out just what that might be, though. His father had been worse than secretive when it came to money. There had always been enough for whatever emergency might arise, no questions asked. But surely the money-pit wasn’t bottomless?

“I’ll walk with you if you like,” called a voice from behind him just as he was thinking it might be the right time to open the letter in his pocket.

It was Rosemary. He was fond of Rosemary, who had been a friend of a friend since his days at public school, now a few years in the past. The friend had been George, and George had been killed during the war, not, unfortunately, by enemy activity but by a burglar caught in the act and foolishly challenged by George. The burglar had shot him but not got away scot-free, was caught and subsequently hanged. Rosemary had been distraught and it had fallen to Braxton to comfort her. Now, it seemed, she wanted to comfort him.

“It’s nice to see you,” he replied uncertainly.

“I was so sorry to hear about it,” she said, her voice warm and genuine, “it came so suddenly.”

“Father kept his condition to himself, but he knew about his heart,” Braxton said, “you’d have thought he’d have told me at least!”

“And that was it? His heart?” asked Rosemary, and he nodded his reply.

They arrived at the orchard gate having taken the more scenic route back to what was now his bungalow.

“I’ve got a letter from him,” he mumbled, “the solicitor chappie gave it to me back there.”

“What does it say?” asked Rosemary, not really curious but knowing it was the kind of question she ought to ask.

“I’ve not read it yet,” he admitted as they reached the gate.

“There’s no time like the present,” suggested the woman, herself somewhat curious that Braxton should have an unread letter from a dead man.

He pulled the envelope from his pocket and couldn’t help sniffing it. It smelled of nothing more exciting than very faintly of the pipe tobacco beloved by his father. Then he carefully opened it and pulled a single sheet of paper out.

And he read what was written in the stylish hand of his deceased father.

You will know that I’m dead because you’ve been given this note, it read, and this is to tell you that behind the top drawer of my desk you will find the key, and in the wooden chest by the filing cabinet you will find a keyhole. Marry the two.

“He’s not even signed it,” he muttered, handing it to Rosemary because it didn’t seem the sort of letter that needed to be kept to himself. There was nothing personal about it at all. But maybe it did suggest that the source of his wealth was in that wooden chest. He knew the one because he’d often wondered what was in it. But you didn't ask father that sort of question. He told you things in his own good time and if you showed curiosity he put that that own good time further away. It had always been his way.

“What’s in the chest?” asked Rosemary.

“I’ll go and fetch it,” he said, “come on! You can have a brandy if it’s anything exciting!”

“You mean that you can!” laughed Rosemary.

And Braxton, looking at Chantelle as she gingerly made her way to where he was standing, gasping for breath, remembered the rest of that afternoon with Rosemary. They’d opened the chest, read a second note that was inside it on top of more keys than you’d think the chest could hold, and helped themselves to more than the one brandy as a consequence.

“This is what my son must inherit,” he told Chantelle, “all of it, and it’s an awful lot. Not even I know just how much it is, and it’ll be up to him to find out.”

“I didn't know you had a son,” she said, wondering why she was there, in that huge porch and looking at a sturdy wooden chest with its metal binding and ornate keyhole.

“I haven’t,” he said sadly, “which is where you come in, dear girl. I ask again, will you marry me? Will you be the mother of my son?”

© Peter Rogerson 05.12.19