Tea With Violins

By Paul TN Chapman

A wealthy man has died, but his heiress daughter believes he was murdered by natural causes. To complicate matters, she believes he was murdered by her brother. Thomas Woolery, an attorney for the estate of Roald Peeterson, must investigate the allegations. No one can inherit from murder, but was it murder?  And if it was, how?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paul TN Chapman
• Release date: May 2, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393524830

Paul TN Chapman

Paul TN Chapman is a freelance writer and authors, living the the US East Coast. He maintains a monthly website of his essays, edits publications, and spends most of his time writing novels.  

Book preview

Chapter 1

If I dream I have you, I have you,

For, all our joys are but fantastical.

John Donne, The Dream

The old man was upright and bright-eyed. The tails of his evening coat fluttered behind him, and in one white gloved hand he carried a bouquet of Sweet Williams, her favourite blossom. The sun kissed the horizon behind him, casting a long shadow that led him along the path among the flowers.

At first, he was aware only of the sound of his footsteps on the earthen path, and the singing of birds. Gradually, the scent of the surrounding blooms reached him. He enjoyed the walks through these fields filled with lavender, his favourite.

The path led to the centre of the field, where a white cottage with a mulberry roof stood. Outside, it was small and tidy, gleaming as if the cottage had been painted just that day. Bushes of roses lined the front. The shutters and trim were glossy, and the fittings on the only door were bright, shiny brass.

He often came here, enthusiastically impatient to arrive, ecstatic when at last he reached the door and lifted the knocker.

The Lady was his joy, his life, his safe haven, his destiny and light. His love for her was unbridled.

He tapped with the brass knocker two times. The door swung open, and he stepped into a comfortable dining room which made up the entire bungalow.

There was no ceiling; the dining room was made up of four walls and a carpet covered flagstone floor. The sun, the moon, the stars shed light, each at its own time of day, and the light wove through flower-laden trellises overhead.

Faceless liveried servants stood along the walls. Portraits and landscape paintings were carefully hung. Soft violin music played in the background. The light in the room was gentle and soothing.

At the other end of the table, dressed from head to toe in brilliant white, sat the Lady. The veil she always wore was sheer – he could make out her head, but no features of her face. On her slender-fingered hands she wore brilliant white lace gloves.

‘Come and eat! Come and feast!’ the Lady saluted him cheerfully with her ritual greeting.

Reaching across to hand her the bouquet of Sweet Williams was surreal. The table was long, but he put the flowers in her hand without leaving his seat at the head.

‘Thank you,’ the Lady said, breathing in the bouquet. ‘They’re lovely, and their scent is finer than perfume!’

A server set a small plate of salad in front of him, and filled his crystal glass with white wine. ‘This is a new piece,’ he commented, referring to the violin music. He draped his linen across his lap. ‘I haven’t heard this before.’

‘I composed it a few days ago,’ the Lady replied. ‘I’m happy you like it! What’s the news? How are you?’

He ate a bite of salad, then said, ‘The doctor said I’m no better, but no worse at the moment either. It’s to be expected, I suppose. Eventually everything will go downhill completely, but the doctor thinks that won’t be for another six months.’

‘With your family history, I suppose it’s a mercy!’

‘Indeed. Heart disease, diabetes, cancer – I’m fortunate to have only the one.’ He laughed softly. ‘My heart was broken when you left anyway, so it’s no surprise!’

He ate more salad and sipped wine.

The Lady ate nothing – she never did. She fed on the sight and the aroma of the food and wine, and was satisfied by his company.

‘Are you anxious?’ she asked.

He set down his glass and sat back in his chair. As the server took away his salad plate, he said, ‘Not at all. In fact, I’m quite relieved. Things are getting worse all the time. Not her – she’s fine. She does everything she can to make life pleasant and calm. He, on the other hand....’ His voice trailed off and he waved a hand dismissively. ‘I don’t think he cares about anyone but himself – he’s always been like that – and he’s causing me considerable distress.’

He sighed and sipped wine. ‘The children are old enough to adjust and manage without me. Everyone’s parents die, as they already know. They’re well provided for in my will, in addition to what they already have.’ He took another sip, and set down the empty glass. ‘Death will be a pleasant rest. There are so many people I miss – my parents, my uncles Scott and Donald, my old friend Dixie....’

‘Your wife?’ the Lady teased.

He smiled. ‘Her most of all.’

‘They all miss you,’ the Lady said confidently. ‘I’m sure the children will miss you, too, when the time comes.’

They sat in silence for a moment, listening to the music.

The server brought a platter of lamb, and poured red into another wine glass. He placed a thick slice of meat on the man’s plate, adding new potatoes and a vegetable.

He sprinkled a little pepper on his food. ‘I have no doubts about her. He has lofty ideas about what I’m leaving him in my will, and he has ambitious plans I don’t care for. But then, you know I’ve taken steps to forestall him.

When the Lady spoke again, there was a hint of reproach in her tone. ‘Your wealth should be neither a prize for good behaviour nor a punishment for bad.’

‘In this case,’ he assured her, ‘withholding isn’t punishment, but preservation.’

‘They should love you for yourself, and you should love them for themselves!’ The Lady was insistent. She sighed. ‘I know you’ve tried. You love him, and you’ve forgiven him so many times. Her too, I think.’

‘There can never be too much forgiveness, but it’s difficult to keep honest.’ He sighed and buttered a roll. ‘I’ll be glad when its over.’

‘Will it be long, do you think?

‘It can’t be soon enough,’ he told her, and sighed again.

Chapter 2

Thomas Woolery would describe himself as a simple, complex man. He had married relatively late in life, but had been a widower for some years. Love and romance were fleeting memories for him.

He came from Yorkshire. His father, a butcher, wanted something better than a tradesman’s life for his family and himself. His mother had been a housewife who played the organ at chapel on Sundays and other occasions as required.

After twenty years in the Navy, first as sailor and later in the military police, Woolery had studied law, taken his degree, passed the bar exam, and gone into practice with Celestin Barrett, a founding partner in a large law firm in the City.

Woolery specialized in wills and estate planning. He sometimes went to court to assist a litigator contesting or defending a deceased’s estate, but he was not a litigator himself. Probate work was interesting, and sometimes challenging.

He cut a distinguished figure in his habitual black three-piece suits, well polished shoes, and black bowler hat. His bald head was pink and his cleanshaven face was ruddy. He was a touch on the heavy side, which his age and sedentary life made inevitable.

Ariana.

Ariana had married Woolery in the final year of his stint in the Navy. She always called him Thomas, whereas to everyone else, he was Woolery.

Ariana was twenty-three when they wed, and thirty when she died. Their romance had progressed from fiery passion to sedate, deep and enduring love. Every day together was exciting and new. Some said their honeymoon had never ended.

A concert violinist, Ariana frequently travelled, and performed in most of the world’s major centres of culture. She died quite soon after her return from a tour of South America, leaving Woolery with a fathomless void in his heart.

He never fully recovered.

He visited his wife’s grave in Holyrood Churchyard almost every day. He had done for years.

The cemetery was dotted with shrubs and yew trees. Large crows flew through the open spaces. With the rustling of the leaves, and the overcast sky, the churchyard to-day was suitably gloomy, and it matched the Yorkshireman’s sombre mood.

He turned left at the bronze angel overlooking Mrs Nardelli (late of this parish and sorely missed), and walked along the pavement to the end of the row, to Ariana’s headstone.

Ariana Woolery

1971 – 2002

Loving Wife Of Thomas

A Duet too quickly ended

The stout man stooped to remove dead blossoms in the bronze holder, replacing them with the fresh bouquet in his hand. He crumpled the dried petals over the grave, and tucked the denuded stems in his pocket.

He spoke. ‘Hello Ariana, it’s Thomas,’ he said.

A diminutive brunette holding a violin and a bow approached him, the headstone with her name on it remaining between them.

‘Oh, my love, how sad you look to-day!’ she said as she began to play softly on her instrument.

‘I have to leave the City for a while – probably early tomorrow,’ he answered. ‘I don’t know how long I’ll be gone. There’s been a death – a wealthy client who had a huge estate and numerous holdings – and I must handle matters for Probate. You know how I dislike being away from you here.’

The pretty violinist wore a peach coloured gown, swaying as she played, and smiled peacefully.

‘It won’t be long for me, my love,’ she said to her husband. ‘We are never apart. Go and return in your own time.’

The bow in her hand moved across the strings like a lover’s caress.

In that moment, intense love filled Thomas’ heart. ‘How I miss you!’ he breathed.

‘And I, you. If I could, I would cover you with kisses!’ The music became passionate. ‘One day, Thomas, one day I shall!’

‘It will be the happiest day of my life,’ he promised her, and watched her fade into mist.

Thomas concluded the visit with a brief prayer, kissed his fingers and touched the headstone, and walked back the way he came.

It might be supposed that Thomas Woolery had hurried to the final phase of grieving – acceptance. He was never truly parted from his wife. He saw her when he visited the churchyard. At other times, she came to him in dreams so vivid they were indistinguishable from ‘real’ life.

Sometimes he felt her presence without seeing her in the waking world. It comforted him.

Sometimes, he, and only he, saw her with mundane eyes, as he had just done. The occasions were infrequent, but delightful.

At first, he thought he must be going crazy – dead people don’t come back, and yet here she was. He could see her and talk with her. He couldn’t touch her, which frustrated him no end. How he longed to share passionate kisses with her, to feel her in his arms once more!

After a while, he no longer cared about his sanity. She did come back. He didn’t believe in ghosts. He did believe in Ariana, and she was as real in death as she had been in life.

Had anyone else been at the cemetery just now, they would have seen a heavyset man in a black suit standing pensively before a headstone. They would not have seen the woman; they would not have heard the music; they would not have sensed the love.

Woolery had had little experience with love and romance before he met the petite violinist. As a lad, there had been flirtations with pretty lasses at school, but nothing had come of them. In the Navy, he rarely saw members of the fair sex. On liberty with other sailors, he found no pleasure in the showgirls and dancers who entertained his shipmates. To him, they were trite and artificial.

Soon after he joined the Naval Patrol, a superior officer had taken him under his wing and, (effectively commanding him to accompany him and his wife) took him to the recital where he met the woman he would marry.

Their wedding was celebrated at the Naval Chapel, and Woolery’s guest list was made up of naval personnel. Ariana’s list was made up of most of the musicians in the symphony.

It had been a wonderful day.

The chambers of Barrett and Chomsky were not far from Woolery’s townhouse, or the Holyrood Churchyard – the cemetery was en route to the office.

He checked his mailbox in the clerk’s room, and stopped briefly at his own room before going upstairs to see Celestin Barrett.

‘Sorry to have disrupted your evening,’ Barrett said, gesturing to a visitor’s chair. ‘This Peeterson business couldn’t come at a worse time. I’m up to my ears in corporate work, and I have a merger in Shanghai in a couple of days. This case is right up your alley. Roald Peeterson and his family comprise my entire personal practice, and Roald has died. His estate is a mess – it’s been at least a decade since he made his will, even though I reminded him often enough that it should be updated. The inventory of the estate will have to be revised, probably extensively. He was a very wealthy man who ran his corporation from his offices in his own house, so it will be confusing, to say the least.’

‘For an estate that size,’ Woolery interjected, ‘it’s going to take one person until the crack of doom to get things straightened out.’

‘That’s true,’ Barrett agreed, ‘which is why I’m sending an attorney from Corporate with you to start with. I believe you know Lily Dhu?’

Lily Dhu was an attorney, the daughter of a High Court judge in Dumfries, specializing in corporate law and intellectual property issues. She and Woolery had never worked cases together, but sometimes lunched at the same table or chatted at chambers parties.

‘Of course. She’s a fine attorney. I’ll enjoy working with her, I’m sure.’

‘Good. She’s just tying up some loose ends on another matter, or she’d have joined us this morning.’ Barrett poured a glass of water from the carafe on his desk. ‘After you file the will with Probate, the two of you will make your initial assessment as to the condition and extent of the estate. Then we’ll send more people to assist you, and since the Peetersons have holdings all over the world, we’ll be engaging ancillary firms for those locations. For the moment, though, you are on point.

‘For the purpose of this business, a lot of what you each have to do will overlap with the other, so work together. She’s well brought up in the law, she has a sharp and retentive mind, and is a flexible thinker.’

‘Grand, that will be an asset.’

‘Yes, now, close the door, will you?’ Barrett sipped water. ‘There’s something that I want you to check into for me. Lily knows something about this, but it will be strictly your responsibility.’

Woolery rose from his chair and closed the door.

‘What I have to tell you is going to seem strange, and if you hadn’t had experience as an investigator, I wouldn’t task you with the job. We don’t do criminal law here, and this certainly borders on it.’ Barrett came around from behind his desk and sat next to Woolery in the other visitor’s chair.

‘I was on the phone with Florentina Peeterson, Roald’s daughter, last evening just before I rang you.’ Barrett crossed one leg over the other. ‘I’ve known the Peetersons for almost thirty years, and I’d like to think I’m a friend of the family. Roald was a wonderful person, and we were fairly close. I know the son, Per, and gave him advice when he decided he wanted to become an attorney – oh, no worries, he won’t interfere! He took the degree for the diploma; he’s never practiced!

‘I have a good relationship with Florentina too. Of course, I haven’t had an opportunity to spend a lot of time with the family, but she’s comfortable enough with me to share confidences or ask for advice from time to time.’ 

‘She shared a confidence with you about her father?’ Woolery guessed.

‘Yes, and it’s rather sensational. You see, Roald had a long history of heart disease. In the last year, his condition declined quite rapidly, and the doctors gave him no more than eighteen months to live. He died two weeks ago. The cause of death is listed as natural causes due to heart disease, but Florentina thinks there’s something more.’

‘How could there be more?’ Woolery asked.

‘She thinks he was murdered by natural causes.’

‘Not impossible,’ Woolery said softly.

‘No, but here’s the thing – she thinks her brother may have done it.’

Chapter 3

A van picked up Woolery outside his Leighton Square townhouse at seven o’clock the next morning. He stood outside his front door, his portmanteau and briefcase by his side, with an old book in his hand. The Oxford Book of English Verse (edited by Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch, in Woolery’s view the greatest editor of all poetic collections) was his favourite reading. His father had had a copy in the room he used for an office at their home in Yorkshire, and when Woolery left the Navy, one of the first things he did was obtain a complete set of Quiller-Couch’s anthologies for himself.

The driver, a young clerk in a striped jacket with a checked waistcoat, climbed out of the van, opened the sliding door for Woolery, and stowed the portmanteau in the rear of the vehicle for him.

Already in the van was an attractive woman not yet thirty years of age. She had a pleasant smile and a few freckles on her pleasantly rounded cheeks, and was given to a Bohemian style of dress. She wore a knitted sweater, jeans, a chunky bracelet, and a pair of dangling earrings.

‘Mr Woolery, good morning. We must stop meeting like this,’ she greeted him with a grin.

‘Why?’ Woolery returned her smile. ‘It seems to be working well.’

‘It’s the crack of dawn!’ She patted the seat next to him. ‘That’s the first thing we must stop!’

She never would have admitted it to anyone, but Lily Dhu had a soft spot for the older attorney. She wasn’t in love with him, nor did she crave his body, although she thought he was handsome. She liked him more than any of the other people she knew in the City. He was quiet, confident, supportive, and inexplicably comfortable. His greatest quality was his genuineness.

‘Well, stop your complaining,’ Woolery said as he took his seat, ‘or I’ll insist on it!’ He liked Lily too, but he had no romantic interest in her or any other woman. His one true love lay in the churchyard a ten minute walk away, and she was the only woman he loved.

Sadly, there had been no time to visit this her morning.

The driver, overhearing the banter, climbed behind the wheel and said over his shoulder, ‘If you two are going to bicker, I’ll turn right around and take us home! Next stop, Wellington Station.’

‘And Bogminster after that, if you please,’ Woolery concluded for him.

The van lurched into the street.

A private compartment had been arranged for them on the 8.02 train to Bogminster, so they were free to speak openly. Arrival was scheduled for 11.56, where they were to be met by Florentina Peeterson. A porter assisted them with their luggage – Woolery had his portmanteau and case; Lily had two large, heavy suitcases, a briefcase, and a bulging camera bag.

Woolery pointed and lifted an eyebrow.

‘Bogminster,’ she explained, ‘is in a quaint and picturesque part of the country, and promises to be ripe ground for many splendid photographs. I expect we’ll be there for a long time. Be careful with those!’

This last was to the porter, who was manoeuvring a second trolley with several crates of computers, peripherals, and other supplies. The firm’s IT personnel had been thorough in safeguarding their property.

‘They take up quite a lot of space, miss,’ the porter said. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer to put all your baggage in one of the cargo carriages? There’s no extra fee, considering.’

‘Considering?’ Woolery asked.

‘I was told you’re going to Bogminster to see the Peetersons – they own this railroad!’

The compartment was much less crowded without the baggage.

‘I don’t know how much Celestin told you,’ Lily said when they were alone. Another porter had come by with a tea cart. One of Woolery’s passions was tea; when he saw what was on offer, he politely declined. Lily took a Styrofoam cup filled with something hot and reddish brown.

‘What did he tell you?’ Woolery asked. ‘Do you always call him by his first name?’

‘I call everyone by their first name – most of us young’uns do. You’re the only one we call by surname.’

‘Woolery suits me fine. So, what did Celestin tell you?’

‘Well,’ she opened her briefcase and removed a thick file, ‘he focused more on the corporate matters with me than he probably did with you. I know we’ll be working as a team and we’ll be looking into each other’s areas, except for that one thing. I understand the daughter has some reservations about the cause of her father’s death.’

‘Yes, I’ll fill you in as I get on in my investigation.’

They fell into conversation which lasted until the train neared Bogminster Station.

Roald Peeterson was the fifth Peeterson to have been CEO of Peeterson International. The PI Corporation owned the railroad transporting them; petroleum, coal, steel and shipping companies; facilities researching alternate fuel sources; and something called the White Blossom Trust, PI’s philanthropic arm, solely under the CEO’s supervision. There was an associated group of companies in Russia, The Cherepanoff Network, that was developed with Roald’s help in the late 1980s. Lily was not clear on the Network’s history, but was sure it would be explained to them when they reached Peeterson House.

It was customary that the eldest son of the CEO inherited his father’s position and personal stock (51%) in the corporation. Roald had inherited the position and stock from his father, Olaf, and as soon as he’d left University, had been groomed to take over from his father. Roald’s son, Per, was about to inherit his father’s controlling interest in the corporation.

Per had joined PI as a vice president when he’d completed law school. He had never practiced law, and his legal education, according to Celestin Barrett, had been useful, although primarily to himself.

Since he joined PI, his father has been preparing him to assume the CEO position. He wouldn’t own the 51% as required until Roald’s will was approved; as of a fortnight ago, he was acting CEO of the corporation, with considerably less authority.

Florentina, Roald’s daughter, owned 5% of the stock, but had no interest or acumen for business. She was satisfied to leave the running of the corporation to her father, and now, to her brother.

‘There’s no mention of Roald’s wife,’ Lily observed as they talked. ‘What about her?’

‘Well,’ Woolery took a breath, ‘I understand she and Roald met while she was a scientist in PI’s research division. Their romance was brief, and they married six months after they had met.’

‘Oh?’ Lily wiggled her eyebrows.

‘No, nothing like that,’ Woolery assured her with a measure of reproach. ‘The first child – I suppose that was Per – wasn’t born until three or four years later. True love does sometimes happen, you know.’

He thought of Ariana.

‘Okay. So, what happened to her?’

‘She was killed in a laboratory accident,' he checked his notes, ‘twenty years ago. It was her death that prompted Roald to create the White Blossom Trust. He named it after her – Blanchefleur.’

‘French for White Blossom. That makes sense.’ Lily sipped her tea and made a face. ‘Soap suds, that’s what this is.’ She put the cup down on a foldout table. ‘Celestin said you’d fill me in on Florentina’s concerns.’

‘I don’t know much yet,’ Woolery answered. ‘He didn’t give me many details, probably because she didn’t give him many details. Here’s what I know, though.’

––––––––

A year ago, Roald had consulted the family physician, complaining of recurring chest pains and other symptoms. He’d had a major heart attack years before, and believing he’d recovered, was alarmed when his symptoms recurred.

The doctor examined him carefully and tested him exhaustively. He diagnosed progressive heart disease. He insisted on a consultation, and sent Roald to heart experts in Berlin. They confirmed the Bogminster physician’s diagnosis, and estimated that Roald had eighteen months to live. They advised him about diet and activity, prescribed medications, and encouraged Roald to reduce his workload and stress levels as quickly as possible.

Roald accelerated the preparation of his son in earnest, but his stress grew rather than decreased. Per’s ideas adamantly opposed his father’s. Some of them were rather wild, threatening to overturn successes that Roald had had over the last two decades. They often disagreed, and disagreements escalated to one-sided shouting matches. Celestin Barrett said Roald had mastered ‘aggressive listening.’

‘Florentina suspects that her brother stressed Roald into a premature death. She thinks he might have engineered it in some way. She was suspicious enough that when Roald died, she flew a forensic pathologist from Switzerland to perform an autopsy. However, the pathologist agreed with the family doctor’s findings: death by natural causes related to heart disease.’

‘And Florentina says nuts to that, hm?’ Lily finished for him.

‘Exactly. I’m to determine how plausible her suspicions are. If she’s right, it would affect the distribution of the estate.’

The porter knocked politely on the compartment door and advised them the train would arrive at Bogminster Station in twenty minutes.

Bogminster was not a thriving metropolis. In addition to a single boarding platform, the train station consisted of one brick building and a large car park. More