The Doleson Estate

“You all know why we have gathered here this afternoon,” said Mr Battridge. The old solicitor looked over the table with a gravitas that suggested he was only practicing family law until a seat on the Supreme Court should become available.

“I understand why we’re gathered,” said my sister Avril from the seat beside me, “But I don’t understand why it has to be here. This place is a dump.” I disagreed. The old pub had stonework dating back to the fourteen hundreds. The interior panelling had obviously been renovated in the twentieth century, but was still in the original style. It was an architectural gemstone and probably worth a small fortune.

“Oh, I don’t know,” chuckled Richard, my brother. “It’s warm enough, and at least the drinks are cheap.” It was only two o’clock, but Richard’s relaxed smirk suggested he’d taken full advantage of the cheap drinks already. Then again, any pub in the village would have been cheaper than the bars he and his stockbroker friends frequented in London.

“The terms of the late Mr Christopher Doleson’s will stipulated that the final reading take place here, in the Royal Northbridge Hotel,” explained Mr Battridge. “It was, I believe, a place of some emotional significance to your father.”

“Yes, the old bastard no doubt got thoroughly plastered here twice a week,” said Avril. “Let’s get on with it.”

“I’d be delighted,” said Mr Battridge, without a hint of delight, “but all interested parties are not yet present.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Richard. “We’re all here. Who are we waiting on?” I cleared my throat and spoke for the first time since arriving.

“I think you’re forgetting Natalie.”

Our half-sister was not a popular point of discussion at family gatherings. In the final stages of Mother’s illness, her live-in nurse had been an invaluable help to us all, especially Father. It wasn’t until she fell pregnant three weeks before our mother died that we understood exactly how far her “services” had extended. The nurse had been dismissed at once, of course, but Father had insisted on taking financial responsibility for his illegitimate daughter until she had come of age and gained employment as a secretary to a physiotherapist in Liverpool. Through no wrongdoing of her own, the fastest way to end a conversation in the Doleson household was to mention Natalie’s name.

“Speak of the devil,” muttered Richard with a nod to the door.

She entered quietly, as she always did. Her pale face and dark eyes were calm, but she avoided eye contact with any of us until she had taken her seat. Richard continued to glare at her, while Avril ignored her.

“That girl has no place in these negotiations,” Avril said.

“I’m afraid I’d have to agree, there,” added Richard. “I mean, it’s one thing to take financial responsibility for an illegitimate child after being caught banging the nurse; it’s quite another to include her in discussions of family inheritance.” Natalie’s face reddened slightly, but didn’t move.

“She doesn’t belong here,” insisted Avril.

“On the contrary,” said Mr Battridge. “In the last weeks of his life Mr Doleson went to quite some trouble to ensure Miss Evans would be included at this reading. As I understand it, he placed his will inside the house safe and mailed the only key to Miss Evans to make certain the will could not be read without contacting her first.

“I don’t care if he mailed her the deed to the house,” said Avril, “that girl isn’t getting another penny of my father’s money.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” said Richard. I merely offered Natalie a sad, apologetic shrug.

“Am I to understand you are denying Miss Evans a share of the inheritance?” asked Mr Battridge.

“Can we even do that?” I asked. “That doesn’t seem right.”

“Ordinarily, it would not be possible,” said Mr Battridge, “But on this occasion the terms of Mr Doleson’s will indicate that Miss Evans is to be included in proceedings only with the consent of the three of you. Do you consent to her inclusion?”

“No way,” said Avril.

“Certainly not,” said Richard. I gave Natalie another despondent look.

“Does the decision need to be unanimous?” I asked.

“A majority of two will stand,” said Battridge.

“I vote for her inclusion nonetheless,” I said. It seemed the principled thing to do.

“Master Doleson the younger’s objection notwithstanding,” said Battridge, “The majority of two is noted. Miss Evans, this brings your involvement in these proceedings to a close.” Natalie stood and left as silently as she had entered. Mr Battridge waited until the door had closed behind her before continuing. “The matter of Miss Evans’ exclusion being settled, we will move on to the allocation of Mr Doleson’s estate to the remaining three parties. Mr Doleson’s will was straightforward; the value of his estate is to be divided equally among his descendants.”

“So we get a third each?” asked Avril.

“That is correct,” confirmed Mr Battridge.

“How much was the old man worth?” asked Richard.

“Due to some imprudent investments in the latter part of his life,” explained Mr Battridge, “the estate of the late Mr Doleson currently stands at a debit of two point four million pounds.” Richard nearly spat his beer over the table.

“What do you mean, debit?” he spluttered. “Surely we’re not inheriting a debt!” Avril’s face had gone whiter than usual.

“Are you saying we owe eight hundred thousand pounds each?” she asked.

“This figure does not include the value of the house and land in Northbridge,” continued Battridge, “which is currently valued at two million, three hundred thousand, nine hundred and forty pounds.” I laughed.

“So after we sell the house, we’d each owe the bank twenty pounds?”Battridge nodded. Richard and Avril were already out of their seats.

“This is outrageous,” shrieked Avril as they both made for the exit.

“You’ll be hearing from our lawyer,” added Richard.

“He is our lawyer, genius,” I called after them.

I shook Mr Battridge’s hand and thanked him for his service to the family and to Father in particular. My apologetic smile seemed entirely unnecessary. The old lawyer was unflappable. I would have given anything for his imperturbable demeanour. After a meeting and outcome like that I felt I needed a quiet pint. Besides, it gave me a few more moments to admire the stonework on the old pub.

“She’s a beauty, isn’t she?” commented the publican.

“Sure is,” I said. “Is that the original finish on the arch into the dining hall?”

“Not quite,” said the publican with a wry smile. “It was replaced back in the eighties after a small fire. I’m told there was an incident involving a tub of duck fat and some kind of flaming cocktail, but I swear the story gets bigger and more farfetched every time the locals tell it. Who knows what really happened?”

“I’d love to hear it some time,” I said. I meant it.

“Stick around. Happy hour’s in forty-five minutes,” said the publican. “Ol’ Leroy McAllister will be in with his pension money. He never passes up a chance to spin a yarn for a fresh audience, as long as the audience keeps his glass full, mind you.”

“Perhaps another time,” I answered with regret. “I have what you might call family business to attend to.”

“I thought as much,” said the publican. “I gather from the way you sit on that stool and the fact that you’re his spitting image that you’re related to Chris Doleson.”

“Only by blood,” I replied. “He was my father.”

“I’m sorry for your loss. Chris was well-known and well-loved here. He used to sit there and admire the stonework the same way you are doing now. He’ll be sorely missed. Are you an architect by trade as well?”

“Graphic designer,” I replied, “but Dad taught me a few things about old-style masonry before he died. Never really shut up about it, to tell the truth.” The old publican chuckled.

“Yeah, that sounds like Chris. Well, architect or no, you’ll always be welcome in the Royal North.” I downed the last of my pint and fished for my wallet in my pocket. “It’s alright son, this one’s on the house,” said the publican, “in honour of your father’s memory. I have a feeling we’ll be seeing plenty more of you, anyway.”

I thanked the kindly barman and left the pub with a bewildered chuckle. It was nice to know Dad would be remembered fondly by someone other than me, but I wouldn’t have said there was any likelihood I’d be back in his old pub anytime soon.

I stepped onto the footpath to find Natalie waiting for me. I started mumbling a clumsy apology for the behaviour of our other siblings, but she simply smiled and handed me a little black book.

“Did Mr Battridge happen to mention a financial venture late in life that had cost Dad’s estate a lot of money?” she asked. I nodded.

“I think the term he used was ‘imprudent investments,’” I said, “but he was a little vague as to what those investments might have been.” Natalie’s mysterious smile deepened.

“It’s all in that journal,” she said simply. “They were purchased under my name, so they stayed out of the family estate and the other two don’t know about it, but Dad wanted you to have it. If the others had opted to include me, you’d be splitting the investment three ways, but as it turns out it’s all falling to you now.”

“What about you?” I asked as I flipped through the pages of the book.

“I’ve been well taken care of,” said Natalie, “and to be honest, with Dad gone I really don’t want any further entanglement with the Doleson estate. It’s time to make it on my own, I think.” I nodded my understanding and returned my attention to the notebook.

The first few pages detailed the usual sort of charitable donations Dad was well-known for: a few thousand pounds here and there to Legacy, The Goodwill Society, the Royal Society for the Blind. Only one entry struck me as unusual.

“What’s this ‘inheritance overflow’ entry for twenty thousand pounds?” I asked.

“That’s what was left over after Dad siphoned everything else out of the family estate and into this side project. Consider it the icing on the cake.”

The icing? If twenty grand was the icing, what was the cake? As I continued to flick through the book a folded sheet of legal paper slipped out and dropped to the footpath.

“I wouldn’t lose that if I were you,” advised Natalie. I stooped to pick it up and by the time I stood up straight she had walked past me toward her car. I waved goodbye as she stepped into the driver’s seat and I fumbled with the folded document. I found myself trying to laugh, gasp and cry all at once as I read the title:

Deed of Ownership: The Royal Northbridge Hotel.