Free Ursula's Secret by Mairi Wilson Page A

Colours in motion, swaying bodies carrying baskets and bundles on high heads, buses overflowing like spilt paint pots, batik fluttering like bunting from a washing line. And blazing down on everything, the sun: its heat, the feel of it drenching her clothes, firing her skin, dust drying in her eyes, her throat. She was exhausted, yes, but exhilarated, energised by her walk in a way she’d never been by the drab, familiar streets of her London suburb. Already she knew her mother would have loved it, and she wished Izzie had brought her here to share it with her, let her see it through her mother’s eyes. Had her mother walked that street, come here to take tea in this oasis of elegance, just as she herself was doing? She wanted to believe so.
    She pulled her notebook from her bag, and as she sipped the last of her tea, she browsed through the pages, edges crinkled from their champagne bath, but the notes she’d made on the plane intact. She’d tried to make sense of Ursula’s affairs as summarised in the Manila folder, not to be confused with the tea-stained one she’d found under Ursula’s chair. That one looked much more personal and interesting but would have to wait. The Manila Folder . It should be the title of a “jolly good adventure for girls” by Enid Blyton perhaps, or a Bogart and Bacall movie, or a Graham Greene novel. Any of them would be much more appealing than what it actually was: the sum total of a life lived by a woman Lexy knew very little about but who had bequeathed her all her worldly goods, along with the story that wove them together – unintentionally, it was true, but Lexy owed it to her mother to take it seriously. It weighed heavily on her mind both as a responsibility to the dead and as a clue to the living. She was sure she’d find the trail to Ursula’s son somewhere in the Manila folder if she looked carefully enough.
    She started to make sense of her notes. Most of her questions related to three areas. First, and perhaps most straightforward, there was the ‘Ross-shire property’ Ms Hamilton had dropped in as a parting shot at the end of their meeting. Paperwork documented its purchase and then a few years later a lease had been drawn up, although the copy in the folder was unsigned, the space for the tenant name blank. Nothing since. Did that mean the property had been let for a period, and if so, was it still tenanted? Or had Ursula changed her mind and the lease was just there should she need it at a future date? And where and what exactly was this property? It was referred to by name, Taigh na Mara, but nothing more, and that was hardly helpful. For some obscure, forgotten reason Lexy knew the name meant house of the sea in Scots Gaelic, but given the miles and miles of ragged coastline in that part of the world, it was likely to be as popular a house name up there as Dunroamin for Scots exiled anywhere else. Not exactly unique, in other words.
    Second, Ms Hamilton had also referred to financial arrangements between Ursula and her son. Apart from the obvious question here, as to the son’s identity, Lexy had been unable to find any trace of these payments in Ursula’s bank statements, the most recent copies of which had been included for each of the three accounts: current, savings and some sort of investment account. In amongst the post she’d brought with her from Ursula’s flat, there’d been a credit card statement and some correspondence relating to Ursula’s pension but nothing to suggest there was another account of any sort anywhere. So what exactly were these payments? And in which direction did they flow between Ursula and her son? There was no regular unexplained debit or credit to give any clue. But follow the money, they said, and she’d find it somehow. It was her best chance of tracing the mystery man.
    And finally, there were a series of what appeared to be share certificates for the Buchanan Trading Company, all dated more than thirty years ago. Lexy