Tuesday 11 November 2014

A Sleight of Hand



“I can’t do that, Florence,” Mr Gimnell said, gravely. “It is against all my principals.”
“How much are your principals worth?” retorted Miss Florence Gavell, a small lady with a lot of zeal.
“Mrs Gavell!” said an exasperated Mr Gimnell. “What are you implying?”
Florence took a cheque out of her handbag and laid it in front of the undertaker. They were sitting facing each other over a large oak desk and Florence watched the man’s face pale as his eyes took in the long line of noughts on the bit of paper.
“I don’t know what to say…” muttered a visibly shaken, Mr Gimnell.
“Then say nothing, just make sure that I have a funeral like no other when it is time.” Florence said as she rose from her chair.
Florence Gavell had been left a fortune when her parents had died. Being a late and only child she had been left to her own devices as she grew up. The family home had been large and provided the young Florence with a myriad of adventure playgrounds. As she left one room which she had imbued with mystery and magic, she entered another with its own bag of tricks. Her bedroom was the Queen’s castle and the house contained her many domains.
As she grew into her teenage years, she befriended several of her classmates at the nearby secondary school. They held parties at her house and her social circle grew. Gradually she shook off her solitary existence and became part of the young scene in Granley, a market town in Wiltshire.
As time went by and her aged parents needed more and more attention, the young Florence gave up going out with her friends and turned her attentions more and more to nursing her mother and father. Gradually she received less and less phone calls and invitations as time passed and eventually Florence only interaction was with the postman and the man who brought the provisions to the house.
One day, Florence woke to hear her mother’s cries. Her father had died in the night and her mother was beside herself with grief. So much so was her mother’s loss that the elderly lady followed her husband before the year was out and Florence was suddenly alone and the owner of a very large mansion house. After her parent’s will was read, Florence realised that she was a very wealthy lady. Her father had been a banker and had dealt avidly in the Stock Market…successfully.
Sadly, like moths to a candle flame, distant, previously unknown relatives appeared out of the woodwork. Her father’s funeral was well attended, but when her mother’s funeral service was enacted there was only standing room left in the church. The relatives had told their relatives and the church was full of not only direct relatives but second cousins, twice removeds, thrice removeds, etc. Florence threw her house open to them and for several months she couldn’t move for them. They ensconced themselves in the bedrooms and then took over the large drawing room until Florence began to feel like a stranger in her own house! No offer of sharing the growing shopping bill was made and the electricity and fuel bills were left for Florence to pay.
Gradually over the following months the house began to empty of the ‘relatives’, but not before one of them bought Florence a computer to allow them to ‘stay in touch’ with her through email, facebook etc. Promises were extracted from Florence that should she feel unwell at any time all that she had to do was pick up a phone and one of the faithfuls would be there to attend to her needs.
Suddenly Florence was never alone, relatives would ‘pop in’ routinely, just on the off chance. They would swig gallons of tea and guzzle large tracts of cake before excusing themselves. Florence and her fortune were under scrutiny and the relatives were already counting their chickens!
One day when Florence found herself inexplicably alone, she rang Mr Gimnell. “It’s time,” she said and replaced the receiver. Taking a suitcase down from on top of her wardrobe, she carefully packed it with a few dresses, blouses, underwear and toiletries. Florence walked down to the front door, turned round and looked about her fondly and after opening the front door, walked out and closed and locked it after her, then walking out onto the pavement joined the passing pedestrians and vanished into the crowd.
The notification of Florence’s funeral arrived two days later. For some unknown reason the overseeing of Florence’s health had been overlooked for the previous week due to the current ‘watchers’ taking an unforeseen holiday. Telephones were ringing and email flying to and fro as the relatives checked and rechecked the details of Florence’s demise.
It would appear that she had been taken ill and died all in a day, the previous week. The undertaker had called and had removed the body and as Mrs Gavell had requested a ‘closed coffin’, the preparation had been done and completed the following day. Apologies were made to those of the relatives who had requested to see Florence lying ‘in state’, but that their client had given strict instructions.
The funeral was a bit of a pantomime as each relative tried to outdo the other with signs of mourning. It resembled an ancient send-off complete with renting clothes and gnashing teeth. All that was missing was symbolic pyre. The atmosphere was funereal as Florence’s casket was lowered into the grave, crocodile tears flowed and gestures of meaningless woe were made.
The funeral party ‘et al’ were invited back to the local restaurant where caterers served tea and coffee along with sausage rolls and cream cakes. Everyone attended and made short work of the savoury and confectionery offerings as well as drinking copious cups of beverage. Conversations went on in huddled groups regarding the possible outcome of the will reading scheduled for the day after next.
Suddenly the door opened and into the restaurant came a distraught looking woman. She rushed up to the restaurant manager and began a very animated conversation, waving her hands about and shaking her head. The manager managed to calm her down and after politely taking his leave of the woman made his way discreetly to Florence’s uncle and whispered into his ear.

“Bloody hell! Wrong grave, you say?” blared Uncle Fergus, at the top of his voice. “What do you mean?”

The worried looking woman walked over to Uncle Fergus’ table and said, “It’s quite simple your niece has been put into my family’s grave!”

Instantly everyone was on their feet and shouting, arguing and generally creating an uproar.

“Well, we’ll bloody go back to the cemetery and get them to bury her in the right one!” boomed Uncle Fergus. “Mabel!” he shouted pointing at Florence’s aunt. “Get your coat on!”

All that was missing from the mob, made up of Florence’s relations were the torches and pitchforks as they made their way to the cemetery. Luckily, it was a fine evening and the light was still good.

“You’ll just have to dig her back up!” growled Uncle Fergus at a small, quaking man. “You’ve made a big mistake. Where’s your boss?”
“He’s not here today…” mumbled the gravedigger. “I were left in charge.”
“Well, you’ve blown it! “said the bullying Uncle Fergus. “Now if you and your mate will open the grave, dig a grave in the right place and put her back in it, we’ll say no more about it. If not well we’ll sue!”
Under the jaded eye of Uncle Fergus and his clan the two young men toiled. First they opened the existing grave and carefully raised the coffin, laying it gingerly on the excavated soil. Next they began to dig into the neighbouring grave, where Florence’s earthly remains should have been laid. After three hours the grave had been opened and they prepared to lower the casket into it.
Aunt Mabel had been standing waiting patiently for the operation to be completed. She suffered with low blood pressure and should have been sitting down, but had insisted on staying on. As the men prepared to move Florence’s casket she stepped back and fainted, falling back she hit Florence’s coffin and it slipped sideways, smacking the lid against the neighbouring gravestone, which caused it to be wrenched open and the contents emptied out.

For a whole minute everything froze. Uncle Fergus looked as if he was about to lay an egg and the rest of the crowd were … gobsmacked! For out of Florence’s coffin several large boulders had rolled. There was nothing else in it!

Back at the restaurant, Florence’s relatives had a council of war. Everyone was talking, shouting and generally making a noise. The two graves had been filled in and the empty coffin moved to a gardener’s shed to await the investigation that would have to happen on the following days.

“Be quiet, everyone!” ordered Uncle Fergus, banging his hand on the table. “Let’s have some order! We have to decide what’s to be done.”

“But, where is Florence?” asked Auntie Mabel plaintively. She had just recently recovered from her faint, helped by a large brandy.

It was decided after much deliberation to go and tackle the undertaker. He must know if anyone would. If no satisfaction was obtained the police would be contacted.

The following day dawned and Uncle Fergus and a handful of cousins, first, second and third, made their way to Mr Gimnell’s funeral parlour. Their general demeanour was anger and they were not to be put off by anything but the truth.

A closed sign greeted the delegation and after knocking hard on the door an old man answered it.
“Where is Gimnell?” demanded Uncle Fergus.
“Mr Gimnell is not here.” replied the man. “He retired this morning and has gone abroad.”
“What…!” screeched Uncle Fergus. “Where abroad?”
“I think it’s somewhere in South America,” the old man said scratching his head.

Next stop, the police station.
“I want to speak to someone in authority!” said Uncle Fergus belligerently, to a young policeman who was standing at the reception desk.
“You are talking to someone in authority. I am P.C. Robertson. What seems to be the problem?”

Briefly, Uncle Fergus spelt out their problem ending up with the empty coffin.
The young constable looked confused. “You say you all received notification of Ms. Florence Gavell?  And when you attended the interment, you opened the coffin…”
“No, no!” Uncle Fergus said angrily. “The coffin was buried in the wrong grave and we made the gravedigger dig up the coffin…”
“You dug up a grave?” Constable Robertson said quizzically. “Now that is a crime…”
“You are not listening, you fool! “began Uncle Fergus. “There has been a crime committed, but not by us!”
“I think that you had better calm down, sir,” cautioned the policeman. “Do you wish to report a missing person?”
“For goodness sake, constable. Ms Florence Gavell is purportedly dead. We were invited to the funeral and then found the coffin was empty! How simple do I have to explain it to you?” queried an exasperated Uncle Fergus.
“But where is Florence?” bleated Auntie Mabel ineffectively.

Outside the police station, Uncle Fergus rallied the troops.
“I think we should go back to Florence’s house, which technically should be ours once the will is read. We only have to wait for a couple days and we’ll get the property and the dosh.”

The three taxis disgorged Uncle Fergus, Auntie Mabel and Florence’s tribe at Florence’s mansion. They all piled out and stood about like a lost lambs awaiting the shepherd.
“Uncle,” said one of the young cousins chirped. “Why is there a ‘For Sale’ sign outside Cousin Florence’s house?”
“There must be some sort of mistake,” grunted Uncle Fergus. “Let’s get inside.”
But, when they arrived at the front door they found it locked and Uncle Fergus’ key failed to open it.
“The rooms are all empty Uncle,” said second cousin Alison, looking through the windows. “Are you sure Cousin Florence lived here?”
“Of course I am…” Uncle Fergus began to say, as the front door suddenly opened and emitted a very smart suited gentleman.
“Can I help you?” he said. “Are you here to look over the property?”
“We are the relatives of Ms. Florence Gavell,” said Uncle Fergus pompously. “We are likely to inherit this house.”
“Unlikely,” said the man with a laugh. “Ms Gavell sold the equity of the house to my company, Benson and Falcon Developments.”
“This is intolerable,” growled Uncle Fergus. “Where is all the movable estate?”
“The movable estate?” questioned the man, looking puzzled. “Oh, you mean her furniture? She sold it all before she signed the equity agreement with us. I think there is some clothes upstairs. You’re welcome to take them if you want?”

The Hotel Rialto had seen better days, but it suited Florence’s relatives and especially Uncle Fergus as he had to pay for their rooms. There were still two days before Florence’s will was to be read and all the relations received their part of the family fortune.
“Just sit tight,” said Uncle Fergus, to them all, with a grimace. “And stay away from the online movies and the minibar!”

The offices of Drench, Drench and Crouch, Solicitors was situated in a back street of Granley. The sign outside the office swung with a creaking noise in the stiff breeze. There were several people about as the three taxis swung to a stop by the pavement.
“Now, we can’t all go into the offices. Let’s decide who comes with me,” said Uncle Fergus officiously.
“Why should it be you that goes in?” asked Cousin Tom.
“Because I am the senior member of the group and I know the Law,” Uncle Fergus reasoned.
“Oh, let him go,” said Tom’s wife Linda. “I’m heading down to the shops and spend my share of the money.”

It was decided that Uncle Fergus would be accompanied by second cousin James and second cousin William. Both men were CEOs of companies and exuded an air of respectability.
“We’ll hear the contents of the will and decide how we divide the money after that,” said Uncle Fergus conspiratorially. “It’s a bugger about the house, but the cash will more than make up for its loss.”

The three men entered the establishment of Drench, Drench and Crouch, Solicitors in single file with Uncle Fergus at the head.
“We’ve an appointment with Mr Crouch,” he boomed at the receptionist, a young girl who looked as if she had just left school. She opened a large register and after checking the entries, she looked up at the trio and pointed towards some armchairs and said,
“Yes, your appointment is in ten minutes. Please take a seat.”
Uncle Fergus stepped back in astonishment.
“Young lady, we are busy and important men. We need to see Mr Crouch …NOW!”
The receptionist stood up and fixed Uncle Fergus with a glare that could have melted iron.
“Sir, with respect, your appointment is in…” she consulted her watch. “ Eight minutes. PLEASE take a seat.”

As Granley town clock had just finished sounding the hour, the door of Mr Crouch’s door opened and a smartly dressed man stepped through the door and marching straight up to Uncle Fergus held out his hand.
“You must be Ms. Gavell’s Uncle Fergus. Please come right through.” And without missing a beat turned and re-entered his office.
Uncle Fergus stormed into Martin Crouch’s office.
“There was no need to keep us waiting,” he growled.
The solicitor looked up from behind his desk.
“Your appointment was for two o’clock. The time is now one minute past two. What is your problem?”
Uncle Fergus was stuck for words so he covered his embarrassment by introducing the two second cousins and then plumped himself down in a chair and silently fumed.

“I have here the last will and testament of Ms. Florence Gavell. She came to see me two months ago and arranged all its aspects and instructions,” began Martin Crouch and then paused.
“Well? Well?” said Uncle Fergus belligerently. “What have we been left?”
The solicitor turned the top page of the document that he held in his hand.
“Being of sound mind, these are my instructions for the disposal of my estate,” he paused again and cleared his throat. “I do not exist anymore and before I was to enter this state I decided that if I was to disappear, then so too would all my wealth and possessions.
First, I liquidated my possessions and property. The house I sold its equity, as I am sure you know now.
Second, I have moved my money to offshore accounts which will take care of all my various donations to charity.
Thirdly, I arranged that after my death, my body would be cremated right away. My coffin is empty, but I had to give you all something to focus on.
I am gone and so have all my wealth and possessions.”

Martin Crouch laid the will down on the desk top signifying that it had been read and his responsibility was at an end.
A silence fell over the office and the three members of Florence’s family looked stunned.

Suddenly Uncle Fergus jumped to his feet and raced to the door of Martin Crouch’s office. Pulling open the door he turned to James and William and said,
“Quick! Get into town and stop anyone buying anything!”
In an instant Martin Crouch’s office was empty and as he put Florence’s will into his filing cabinet, he smiled and had a quiet snigger to himself,
“Nice one Florence,” he whispered as he closed the drawer of the cabinet.

Next morning as a disgruntled group of Florence’s relations travelled second class in a train back home, a lady woke to the cry of tropical birds and the sound of waves breaking on the shore Palm trees waved in the equatorial breeze and strange and exotic perfumes filled the atmosphere. Her name was Sylvia Trevant, she had had extensive surgery to alter and improve her facial features. Her hair was bleached and hair extensions turned her into a very beautiful woman and in a past life she had been Florence Gavell.





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October 2014