Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 128742 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 644(@200wpm)___ 515(@250wpm)___ 429(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128742 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 644(@200wpm)___ 515(@250wpm)___ 429(@300wpm)
“Well done.” He barely glances away, and a waiter appears to pour two glasses of wine for us. Ben raises his at me. “To self-preservation.”
“Cheers,” I say, clinking his glass before taking a sip.
“Enjoy that. It’s one of the last bottles the Tulley winery ever produced.”
“Oh, I didn’t know you were in the wine business.”
“One of several ventures we’ve had to retire in the current”—he pauses to consider his words—“restructuring of our financial affairs.”
“I’ll savor it then.”
“It’s shit,” he laughs with self-deprecating humor. “My great-grandfather understood even less about wine than he did finance. It’s a metaphor, if you will, for the spectacular decline of the entire estate. Lawrence Tulley spent an outrageous fortune on some slick git to tell him to buy this thing or that. Spent another absurd fortune to procure it without the slightest notion of what he was doing. Then promptly ran it into the ground.”
“Is that where you believe the slide began? With Lawrence?”
“Between you, me, and the flatware,” he says, tapping the side of his nose. “Though my father isn’t much better. Every few years, he’d come up with some fool scheme. Dad’s an easy mark for bad investments and doomed business ventures. Plenty have attempted to make him see reason, but he’s a stubborn old mule. I’m not convinced he’s noticed they’re selling the country house out from under him. He spends most of the year on his yacht in the Med or the chalet in the Alps. We’ve flats in London and all over the world that I doubt he’s even seen since he was my age.”
“I know the feeling. A few years ago, I was cleaning out my closet and found dolls I hadn’t played with in years,” I say, deadpan.
“Yes, quite,” he answers with a chuckle. “You understand.”
Ben’s a good sport, not at all touchy about the reality of his family’s situation. If anything, I get the sense he’s frustrated by his lack of status to do anything to stop the bleeding. Not that he’s living a frugal existence by any means. I think he’d be happy to rearrange the entire estate if allowed to. Modernize their portfolio and try to do something productive with what’s left. As it is, by the time he inherits the title, it won’t be much more than a piece of paper.
“You didn’t come to hear a bitter posh lament his vanishing inheritance,” he says then. “Please, the floor is yours. How can I be of service?”
The waiters clear our plates as we finish our salads. It allows me a moment to gather my thoughts and prime them with another sip of critically endangered wine.
“If you’ll forgive the faux pas,” I begin, “I was browsing the estate sale at your family’s home in Surrey…”
He smiles wryly. “This isn’t about my baby pictures, I hope.”
“No. It’s someone else’s picture, actually. I’m interested in this portrait of a woman.” I reach into my bag, then hand him a printout of a photo I took and a scanned copy of the letter. “I’m operating under the assumption that she is the Josephine from the letter. I found it hidden in the backing of the portrait.”
Ben looks startled. “You bought this from the sale?”
I nod.
He examines the photo closely. “Interesting. Please, go on.”
“Okay, well, I haven’t managed to identify her or her relation to your family. Believe me, I exhausted so many other avenues before requesting this meeting. I’ve been to Franklin Astor Dyce’s hometown in Rye, to the museum there. They assure me the work is authentic. I went back to the museum in Surrey. Spent hours scrounging through every archive in the Talbot Library.”
“There isn’t much you don’t know about us at this point.” Ben studies the letter. “You don’t know who this letter was meant for?”
“No, but I have a theory. The curator at the Rye museum agreed to a time frame of late 1940s to early ’50s, which is about the same time Robert Tulley disappeared and William Tulley died in the Victoria disaster.”
“You believe this girl was involved with the brothers?”
“It’s a stretch, maybe. I know. I haven’t found a single reference to a woman who would match her age or description for this time period, though. Not if she’s a relative or closely associated with the family. But why else would this portrait have sat in the house for so many decades if she wasn’t connected to your family?”
“I’ve never seen it before. That’s not itself remarkable.”
“It’s a long shot, but I hoped you might have some idea. Or at least give me a clue to follow. I’m at the end of my rope on this hunt.”
Our main course arrives. A delicate piece of fish over veggies, the presentation so refined and immaculate I’m almost embarrassed it has to go in my stomach with my morning Cheerios.