So I could make the assumption that Mr. Stanhope and Mrs. Allard had, prior to this date, entered into their intimate relationship that led to this generous conveyance. In legal terms, this conveyance was obviously supported by the repeated receipt of sufficient consideration – meaning here, multiple sex acts – though these particular considerations from Mrs. Allard to Mr. Stanhope could not be candidly described in this document.

Regarding that, did anyone question Augustus Stanhope’s generosity at the time? Even today, bells would go off. Unless, of course, this was kept secret until Augustus popped off, and Ethel dragged it out to show William Stanhope before he got any ideas about getting rid of the Allards, or before he demanded rent from their meager pay.

Also, I wondered, when did George Allard learn that he was living rent-free, for life, in the Stanhope gatehouse? And how did Ethel explain this to her new husband when he returned from the war? “George, I have some good news, and some bad news.”

In any case, William, at some point, knew about the life tenancy in his newly inherited property, and it was a constant thorn in his side, especially when he put the estate up for sale and had to reveal the existence of this encumbrance of unknown duration. I recalled that Frank Bellarosa, when he bought Stanhope Hall, was not thrilled with having Ethel – George was deceased by then – living on his property. But Frank had said to me philosophically, “Maybe she’s good luck. And how long can she live?” Answer: ten years longer than you, Frank.

In any case, this document wasn’t relevant to the business at hand, so I casually slid it back into its folder. But Elizabeth asked, “What was that?”

“Oh, just the life tenancy grant to your parents. It needs to stay here until the time comes when it’s moot.”

“Can I see it?”

“Well… sure.” I placed it in front of her, and she read the single-page document, then passed it back to me. I said, “Next, we have-”

“Why do you think Augustus Stanhope gave my parents a life tenancy in this house?”

“As it says, for devoted and faithful service.”

“They were in their twenties then.”

“Right. He doesn’t say long service.”

“What am I not understanding?”

Oh, you don’t want to know that, Elizabeth. I suggested, “You should ask your mother.” I shuffled through a few papers. “Okay, so here we have your mother’s last three Federal tax returns-”

“Mom said it was a reward for long service.”

Faced with having to respond with the simple truth or a thin lie, I chose neither and continued, “You need to contact your mother’s accountant…” I glanced at her and saw she was looking above the fireplace at the large framed photo portrait of her parents on their wedding day.

I continued, “Your mother has a paid-up life insurance policy with a death benefit of ten thousand dollars. Here is the actual policy, and you should put it in a safe place.”

Elizabeth looked away from the photograph and said, “She was very beautiful.”

“Indeed, she was. Still is.”

“My father looked so handsome in that white uniform.”

I looked at the colored photo portrait and agreed, “They were a handsome couple.”

She didn’t reply, and when I glanced at her again, I saw she had tears in her eyes. John Whitman Sutter, Esq., who’d done this sort of work before, was prepared, and I took a clean handkerchief from my pocket and put it in her hand.

She dabbed at her eyes and said, “Sorry.”

“That’s all right. Let me get you some water.” I stood and went into the kitchen.

As I said, I did this for a living once. Most of the time, I was a hotshot Wall Street tax lawyer in the city, but in my Locust Valley office I did wills, trusts, health care proxies, and that sort of thing. Half my clients were wealthy old dowagers and grumpy old men who spent a lot of time thinking of people to put in their wills before disinheriting them a week later.

Also, the last will and testament, along with related papers, sometimes revealed a family secret or two – an institutionalized sibling, an illegitimate child, two mistresses in Manhattan, and so forth. I’d learned how to handle this with professional stoicism, though now and then, even I had been shocked, surprised, saddened, and often amused.

Ethel Allard’s adultery was no big deal in the grand scheme of things, especially given the passage of half a century. But it’s always a bit of a jolt to the adult child when he or she discovers that Mommy had a lover, and Daddy was diving into the steno pool.

In any case, Elizabeth, divorced, with two grown children, a deceased father, and a dying mother, was maybe lonely, and surely emotionally distraught, and thus vulnerable.

So… I filled a glass with tap water. So, nothing should or would happen tonight that we’d regret, or feel guilty about in the morning. Right?

I returned to the dining room and saw that Elizabeth had composed herself. I handed her the water and suggested, “Let’s take a break. Would you like to walk?”

“I want to finish this.” She promised, “I’ll be fine.”

“Okay.”

We cleared up the peripheral paperwork, and I opened the envelope that held Ethel’s last will and testament. I said, “I drew up this will after your father died, and I see that it’s held up pretty well over the years.” Continuing in my official tone of voice, I asked her, “Have you read this will?”

“I have.”

“Do you want to review this will with her?”

“I don’t want to read her will to her on her deathbed.”

“I understand.” And I wouldn’t want Ethel to increase her five-hundred-dollar bequest to St. Mark’s. I said, “I’ll keep this copy here for when the time comes.”

Elizabeth nodded, then said, “She didn’t leave you anything.”

“Why should she?”

“For all you’ve done for her and for Dad.”

I replied, “What little I’ve done was done in friendship. And your mother reciprocated by letting me use this house for storage.” Though she did charge me rent when I lived here ten years ago, and she just reinstated the rent.

Elizabeth said, “I understand. But I’d feel better if her estate… I’m the executor… paid you a fee.”

I wondered if Elizabeth thought I needed the money. I did, but I wasn’t destitute. In fact, I was making a good living in London, but unfortunately I’d brought with me to London the American habit of living beyond my means. And now I was on an extended, unpaid sabbatical.

But things were looking up. I had an offer from an old, established Italian-American firm. La Cosa Nostra.

Elizabeth said again, “I’d really feel better if you were paid for your professional services.”

I replied, “All right, but I’ll take my fee in crabapple jelly.”

She smiled and said, “And dinner is on me tonight.”

“Deal.” I stacked a dozen folders in front of her and said, “Take these with you and put them in a safe place. I’ll try to visit Ethel tomorrow or Monday.”

She asked me, “Is that it?”

“That’s it for the paperwork, except for this inventory I’ve made of personal property, including your father’s.” I slid three sheets of paper toward her, on which I’d handwritten the inventory, and asked, “Do you want to go through this?”

“Not really.”

“Well, look it over later. Meanwhile, item four is sixty-two dollars in cash that I found in the cookie jar when I was looking for cookies.” I put an envelope in front of her and said, “If you count that and initial item four, you can have the cash now.”

She dropped the envelope in her canvas bag without counting the money, initialed where indicated, and said, “This will buy us a nice bottle of wine.”

“Don’t drink up your whole inheritance.”

“Why not?” She asked again, “Is that it?”

“We’re getting close.”

I handed her another envelope and said, “These are your mother’s funeral instructions.”