So often has it been said, and with such wisdom, that where there’s a will, there’s relations. In this case, the relation was Damien Samuel Calgary, medical student, delayed by an upset luggage cart at the station and hurrying through the slush on the solicitor’s lawn.
“Germaine!” – his cousin, the sister of the deceased. “Germaine, wait for me!”
“I can’t hear you!” she called back, with every sign of delight, and disappeared inside.
Damien swore what oaths he could manage until he made it, gasping, to the side-door. After knocking the mud off his shoes and attempting to clean up his trouser-cuffs, he let himself in.
“…fallen to me, as Mr Marigolds’ personal executio- er, chosen executor, to oversee the disbursement of his property. If we might all take our seats, I shall begin the reading of the will.”
The solicitor was a narrow, wheezy man, with thin, dark hair, who offered reassuring smiles to the sisters Marigold before he took up the papers before him.
“First, may I say that it pleases me to have so many members of the family here today to honour Lucifer’s memory. He wil- would be pleased to know you all could come. Now, traditionally, as you know, one’s mother and father are one’s parents. However, it has been uniformly ruled in court that the written letter of law overrules the dictates of tradition. Therefore, for the purpose of this legal will, the deceased’s parents-in-law shall be considered his parents, and his brother-in-law his brother. Thus, Violet, your husband is to be considered your brother, and you take on his parents, while he gains the late Mr & Mrs Marigolds as his own parents, making them your parents-in-law. Unfortunately, as this section specifically begins ‘To my brother-in-law, Horatio Radcliffe,’ I must consider it legally invalid and press on.”
“To my cousin Wendy, who always did so well in school, I leave my collection of first-edition French grammar textbooks, which preserve the original references to spanking and oral sex.”
Damien leaned over Mr Radcliffe’s empty seat (Horatio having drowned in the Channel some months previous) and whispered to Germaine, “why on earth did the textbooks ever have those?”
“They were a first print, Dammy-Damsels!” – she delighted in nicknaming him – “they hadn’t got all the kinks out yet!”
“To young Marten, who had such an unhappy childhood, I leave my teapot and my box of fragrant Hungarian balsams, on the third shelf down, in the bathroom cupboard…”
Again, Damien leaned over – “What was so unhappy about his childhood?”
“He came from disabusive parents. His father would spend hours every night, just debunking him over and over.. by the time anyone realised what was happening, he had hardly any preconceptions left at all.”
“How dreadful! What did the authorities do when they found out?”
“Well, the parents fled to Warsaw, leaving him behind… Aunt and Uncle Elliot took him in, and they’ve been taking him to credulity classes at the rectory. He’ll believe any old nonsense now.”
The solicitor coughed, annoyed – or perhaps it was just his troubled lungs – and glowered at Germaine until she had to hide behind her fan. “Might I remind all present that we are brought here by our dear departed friend’s secret missio- sacred message. I trust you shall respect that. If I may continue… And finally, to my Aunt Morag, who saved my life in two distinct and unrelated incidents of attack by rhinoceros, I leave my own personal bedroom slippers, embossed with the seal of the Hermetic Order of the Gilded Pangolin, on the condition that she never reveal their secrets to any unenlightened mind.”
The attendants sat, shocked, for a moment, before Violet gathered herself and spoke. “And the, ah, residue of the estate?”
“Oh, not a concern – it came off with a bit of soapy water.”
“No-oo, I meant… well.. what the hell is happening to his money? He had two million pounds in the Merdle & Mycotia Bank, last time I checked. Who gets it? Did he leave any to the Ladies Revolutionary War Fund?”
“Ah, yes, well…” The solicitor hesitated, peering at the document. “He hasn’t left it to anybody. After all, ah-heh, he’ll need it when he gets back from Russia… I mean from… dying, and… he… oh, balls.”
He was also a raging fop. He was already known as an exquisite dude on his entry into the New York State Assembly in his early twenties; a tight-trousered fashion plate, all stripes and hair oil. His style got more butch as his political ambition grew, but he always retained a taste for the dramatic, a certain strength of detail, and, of course, his signature pince-nez. Whatever his station, TR could find something smart to wear. His spell as a Dakota rancher, he illustrated with an elaborate country suit, bedecked top to toe with tassels and furs. When the Spanish-American War broke out and he felt it was his patriotic duty to be on the front lines, his cobbled-together uniform, with slouch hat and enormous cavalry gloves, became a personal and national icon.