Slight Mourning by Catherine Aird Page B

telephone—was trying to explain the same situation to Superintendent Leeyes. It took longer.
    â€œWhat I want to know, Sloan,” that worthy demanded, “is who gets the Strontfield Park outfit now? All that land must be worth a bit.”
    â€œQuentin Fent, cousin of the deceased.”
    â€œThen?”
    â€œQuentin’s sons, if he has any. After that, Hector Fent, uncle of the deceased. Last heard of in the backwoods of Queensland. Went out there after the war. The story is that he had an adventurous time until 1945 and then couldn’t settle down afterwards. Bit of a black sheep, from the sound of things.”
    â€œHa!” said Leeyes alertly. “A remittance man, I’ll be bound.”
    â€œI couldn’t say, sir, I’m sure. There is some doubt about whether or not he’s still alive.”
    â€œHe’ll be alive, all right, Sloan. Only the good die young. And believe you me a remittance man lives longer than most people.”
    â€œReally, sir?”
    â€œNo worries,” said Leeyes cynically.
    â€œThe Fents have had worries,” said Sloan. “I’ve found out that much so far. According to the family solicitor there’s an old-fashioned entail on the place. They’ve been trying to break it for years.”
    â€œThey have, have they?” said Leeyes, sitting up and taking notice. “Go on.”
    â€œApparently, sir,” Sloan consulted his notebook, “it takes two to break an entail.”
    â€œLike it takes two to make a quarrel,” said the superintendent irritably. “I know that. Get on with it.”
    â€œThe deceased’s grandfather died during the minority of his son—that would be Captain Fent’s father—and Captain Fent himself was killed while his son—that’s our William Fent—was still in short trousers.”
    â€œAnd the deceased—our William Fent—didn’t have a son anyway, let alone one of twenty-one,” finished Leeyes for him.
    â€œPrecisely, sir. This entail can only be broken with the consent of two adults.”
    â€œDon’t talk to me about consenting adults, Sloan,” snarled Leeyes. “It upsets me. You know that.”
    â€œNo, sir. Sorry, sir.” He took a deep breath and started again. “What the Fents have needed for a long time has been an heir who has been of age.”
    Leeyes pounced. “This cousin—Quentin Fent—he’s the heir, isn’t he?”
    â€œHeir at law, I think.” Sloan frowned. “He was heir presumptive all the while Bill Fent was childless. Or was it heir apparent? I’m not sure which.”
    â€œPresumptive or apparent,” said Leeyes flatly, “isn’t he of age?”
    â€œJust.”
    â€œWell, then …”
    â€œThat’s the interesting thing, sir. He—er—wouldn’t consent to breaking the entail.”
    The superintendent glowered across the table. “Let’s get this quite straight, Sloan. Something kills off the grandfather …”
    â€œPneumonia, sir.”
    â€œAnd the father.”
    â€œThe Germans, sir.”
    â€œAnd our chap.”
    â€œThe motor car, sir.”
    Leeyes let that pass. He said, “That happens soon after the heir presumptive or that other thing …”
    â€œApparent.”
    â€œApparent—soon after he comes of age.”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œHow soon?”
    â€œA couple of months. Not of age, exactly, sir. The deed of entail specifies twenty-one years of age.”
    â€œQuite right, too.” The superintendent didn’t hold with the new coming of age of eighteen. “What was good enough for the Normans, Sloan, is good enough for me.”
    â€œThe Normans, sir?” inquired Sloan politely.
    â€œDidn’t you know, Sloan? They put the age of majority up to twenty-one. From fifteen. Ten sixty-six and all that.” The superintendent was given to