Free Major Pettigrew’s Last Stand by Helen Simonson Page A

Major. He was hurt and angry to the point of feeling faint. “It should have been mine in the first place, you know – oldest son and all that. Not that I ever begrudged Bertie his share, only he never was a shooting man.”
    “Well, I think you should have a friendly chat with Marjorie about it,” said Mortimer. “I’m sure she would want to work out something. Perhaps we should hold off finalising the executor position until this is sorted out?”
    “I know my duty,” said the Major. “I will do as my brother asked of me regardless of this matter.”
    “Yes, I’m sure,” said Mortimer. “Only it might be considered a conflict of interest were you to intend any claim against the estate.”
    “You mean go to court?” said the Major. “I wouldn’t dream of dragging the Pettigrew name so low.”
    “I never thought you would,” said Mortimer. “It would have been terribly awkward having to represent one side of the family against the other. Not at all in the Tewkesbury and Teale tradition.” He smiled, and the Major had the suspicion that Mortimer would love to represent Marjorie against him and would use every scrap of prior knowledge about the family to win.
    “It is unthinkable,” he said.
    “Well, that’s settled, then,” said Mortimer. “Just have a chat with Marjorie, will you? That way, we know there’s no conflict of interest on your part. I must get the probate filed soon, so if you could get back to me…”
    “And if she doesn’t agree to give me the gun?” said the Major.
    “Then, in the interest of expediting probate, I would advise you to decline the executor position.”
    “I can’t do that,” said the Major. “It’s my duty to Bertie.”
    “I know, I know,” said Mortimer. “You and I are men of duty, men of honour. But we live in a different world today, my dear Major, and I would be remiss as a solicitor if I did not then advise Marjorie to challenge your fitness to serve.” In an attempt to sound delicate, he squeezed the words out of his mouth like the last of the toothpaste from the tube. His face wore the glazed expression of someone calculating how much of a smile to deliver. “We need to avoid even the semblance of any dishonourable intentions. There are liability issues, you understand?”
    “Apparently, I understand nothing,” said the Major.
    “Just talk to Marjorie and call me as soon as you can,” said Mortimer, rising from his chair and holding out his hand. The Major also stood up. He wished he had worn a suit now, instead of this ridiculous black sweater. It would have been more difficult for Mortimer to dismiss him like a schoolboy.
    “This should not have happened this way,” said the Major. “The Tewkesbury firm has represented my family’s interests for generations…”
    “And it is our privilege to do so,” said Mortimer, as if the Major had complimented him. “We may have to be a bit more bound by the rule book these days, but you can be sure that Tewkesbury and Teale will always try to do their best for you.” The Major thought that perhaps after this was all settled he would do as he should have done in the first place and find himself another solicitor.
    Stepping out of the office into the square he was momentarily blinded. The fog had been pushed back from the sea, and the stucco fronts of the villas were drying to pale tones in the afternoon sunshine. He felt the sudden warmth relax his face. He breathed in and the salt water in the air seemed to wash away the smell of furniture wax and avarice that was Mortimer Teale’s office.

5
    T o tell Mortimer that he had never begrudged Bertie the gun had been a damn lie. Sitting on the seafront, his back pressed against the wooden slats of a park bench, the Major turned his face up to the sun. The sweater absorbed heat as efficiently as a black plastic bin liner, and it was pleasant to sit tucked away in the lee of the fishermen’s black-tarred net-drying sheds, listening to the waves