Free Major Pettigrew’s Last Stand by Helen Simonson

small investment account set up for Gregory and any other grandchildren who might arrive later. There were also bequests to three charities: their old prep school got a thousand pounds and both Bertie’s church and the parish church of St. Mary’s C of E at Edgecombe St. Mary received two thousand. The Major chuckled to see Bertie, who had long ago acceded to Marjorie and become an active Presbyterian, hedging his bets with the Almighty. When he finished reading, the Major went back and read the will again, to make sure he hadn’t missed a paragraph. Then he just pretended to be reading, in order to give himself time to quell his confusion.
    The will made no mention of any bequests of personal items, to anyone, offering only a single line: “My wife may dispose of any and all personal effects as she deems fit. She knows my wishes in these matters.” This bluntness was out of keeping with the rest of the document; in its few words, the Major sensed both his brother’s capitulation to his wife and a coded apology to himself. “She knows my wishes,” he read again.
    “Ah, tea; thank you, Mary.” Mortimer broke his careful silence as the thin girl who worked as secretary came in with a small gilt tray containing two cups of tea in bone china mugs and a plate with two dry biscuits. “Is the milk fresh?” he fussed, his voice signalling that it was high time Pettigrew finished his reading and got down to business. The Major turned reluctantly from the window.
    “Are there not a couple of omissions?” he enquired at last.
    “I think you’ll find all the required language is there,” said Mortimer. The Major could see he had no intention of helping smooth over the awkwardness of asking about the Major’s own interests.
    “As you know, there is the matter of my father’s sporting guns,” he said. He could feel his face flushing with heat, but he was determined to be direct. “It was understood by all, of course, that the guns were to be reunited upon the death of either one of us.”
    “Ah,” said Mortimer slowly.
    “I was under the impression that Bertie’s will would contain explicit directions in this matter – as my own will does.” He stared hard. Mortimer put down his tea with care and pressed his fingertips together. He sighed.
    “As you can see,” he said, “no such provision was included. I did urge Bertie to be as specific as possible about any items of value that he might wish to pass on…” His voice trailed off.
    “Those guns were passed on to us in trust by my father,” the Major said, drawing himself up as far as possible. “It was his dying wish that we share in them during our lifetimes and that we reunite them to pass on down the generations. You know this as well as I.”
    “Yes, that has always been my understanding,” agreed Mortimer. “However, since your father gave you the guns in person, during his illness, there was no such direction in his will and therefore no obligation…”
    “But I’m sure Bertie put it in his will,” he said, annoyed to find a begging tone creeping into his voice. Mortimer did not answer at once. He gazed up at the brass chandelier as if searching for the exact parsing of his next words.
    “I can say very little,” he finally offered. “Let us say only that, in the broadest sense possible, the leaving of any specific assets away from a spouse may become an issue of loyalty for some couples.” He grimaced in conspiratorial fashion and the Major caught the faintest echo of Marjorie’s shrill voice ringing off the plain panelling of the office.
    “My sister-in-law…?” he began. Mortimer held up a palm to stop him.
    “I cannot make any comment on client discussions or enter into any suppositions, however hypothetical,” he said. “I can only say how sorry it makes me when my hands are so tied that I cannot even warn a good client that he should perhaps consider altering his own will.”
    “Everyone knows that gun is mine,” said the