“Hello?”
“Mrs. Hawthorpe,” a voice says. “It’s Paul Carr. I understand that you’ve spoken to Mr. Jethro Hawthorpe.”
“Yes,” I say, moving to the table and sitting down.
“I’m very sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m sorry to intrude, but I’m calling on the instruction of Mr. Hawthorpe to confirm that the funeral of your husband will take place on Friday.”
Four days away. My stomach plummets at the thought of having to stay in this house another four days.
“Thank you, Mr. Carr.”
“Mrs. Hawthorpe—”
“It’s not Hawthorpe,” I interrupt quickly. “It’s Lamont. But you can call me Amelie.”
“Then, Amelie, could I visit you tomorrow to discuss the postnuptial agreement you and Ned signed?”
“Yes,” I reply mechanically. “Of course. Is ten a.m. okay?”
“Perfect. And can I bring anything for you? I imagine it’s difficult for you to leave the house to go shopping.”
“Yes, there are journalists outside the gate.”
“Have you spoken to them?”
“No, and I don’t intend to.”
“Good.”
I give him a small list of groceries to see me through the next few days. “If you’re sure you don’t mind,” I add, when I get to the end.
“Not at all. I’ve been instructed to look after you until after the funeral. Goodbye, Amelie, I’ll see you tomorrow at ten.”
CHAPTER SIX
I have trouble equating the man who strides through the front door at precisely ten o’clock the next morning, a box of groceries tucked under his arm, with the hesitant and nervous man I’d seen in Ned’s study. He’d been pitiless to the journalists who’d tried to squeeze through the gate behind his car; I’d heard him via the intercom threatening them with legal action if they so much as put a toe onto the property.
“Amelie,” he says, placing his bag on the floor so that he can shake my hand. “How nice to meet you again. And please, call me Paul.”
He insists on carrying the box through to the kitchen and when I suggest we talk in the library, he says he’s perfectly happy in the kitchen, where we could perhaps have some coffee.
“Mr. Hawthorpe Senior said that you wanted to talk to me about the postnuptial agreement,” he says, once I’ve placed two mugs in front of us.
“Is it actually valid?” I ask. “What I mean is, when I asked for a pound doubled for each day that Ned and I remained married, I had no idea what it would come to because I’d never worked it out. I would never have expected him to honor it and I suspect he would have found a way not to, if it did happen to be valid.”
“It’s absolutely valid. But as his spouse, you are the beneficiary of his estate in any case.”
“I don’t want any of it. Whatever is due to me, I want to donate it to the Hawthorpe Foundation. I hope that won’t be a problem.”
“That can certainly be arranged. I’ll just need you to sign a document to that effect.”
“Do you have it with you? I understand that it might be months or even years before his estate is settled but I’d rather get it over and done with.”
“As a matter of fact, I do,” he says, delving into his bag.
I smile. “I see Mr. Hawthorpe has already informed you of my wish.”
He neither confirms nor denies it, and as he places a file on the table and slides out a document, another thought hits me. Maybe it was the kidnappers who told him. I’d already worked out that for the kidnappers to have used the doubling method on Ned, they must have known about the terms of the postnup—and the only person who could have told them about the postnup was Paul Carr. Maybe there’s more to him than I first thought. Was he, and is he still, working for the kidnappers? I study him for a moment, but his face gives nothing away.
I read the document, sign it.
“You said you’d been instructed to look after me until after the funeral,” I say, passing it back to him. “Can I ask by whom? I doubt it was Jethro Hawthorpe.”
He gives me a gentle smile. “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say. However,” he goes on, and I look at him hopefully. “I have some information for you.”
“What sort of information?”
“Soon after your marriage to Mr. Hawthorpe, I was contacted by an attorney, a Mr. Barriston. He has a practice in Reading and saw reports of Ned’s marriage in the newspapers. When he saw your name, he realized you were the daughter of one of his clients, who died some years back. Your father, Eduard Lamont. Mr. Barriston was eager to make contact with you and contacted me, as Mr. Hawthorpe’s attorney, to ask if I could tell him your whereabouts.”