Vacillations of Poppy Carew Read Online Free Page A

she didn’t see. ‘Where did he get it, this money? I always understood my mother bought this house with her bit. I mean, he never earned it, he was always changing jobs; and for years he’s done nothing at all, just travelled about. Where does it come from, this money? Are you his executor?’
    ‘Well, no. Naturally he asked me—actually the bank is executor. As your father’s friend, as his solicitor, I am here to tell you, to advise …’
    ‘The bank. Nice and impersonal. Great!’ Anthony compressed his lips. ‘I mean, you won’t be bothered by me and a lot of trivia, that’s all I mean.’
    ‘A substantial inheritance is not trivia.’ This girl is hopelessly unworldly, thought Anthony, even if she isn’t stupid.
    ‘No, no, of course it isn’t.’ Poppy drew in her breath, dismissing Edmund and Venetia and their possible orgasms. ‘You haven’t answered my question, Anthony. Where did this money come from? Do you know? I never had an inkling. Was my mother, after all, rich?’
    ‘Certainly not your mother.’
    Why ‘certainly’ in that tone of voice? What had Dad done? Anthony did not approve, whatever it was. ‘Then what?’ asked Poppy, alert. ‘How?’
    ‘Your father backed horses.’
    ‘So that’s where he went, he went to the races, he was a betting man.’
    ‘Not to put too fine a point on it—yes.’
    ‘Bully for him.’
    Anthony frowned. ‘And, ah … he nearly always won, and he—’
    ‘Spent it on women?’
    This girl, his reprehensible old friend’s daughter, was making light of what might so easily have been a disaster. Frivolity was, he supposed, in the blood.
    ‘Yes. You could say in a way that he did.’
    ‘But he invested a lot of it?’
    ‘He invested what he called Life’s Dividends.’ Anthony’s tone was repressive.
    ‘Sounds like Dad. Where did these dividends come from?’ Poppy fixed Anthony with her dark green eyes.
    ‘Not to put too fine a point on it’ (why does he keep repeating himself?) ‘these … ah, um … women.’ Anthony dropped his voice, muting his tone.
    ‘How?’
    ‘Sums, large sums, left in wills. Quite legitimately, I assure you.’
    Poppy let this pass. ‘Had he been their lover?’
    Anthony poured himself a third cup of tea, now grown cold. ‘I have no idea,’ he said coldly.
    Silly old goat, thought Poppy watching him sip his chilly tea. Perhaps Dad saw to it these ladies who made wills in his favour had delightful, splendid times in bed.
    In a way I am glad, thought Anthony eyeing her, that I am not the executor. He cleared his throat. ‘Well, that’s it, then. The bank will give you all the details. I have made an appointment for you with them tomorrow. I have put a notice of your father’s death in The Times , and I will contact the undertaker for you.’
    ‘Furnival’s Funerals?’
    ‘No, no, my dear. The best round here are Brightson’s. You will find them very efficient and discreet. Most helpful—’
    ‘He wants—he wanted—Furnival’s Fun—’
    ‘I know, I know. Trying to keep his spirits up, a sick man’s joke—’
    ‘Dad’s joke is sacred—’
    ‘But—’
    ‘I have a date to see them. More tea?’
    ‘No, thank you.’ Anthony stood up, pulling his waistcoat downwards.
    ‘A drink then?’
    ‘No, no, I must be on my way.’ He made a last appeal: ‘It would be, well, in rather well … rather dubious, er … rather frivolous.’
    ‘So apparently was Dad.’
    Poppy watched Anthony drive away. Viewed through the back window of his sensible car, he looked huffy. He was trying to manipulate me, she thought. It was cheek to put an announcement in the paper without telling me. Cheek to try and thwart Dad’s last wish. He probably wants to buy the house cheap, she thought uncharitably, for a client who has had his eye on it for years. Perhaps he isn’t an executor because he tried to manipulate Dad. ‘It’s okay, Dad, you shall have your wish,’ she addressed the spirit of her progenitor as she went