Last Will & Testament

     A dead silence followed these words. The ticking of the grandfather clock seemed suddenly louder than it had any right to be, and it echoed in the dusty hall, full of magnificent forbidding furniture covered with dustsheets.

     The banker cleared his throat and spoke again. "I'm sure there's nothing... that is, I'm sure she's a very charming woman. Mr. Grievous would never have married her if she hadn't been perfectly respectable."

     "Nobody ever said she wasn't... then," murmured the doctor.

     "We can't stay here all night," the lawyer pointed out dryly. He was a blue Lupe of about thirty, with a dove grey waistcoat and rather heavy-lidded blue eyes. "I would have thought –" with a glance at the doctor that caused that venerable gentleman to turn away slightly and clear his throat "– that it was the doctor's province to deliver first news. Still, I am sure you know your profession better than I do. And if," he turned to the banker, "if you really have no accounts to settle with Mrs. Grievous, then I guess your duty is done here as well, isn't it?"

     The banker, a young brown Bori who had a nervous tic of twitching his fingers, swallowed. "I think you are quite... that is... quite right. A medical man is needed here. Nobody really wants to hear about the state of their accounts, directly after a death."

     "I have nothing new of medical interest to report," the doctor said evasively.

     The lawyer had expected nothing more of the banker, but he was surprised by the doctor. The middle-aged Kyrii looked so serious, stolid and official that it was almost embarrassing to hear him in such a breach of professionalism. Come to that, the lawyer was hardly enthused himself by the idea of going upstairs, but he was at least rational not to give in to his uneasiness. "All right then," he said, taking up his briefcase from where he had set it on a decaying old armchair. "Looks like it'll be me, then, doesn't it?"

     "Oh, absolutely the right decision," the banker agreed fervently. "I'm so glad we could settle it to everyone's satisfaction. I'll be going then, if that's all right with everyone?"

     The doctor at least had the grace to look ashamed. "Yes, that would probably be best. Well, I'll be seeing you both tomorrow then."

     "It's been a pleasure, gentleman," the lawyer told them sardonically, and he started upstairs.

     In a way, he couldn't blame them for their reluctance. There was something ominous about this house, and no mistaking it, especially now that Phineas Grievous was dead. And even before that, the house had not been at its best for some years. Since his health had begun to fail, he hadn't been able to keep up with the running of the place, and only a few of the downstairs rooms were kept really habitable. The lawyer wondered what would happen now. He hadn't seen the will yet himself – that was what he was here for – but he assumed that it would all go to Mrs. Grievous. And that in itself was an interesting proposition.

     Mr. Grievous had been in his fiftieth year when he had died yesterday. His health had never been good, but he had made a good deal of money in his younger years and his estate was robust. As for his wife, Mrs. Lorraine Grievous, the lawyer understood that she was much younger. Twenty years, perhaps, though he couldn't say exactly because he had never met her. The truth was, no one had; she hadn't been seen in public for nearly a decade. Everybody knew that this was because there was, well, something wrong with her – only nobody knew exactly what. Some suggested that she had always been strange, some that it had been more recent, an attack of the nerves after marrying Mr. Grievous. There were even strange whispers that it had something to do with the house, that Mr. Grievous's mother had suffered from a similar complaint.

     But the lawyer didn't believe that, of course. It was just an old, empty house on Halloween night.

     Somehow the ticking of the grandfather seemed to follow him all the way up the stairs. Each one creaked, disturbing the heavy silence of the house, and somewhere in the walls there was a faint scratching sound. He recoiled with disgust from the bannister after sinking his hand into a cobweb. At the top of the staircase a gigantic portrait of Phineas Grievous sat waiting for him, the old grey Lenny watching him with disapproving eyes. Somehow he felt like an intruder.

     The door was ajar at the end of the hall, and a light shone through the crack.

     The lawyer was nearly then when a voice came from the room, a soft sweet voice with a strange hint of deepness. "Hello? Is somebody there?"

     He hastily came forward into the room, and paused for a moment in the doorway, overwhelmed by the powerful scent of something heavy and floral. Overwhelmed, too, by what he saw. He didn't know exactly what he had been expecting, but if this was Mrs. Grievous, she was not it.

     In stark contrast to the rest of the house, this room was elegant and luxurious and perfectly clean, with an inviting fire cracking in the hearth and a soft white rug under his feet. And in the chair by the fire sat one of the loveliest women he had ever seen.

     Mrs. Grievous – for he was sure it must be she – was a slender, beautiful red Aisha in a white dress. Around her neck was a single glowing ruby, and it caught the fire's light until the lawyer could hardly look anywhere else.

     But he realized after a moment that he had to say something, so he began his introduction. "I am –"

     "Oh yes," she said, "I know."

     This was so unexpected that he simply went silent, trying to gather his wits. How could she know that, he wondered, when she's never seen me before in her life? He supposed one of the servants must have overheard them talking and told her.

     His lapse in professionalism, however, was brief. "Well then, I'm sure you know I am here to read your late husband's will." He settled into the armchair across from hers, unsnapping his briefcase and taking out a single sealed piece of paper. "I assume you'll want to hear it now?"

     Mrs. Grievous smiled ever so slightly. "I suppose I may as well."

     "Is there anyone else who should hear it? Friends of the family, or...?"

     "Oh, no," she said. "Nobody that I can think of. We never had any children, you know."

     "Very well then." The lawyer cleared his throat and began to read. He was surprised that it was so short; Mr. Grievous had been rich enough that he would have expected several pages at least, but it barely covered half of one. "'I, Phineas Henry Grievous, being of sound mind and body, do hereby make this Last Will & Testament and revoke all prior.

     "'I have no living children, and in my thirtieth year I married Lorraine Grievous, then Lorraine Wilson. I have one living brother, Richard Percival Grievous.

     "'My estate in its entirety, I do hereby bequeath to...' No," the lawyer broke off, "this can't be right." But he read on, and it was. It was the shortest will he had ever seen. Mrs. Grievous simply looked on with an expression of faint amusement, and so in the end he just continued. "'I do hereby bequeath to Richard Percival Grievous, with all of its interest as well as any and all encumbrances. I, Phineas Henry Grievous, do hereby sign this Will in Neovia on September the twenty-fourth of the Year 13."

     Below was the signature of Mr. Grievous, and the signatures of the witnesses. There was no addendum, no codicil – nothing. The lawyer was dumfounded. "Mrs. Grievous," he stammered, "I...I don't know what... I was given to understand, many times, that you were the sole beneficiary, but I did not oversee this will."

     "It's perfectly all right," she told him. Her tone was soft and sweet, but there was something flat and indifferent about it that he had begun to notice some minutes ago. "I hope you won't trouble yourself about it."

     "But where will you go? I hope you have some kind of arrangements. I find it difficult to believe that Mr. Grievous would have left you with nothing like this, he always struck me as a very considerate man..."

     "Perhaps you did not know him as well as I did." Something about the warm fire, and the heavy flowery smell of incense, and the glowing ruby at Mrs. Grievous's throat was making him sleepy. "But then, perhaps he never really knew me. It's funny, isn't it, what you learn about people once they're dead."

     The lawyer stood up, and she offered him a soft slender white-gloved hand. "I'm sorry I couldn't have been of more help, Mrs. Grievous."

     "Really, now, you mustn't worry about it. It was a great pleasure meeting you."

     "The pleasure was all mine, Mrs. Grievous," he assured her.

     "Was it?" She smiled. "Well, good night, and happy Halloween."

     There seemed to be nothing else to stay, so the lawyer retreated down the long hall and the creaking stairs, feeling the watchful eyes of Mr. Grievous on his back as he went. He was so preoccupied by the strangeness of what had just happened that he entirely failed to notice the young yellow Kau maid at the bottom of the stairs until he nearly ran into her. He started back, and she jumped a little as well.

     "I'm sorry if I scared you, sir, I didn't mean to. Are you the lawyer then?"

     "Yes," he replied, straightening his tie a little. "Yes, that's me. I've just been up to see Mrs. Grievous, and..."

     The maid's eyes grew wide and she turned uncomfortably away. "Oh dear, and you'll be wondering why she was nowhere to be found. I never did understand why it had to be such a secret, but Mr. Grievous did insist, and, well, now that he's dead I suppose it doesn't make any difference... I told the housekeeper we should've let you know before."

     Maybe his first reaction should have been to correct the maid, but the lawyer was a cautious and deliberate man and his curiosity was piqued. "Should have let us know what?"

     "Oh, well, sir..." She twisted her apron around in her hands. "Mrs. Grievous isn't with us anymore, you see. She's been dead for near on two months now."

The End