“My father wasn’t alive when you approved the second loan,” countered Arabella. “It was a decision you should have advised her on.”
“I had no choice, dear lady, under the terms of the original contract.”
“Which you witnessed, but obviously didn’t read. Because not only did my sister agree to go on paying 16 percent compound interest on the loan, but you even allowed her to hand over the Van Gogh as collateral.”
“But you can still demand that they sell the painting, and then the problem will be solved.”
“Wrong again, Mr. Simpson,” said Arabella. “If you had read beyond page one of the original contract, you would have discovered that should there be a dispute, any decision will revert to a New York court’s jurisdiction, and I certainly don’t have the wherewithal to take on Bryce Fenston in his own backyard.”
“You don’t have the authority to do so, either,” retorted Simpson, “because I—”
“I am next of kin,” said Arabella firmly.
“But there is no will to indicate to whom Victoria intended to leave the estate,” shouted Simpson.
“Another duty you managed to execute with your usual prescience and skill.”
“Your sister and I were at the time in the process of discussing—”
“It’s a bit late for that,” said Arabella. “I am facing a battle here and now with an unscrupulous man, who seems to have the law on his side thanks to you.”
“I feel confident,” said Simpson, once again placing his hands on the desk in a prayerlike position as if ready to give the final blessing, “that I can wrap this whole problem up in—”
“I’ll tell you exactly what you can wrap up,” said Arabella, rising from her place, “all those files concerning the Wentworth estate, and send them to Wentworth Hall.” She stared down at the solicitor. “And at the same time, enclose your final account”—she checked her watch—“for one hour of your invaluable advice.”
21
ANNA WALKED DOWN the middle of the road, pulling her suitcase behind her, with the laptop hanging over her left shoulder. With each stride she took, Anna became more and more aware of passengers sitting in their stationary cars, staring at the strange lone figure as she passed them.
The first mile took fifteen minutes, and one of the families who had settled down for a picnic on the grass verge by the side of the road offered her a glass of wine. The second mile took eighteen minutes, but she still couldn’t see the border post. It was another twenty minutes before she passed a 1 MILE TO THE BORDER sign, when she tried to speed up.
The last mile reminded her which muscles ached after a long, tiring run, and then she saw the finish line. An injection of adrenaline caused her to step up a gear.
When Anna was about a hundred yards from the barrier, the staring looks made her feel like a line jumper. She averted her eyes and walked a little more slowly. When she came to a halt on the white line, where each car is asked to turn off its engine and wait, she stood to one side.
There were two customs officials on duty that day, having to deal with an unusually long line for a Thursday morning. They were sitting in their little boxes, checking everyone’s documents much more assiduously than usual. Anna tried to make eye contact with the younger of the two officers in the hope that he would take pity on her, but she didn’t need a mirror to know that after what she’d been through during the past twenty-four hours, she couldn’t have looked a lot better than when she staggered out of the North Tower.
Eventually, the younger of the two guards beckoned her over. He checked her travel documents and stared at her quizzically. Just how far had she trudged with those bags? He checked her passport carefully. Everything seemed to be in order.
“What is your reason for visiting Canada?” he asked.
“I’m attending an art seminar at McGill University. It’s part of my Ph.D. thesis on the pre-Raphaelite movement,” she said, staring directly at him.
“Which artists in particular?” asked the guard casually.
A smart-ass or a fan? Anna decided to play along. “Rossetti, Holman Hunt, and Morris, among others.”
“What about the other Hunt?”
“Alfred? Not a true pre-Raphaelite, but—”
“But just as good an artist.”
“I agree,” said Anna.
“Who’s giving the seminar?”
“Er, Vern Swanson,” said Anna, hoping the guard would not have heard of the most eminent expert in the field.