Who Is Simon Warwick Read online

  “I begin to see,” Ambrose said, forgetting his diffidence. “It’s the business, isn’t it? You’re facing the prospect of dying without being able to keep the business in the family.”

  Charlton gave him a sharp look. “You are bright, young man,” he said. “If you hadn’t been, I would never have employed you, father or no father. Very well. I’ve outlined your job. Change the will—I shall expect it for signature tomorrow. Then find Simon Warwick for me. It will be worth your while, I can assure you.”

  “Look, sir,” said Ambrose. “There’s something I simply have to say.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Well . . . if you . . . if we put those ads in the papers, we’re going to attract a whole lot of frauds.”

  “Frauds?”

  “Once you put in the words ‘something to his advantage,’ you attract their interest. Crooks, I mean. Adventurers. Then, you want to print the name, Simon Warwick. It’s not difficult for anybody to connect that up with you, and the Charlton fortune. Somerset House will produce a copy of the birth certificate for anybody.” Ambrose sighed. “I’m afraid we may be saddled with quite a few pseudo Simon Warwicks, sir.”

  Lord Charlton said, “Don’t worry about that, Ambrose.”

  “Sir, I think we must worry. In the absence of proper documentation, if somebody turns up with a plausible story . . .”

  “I told you not to worry.”

  “I mean, there’s a great deal of money at stake—”

  Charlton turned and looked at Ambrose Quince. He said, “I shall know my brother’s son when I meet him.”

  “Of course, there’s such a thing as a family resemblance, but I don’t see how you can possibly rely on—”

  Sharply, Lord Charlton said, “Just concentrate on drawing up the will, if you please, Ambrose, and drafting the advertisements.” Ambrose stood up. He said, “About the will, sir.”

  “What about it?”

  “Well. . . supposing that we don’t find Simon Warwick. Supposing he’s dead, for instance.”

  “Then the money is to go to his eldest legitimate child. Nobody else. Not to the adoptive parents.”

  “I see. Eldest legitimate offspring—”

  “So long as it’s Simon’s own child. I won’t have any adopted brat taking over Warwick Industries.”

  Ambrose sighed again. “That may be tricky to draft,” he said, “but I’ll do my best. Now, supposing he’s dead, leaving no children. Or supposing we just fail to trace him—”

  “In that case, we shall have to revert to the old will, and those tiresome charities with which you deal so efficiently, Ambrose.” Ambrose’s brain was ticking over fast. He said, “You see, sir, things that sound simple may have all sorts of legal complications.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We must consider many contingencies.”

  “Such as?”

  “You know nothing about this young man, Lord Charlton. He might show no interest whatsoever in the business, and simply sell out and fritter the money away.”

  There was a moment of silence. Then Charlton said, “I don’t believe that would happen. However, I take your point, Ambrose. I suppose we must attach some strings.”

  “Exactly, sir.” Ambrose was relieved. “Shall we say that if we can trace Simon Warwick and prove his identity, he shall inherit provided that he takes his seat on the board of Warwick Industries and is active in the affairs of the company?”

  “Very well. If you wish.” Charlton sounded old and tired and bored.

  “And if,” Ambrose went on, “he should by disinclination or disability not concern himself in the business—”

  “What do you mean by disability?” asked Lord Charlton sharply.

  Ambrose said, a little desperately, “Well, sir, I’m just trying to cover everything. I mean—your nephew might be fatally ill or even legally insane. He might be in prison, or—oh, there are all sorts of situations which could prevent him from—”

  Charlton held up his hand, and Ambrose fell silent. Then the old man said, “You are quite right, of course, Ambrose. I had a simple idea, and there is no such thing in law. Very well. Put in your insomuches and whereinafters and notwithstandings. Just make sure that if he is alive and legally competent and agreeable to the idea, my nephew shall inherit my interest in Warwick Industries. The same provisions to apply to the eldest legitimate child of his body, on reaching the age of twenty-one. Otherwise, we go back to the old will.”

  “There’s another thing, Lord Charlton,” said Ambrose.

  “Good God. Another? Are you lawyers never satisfied?”

  “I’m only trying to protect your interests, Lord Charlton. Surely you see that you must set a time limit?”

  “A time limit?”

  “Yes. A clause stipulating that if Simon Warwick, or his eldest legitimate offspring, has not appeared to claim the inheritance within a certain period after your death—I would suggest a year— then the money goes to charity, as previously intended.”

  Lord Charlton considered. “A year is too short a time,” he said at last. “Five years.”

  “I submit, sir, that five years is too long. If, after the most active and exhaustive inquiries, we have not located your nephew within a year—”

  “Very well. Make it three years. No less.”

  “Could we not compromise with two, sir? The legal complications and the burden on the estate—”

  “I said three years, Ambrose. You have three years after my death to find Simon Warwick. All expenses for the search will be paid from the estate, of course.” He stopped, and frowned. “What am I doing, talking as though I were dead already? Get moving, Ambrose, my boy. I intend to meet my nephew Simon before I die.”

  Later that evening, by the fireside in Ealing, Rosalie Quince said to her husband, “Is there a hope in hell of finding him, Ambrose?”

  “I don’t know, darling. I doubt it. But I shall certainly have to try. The old man has made up his mind.”

  The following day, Ambrose drafted the new will and took it to Belgrave Terrace for Lord Charlton’s signature. Later in the week, the advertisements appeared in the columns of the Times, Telegraph, Guardian, Washington Post, The New York Times, Christian Science Monitor, and other prominent British and American newspapers. A couple of days later, journalists began besieging Lord Charlton’s place of business and his residence, smoking with questions. Ambrose deflected them as best he could, but in no time the rumor was running that the mysterious Simon Warwick was Lord Charlton’s long-lost nephew and stood to inherit a fortune. As Ambrose remarked morosely to Rosalie, there was no need to advertise any more. Anybody, on either side of the Atlantic, who read a newspaper must know that Simon Warwick was requested to contact Messrs. Quince, Quince, Quince and Quince, where he would learn something to his advantage.

  Three weeks later, Lord Charlton died, very peacefully. It was after dinner, and he was sitting in his favorite armchair in the library, with a glass of fine old brandy in one hand and a big cigar in the other. A smell of burning attracted the butler from the hall. He found his master dying, with the Georgian brandy bubble, miraculously unbroken, rolling on the floor beside him, its contents sinking into the crimson carpet. The cigar had burned a neat round hole in the leather upholstery of the chair.

  The butler telephoned the doctor, and then returned to Lord Charlton, who murmured just three words. “Ambrose . . . Simon . . . I . . .” Then he died.

  It was a week after Lord Charlton’s death—on Christmas Eve, to be precise—that the first claimant turned up in Ambrose’s office, asserting that without any possible doubt he was Simon Warwick.

  2

  The young man who faced Ambrose Quince across the desk in the Theobald’s Road office looked exactly as Lord Charlton had predicted—the very epitome of a rising young American executive. He was clean shaven, blue eyed, and he wore his dark blond hair neatly trimmed. He was dressed in dark gray double-knit woolen pants, a navy-blue blazer, a spo
tless white shirt, and a club tie. When he smiled, he showed even white teeth, and he obviously used all the right deodorants and mouthwashes.

  Ambrose regarded him with very little enthusiasm, uncomfortably aware of his own crumpled suit and the small egg stain on his tie. He said. “So you claim to be Simon Warwick, do you?”

  The young man smiled. “I am Simon Warwick, Mr. Quince. I can prove it.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” said Ambrose dryly. “Do you have your passport with you?”

  The smile deepened, attractively. “Certainly.” The visitor reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a United States passport, which he handed to Ambrose.

  The solicitor ruffled through the pages in silence, and then said, “This passport is made out to Harold R. Benson, Jr., born on October 28, 1944, in Leesburg, Virginia. I don’t see any mention of Simon Warwick, Mr. Benson.”

  “Would you expect to, sir?”

  Ambrose resented being called “sir” by a man of his own age. He said,“I am asking the questions, Mr. Benson. May I ask where you saw our advertisement?”

  “Certainly you may. In the Washington Post. As a matter of fact, it was my wife who noticed it. She has more time to read the papers, now that Hank is away at school all day.”

  “Hank?”

  “Our son. Harold R. Benson the Third. He’s eight.”

  “And how did Mrs. Benson know that she was, in fact, married to Simon Warwick?” Ambrose used the tone of voice that he employed in court when trying to unsettle a witness.

  He was rewarded with a smile so broad as to be almost a chuckle. “Mr. Quince, wouldn’t it be easier if I just told you the story of my life—documented where necessary?”

  “Very well.” Ambrose sat back, put the tips of his fingers together, and tried to look inscrutable. In fact, he was trying to make up his mind about the personable Mr. Benson, and failing. “Let’s have it, then. From the beginning.”

  Again the smile. “A pleasure, Mr. Quince. I was born here in London in 1944. My father was Dominic Warwick, younger brother of the late Lord Charlton. My mother was his wife, nee the Honorable Mary Cheverton. I was only a week old when our house was hit by a flying bomb. Both my parents were killed. By some miracle, I survived. I was taken to Great Ormond Street Hospital for Children. Say, does that place still exist?”

  “It does,” said Ambrose.

  “Then I shall pay it a visit and shake it by the hand.”

  “Get on with the story, please,” said Ambrose.

  “Well, my birth had been registered, although I was never christened.” Like a conjurer producing a rabbit from a hat, Benson whisked a yellowing piece of paper out of his pocket and threw it on the desk. “Here’s a copy of the birth certificate. Simon Alexander Warwick, born October 8, 1944.”

  “Not October 28, Mr. Benson?”

  “Obviously not.”

  “How do you account for the discrepancy?”

  “I’ll come to that later.”

  “Where were you born?”

  “What do you mean, Mr. Quince? I’ve told you. London.” Ambrose leaned forward. “At home, or in a hospital?” Benson’s brows drew together in a slight frown. “I don’t know,” he said. “She never told me.”

  “She?”

  “My mother. That is, my adoptive mother. Maybe she didn’t know herself. I’ve always imagined that it was at home.”

  “Home being where?”

  “London, of course.”

  “The address?” Ambrose permitted himself a touch of sharpness.

  Benson said, “Can’t you read? It’s there on the certificate. 23, Markham Mews, S.W. What I can’t tell you for sure is whether I was born there or in a hospital.”

  “All right,” said Ambrose. He felt he had been put in a one-down position. “Get on with it. What happened then?”

  “What happened then was that my father and mother—the Bensons, I mean—were contacted by a lawyer, offering me for adoption.”

  “Name of the lawyer?”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t know.”

  Ambrose wrote on his pad, “Doesn’t know name of lawyer.” He said, “Where did this anonymous lawyer have his place of business, Mr. Benson?”

  “I don’t know that, either.”

  Ambrose made another note. Benson, apparently impatient, said, “Hell, Mr. Quince, I’m just telling you what my mother told me. I can’t be expected to know any more, can I?”

  “I suppose not. Who was your adoptive father?”

  “Harold Raymond Benson, Captain, United States Army. Married, in England in 1943, Joan Margaret Wheatley. You’ll find all the papers you need here.”

  Out came another envelope. Very slowly and deliberately, Ambrose Quince inspected the various certificates. Then he said, “I see that both your parents are dead.”

  “Unfortunately, yes.”

  “There is a birth certificate here. Harold Raymond Benson, Jr. Born October 28,1944, Leesburg, Virginia. It doesn’t tally, does it, Mr. Benson?”

  Benson said, “My adoptive parents wanted me to have a completely fresh start in life. They regarded my true date of birth as the date when they first took possession of me—if that’s the right expression. October 28. All three of us arrived in the United States on November 7, after a slightly scary voyage—or so I’m told. My parents went to my father’s home in Leesburg, and registered my birth there. I don’t know just how they managed it, but they did it. My father’s family was . . . well, quite influential. You see, they never wanted me or anybody else to know that I was not their son.”

  “Really?” said Ambrose. “Then how did you come to find out?”

  “I was hoping you would ask me that.”

  “Well?”

  “I found this.” Producing his trump card, Harold Benson laid a faded British passport on the desk. It had been issued in London, on October 28, 1944, and was in the name of Simon Alexander Warwick, infant. Blue eyes, fair hair. A pudgy little baby face, surrounded by lace and knitting, gazed peacefully out from the two-by-two-inch photograph. Date of birth, October 8,1944. Place of birth, London. Nationality, British.

  Sharply, Ambrose said, “Where did you get this?”

  “I told you, sir. I found it among my father’s papers, after he died. The birth certificate was with it. It didn’t mean anything to me, of course—that is, I didn’t connect it with myself. I took it to my mother, and asked her who the hell this Simon Warwick was.”

  “And what did she say?”

  “She was very upset. If she hadn’t been . . . if she’d just said it was a friend’s child, or something . . . I mightn’t have given it another thought. But she hit the ceiling. Said Dad should have destroyed all the documents years ago, that it could only make trouble, and so forth. Well, naturally that got me interested— especially as this Simon Warwick was almost exactly the same age that I was.”

  “How old were you when this happened, Mr. Benson?”

  “I was fifteen. A bad age. A bad age to lose one’s father. A bad age for a kid to start suspecting that he may never have been that father’s son. I’m not proud of what I did. My mom was upset enough at Dad’s death—it was a heart attack, completely unexpected. I’m afraid I bullied her and shouted at her, and in the end she told me the truth. That I was adopted. That I had been born Simon Warwick, in London. That she knew she could never have children of her own, so she and Dad took me over when my real parents were killed in a raid on London. I made her tell me everything she knew about my real parents—which wasn’t much apart from their names and their address. One thing I never could get out of her was the name of the attorney who had arranged the adoption. She said he was probably still alive, and she would only tell me about dead people, because she said they couldn’t be hurt.” Ambrose said, “How did you react to all this?”

  “At first I was pretty well broken up. It’s . . . well, it’s unsettling to find out you’re not the person you thought you were. Kids worry about that sort of thing. But after
a bit—well, I guess I just learned to live with it. Pretty soon afterward I went away to college in D.C.—George Washington University. My mother sold the old house and went to live in an apartment. I didn’t see that much of her, I’m afraid. I wasn’t even home when she died. I kept the documents, but I never told anybody who I really was—except my wife, when we got engaged. I reckoned she had the right to know whom she was marrying. That’s how she came to spot the ad in the Post.”

  Ambrose considered for a moment. Then he said, “Your mother sold the house. So you don’t still live in Leesburg, Virginia?”

  “Oh, no. We’re in Charlottesville now. Because of the university.”

  “I’m afraid, Mr. Benson,” said Ambrose, “that my knowledge of American geography is limited. Would you explain?”

  Benson smiled again. He said, “I should have thought that even . . . that is, the University of Virginia is not exactly unknown outside the States. Thomas Jefferson founded it in Charlottesville in 1819, after he retired—he lived nearby at Monticello. He designed most of the principal buildings himself. The Rotunda—”

  “I just asked for an explanation, Mr. Benson, not a history lesson.”

  “Sorry, sir. Well, I teach at the university, you see. English literature is my subject. So of course we live in Charlottesville.”

  “I see. Now, you say you have known for some years that you were Simon Warwick. Did you also know that you were Lord Charlton’s nephew?”

  Benson flushed. “Of course not. I told you, my mother would only mention people who were dead when she told me about my real family. And since my uncle changed his name when he got his peerage, it never even occurred to me—until I saw the story in the papers.”

  Ambrose said, “The connection between the late Lord Charlton and Simon Warwick was only publicized some days after the original advertisement. I notice that you made no attempt to get in touch with me until you realized that a considerable amount was at stake.”