The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike) Part 1263 by Angharad Copyright © 2011 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

I folded up the letter and placed it in my bag after dabbing my eyes, hoping the mascara really was waterproof–it’s a bit undermining claiming upper-class status whilst looking like the villain from an early silent film.

“How d’you know Mr Whitehead?”

“He was my English teacher in Bristol for a couple of years.”

“You must have been a special student for him to leave you his estate?”

“I was. I was the only girl in a school of fifteen hundred boys.”

His eyes nearly popped. “Right,” he picked up some papers pretended to scan them and put them down. “That would make you stand out a bit.”

“Just a bit,” I agreed smiling and Sangster, smirked then sniggered, then chuckled.

“I can’t believe that.” He said shaking his head, “What were your parents thinking of putting you under such pressure.”

“My parents had some very set ideas. The school was a good one and they suggested they would appeal if I was turned down, so they let me in.” This was a slight misinterpretation of what happened. I was initially rejected for some other reason, probably academic, eleven plus result or some such thing, but I think I made the grade ever after–although my results did see-saw a little during the Macbeth episode, although I got a very good mark for English Lit, twenty four out of a twenty five possible score for the question on Lady Macbeth and her character typifying Shakespearean women’s roles.

We had not long before doing the Scottish play, read Twelfth Night, and you can guess who got stuck with reading Viola. So I had a good opportunity to compare the two characters. I also remember, the fact of Viola playing Sebastian, which in Shakespeare’s day would have been a boy playing a girl playing a boy, being commented upon by my contemporaries. When Whitehead had mentioned this gender double complexity, one of my classmates said it was even worse with Watts being a girl playing a boy being a girl pretending to be a boy and failing miserably. It got a very loud laugh and I wanted to curl up and die–at the time–now I can see that whoever the loudmouth was, he had it about right.

I also wondered if Whitehead was testing me by seeing if I could play the women’s roles effectively. I had to three times, those two and Portia in Merchant of Venice. We only read the two plays but I was the only one who read the same part consistently throughout. Whitehead would play to the gallery, or appear to. He would ask for volunteers to read different parts, almost every time someone would volunteer to read this part or that if Watts would read Viola, or Portia.

I got exactly the wrong impression from this. I thought he was picking on me–but now I wonder, was he actually giving me free reign to act as a girl in front of a class of testosterone driven Philistines, when only he and I actually knew it. If only he’d told me.

My reverie was terminated by Mr Sangster passing me the will. “As you can see, Lady Cameron, the will was written over a year ago. His main request was to be cremated and his ashes interred with his late wife. Otherwise he leaves everything to you. We’ll need to get a rough estimate for the Inheritance tax people to get probate. That will almost certainly incur some expense I’m afraid, as the property is in Clarendon Road. D’you know it?”

“No, I don’t think I’ve ever been there, where is it?”

“From here, down towards the front.”

“Okay, what do I have to do?”

“Have you some proof of identity–a driving licence or passport?”

I handed him my licence.

“If I can just photocopy this and get you to sign to say this is you–obviously, I can’t give you a key to a half a million pound house without believing you to be who you said you were.”

I nodded and he went out to reception leaving me to muse again upon the enigma that was Alexander Whitehead. He was so careful in protecting me, I had no idea he was doing it. Then that confrontation at the school when Danny was set upon; was he just worked up after punching a boy and then my arrival caught him off balance? He might have felt defensive when I appeared at the school. Sadly, I shall never know.

“Right, that’s all in order, if you could sign to say that I’ve given you the keys here, oh and you are who you say you are?” I signed two or three times. “As you can see the will is pretty straightforward, and if you’re happy we’ll start organising letters of probate. Please don’t remove anything from the property the valuer will be there tomorrow.”

“What about personal things, diaries, etc?”

“The police have looked through the place so they may already be absent.”

“Why would the police need to search his house–he was the victim not the perpetrator? I saw him murdered, so I know exactly what happened, the same man threatened me and only my son’s quick thinking prevented it.”

“Why, what did he do?”

“He drove my car at him.”

“How old is your son?”

“Twelve.”

“Goodness.”

I waited for him to muse upon the death of his client, whom he would now systematically rob while apparently doing his legal duty.

“Lady Cameron, we’ll be in touch very soon as I suspect there will be other things we’ll need to consult you upon, so if you’d like to view your inheritance, feel free. The car is absolutely splendid. Do you like Jaguars?”

“My husband does, he has one of the sports ones, XK or something. I just like the colour,” I blushed, I wasn’t auditioning for Legally Blonde. We shook hands and I left.

Back in the car, I called home and told Tom where I was. I promised to be home quite soon. I drove to Clarendon Road and then up and down it. My tongue nearly fell out of my dropped jaw. It was a Victorian or Edwardian villa–ie, four stories including a basement/cellar, and attic rooms.

With shaking knees, I climbed the steps to the front door and undid the mortice and Yale locks, and let myself in. I felt like an intruder, as if I shouldn’t be there–like the owner might return at any time and call the police.

The house was beautifully and sympathetically restored, whether Mr Whitehead had done it or bought it this way or whatever, I don’t know. The rooms were large on the ground floor, and quite big in the basement/cellar.

On the first floor was an even bigger drawing room, plus four smaller rooms, one of which was obviously his study. I glanced about and gasped as I saw a framed photo of Lady Macbeth above the fireplace.

I poked about a bit more and found a whole file on me and information about GID and transgenderism in children. The police must have seen this but didn’t make anything of it, least not to me.

Then looking over the back of a lovely leather and mahogany desk, I spotted a book. I had to scramble under the desk to retrieve it as it was stuck on top of the skirting board. Possibly the police hadn’t seen this. It looked like his journal and I opened it with shaking hands.