3rd Eye: The Will

Dawn was still many hours away and the city streets still pulsed with the steady thump of life’s daily vagaries.

Charlson Henneridge watched the occasional solitary pedestrian march sombrely through the light drizzle, moving from pool of gaslight radiance to pool of gaslight radiance as they made their silent way past the offices of Mustrel, Mustrel and Hudebaker Attorneys at Law.

Charlson had paused in his nocturnal work to fetch a fresh pot of coffee and to stoke up the potbellied stove that squatted discreetly like an old Mafia crone in the back corner of the Well Street offices.

Now by the first floor window he stared out at the quiet rain, sipping the tart black liquid from his master’s cup.

Charlson had been with the firm for only 6 months and his position as junior lawyer was one he intended to tolerate as long as the promise of a junior partnership existed. Such advancement would remain illusory until one of the senior members of the triumvirate passed on or an act of God moved time forward by at least 10 years.

Charlson finished his coffee and returned to his desk. The order had come down from upstairs at five o’clock that afternoon. Charlson had been donning his coat to leave the office for the day, thinking of a drink down at the club and then perhaps an evening at the theatre in the company of Miss Lea Duprey.

That had all changed rather suddenly when the thin and bespectacled Mr Winthrop had delivered a thick file to his desk.

"Mister Mustrel requires this will and testament to be read and reviewed prior to a reading for the family tomorrow morning at nine o’clock Henneridge."

Charlson paused in his attiring and stared mutely at Winthrop for a long moment.

"Mister Winthrop. I –"

"No excuses Henneridge. Do it now, there’s a good chap." Winthrop’s snide expression was impossible to miss. That he hated all the junior lawyers was well known to even the newest initiates into the firm. It had been suggested that he regarded them with such contempt because they at least had the chance to advance to a partnership position where his value as a clerical assistant was so high to the senior partners that he was doomed to a career as a glorified secretary.

Charlson took little comfort in this as he watched his plans for the evening evaporate under that hate-filled glare.

Winthrop had departed without further comment. Leaving Charlson blistering with silent rage.

"Never mind lad, take an hour off for your supper, and be back smartly at six." It was Foley, the senior clerk who spoke. He was Henneridge’s senior at this stage in his career. Not a lawyer, but an office clerk who shepherded the young men until they moved out of the communal office space and went Upstairs.

Charlson finished his coffee. The leather case was still tied shut on his desk. He had returned smartly at six o’clock. The offices were silent and still. It was almost eerie being here after hours, the oak panelled walls creaked slightly and the floorboards answered with wooden moans of their own as the building settled for the night.

The young lawyer returned to his desk, loosening his tie felt as rebellious as cursing in church and he caught himself looking about guiltily as he undid the button of his stiff collar.

The leather case had only been in the firm’s vault for a month. It was a standard document case used to hold wills and other important papers for the firm’s many influential clients.

Charlson pulled the ribbon knot and opened the flap. Inside was a thick wad of papers. All carefully typed by one of the stern looking matron’s of the typing pool who would brook no idle chatter between the junior men and the young lady typists they chaperoned during office hours.

Charlson slipped the stack of documents out onto his desk. It was the final will and testament of one Hugo Achilles Monteith of Beckerston Abbey, Farlingsworth. Charlson paused and remembered the strange Mr Monteith. A gaunt man, he wore his skin like a borrowed suit. Having the appearance of a man who had lost a great deal of weight suddenly Charlson had assumed Monteith to be gravely ill and was now unsurprised to have his suspicions confirmed as his client was now obviously the late Mr Monteith of Beckerston Abbey, Farlingsworth.

With a quick prayer for Monteith’s immortal soul Charlson began to read. It transpired that Mr Monteith had amassed something of a fortune in his years and had purchased the ancient abbey outright 7 years ago. The deed was present in the file and it was dated November 11^th 1918, Armistice Day. As well as this property, there was detailed reference to other properties in London, and Southern France. In addition there were liquid assets with a listed value of close to 250 thousand pounds. Charlson sat back and thought about that astronomical sum. He couldn’t imagine how he would spend that much money in his lifetime. For the first time since he had first met with Mr Monteith Charlson wondered how the chap had come to amass such wealth.

Further reading told him that Monteith had only two surviving relatives. A nephew, Gerald Monteith, current whereabouts unknown and a Lucielle Ramsey, living in Surrey.

Charlson made notes as he went through the document. Recording the details of the will. It would be read in full tomorrow morning to Miss Ramsey, or Mrs Ramsey and her husband, Charlson added to himself, and whom ever else came out of the wood work to get their hands on a share of the spoils.

It was all there, receipts, valuer’s reports, insurance policies, title deeds, the sum of a man. Charlson checked that everything was present and correct. Relatives, especially those who have survived a wealthy man are notorious for raising hell over any potential variable in a will reading, no matter how slight.

Charlson confirmed that he had done a thorough job the first time he had sat in one of the private meeting rooms with Monteith a month earlier. All the papers were present and correct. The final item in the case was a sealed and bound paper package, the size and shape of a gentleman’s ledger or journal. Charlson held the smooth paper wrapped package in his hands for a moment remembering how Monteith’s hands had shaken with a more noticeable palsy as he had delivered his instructions regarding it.

Do not open this package while I still live Mr Henneridge. After I am dead and resident in Hell then you are welcome to open it. If you are fool enough to think you can understand the truth of what is contained within then I will be seeing you sooner than you might expect.

With this strange warning Monteith had exploded into a bout of high-pitched laughter that rang with the harmony of madness. This outburst rapidly dissolved into an apoplectic bout of coughing that left Monteith purple faced, weak and shaking in his seat.

Weakly waving aside an offered glass of water, Monteith had fixed Charlson with a watering eye.

Burn it. Burn it as I burn. Burn it all. The shaking man had whispered hoarsely his gaze searching Charlson’s face for agreement.

Charlson had spoken empty platitudes, assuring Monteith that his papers were in good hands, and how the firm looked forward to being of service to Mr Monteith for a long time to come.

Monteith had fallen into a deep maudlin silence after his fit of laughter, and could be barely roused to add his tremulous signature to the necessary papers.

Then he had shuffled out of the solicitor’s offices without a further word and was not seen alive by Charlson or any one else again.

The young lawyer signed the correct form and carefully returned all the papers to the satchel. The heavy brown paper wrapped parcel he left on his desk. Staring at it for a long minute after he had retied the document case’s securing ribbons.

With the speed of action taken before wisdom can intervene Charlson took up his letter opener and slit across one end of the heavy paper clad package. Stripping away more of the wrapper he slid an unmarked black leather clad book out onto his desktop.

The book seemed old, but not venerable, well used, but also well cared for.

Charlson paused to gather up the torn wrapping paper and pressed it deep into his waste paper basket.

Turning his attentions back to the book he opened it and saw an explanation carefully inscribed on the first of several hundred thin pages.

The Journal Of Hugo A. Monteith, Scholar of Alchemie.

Being a record of my sins

And a grave warning for fools who would follow after.

11^th November 1918 ~ 11^th November 1925

Charlson’s curiosity was piqued. He turned the page and began to read. Fifteen minutes later he rose and poured himself more coffee from the pot on the fat wood stove. The cup sat on his desk forgotten and grew as cold as Charlson’s blood as he read of the last seven years of Hugo Monteith’s life and the horrors he had wrought at Beckerston Abbey.

From the Journal of Hugo Monteith:

11^th November 1918 – Farlingsworth Station Inn.

My train was delayed for over an hour. It seems that the entire British Rail system has taken it upon itself to spontaneously stop and the most ludicrous displays of peasant behaviour are ensuing up and down the country. They say the war is over.

The delays were caused by the townsfolk of London dancing in the streets and blocking the tracks. This chaos is obscene.

Finally I arrived in Farlingsworth. I small mill based town, its male population decimated by the attraction of war in Europe. I had made specific arrangements, but as is to be expected in these most disordered times I have arrived while my equipment and supplies have not. I did however engage a misshapen goblin of a man with raging halitosis and a clubfoot. His name is Gordon.

I have engaged Gordon as my manservant – he has a detailed knowledge of the area and its inhabitants. Furthermore Gordon seems blessed with the useful trait of gold induced stupidity. The more money he is given the fewer questions he asks.

Already he has proved most useful. Guiding me to adequate lodgings and assuring me he will return at eight tomorrow morning with news of my missing freight. The second shilling note I hold until his return will guarantee his promptness I am sure.

I dined in my room. Through the floor below me I hear the shouts and singing of the locals. No doubt celebrating their victory against the forces of evil. I have no time for the insignificance of their lives. I have worked too hard for too long. Nothing will stop me now. The miserable failure of the German Empire is a set back, but it may yet have benefits for my cause.

I have seven years left. A mere seven years. It seems like so much time, until I consider the gravity of my undertaking. I would fall to my knees and pray that it is enough time, but no God would have mercy for me now.

Now I must sleep, for tomorrow is the beginning of a new life.

12^th November 1918 – Beckerston Abbey, Farlingsworth.

Gordon is proving to be indispensable. After rising before dawn and securing my freight from the early train out of London we made use of a local cart driver and his buggy. After not less than four trips to the station I finally had everything I need to complete my work secured in my new home; Beckerston Abbey.

The clock on the wall of the office had struck midnight when Charlson finally closed the journal.

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