Murder on Eaton Square: a 1920s cozy historical mystery (A Ginger Gold Mystery Book 10) by Lee Strauss

Author:Lee Strauss [Strauss, Lee]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
ISBN: 9781774090299
Publisher: La Plume Press
Published: 2019-08-20T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Seventeen

The atmosphere at the Peck house the next day was sombre. At its worst, there was an underlying tremor, as if an earthquake were about to shake the foundations at any moment. Apart from Ginger—who wore a green long-sleeved silk blouse with a high, wide collar and embellished with a decorative row of off-centred buttons, along with a coordinated tri-coloured pleated skirt—everyone was wearing black.

All the family members were present in the drawing room along with Mr. Wilding, a fact Ginger found curious. She wasn’t the only one.

“What’s he doing here?” Matthew Peck demanded.

Virginia Peck sat upright with her chin jutted, “He’s here at my request. Moral support, you could say.”

Ginger didn’t blame the young matriarch. The stepchildren eyed her narrowly, beaks sharpened.

As for Ginger’s presence, the family seemed to have grown used to her accompanying Basil, and aside from a raised eyebrow or disinterested scowl, they ignored her.

A table had been set up as a makeshift desk, and Mr. Winthrop sat behind it, a file sitting importantly in front of him. A briefcase was propped up against the table leg.

“Can we just get this circus over with,” Alastair Northcott said. “We all know everything’s going to Matthew.”

A gasp escaped Mrs. Peck’s lips. “He wouldn’t leave me destitute, Mr. Winthrop,” she said weakly. “Would he?”

Mr. Winthrop cleared his throat. “Let’s get started, shall we?”

Ginger and Basil had orchestrated their seating, Basil on one side and Ginger on the other, both with a view of the family members’ faces.

Alastair Northcott, languid in his red and gold kurta, sat next to his wife, Deirdre, who’d cast a glance at Ginger and then a questioning brow toward Mr. Wilding. The object of Mrs. Northcott’s consternation was the only person left standing. He leaned against the back of the pincushion-backed chair occupied by Virginia Peck.

Matthew cradled his weak arm as his knees jumped as if he were playing an invisible drum kit. His agitation was palpable. Ginger wondered what caused such nervousness in the young man, especially if he was favoured to inherit. Then again, such tension seemed his normal constitution.

Mr. Winthrop licked his lips. “This is the last will and testament of Mr. Reginald Peck, signed on the third of March 1925.”

Three months ago, Ginger mused. If someone had wanted the will changed recently, he or she hadn’t succeeded.

Mr. Winthrop’s gaze flickered upwards briefly before settling back on the text in front of him. His hands shook slightly as he held the document.

“Come on, man,” Mr. Northcott said. “Put us out of our misery.”

“I, Reginald Peck Esquire, being of sound mind, do bequeath, upon my death, the following:

“To my son, Matthew, I bequeath forty-nine percent of my business holdings.”

Matthew’s eyes twitched. He was two percent short of a majority, which failed to give him controlling shares, Ginger thought. Surely, the other fifty-one would be divided, though, leaving him the primary stakeholder.

Mr. Winthrop continued, “To my darling wife, Virginia Peck, I give forty percent of the shares, to be distributed as a monthly dividend.

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