The lawyer sat behind a Chippendale table with Mr. Frick’s last will and testament laid out before him, wearing spectacles that slid partway down his nose. Lillian retreated to a chair by a window, where she could take in whatever unfolded discreetly. Everyone was still and silent, other than Mrs. Dixie, who swayed ever so slightly and hummed under her breath. Nerves, or perhaps Bertha’s gossip that she liked to regularly dip into the sherry was true.
“Shall we begin?” intoned the attorney.
“Please do. We know he wanted all this”—Mr. Childs gave an expansive wave in the air around him, as if he were conjuring spirits—“to be left to the City of New York.” He gestured for him to go ahead, a smug smile on his face.
“That is true. Now, if we are all assembled, I will read aloud the last will and testament of Mr. Henry Clay Frick, dated June 24, 1915.”
“What?” Mr. Childs leaned forward. “Nineteen fifteen? He told me that he was going to draft a new one.” He stared wildly at his mother. “You remember, don’t you? You were there, Mother. Remember?”
Mrs. Frick looked up at her daughter, then over at her son. “I do remember, but he’s been so ill . . .” She trailed off and turned to the lawyer. “What does this one say?”
“This one,” he answered, “is the only one. Let me make that perfectly clear.” He began reading in a monotone, perhaps hoping to offset the volatile effect the document might produce.
Mr. Childs interrupted after only one page. “Summarize it, please. Get to the point.”
Mr. Smith cleared his throat. “Very well. According to the will, Mrs. Frick receives life tenancy of One East Seventieth Street and the Eagle Rock residence, as well as one million dollars outright and five million dollars in trust.”
“That’s ridiculous,” said Mr. Childs. “A paltry sum.”
Mr. Smith didn’t answer, just waited for Mr. Childs to settle. Mrs. Frick stayed mute, although her hands clenched and unclenched in her lap.
“Mr. Childs will receive one million outright and two million in trust.”
“No! What?” Mr. Childs cried out, and his wife went pale.
Miss Helen bit her lip as she tended to do when she was excited. “What else?”
“For you, Miss Helen, there will be five million outright, title to Eagle Rock and its contents upon your mother’s death, title to the Pittsburgh mansion, and, um, several million in securities.”
Mr. Childs pulled his lips back, baring his teeth. “Good God. How much, total, does my sister get?”
“Thirty-eight million dollars.”
Even Lillian was shocked at that. The unevenness of the distribution was cruel. Mr. Frick’s wife and son were being punished, it appeared. Yet for most of her life, Miss Helen had acted as her father’s confidante, more than her mother, and certainly more than her brother. So perhaps this was her reward.
Mr. Childs rose. “Mr. Smith, I demand to see his revised will. Not this one. This one is invalid.”
Mr. Smith tapped an index finger on the document. “This is it, I’m afraid. He did reach out to me in late November, and I assumed it was to go over his final requests. But then he fell ill, and asked to postpone it.”
“That’s not right! What will people say when they see that the younger sister, who doesn’t even have an heir, who is worthless, gets everything?”
“Worthless?” Miss Helen looked down her nose at Mr. Childs. “They will say Father knew what he was doing, and that he knew that I would carry on his legacy as he wished, not waste his money on fossils and rocks.”
Mr. Childs glanced over at his wife, who gave a tiny shake of her head.
“Don’t,” she said quietly. “Not now. We don’t know for sure yet.”
“What’s that?” asked Miss Helen. “You can contest the will if you like, but Mr. Smith says Papsie didn’t draw up another one.”
“Because you made sure he couldn’t.” Mr. Childs rose and began pacing the room, his words punctuated with a finger that he jabbed in Miss Helen’s direction. “I was hoping I wouldn’t have to bring this up, but circumstances have forced me to.”
“Bring up what, my dear?” said Mrs. Frick.
“The nurse approached me the morning he died. She said she noticed a faint film of residue, much like when a sleeping draft is added to water, in the bottom of his drinking glass. The one that Helen gave him right before he stopped breathing.”