Mystery in Provence: Miss Ashford Investigates Read online

  I. Stone, lawyer.

  She read and reread the short message. Her heart pounded painfully in her chest. On top of the shock that her grandfather had died without her ever having properly known him, she was now informed she had something to do with his last will.

  And the letter said she could learn something that would benefit her. But how was that possible? Surely, after her father’s terrible behaviour, her grandfather wouldn’t have been open to supporting her in any way?

  What could it mean?

  Pushing a hand against her hot cheek, Atalanta forced herself to think, to ignore the turmoil inside her about the death, and the memories of that one time she had seen the imposing man with his grey hair and walking cane, and the baritone voice that exuded natural authority. He had smiled at her with a sudden kindness.

  Before Father had said all those hurtful things.

  She bit her lip. She shouldn't judge what had happened between them before she had been born, and couldn't fathom what bitterness of past injury had driven her father to react in that manner.

  She looked at the letter again. At your earliest convenience, it said. And she was leaving for her remote valley the next morning. So the only opportunity to do it was today.

  She checked her watch. Three in the afternoon was a perfectly suitable time, she assumed. All she had to do was dress for the occasion.

  Meeting an unknown lawyer about a will was something very special. Despite her sadness over her grandfather’s death, and confusion as to how she might be involved, she should try and enjoy this unique experience. It would probably never again happen to her.

  Chapter Two

  Fifteen minutes later, dressed in her carefully conserved best satin dress with her favourite soft-blue purse and matching gloves, Atalanta made her way down the street leading from the boarding school on the top of the hill to the train station below.

  Red geraniums filled the pots decorating the wooden balconies of the authentic wooden houses, and an old man led a donkey by the bridle, firewood for cooking piled up on its back. A few branches fell off as he passed her and Atalanta bent down to retrieve them for him. ‘Danke,’ he said with surprise in his features that a finely dressed lady would bother to lend a hand. Atalanta waved off his repeated thanks and hurried on.

  The river wound like a shimmery silver ribbon to her right, and a sharp call rang out from the steam train traveling the track beside the foaming water, taking tourists to Lauterbrunnen where famous waterfalls dropped hundreds of feet along a steep rock face.

  Atalanta could almost feel the chill of the water’s spray on her face as she recalled her visit when she had first come to work at the school. Having lived in simple conditions in the busy city of London, she had never seen anything so beautiful and imposing. Working in these gorgeous surroundings had been a gift, even though it was one that hardly came for free. She spent long hours teaching both French and music, settling quarrels amongst staff, and drying tears from the eyes of pupils who were sure they’d never master the subjunctive. Her relationships with the other teachers were amiable but distant; they were colleagues foremost, not friends. The strict school rules prevented them from spending time with each other in their rooms at night, and when they were allowed to have an outing every now and then, those trips were organized by the school and usually had the same formal feeling as class outings that served an educational purpose. ‘They are not meant for pleasure,’ the director had once told Atalanta, and coming from his mouth pleasure had almost sounded like a dirty word.

  Hotel Bären sat across from the station and was flying the regional yellow and red flag. A boy was sweeping the steps in front and withdrew his twig broom a moment so he didn’t swish it across her neat shoes. She stepped from the blinding sunshine into the dimness of the lobby and halted a moment to allow her eyes to adjust.

  Behind the reception desk, the daughter of the middle-aged owners was writing in a thick leatherbound book. Atalanta stepped up to her and addressed her in the German she had picked up easily while living here. ‘Gutentag. Is Herr Stone present?’

  The woman looked up and smiled. ‘Gutentag. Yes, he’s here. I will call for him.’

  She gestured for the boy to come inside and instructed him in quick sentences. Atalanta looked around her, from the deer antlers on the wall to the cuckoo clock and the portrait of a stern man in local costume. Perhaps some ancestor who had run the hotel before them?

  The boy came back through a door with a tall man in a dark suit who was carrying a briefcase. He reached out his hand to her. ‘Miss Ashford? You are prompt.’

  Or did he think her greedy, having rushed out here to see what she could get?

  Atalanta flushed at the idea. She had never expected anyone to support her as she had worked hard to set straight her father’s mistakes. To be considered a scavenger now, swooping in as fast as she could, would be a blow indeed.

  But she couldn’t be sure he actually thought that. He could appreciate her promptness as it helped him to conclude his business here swiftly. She had to expect the best—of him and the whole strange situation.

  She pressed his hand. ‘I like to get things done. Besides, I’m leaving tomorrow for a holiday in the Kiental.’

  ‘You might want to change those plans,’ the lawyer said drily.

  ‘Why would I?’ Atalanta queried, astonished. ‘Do you need my involvement in paperwork of some kind?’

  Mr Stone glanced at the woman and the boy, who were both gawking at them, and gestured for her to follow him. ‘We will speak in private. You’ll soon see what I mean.’

  With a pounding heart she walked after him. His paces were short and sharp, underlining everything about him that was absolutely correct, as it should be.

  He took her through a dining room where the tables had been cleared from breakfast, through open doors into the back garden with a wonderful view of the region’s world-famous mountain range of Eiger, Monch, and Jungfrau. Even in high summer there was snow on their summits.

  Atalanta smiled at them, the familiar sight calming her nerves. She was on her own territory here. Whatever was expected of her she’d face it with dignity.

  The lawyer halted near a pond. Something jumped away into the water—a frog perhaps.

  He turned to her and spoke slowly. ‘My condolences, again, on the loss of your grandfather. Although I got the impression that you were not… personally acquainted with him.’

  ‘No. My father was estranged from his family.’ Atalanta put it quietly and without flinching. If this lawyer took care of all the family business, he would know about the unfortunate events that had shadowed her life for so long. Her grandfather might have discussed with him, at some prior occasion, what a disappointment his only son had been to him and how he had to guard the family fortune against someone who would not hesitate to waste it away.

  But if Mr Stone didn’t know, she wasn’t keen on enlightening him.

  He nodded. ‘My client, your grandfather, has been very concerned for a long time that the estate built by the careful foresight of his ancestors would…’

  Atalanta cringed inwardly, waiting for the word the lawyer would bestow.

  The lawyer seemed to think it best if he was most prudent and said, ‘Would be lost for future generations. He strongly believed in tradition and in passing on a lasting legacy. Therefore, he was pleased to learn that his granddaughter had developed into a young woman with integrity and a level head on her shoulders.’

  The compliment took her by surprise. She had never imagined he would look into her situation, let alone approve of her behaviour.

  Mr Stone obviously took her silence as encouragement to continue and said, ‘Your grandfather informed himself thoroughly of how you handled yourself through life, both when his son was still alive and after his untimely death, and he believed he could entrust you with something special.’

  Atalanta’s mind whirled at the idea that the grandfather she had only known as the imposing figure
from a one-time meeting had known everything about her. Why had he watched from the shadows, so to speak? Why had he not reached out to her when he was still alive? She would have given so much to get to know him.

  ‘But I… don’t deserve to get anything,’ she protested. ‘I never met him properly. I haven’t been the granddaughter he might have liked to have.’

  ‘On the contrary. You are exactly the granddaughter he wanted to have.’

  Atalanta blinked. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘This letter explains.’ The lawyer extracted an envelope from his pocket and handed it to her. ‘Your grandfather entrusted it to me with his will. I was to hand it to you personally and have you read it before I explain what his will entails.’

  ‘I see.’ Atalanta stared at the envelope in her hand. Her grandfather had written to her. She had sometimes imagined what it would be like if he did, if he had contacted her, instead of her having to reach out to him. Now the moment has come.

  She opened the envelope carefully. It bought her time to steel herself against the possibly hurtful words in this letter. Would he refer to that terrible argument when her father had turned him out of their house? Would he explain how he had reached out a helping hand to them and her father had coldly rejected to take it, preferring to plunge himself—and her—into more trouble than to accept assistance?

  Dear Atalanta,

  He used the word ‘dear’. A breath of relief wafted through her, and her eyes raced to learn more.

  When this letter reaches you, I will no longer be alive. I never planned for it to be this way. When my son died, your father…

  Here the handwriting became less assured, as if he had been moved.

  …I thought about writing to you. But I wasn’t certain you would welcome my approach after I had left the both of you to manage on your own. I should never have been so stubborn as to retreat after that one offer. But my relationship with your father was always extremely difficult and fraught with so many emotions. We could not be in the same room without feeling such pressure, as if the entire house was going to come down around us, burying us both under the rubble.

  Atalanta’s throat tightened. She could well remember those highly charged moments when the two had faced each other. Even as a child of only ten she had sensed the emotions brewing and the unsaid words hovering in the air. She could not blame him for having felt slighted after the way in which he had been turned away from their door.

  He had thought about writing to her, reaching out, like she had thought about doing. Perhaps he had, like her, sat at his desk with a pen in hand to write and then refrained, casting the pen aside with a frustrated sigh.

  She swallowed hard as she read on.

  I shouldn’t have left in blind anger like I did that day. You were there to consider. My granddaughter, the little girl I had never seen before. I thought your father would be open to my offer, for your sake. It was obvious he could not raise you properly on his own. But your father was a proud man and I should have phrased my offer differently. Instead of pointing out how ill-suited his situation was for a child, I should have reminded him that I was getting older and needed him at the estate. Appealing to his pity for me might have brought me further. Although I sometimes think he would have seen right through it as he knew me well.

  Those little words touched Atalanta to her core. These two men, estranged as they might have been, had known each other like no one else in the world did.

  I assume you yourself have experience of his temper, but also of his kindness and generosity. He always followed his feelings, whether those were beneficial to him and his loved ones, or whether they led him astray. He stayed true to himself, always. As I stayed true to what I believed in.

  When I heard of his death, I wanted to write to you and offer my support, but I didn’t want to force you to make a painful choice. You might have felt like accepting my outreached hand was a betrayal of your father, of everything he had stood for. So soon after his passing I felt it was inappropriate and unkind. I had once…

  Again, the handwriting wavered as if it had cost him trouble to keep going.

  …believed your mother could be my ally in bringing about a reconciliation between your father and myself. It was shortly before their marriage that I spoke with her. I was very impressed with her and I believed we had a chance of succeeding, but your father was extremely angry when he found out and blamed her. It almost came to a breach between them. Your mother was devastated. I have never seen anyone so heartbroken. That convinced me it was better to leave things be, at that time, and also later when you were born. I didn’t want to spoil their happiness. Remembering your mother’s hurt, I couldn’t write to you after your father’s passing and ask you to make the most difficult choice: to respond to my letter or ignore it. I was worried you might feel obliged to reply, while deep inside sensing that it went against anything your father would have wanted. I couldn’t tear you up like that.

  Atalanta swallowed. Her grandfather had considered it well. He had not acted from anger and pride, but from a genuine concern for her situation. And beneath it all reverberated his love for a son who had never wanted to be near him but whom he had never been able to let go.

  Still, I asked my lawyers to keep an eye on you and inform me as soon as you were in trouble. I felt ashamed when they informed me you had found a position at a prestigious Swiss school and were a respected teacher there. I should have known you would make something marvellous of yourself, without me.

  The words blurred a moment before her eyes and she had to blink to clear her vision.

  I thought you had started a new life, far away from England and all your difficulties. Only later did I learn how you sent all your pay to England to satisfy his debtors. You must have loved him dearly for what you did, paying off all his debts and ensuring his name wasn’t blemished. When Stone told me about it, I felt it confirmed the plan I was already considering.

  You see, Atalanta, I have much to leave behind, and I can only leave it to someone I trust.

  Atalanta sucked in a breath as the weight of this moment became clear to her. She was holding a letter from a man she barely knew who was entrusting a legacy to her.

  ‘I do not deserve this,’ she said to Mr Stone.

  He regarded her pensively. ‘Your father’s debtors all spoke very highly of you. They assured me that your behaviour stemmed from a choice you yourself had made, not outward force. You could have washed your hands of it. You had no reason to protect your father, they said. He treated you badly, like he did everyone else in his life.’

  Still, I loved him.

  Atalanta stood up straighter and led the conversation back to the letter. ‘Even if you informed my grandfather of what I did, I don’t see why it would lead him to feel he could entrust anything to me. I’m but a simple teacher here. I’ve never been used to wealth.’ Her head spun. ‘I certainly can’t manage an estate, if that’s what he has in mind. Is that why you said I’d want to change my travel plans? Because I have to come to England with you to manage my late grandfather’s affairs?’

  ‘England, France, Corfu.’ Now a smile flickered around his lips. ‘You will certainly not need to hide in the Kiental when you have the money to take you around the world.’

  Around the world… Imagine that.

  An hour ago she had been alone, playing her game of wishing herself away to the places she dreamed of, and now she could actually go?

  In a flash, the hotel garden around her changed to the grand remains of the Colosseum. Could she actually travel to the eternal city? From there on to Florence, Venice, Vienna?

  Copenhagen?

  Moscow?

  Her mind whirled that it would actually be possible, closer to hand than she had ever imagined.

  ‘There is one condition.’ The lawyer’s dry voice broke through her reverie. ‘I don’t know if it’s in the letter? Or do I have to explain?’

  A condition? What could that be?

  S
he eyed him suspiciously.

  ‘Do I have to marry someone?’ Could she marry someone she didn’t love or even care for to get the money and the lifestyle she had craved for so long? It seemed unromantic and it felt like a lie. ‘My grandfather might have felt I would benefit from a male protector…’

  ‘Oh no, your grandfather wasn’t like that at all. He valued independent women.’

  ‘Really? I wish I had got to know him.’

  ‘Perhaps I’m misphrasing it by calling it a condition,’ Mr Stone said with a frown. ‘It is more like… a vocation. Something he wished for you to do as he himself would no longer be here to do it. To continue the good work he has always done. Please read the letter to see what he himself writes about it. If it leaves any questions in your mind, I can further clarify.’

  Vocation sounded quite interesting. Like a mission in life. A grand purpose.

  She found the place where she had stopped reading.

  I hope you will forgive me for checking on you behind your back, but I had to. It always hurt me that your father was such an unpractical man. He dove headlong into situations without thinking them through. I wasn’t certain if you were the same as I only met you briefly when you were but a child. What I learned about your behaviour after his death suggested to me that you are very different. That you are level-headed and not afraid to take a difficult task upon you. You seem to think in solutions sooner than in problems.

  Atalanta smiled and whispered, ‘I had to learn how to in order to survive.’

  I need someone who knows what commitment means, to handle my inheritance wisely. There is money, yes, and wealth involved, but those things should not blind you. They are merely things that can make life very pleasant. What matters is our purpose. I believe we all have a purpose, a role to play. My role was allotted to me, entrusted, so to speak, by the people who confided in me.