Earl Dawson found the whole business of wills and estates tiresome and daunting. By turns he relished living in this centuries- old Grayson Manor where he not only grew up but also where he was now the custodian of same, or so it seemed likely. At other times it all became overwhelming, caring for the age-old walls and keeping them in ship shape.

The constant thud of hammers filled the Manor from early morning to late evening  and his late father’s effects were being cleared out.  He was growing used to it now.

Although  his late father, Marquis Dawson, had departed this life  one whole calendar  year ago, judicial matters had not yet been settled. At first the Earl was content to rattle around in the Manor, hunting and fishing as the seasons came and went or hosting the Harvest and Christmas Balls. As a younger man the Balls were the highlight of the season with the young and not so young ladies and gentlemen arraigned in their finery while  seeking out a soulmate or a lover or paramour.  The Earl, now well ensconced  in the vagaries of middle age and unencumbered by offspring of any sort, in so far as he could tell, languidly set about finding pursuits appropriate to his middle years.  Though in his middle years, he was paying court to a young woman, Lady Aynsley, whose husband had passed away at the Front. It would be a marriage of convenience for both parties.

Middle-aged dowagers could sometimes be seen taking a second look as they passed him by on the village street. He considered himself to be still handsome enough to turn a female head with his perfectly chiselled jaw and increasing quantities of greying strands in his curly locks that glistened beneath the summer sun.

Unlike some of his neighbours he was financially comfortable. Nevertheless, legal matters needed to be sorted. Mr Witkins, his solicitor or rather his late father’s solicitor from Witkins & Co was tardy when it came to diligence and time frames.

On that afternoon in early March  a pale ray of sunshine lit up his bureau. As he sipped his post prandial cognac there was a loud knock on his bureau door. Footman James stood there holding a large brown envelope addressed to the Earl.  It bore the red seal of Witkins & Co.

‘At last,’ Earl Dawson said taking the envelope. James hesitated for a moment as if he had something to say but thought better of it and headed toward the marble staircase leading to the gardens below.

Laying the sealed envelope on the edge of the bureau, Earl Dawson broke  the seal of the envelope and took out the contents. The contents were a single sheet of paper on which was written a single sentence:

Dear Earl Dawson,

We wish to inform you, following the request in your recent correspondence with us, that we do not hold, nor never have held record of your late father’s, Marquis Dawson’s will.

We remain

Yours  Henry Witkins QC

 

Earl Dawson read and reread the note before him, ‘we do not hold nor never have held.’

 

‘So where then is Papa’s last Will and Testament,’ Earl heard himself shout into the ether.

‘What of my future? Who will inherit the Manor?’

Earl Dawson was beside himself with confusion.

In his  perplexed state, he stood bolt upright from his bureau and gazed  into the far distance.

The light of the early Spring evening was beginning to fade. The workmen were tidying up at the end of the day. He couldn’t possibly take the workmen into his confidence and ask them if they had come across his father’s old papers in the attic as they cleared out. After all an Earl was in some ways, though he never concurred with the idea,was supposed to be of a superior intellect having had the advantage of being raised in the The Manor.

Earl Dawson was befuddled. The matter had to be resolved and quickly. Otherwise, an interloper could lay claim to the Manor and its contents and he would be bereft.

Peering through the latticed windows of his bureau, he saw the workmen exit through the front gate.

Slamming the bureau door behind him, he hurried towards the attic stairs and climbed swiftly amid the debris and the dust.

His father’s oil paintings stood in one corner. His riding breeches and crop still hung in another corner. What looked like an antique bureau stood by the window. He pulled frantically at one of the drawers. On opening it he found a rusted key. His fingers trembled as he tried the key  in each of the drawers of the bureau. Finally with a squeaky noise one of the drawers opened.

A red dossier lay in the drawer . He grabbed it with both hands and proceeded to read it aloud in a trembling voice. A mouse squeaked as it scurried past alongside him.

The words jumped out at him,

The Manor and the surrounding estate, I hereby bequeath to my first- born son, Lord Edward. The Gate Lodge I bequeath to my second son, Earl Dawson.

Dated January 25th 1939

Earl Dawson was apoplectic with rage. ‘But this is two years later. Who is Lord Edward?’ he whined. ‘Papa why didn’t you tell me that I had a brother, half brother, step brother or whatever?'

The rickety attic stairs creaked as Earl Dawson descended in the sombre twilight.

‘Where to now?‘ he pondered. ‘Lady Aynsley and I must immediately suspend our courtship, since when these pressing inheritance matters are settled, I shall to all intents and purposes, be a pauper or at least a member of the proletariat. I shall no longer have a silver spoon in my mouth. Her father, Right Honorable Macon, would never  permit his young widowed daughter to enter a matrimonial alliance with such a man.’

Earl Dawso’s world had just begun spinning in a completely different direction.

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