In London a memorial service was held at St. Ethelberta’s, one of Wren’s most beautiful—and threatened—City churches. The church was packed with City men of all types and standings. A Director of the Bank of England was present to represent that august institution officially, together with members of the committees of Lloyds and the Stock Exchange. All the directors of Fratten’s Bank, except of course Hessel, were there, and Major-General Sir Hunter Lorne, a notable figure even among men of note, represented the Victory Finance Company. Every member of the staff of Fratten’s Bank, which was closed for the day—a unique circumstance—was there, from the chief cashier to the latest-joined stamp-licker. The City felt that one of its big men had gone—one of the fast-disappearing pre-war type—and it was, beneath its inscrutable surface, genuinely moved.
When the burial at Brooklands was over, the party returned to Queen Anne’s Gate. Inez, with quiet dignity, poured out tea and then excused herself and retired, leaving Ryland to act as host to the rather uncomfortable and ill-assorted gathering. When tea was finished a move was made to the dining-room and as soon as the gloomy committee was seated round the big mahogany table, Mr. Menticle produced the last will and testament of his late client. Placing a pair of gold pince-nez upon his aquiline nose, he cleared his throat and, in a precise voice, read the contents of the crisp document in his hand. The distant cousins were all agreeably surprised by what they heard, the staff of Fratten’s Bank were remembered to a man—and girl, various charities were mentioned, though not unduly, and the residue of the estate was divided equally between “my two children, Ryland and Inez Fratten.” Leopold Hessel was appointed sole executor with a generous legacy and the instruction that Sir Garth’s private and business papers should be in the first place scrutinized by him and their disposal left to his sole discretion.
“There, gentlemen!” said Mr. Menticle, when the reading was over, “that represents the attested wishes of a very big and generous man; if, as one who has known him and his family and affairs for many years, I may be allowed to say so, it represents also a very reasonable and well-balanced distribution of the goods which he largely created himself and which, as we know, it was as impossible for him as for any other to take with him out of this world. With your permission, gentlemen—yours especially, Mr. Fratten—I will now withdraw. I have, I am sorry to say, other work awaiting me at my office which this sad occasion has caused me to neglect.”
When the last of the ghouls had left, Ryland Fratten returned to the dining-room and sank again into the chair he had just left. For minutes he sat there, motionless, staring at the polished surface of the table, his face an expressionless mask—except for the eyes, in the depth of which a look of some agonized emotion seemed to lurk—sorrow, remorse, fear?
The door opened quietly and Inez’ wistful face peered round it.
“There you are, Ry!” she said. “I’ve been hunting for you everywhere, since I heard the front door slam. I thought perhaps old Menticle had got his teeth into you about the will or something. What are you doing in here all by yourself, old man?”
Ryland turned his haggard face towards her, an attempt at a smile quivered on his mouth, and then his head sank into his folded arms and a deep sob shook his body.
Inez slipped on to the chair next to him and threw her arm across his shoulders.
“Ry,” she said. “What is it? My dear, tell me.”
A look of anxiety and almost more than sisterly tenderness came into her eyes as Ryland sat motionless, unanswering.