“No, he just said he was going to see Julian; he implied that he had a number of things to discuss with him. There had been an offer for his companies some time back, and I think they were going to talk about that.”
“Yes, Julian mentioned that.” Stone patted his pocket. “I have the will and James’s financial statement, and I’ll give them to you later, but the thrust of it is that he left three hundred thousand pounds—”
“Good God! He left me three hundred thousand pounds?”
“No, he left that much to his schools and to charities. He left everything else to you.”
She stared at him blankly. “You mean his business?”
“Yes.”
Her eyes welled up a little. “I don’t know anything about running a business; I don’t want it. Tell Julian to take it back.”
“Take it easy, now, that’s not how it works. You don’t have to run the business.”
“I don’t?”
“Remember the offer that James was discussing with Julian?”
“Yes.”
“I asked Julian to investigate whether discussions might be reopened.”
“So you think Julian can sell it?”
“Yes.”
“What a relief!”
“Do you want to know how much it’s worth?”
“Yes, please.”
“The offer was for four hundred and ninety million pounds.”
Her mouth dropped open. “Surely you mean thousand.”
“No, million.”
“But that’s . . .”
“A lot of money.”
“Oh, my God.”
“Of course, there will be taxes to pay and other fees, but you should come out of this with a substantial amount of cash or stock.”
“I think I’d prefer cash,” she said absently, as if her mind were elsewhere.
“And there were other things—James’s house in London and a country house, investments. He was a very wealthy man.”
“I knew he was well off,” she said, “but I had no idea, really. He never talked about it much, the way a lot of businessmen do. I thought he was in it because he loved wine so much, and because his father before him was.”
“And his grandfather and great-grandfather, apparently.”
“He didn’t even mention that.”
“Do you know the two houses?”
“Of course. They’re both in wonderful locations, but they need a complete redoing.”
“I’m sure you’ll enjoy that.”
Their dinner arrived, and they talked less as they dined. Stone thought the food was sublime, as was the wine Mr. Chevalier had chosen for them. “I don’t think I’ll ever look at a menu here again,” Stone said.
“Stone, I never had a chance to ask you: Why are you in London?”
“A client asked me to come and look into something for him.”
“Something? What thing?”
“I can’t tell you that; client confidentiality.”
“Of course, I should have known. Is it one of those wonky investigation things you get into?”
“Sort of. Tell me, how do you know Monica and Erica Burroughs?”
“I’ve known Monica for years; she sells my work.”
“Of course, I knew that.”
“But I met Erica only recently, when she and Lance came over.”
“Do you know Lance well?”
“Not really, but he’s very nice.”
“What does he do?”
“Something mysterious; I could never figure it out.”
“Neither could I.”
They ate on, finishing with dessert and coffee.
“I think I’d like a brandy,” she said.
“Careful, you’re driving, and I hear they’re tough about that in this country. I want you to get home in one piece, and without getting arrested.”
“I can’t go home,” she said. “They’ll be waiting for me.”
“Can you go to a friend’s?”
“I can’t even leave the hotel; they’re bound to be waiting outside. I’ll stay with you.” Her foot rubbed against his leg under the table.
“No, you won’t,” Stone said. “First of all, you’re supposed to be in mourning.”
“I’m not a widow!”
“Near enough. Second, they have a photograph of us together; if you don’t leave the hotel, they’ll make a very big thing of that. What you have to do is, walk out of the hotel like a citizen, get into your car, and drive home. Ignore any questions or photographers, and lock your doors. Live your normal life, except stay out of men’s hotel suites. You can’t become a fugitive; they’ll go away eventually. Once the funeral is behind you, they’ll lose interest.”