Irish Inheritance

By Paula Martin

English actress, Jenna Sutton, and American artist, Guy Sinclair, are thrown together when they find they’ve jointly inherited a house on the west coast of Ireland. Neither knows their connection to their unknown benefactress, but set about unravelling the intriguing tale of a 19th century love affair. Despite their personal reasons for not wanting romantic involvements, Jenna and Guy feel their growing attraction.

When local property agent, Eve Callaghan, appears to have her own agenda, friction builds over Jenna and Guy’s decision about the house and its contents.

Will their Irish inheritance bring them together - or drive them apart?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tirgearr Publishing
• Release date: Nov 13, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370757909

Paula Martin

Paula Martin lives near Manchester in North West England and has two daughters and two grandsons. She had some early publishing success with four romance novels and several short stories, but then had a break from writing while she brought up a young family and also pursued her career as a history teacher for twenty-five years. She has recently returned to writing fiction, after retiring from teaching, and is thrilled to have found publishing success again with her contemporary romances. Apart from writing, she enjoys visiting new places. She has travelled extensively in Britain and Ireland, mainland Europe, the Middle East, America and Canada. Her other interests include musical theatre and tracing her family history.

Book preview

Chapter 1

‘A house in Ireland?’ Jenna Sutton stared over the mahogany desk at the lawyer. ‘Someone I’ve never heard of has left me a house in Ireland?’

The white-haired lawyer peered over his steel-rimmed spectacles. ‘A half share of the house, Ms. Sutton. Along with a half share of what, at current exchange rates, amounts to approximately fifty thousand pounds.’

Jenna shook her head and swiped several strands of her hair back behind her ear. ‘I don’t understand, Mr. Moore. Why would this Helena – what did you say her name was?’

‘Miss Helena Keating.’

‘Why has she left me a house and twenty-five thousand pounds? How does she even know about me?’

‘Ms. Sutton, I can only give you the information passed to me by the law firm of Daniel McGrath in Dublin. We were instructed to find any descendants of James Oliver Sutton—’

‘My grandfather.’

‘Yes, and as far as we can ascertain, you are his sole descendant. I understand your father died in an automobile accident about twenty years ago. My condolences.’

‘Thanks, but I was six when he died and only have some vague memories of him.’ She frowned. ‘Do you know what the link is between this woman and my grandfather?’

‘That wasn’t part of our instructions.’

‘Have you any information about her?’

Mr. Moore pushed his glasses back up his nose and flipped through the papers in the blue manila folder on his desk. ‘Miss Keating was born in 1920 in County Galway, Ireland, and died last year in Dalkey, near Dublin, where she has lived since 1940.’

‘That means she was—’ She did a quick calculation in her head. ‘About fifteen years older than my grandfather.’

The lawyer picked up another sheet of paper. ‘Yes, he was born in April 1936.’

‘I wasn’t aware he knew anyone in Ireland, and I’m pretty sure he never went over there. He lived his whole life in a small village in Kent.’

She couldn’t imagine her grandfather being anyone’s toy boy either. He’d been devoted to her grandmother, so what on earth was his connection with this Irish woman?

Another thought occurred to her, and she looked at Mr. Moore again. ‘You said I had a half share of the house and the fifty thousand pounds.’ Even saying the words seemed surreal. She hadn’t yet wrapped her mind around what the money meant. ‘Who gets the other half?’

‘I’m sorry, Ms. Sutton. I don’t have that information. The Dublin law firm is dealing with the estate. Our job was simply to—’

‘Yes, okay, to find the descendants of my grandfather.’

‘I’m sure Mr. McGrath will be able to tell you more when you meet him in Dublin.’

‘When I meet him in—? Whoa, who says I’m going to meet him?’

‘Mr. McGrath has suggested an appointment at two-thirty on May 10th, to be followed by a visit to the house the next day.’

‘May 10th? That’s—’ Another quick calculation. ‘That’s next Tuesday.’

‘Yes. Will that be a problem? I would be more than happy to contact your employer and request leave of absence for you.’

‘Erm – well, I’m an actress and – and kind of between jobs at present, so I don’t have an employer.’

‘I see.’ The lawyer cleared his throat, and Jenna had the impression she might as well have said she was a nightclub stripper. ‘That simplifies matters, of course.’

She chewed her bottom lip. Not really, but maybe Charley would lend her the money for a quick trip to Dublin.

No, hold on. If she was due to inherit twenty-five thousand pounds plus half a house, perhaps she could get an advance.

‘Actually, no, it doesn’t. The thing is I’m – erm – I have some cash flow problems at the moment.’ Slight understatement, Jenna.

‘I understand, and in that case, on the basis of Miss Keating’s will, I can arrange for our bank to advance you a small loan to cover your expenses.’

‘Great. Thanks.’ She cocked her head to one side. ‘Why does this Irish lawyer want me to go to Dublin?’

‘As the executor of the will, he has visited the house and requires you to visit, too, before you make any decision about it.’

Jenna narrowed her eyes. ‘Why?’ Visions of a dilapidated Irish cottage flashed through her mind. Had the roof fallen in? Was it riddled with wet or dry rot? Or overrun by rats?

‘I’m sorry, Ms. Sutton, I don’t have—’

‘That information,’ she finished off for him. ‘Seems like I need to curb my curiosity until I get to Dublin. So – erm, this loan?’

‘If you leave your bank details with my secretary, I’ll arrange for the transfer of funds tomorrow morning. How much will you need?’

Jenna raised her shoulders and held out her hands. ‘No idea. What do you suggest?’

‘Would a thousand pounds cover your expenses for a few days?’

‘A thous—?’ She stared at him, open-mouthed. The last time she’d visited Dublin, for a St Patrick’s Day weekend, she’d stayed at a crummy two-star hotel. She and Charley had paid thirty-six euros a night for a cramped room overlooking a railway line.

‘I can recommend the Westgate Hotel, if you’re unsure about where to stay.’

‘Thanks, I’ll check it out online.’

Ten minutes later, she stepped out of the lawyer’s offices and stood for several moments as her mind struggled to absorb the news she’d just received. Half a house and twenty-five thousand pounds.

Taxis turning into the hotel across the road caught her eye and, with a quick grin, she pulled her phone from her pocket.

‘Charley, meet me outside Charing Cross Station in half an hour. I’m gonna treat you to afternoon tea at the Savoy.’

* * *

Guy Sinclair eased his stiff shoulders and stretched out his legs as the plane circled on the final descent to Dublin airport. He hated red-eye flights. Even though his business class seat had converted to a lie-flat and he’d slept for a while, which he was never able to do when he travelled economy, his bones and muscles still ached. He was desperate for a shower, and a shave, too. His overnight beard growth was already starting to itch.

He glanced through the porthole as they circled the wide bay and wondered for the hundredth time why he’d agreed to come to Dublin. He couldn’t give a damn about an old house and didn’t understand why the Irish lawyer was so insistent.

‘He wants you to see the house before you make any decision about selling,’ the New York lawyer had told him.

Still reeling from the surprise of discovering he was about to inherit half a house and cash from some old dame in Ireland, he’d shrugged. ‘I guess I can humour him. With the promise of this legacy, I can afford to fly over to Dublin, can’t I?’

After he left the lawyer’s office, he crossed Fifty-Ninth, found an empty bench at the edge of Central Park, and called his mother in New Jersey.

‘Mom, do you know if Dad’s mother had any connections with Ireland?’

‘Is this something to do with the letter you had from the lawyer?’

‘Yes, I’ve been to see him and – well, this is gonna sound crazy, but some woman who died last year has left me about forty thousand dollars and a half-share of a house in Ireland.’

‘You’re kidding me.’

‘No, I’m not. The lawyer was asked by a Dublin law firm to trace any descendants of Catherine Emily Lewis, but I can’t for the life of me figure out what connection my grandmother might have had with this Irish woman.’

‘What was her name?’

‘Helena Keating. Born in Galway in 1920.’

‘Not a name I’ve ever heard. Your dad’s father came from New York, and his mother had a Boston accent.’

‘And both places have a huge Irish population, of course.’

‘Does it matter if you can’t work out the connection? She’s left you money. That’s wonderful news. Have you decided what you’re going to do with it?’

‘I’ve not had time to think about it yet.’

Even as he said the words, Guy knew he didn’t need to think. He had no idea what the house might be worth but, with a bit of luck, there’d be enough for him to employ someone to look after his father’s sign painting business for a few months. Then he could take some time out and forget the clients who ignored his advice and insisted on their own ideas for signs. Forget, too, the computer programmes which had taken over from the old skills of sign painting and forced him to sit in front of a screen instead of an easel.

Instead, he’d concentrate on the subjects he longed to paint. The panhandler, the street musician, the pushcart peddler, and all the wonderful images he saw every day in New York City. People, real people. Not signs advertising auto sales, or cafes, or tattoo parlours. Maybe he could even rent a small gallery to exhibit his work…

He gripped the armrests as the plane decelerated on the runway and held his breath until it slowed to taxiing speed. He hated landing almost as much as he hated taking-off.

Business class had been an extravagance but it had definite advantages. He was one of the first off the plane, his bag appeared quickly on the carousel, and he joined the short line to the Passport and Immigration desk, instead of the long line of economy class passengers.

‘How long will you be staying in Ireland, sir?’ the officer asked in a lilting accent.

‘A couple of days.’ When the man raised his eyebrows, he went on, ‘I have an appointment with a lawyer in Dublin.’

‘Best of luck, then, sir. Céad míle fáilte. Welcome to Ireland.’

In the arrivals hall, he searched for the taxi sign and saw the arrow pointing downwards.

A young woman in a bright red jacket was struggling with a small wheelie case at the top of the escalator.

‘Need some help, ma’am?’

She turned to him, her expression changing from frustration to relief. ‘Oh – thank you. The wheels on this case are worse than a supermarket trolley.’

‘’Scuse me?’

‘Ah, you’re American, aren’t you? I think you call them carts.’

‘Yes, I’m American, and yes, we call them shopping carts.’

With a broad grin, he picked up her suitcase and carried it down the escalator. At the bottom, she turned to him. ‘Thank you very much.’

‘My pleasure. Are you heading for the taxis?’

‘Yes, but there’s no need—’

‘No problem. I’ll carry your bag.’ He bent his head to study it. ‘One of the wheels is loose. That’s why it’s misbehaving.’

‘I’ve had this case for years. I should have bought a new one but I hoped it would survive one more trip.’

‘You’re not Irish, are you?’ he asked as they joined the line of people waiting for taxis.

‘No, I’m from London. How about you?’

‘From New York.’ He rubbed his cheeks and chin. ‘I guess the stubble on my face is the evidence of an overnight flight. I’ll be glad when I get to my hotel.’

‘Where are you staying?’

‘The Westgate.’

‘Ooh, very nice.’

‘You know it?’

‘Only that it’s one of Dublin’s most luxurious, and most expensive, hotels.’

‘Someone recommended it to me. I’ve never been to Ireland before.’

‘I’ve been here once. A friend and I came over for a weekend to celebrate St. Pat’s Day about five years ago.’

‘We have a St. Patrick’s Day parade in New York, but it must be awesome to celebrate here in Dublin.’

‘Yeah, until you get too tipsy to remember it. At least the grotty hotel where we stayed looked better through an alcoholic haze.’

He chuckled. ‘Where are you staying this time? Not the same place, I assume?’

‘No way. A fairly standard hotel near Merrion Square.’

They reached the head of the line, and he turned to her as a taxi pulled up beside them. ‘Is that anywhere near the Westgate? If so, we could share this cab.’ At least it would be a way of prolonging his acquaintance with this bubbly girl. An attractive one, too, with her dark shiny hair framing her face.

‘Is that okay with you? I think Merrion Square’s quite near the Westgate.’

They climbed into the back seat while the driver deposited their bags in the trunk. After they’d told him where they wanted to go, they set off.

‘I’m Guy Sinclair, by the way.’

‘And I’m Jenna Sutton. Pleased to meet you.’

She stuck out her hand to shake his, and he liked the way her face and eyes lit up when she smiled. Especially her eyes. Mid-brown, a warm coppery colour. He was always a sucker for eyes.

‘What brings you to Dublin, Jenna? You’re too late for St. Pat’s Day this year.’

‘Oh, some legal business.’

‘That’s a coincidence. I have a meeting with a lawyer, too. It’s the only reason I’m here, but I’m enjoying being away from work for a few days.’

‘What do you do? Work-wise, I mean?’

‘I’m a—’ He was about to say sign painter, until he remembered the decision he’d made. ‘I’m an artist.’

‘Really? What kind of artist?’

‘Well, during the last ten years, I’ve painted shop signs, trucks and cars, and motorbike gas tanks. I was still in art school when my dad first got sick, so I had no option but to join the family business once I graduated. Dad died a couple of years ago, and since then I’ve been trying to keep the business going. Not easy in this recession, of course. I’m hoping I might soon have the opportunity for some time out to paint the things I want to paint.’

‘What things?’

‘People.’

‘You mean portraits?’

‘Good lord, no. I mean real people. The ones you see on the streets, on the subway, in the park. I love people-watching.’

She smiled. ‘Me, too. I like watching mannerisms. How someone’s head tilts, or how they wave their arms around, or point a finger at the person they’re talking to.’

‘That kind of observation is fun, isn’t it? Do you do it for amusement or—’

‘I’m an actress. I spend my life pretending to be someone else.’

‘Ah.’ He nodded, even though warning bells clanged in his mind. ‘So, you’re an observer of humanity. Artists, actors, writers, we’re all trying to portray it in different ways, aren’t we? Erm – I don’t recognise your name. Should I know something you’ve starred in?’

‘I haven’t starred in anything. I’ve had a few minor parts in television dramas and soaps, but my only claim to fame is a two-month tour around the UK in Hobson’s Choice.’

‘Sorry, I’m not familiar with the play.’

‘No need to apologise. I wasn’t either, until I got the part. No, that’s not strictly true. I’d heard the expression, even though I didn’t know the play.’

‘Hobson’s Choice is an expression?’

‘It means you don’t have any choice at all.’

‘Like Henry Ford’s statement about his Model T cars.’

‘What was that?’

‘He said you can have any colour, so long as it’s black.’

She laughed and splayed her fingers to push her long hair back from her face. For some reason, the movement was incredibly sexy, and he experienced a momentary urge to run his own fingers through her hair, exactly as she’d done. A vision of her wavy hair spread on a pillow jumped into his mind…

Cool it, Guy. You’ve only just met this girl. And she’s an actress.

He gazed through the cab window to distract his mind from the still painful memory of the way Suzie had dumped him when he told her he wouldn’t move to Los Angeles. ‘How far are we from Dublin?’

‘I think the airport’s about twelve miles from the city centre.’

‘Can you recommend anything I should see while I’m here? I hope to have at least one free day before I go home.’

‘Depends what you’re interested in but, as you’re an artist, the Book of Kells might appeal to you.’

‘Of course! I forgot that was here in Dublin.’

‘There’s a permanent exhibition at Trinity College.’

‘Of the ninth century manuscript? I’d love the chance to look at the original illustrations. I’ve seen photos, of course, and they’re beautiful. I never dreamed I’d ever see the real thing. We don’t have really old stuff like that back home.’

‘It’s a shame you only have one free day, because Ireland has a lot of medieval sites. Not that I’ve seen any of them.’

He shot her an amused glance. ‘Should I be asking you about the best places to get drunk instead?’

She laughed again. ‘Oh, that’s easy. Temple Bar. I think it’s officially called Dublin’s cultural quarter, although that depends on your interpretation of culture. It’s full of restaurants, clubs, and bars.’

‘Where is it?’

‘About five minutes’ walk from your hotel.’

‘So—’ He hesitated for a moment, wondering how an English girl would react to an invitation from someone she’d just met, but decided to take the risk. ‘Would you consider meeting me tonight and showing me around this Temple Bar place?’

Her wide smile did weird things to his guts. ‘Yes, that could be fun. How about I come to the Westgate about seven o’clock?’

‘Perfect. We could find a restaurant for a meal before we hit all the bars.’

‘Sounds good to me. Oh, this is my hotel.’ She leaned forward to the taxi driver. ‘How much—’

Guy shook his head. ‘Forget it. I’ll pay him when we get to my hotel.’

‘Thanks, but only on condition you’ll let me buy you some beers tonight, or whatever else you like to drink.’

‘You have a deal. See you later. Look forward to it.’

‘Same here.’

As she got out of the taxi and the driver retrieved her bag, she waved to him before going up the few steps to the door of her hotel. He waved back and allowed himself a satisfied smile as the driver set off again.

Maybe this short trip to Ireland would be more fun than he’d anticipated, once he’d paid the necessary visit to Daniel McGrath on St Stephen’s Green.

Chapter 2

Jenna dumped her suitcase on the chrome luggage rack and looked around. It was a standard hotel room, nothing special, but at least it was spacious and clean.

A sliver of regret slid through her. It might have been fun to stay at the same hotel as Guy Sinclair, but she’d balked at the cost of rooms at the Westgate.

‘I’m not paying over two hundred quid for a bed for the night,’ she’d told Charley.

‘Not even for a monogrammed bath robe, silk curtains, and a turndown service?’

‘I can turn my own bed down, thank you very much, and I can survive without a chocolate wrapped in pink foil on my pillow.’

Now she wandered across to the window, gazed down at the busy street below, where cars, taxis, and open-topped green and red tourist buses passed in a never-ending stream, and thought again about the American she’d met at the airport.

She’d liked him the minute he grinned when he picked up her case. Early thirties, she guessed, and about six foot one or two. With blue eyes and dark wavy hair that reached the collar of his navy tee-shirt, he was good-looking in a clean-cut kind of way. Not male model, drop-dead gorgeous, but a well-balanced face with a strong jawline and the hint of a dimple in his cheeks when he smiled. Good body, too. Broad shoulders and wide chest, tapering to slim waist and hips. He was interesting to talk to, and yes, if she was being honest, her pulse quickened at the prospect of seeing him again this evening.

Meantime, she had an appointment with the lawyer at two-thirty. She glanced at her watch. Eleven-fifteen. Plenty of time to unpack, find a pub nearby for some lunch, and then make her way to St. Stephen’s Green.

An hour later, after a quick shower and changing from her cropped jeans and tee-shirt into the grey pants and silky crimson top she’d decided were more suitable for a visit to a lawyer’s office, she set off clutching her pocket guide to Dublin. She smiled as she remembered Charley’s warning about it always raining in Ireland. At least today was warm enough not to need a jacket, and the sky was bright blue with a few fluffy white clouds.

After potato and leek soup and an egg salad baguette at a pub around the corner from her hotel, she headed for Merrion Square. With her phone camera, she snapped some shots of the Georgian redbrick townhouses surrounding the small park on three sides, and the large, impressive buildings in white Portland stone on the fourth side. Her guidebook told her they were the National Gallery and Natural History Museum.

It didn’t take her long to walk to St Stephen’s Green – a much larger park, again surrounded by Georgian houses with all the different coloured doors for which Dublin was renowned. As she halted by the steps up to one of the houses to double check the address Mr. Moore had given her, she glanced along the row and squinted into the sunshine.

Was that—? Yes, it was. Guy Sinclair was approaching from the opposite direction. He’d changed from jeans and tee-shirt into mid-grey trousers and a navy gilet over a pale blue shirt. Something about the way his long legs strode along the street caused a strange flip somewhere around her midriff.

She gave a small wave as he approached. ‘Hi, we meet again. Are you exploring Dublin?’

‘Not yet. I have an appointment at two-thirty.’ He looked up at the bright red door with its arched fanlight. ‘Here, I think.’

‘Is your appointment with Daniel McGrath?’ Her heart started to race as her mind did the quantum leap. ‘Helena Keating’s will?’

‘That’s right. How did you—?’ Realisation dawned across his face. ‘Are you the other half of this woman’s will?’

‘Yes.’ She debated whether her next question would make her sound foolish, but decided to ask it anyway. ‘Do you know who she is?’

‘No, I’ve never heard of her, and neither has my mom. My dad’s mother was the one named in the will, and my lawyer said I was her only descendant,’

‘Mine said I was the only descendant of my grandfather. Do you think there’s some kind of link between him and your grandmother?’

Guy’s blue eyes widened. ‘I hadn’t thought about that. Did your grandfather ever visit America?’

Jenna laughed. ‘No way. He had a market garden in Kent, and a day trip to Margate was probably the furthest he ever travelled. What about your grandmother? Did she ever come to England?’

‘I don’t think so. My mom said she was from Boston, and moved to New Jersey when she married my grandfather.’

‘Isn’t there a big Irish population in Boston?’

‘Yes, but I don’t know if she had Irish ancestors.’ Guy looked at the brass plate at the side of the door. ‘Let’s hope this Mr. McGrath can throw some light on the mystery, and on the house we’re supposed to be inheriting. Come on, let’s go hear what he has to say.’

The middle-aged receptionist ushered them into a small room on one side of the hallway, where they waited a few minutes until she returned to say Mr. McGrath was ready for them.

Jenna smiled when Guy winked at her and put his hand lightly between her shoulder blades as they followed the woman into the lawyer’s oak-panelled office. It gave her a warm sense of pleasure, almost as if he was saying, We’re in this together, whatever it is.

She’d imagined the lawyer would look like the white-haired one she’d met in London. Instead, Daniel McGrath was probably in his early forties, solidly-built, and only a couple of inches taller than her five feet six inches, with a square face, light brown hair, and blue eyes. Very Irish-looking, somehow.

He stood up to greet them. ‘Ms. Sutton, Mr. Sinclair, it’s a pleasure to meet you both. Thank you for coming to Dublin. We have some interesting times ahead of us. Do sit down, please.’

He beckoned, not to the chairs in front of his desk, as Jenna expected, but to a black leather couch near the window. She half-turned to look at Guy as they sat down, and he raised his eyebrows in an unspoken question. Perhaps he was thinking the same as she was: Interesting times ahead of us? What does that mean?

Mr. McGrath picked up a folder from his desk, pulled a chair across, and sat facing them.

‘I expect you’re wondering why I’ve asked you to come here, rather than dealing with everything through your respective lawyers in London and New York.’

Guy replied before Jenna could open her mouth. ‘We’re both trying to figure out, not just why we’re here, but who this Helena Keating is, and why our grandparents are named in her will.’

‘I’ll explain as much as I know. Helena Keating was born in County Galway in 1920 and died last year in Dalkey, a small town a few miles south of Dublin. As far as we can ascertain, she was the only daughter of William Keating. The family originally lived at Mist Na Mara House, near Clifden in County Galway. When William died, his widow and daughter Helena moved east to Dalkey. Helena eventually bought another house in the town and continued to live there until her death.’

‘Is that the house she’s left to us?’ Guy asked.

‘No, Miss Keating left the Dalkey house to a close friend of hers. It’s the other house, the one near Clifden, she’s left to you or, to be more precise, to James Oliver Sutton and Catherine Emily Lewis.’

Jenna nodded. ‘My grandfather and Guy’s grandmother, but why? That’s what we don’t understand. We don’t know of any link between them, or with this Helena Keating.’

Guy’s face creased into a puzzled frown. ‘Didn’t they sell the house at Clifden when they went to Dalkey?’

‘This is where the legacy becomes interesting, Mr. Sinclair,’ the lawyer said. ‘Mist Na Mara wasn’t sold, but was left by William Keating to his daughter Helena. He established a substantial trust fund for its upkeep, and his will contained explicit instructions that Helena could not sell, but must bequeath it to a member or members of the family. She had no children of her own, and bequeathed it to James Sutton and Catherine Lewis, or their descendants. Not the easiest clause for any lawyer, I assure you. Our researchers have taken almost a year to narrow it down to you two.’

‘So, our grandparents are classed as family?’ Jenna asked. ‘Even though we’ve no idea how they might be connected to Helena Keating or her father?’

‘Yes. Which brings me to another interesting aspect of this case. We know William Keating died in 1940, aged forty-two, but we can’t find any evidence of his birth.’

‘Maybe he wasn’t born in Ireland,’ Jenna ventured.

‘We’ve done an extensive search of worldwide records for a William Keating born plus or minus five years of his estimated birth date of 1898, with no conclusive results.’

Guy shook his head. ‘This is getting more and more confusing but, leaving aside all the genealogical stuff, what about the house? Mist something?’

‘Mist Na Mara, which means mist of the sea. An attractive name, don’t you think? It’s a large Victorian house in the western part of County Galway. Whoever built the house chose the perfect site for a view of the ocean on one side and the Connemara mountains on the other.’

‘And you said there’s a trust fund for its upkeep?’ Guy went on. ‘Who administers that?’

‘An agent in Clifden.’

‘Has he authorised the necessary maintenance and repairs?’

‘Not he, she. Eve Callaghan. I met with her last month. The property is in excellent condition, despite being unoccupied for many years.’

Jenna relaxed. At least they weren’t looking at thousands for restoring the house.

‘What’s its market value?’ Guy asked.

‘That’s difficult to say because house prices are fluctuating at present, and although the contents have been valued for insurance purposes—’

‘Contents?’ Guy interrupted. ‘What kind of contents?’

‘Mainly furniture, but also various ornaments, lamps, pictures, etcetera. It’s not easy to assess what those might raise at auction.’

‘Could you give us a rough estimate?’

‘Guy, hold on a minute.’ Jenna held her hand up to stop him pursuing the subject of the sales value. She looked back at Mr. McGrath. ‘Does William Keating’s instruction about bequeathing the house to a member of the family apply to us, too?’

‘No, but there is a clause in the will that I’m not permitted to reveal to you until you’ve decided what you wish to do with the house. There’s also another stipulation.’

‘What?’

Jenna said the word at the same time as Guy, and she looked round at him. His eyes had narrowed into wariness.

Daniel McGrath pulled a brass key from a clear plastic envelope stapled to