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  Now she’s gone, Tara reminded herself. The question is, what has she taken with her, and what has she left behind?

  Of course it was impossible for a dead woman to take anything with her but there was no saying what arrangements she had made before she’d gone. After all, she’d had battalions of tame lawyers prepared to do anything she asked, along with a deep love of meddling with other people’s lives.

  Remembering that there was not much time before they met for the reading of the will, Tara went swiftly to the dressing table. Four large jewellery boxes sat on the smooth glass surface. Hell to clean. Poor housemaids, I bet she made their lives a misery. Now … which one?

  A pink leather Asprey box looked most likely. Or perhaps it was the splendid enamelled Fabergé case bought by a Trevellyan in the 1920s from a poor Russian princess after the Revolution. The white Cartier box looked less likely but you never knew. Tara decided to start with the smallest, the Lalique glass heart-shaped case. Lifting the lid, she saw that it was almost empty except for a couple of dress rings in amethyst and aquamarine, only semi precious.

  Quickly she moved on to the Cartier. It was almost the same as the first – strangely empty except for one or two pieces of little value. Here, it was some Edwardian paste: a parure of jet and marquisite. Worried now, Tara went to the Fabergé. The same again. Where had her mother’s jewels gone? Ever since childhood, Tara had seen her mother open her cases and reveal their sparkling treasure – diamonds, emeralds, rubies; exquisitely set in silver, gold and platinum. Jewellery was her mother’s weakness and even though her insurers had insisted that the most expensive pieces be kept at the bank, her mother had retained plenty to enjoy.

  ‘What the hell have you done with it all?’ she muttered. ‘Where is it?’

  She turned to her last hope, the Asprey box. The lid would not open. It was locked.

  ‘Shit!’ she swore. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the triple mirror. Her face looked so slender it was almost gaunt but her cheekbones had spots of high colour along them and her blue eyes were anxious. She pulled a hand through her hair and licked her lips. She was used to running on adrenaline – perhaps it was what kept her so thin – but this was different. She could feel her sense of control leaving her.

  ‘Keep it together, Tara,’ she muttered to herself. ‘Don’t let it get to you. There’s bound to be a logical explanation.’

  She quickly rearranged the dressing table so that it was just as she’d found it and then darted to the door, pausing only for one last look at the room she was leaving. Would she ever stand in it again when it was like this – as though her mother had only just left and would be back in a moment?

  Tara shuddered, and then hurried back downstairs.

  The gathering in the library looked very Agatha Christie.

  ‘It feels like the murderer is about to be revealed,’ muttered Jemima as Tara came in, a little breathless, to take her seat next to her at the front. Someone had thoughtfully put the dining-room chairs in short rows in front of what had been their grandfather’s great desk, where Victor Goldblatt, the head of Goldblatt Mindenhall, now sat importantly, gazing over the documents in front of him.

  ‘Or like someone is about to be expelled,’ Tara said softly, slipping on to her chair.

  ‘If history is anything to go by, darling, it won’t be you. I’m the one who had to leave three different girls’ schools, remember?’

  ‘Answering the call of the wild even then. Were you alone in the loo?’ Tara looked over at her sister, who dropped her gaze and smiled. ‘Oh Mimi, honestly, of all the times. You are incorrigible. Where’s Poppy?’

  ‘God knows.’

  ‘Someone had better find her. We can’t start without her.’

  ‘Look, there she is, in the musicians’ gallery.’ Jemima pointed up to the oak balcony at the far end of the room which had been a favourite place to hide when they were children. Sure enough, Poppy was standing there gazing down upon the gathering, a curious expression on her face as she surveyed them all.

  Tara gasped. ‘Oh God, she’s not going to jump, is she? She’s been in a terrible state today.’

  ‘Don’t be so melodramatic. Of course she’s not. I think she’s looking for someone.’

  The two sisters exchanged glances.

  ‘Is anyone else … expected?’ Tara asked meaningfully.

  ‘I don’t think so. But you never know who’s going to crawl out of the woodwork. After all, it was in all the papers that the funeral was today.’ Jemima frowned. ‘Let’s hope there are no more nasty surprises than whatever is in that will.’

  Victor Goldblatt peered up over his gold-rimmed half-moon spectacles and coughed. ‘Are we all here? I’d like to proceed.’

  ‘Just a moment,’ said Tara, and she beckoned to Poppy. Her sister stared down at her for a moment longer before disappearing to descend the tiny spiral staircase back to the ground floor. She came across the floor to the others, looking almost eerily suited to her surroundings in a long red velvet dress, and sat down. ‘Yes, we’re ready.’

  ‘Very well. We’re here to read the last will and testament of Yolanda Margaret Trevellyan, late of this address. The people gathered today are those who were closest to the deceased, her intimate family and relatives, and those who have an interest in the proceedings.’

  Jemima glanced around quickly. The usual suspects were here: her mother’s faithful retainers, various of the Trevellyan and Loxton staff, Gerald, Aunt Daphne – though what she hopes to get out of it, God only knows. Mother thought she was a sponging, useless whinger – and there at the back, leaning against one of the bookcases that lined the walls, was Harry, his arms folded and a closed expression on his face. Jemima jumped. Standing next to him was Ali Tendulka, last seen pumping into her ecstatically in the downstairs lavatory. She tried to hide her astonishment and the sudden rush of anxiety at seeing her husband and her most recent hook-up side by side. Harry ignored her but Ali caught her eye and grinned. She gave him a look, something between an acknowledgement and a rebuke. What the hell was he doing here? She’d collar him as soon as it was over and find out. Meanwhile, Victor had begun to read in his gruff voice.

  ‘I, Yolanda Margaret Trevellyan, being of sound mind, do hereby commit my last will and testament …’

  The sisters listened as their fate unfolded. Each had been born to wealth and privilege and to a family name famous across the world. This was their inheritance, the reason why the press had dubbed them ‘the Heiresses’. The moment of truth was here.

  Tara had been determined to outstrip what she had been born to, and had become independently wealthy in her own right through her extraordinarily successful finance career. Then she had married Gerald, with his South African money, media portfolio and ambitions to be a press tycoon. What more could she want from her mother’s will? She needed Loxton like she needed a hole in the head – Gerald had bought an enormous Scottish estate only last year and she was still reeling from this unexpected burden as the old house needed complete renovation and naturally it had all fallen to her – but that didn’t stop her wanting it. It would mean everything to her if her mother finally acknowledged her by leaving her the house.

  Jemima shifted uneasily as the opening sentences were read out. She felt nervous, knowing that Harry was here. But it was his right, she supposed. After all, he was her husband and Yolanda Trevellyan’s son-in-law. He had every reason to be here. But the truth was it made her sick to her bones to think about it. This was his payday. Finally he was going to get his reward for marrying her, for allowing Yolanda to have her way. The old hag had never been so happy as she was on the day Harry and Jemima had announced their engagement and once they were married she loved to remind people of the union as often as she could. ‘Do you know my daughter’s husband, Lord Calthorpe?’ she would ask offhandedly. Or, at some luncheon for the local ladies, she would say casually, ‘My daughter, Lady Calthorpe, has a charming home, Herne Castle. Do you know it? Rather m
agnificent, in its way.’ It was all the more galling for Jemima, who found Herne the very opposite of charming. No doubt it was Herne, the never-ending money pit, that had kept Harry with her as long as this.

  Well, marrying Harry was the only thing in her life Jemima had done to please her mother and it had worked spectacularly. Now she would see exactly how happy she had made the old woman. And so would Harry.

  Poppy twisted her hands nervously in her lap. Her childhood at Loxton had been happy, she had to admit that, and it had bred in her a love of the mad Gothic Victoriana this house was full of. She looked like a Pre-Raphaelite stunner herself, with her thick dark hair that fell into curls when she didn’t dry it straight, pale skin, full lips and enormous green eyes. Burne-Jones would have wanted to sketch her as an angel or maiden and she would have captured the heart of Rossetti with her poetic nature and love of art. But despite the privileges and comfort the lucky chance of her birth had brought her, she didn’t care for any of it. She had spent her entire adult existence trying to shake off the burden of her inherited money and the life she was expected to lead. She felt as though she was burdened by her wealth, as though it prevented her going out to taste life’s adventures. Jemima thought her mad, she knew that. Her sister argued the opposite: that without the struggle to earn daily bread, they were free to do whatever they wanted, to go anywhere and be anything.

  But Poppy knew that Jemima was blind to the fact that no matter where she went or what she did, her life was unchanging. She met the same people and did the same things. The same expectations were constantly fulfilled – there were no surprises or challenges. Life inevitably became predictable and taken for granted. Jemima was a bright, clever woman who’d never done anything with her life because she hadn’t needed to – and it was money that had done that to her.

  Poppy looked across at her oldest sister. Tara, on the other hand, seemed to have the worst of all worlds. She slaved like a donkey, as though penury waited for her around the corner despite her enormous salary and family wealth, not to mention Gerald’s money. And when did she find time to enjoy the luxuries this prosperity brought? She had all the toys of the rich: the fabulous London townhouse, the rambling Cotswold farmhouse, a beautiful white bungalow on an island in the Bahamas, the great black SUV and a roaring sleek convertible for herself. She had nannies, assistants, cooks, drivers, housekeepers and gardeners. In the most exclusive shops in London and New York, her personal shoppers were on constant lookout for her favourite designers’ new collections. The most unique and exquisite items were sent from all over the world direct to her office, house or the City pied-à-terre she used when there wasn’t even time to get home for the night, for her to try on. Exclusive and over-priced accessories arrived by taxi at her whim. Her hairdressers, her masseurs, her manicurists and eyebrow threaders, her facialist and dietician, all came to her. The only one who didn’t do home visits to Tara was her gynaecologist.

  Tara’s life passed by in a whirl of meetings, deadlines, hours hunched over her computer, appoint ments, phone calls, long-haul flights and, occasionally, five minutes to herself or an hour with the children, reading them a story or giving them a bath.

  It’s like she’s on a treadmill and it’s killing her but she’ll never get off, Poppy thought.

  She looked up at the lawyer with frightened eyes and clenched her hands together more tightly.

  I’m afraid of what Mummy’s will is going to say. But not like the others. They’re afraid of what they won’t get – and I’m afraid of what I will.

  4

  ‘CHRIST!’

  ‘Holy … fuck.’

  ‘This is terrible,’ cried Poppy, her cheeks flushed red. She’d always had the cleanest mouth of the three sisters, perhaps as a reaction to Jemima, who’d enjoyed swearing like a trooper since she was about four.

  The three of them stood together in the nursery. After the will had been read, this had been the most obvious place for them to retreat to: their private territory away from the rest of the house. With its high bay window looking out over the lawn and up towards the wood, the nursery was the room they’d grown up in. It still housed their old toys – the battered doll’s house, the worn teddies and the bookshelf full of their childhood favourites. The great carved rocking horse that had arrived one Christmas from Harrods still pranced in the bay. The old upright piano, where they had bashed out chords and arpeggios and practised exam pieces, stood against the wall, tattered sheet music still propped on the stand.

  This had always been their refuge. Tara could usually be found reading a book, lying on the rug in front of the fire, her chin in her hands over whatever it was she was absorbed in. Jemima would often be playing with the doll’s house or her collection of vintage Barbie dolls, with their swooping 1960s eye make-up, close-cropped hair and fabulous Jackie O clothes. Poppy was most likely to be playing the piano or sitting at the shabby school desk with her pad and the paint box. Until Nanny came in and told them to clean themselves up, put on the white organza dresses their mother insisted they wear, and come downstairs for the nightly ritual of the family dinner.

  Their parents would be waiting for them in the drawing room, in black tie, their mother dripping with jewels. They would converse politely over gin and tonics for the adults and lemonade for the girls, then go into the dining room for a formal, four-course meal, served to them by the butler. Each girl would have to talk about her day and explain what new thing she had learned in the course of it. By the time it was Poppy’s turn, she would be white-faced and almost retching with nerves.

  It was a routine they all loathed with a vengeance.

  ‘We were the only ones I knew who couldn’t wait to get to boarding school,’ Jemima would say with a laugh, ‘in order to enjoy the relaxed, homely atmosphere.’

  Here, in the nursery, was where they were themselves.

  Jemima threw herself into the armchair where Nanny used to sit and do her sewing. ‘So, the old witch has had her revenge after all.’

  Tara went over to the window and stared out, her shoulders stiff with tension. ‘I just can’t believe it,’ she muttered.

  ‘Have I really understood correctly?’ marvelled Jemima. ‘She’s left Poppy the house?’

  ‘All of it,’ Poppy said faintly. She was standing by the fireplace, supporting herself with the chimney-piece. ‘This whole place. Oh God.’

  Tara put her head in her hands. ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, it’s not as if you or I needed a house, Tara,’ said Jemima tartly. ‘We’ve got more than enough already.’

  ‘But Poppy didn’t want it!’ shouted Tara, turning round, her eyes red. ‘And I did!’

  There was a pause while the other two stared in surprise at Tara as this revelation sunk in.

  ‘And it’s not just the house,’ Tara added. ‘It’s everything in it. Everything. All the furniture, paintings, jewellery, china …’

  ‘But you’ve got more than enough money to buy everything in this house twice over if you wanted it. You don’t need any of it.’ Poppy’s voice was quiet.

  ‘That’s not the point.’ Tara sat down on the window seat, stretching her slim legs out in front of her. ‘Don’t you understand? You’ve no idea what it was like for me, always seeking her approval. Neither of you could understand because she always adored you both. You were naughty, Mimi, but she admired that. She might have seemed disapproving on the outside, but every time you got expelled or ran away or appeared in the papers for being your typical outrageous self, secretly she loved it. You reminded her most of her younger self. And then when you married Harry –’

  ‘The old woman did rather cream her jeans,’ agreed Jemima, tucking her legs up underneath her. ‘But you were her dream daughter. You were the one who fulfilled her demands. Look at you – head girl, Oxford University, a double first, youngest woman in the boardroom in the City, two gorgeous children …’

  ‘Nothing satisfied her,’ Tara said softly. She played nervously with her necklace. ‘N
othing I ever did was good enough. Perhaps if I’d nearly died, like Poppy, perhaps she would have loved me then.’

  Poppy flared up suddenly. ‘Don’t blame me, Tara! I can’t help how Mother and Daddy felt about me. I never wanted to be sick, you know. And I never wanted their love either – not the way they showed it. You know what they were like. Money was everything. They never understood that I didn’t want it. And I still don’t! Do you really think I want Loxton? I’ll give it away. I’ll give it to you, if you want it, Tara. If it matters to you so much.’

  ‘No, you don’t understand. It isn’t that I want Loxton. It’s that Mother didn’t want to give it to me. She didn’t want me to have anything. That’s what I find so difficult.’ Tara turned away again to the window, her shaking shoulders revealing that she was sobbing.

  ‘She wanted to give me Loxton,’ Poppy said quietly as she stood by the piano and ran her fingers silently along the yellowed ivory keys. ‘But she didn’t want to give me what I really needed: my liberty. Her approval of my choices in life. Respect for my values.’

  ‘Oh dear, dear, dear. This is all frightfully tragic,’ drawled Jemima. ‘But I think we’re rather missing the point. Mother might have singled young Poppy out for a little extra’ – Tara snorted at the idea of Loxton and all its contents being simply an extra – ‘but she’s actually treated all three of us the same.’ The other two turned to look at her. ‘Don’t you see? The most precious thing in her life was Trevellyan. The great family company, the source of all our happiness, the provider of everything. And Trevellyan is what she’s given to us … all of us. And that’s her biggest joke, because it was the one thing none of us wanted.’

  Poppy looked wonderingly at her sister. ‘You’re right. But if it’s so precious, why give it to us? Surely she couldn’t trust us with it – she couldn’t trust anyone with Trevellyan after Daddy died.’