Charles Marsden was a distinguished-looking gentleman. A light smattering of grey marked his hair at the temples, giving him a distinguished look. His figure was, perhaps, running a little to fat, but he still cut a fine figure in his tailcoat and breeches.

“I'm so pleased you've arrived,” he said. “Hetty was worried when you didn't get here last night, but I knew you would find the journey difficult in all this snow.”

“It was,” Rebecca acknowledged. “I will tell you all about it later.”

He nodded. Now was not the time for conversation. Now was the time for attending to business.

Rebecca turned her attention to the lawyer. He was a small man with sparse hair and thin hands. He was dressed conservatively in a dark coat and knee breeches. On the end of his nose he wore a pair of pince-nez.

“Now we are all gathered together, please, take a seat,” he said.

He spoke in a dry, desiccated voice that matched his appearance perfectly.

Rebecca divested herself of her bonnet and cloak, then settled herself on a Hepplewhite chair. Hetty and Charles, similarly shedding their outdoor clothes, seated themselves on an ugly but comfortable sofa.

“Mr Kelling will be joining us?” asked Mr Wesley.

“Unfortunately not,” said Charles. “He is at present abroad. I wrote to him, telling him of Jebadiah's death, but the letter must not have reached him. I have received no reply.”

“My own efforts to contact him have met with a similar lack of success. Well, as he cannot be with us, I suggest we get down to business.”

“Indeed,” said Charles.

“Good. Then if you are all quite ready, I will begin.”

Rebecca settled herself more comfortably then turned with interest to the lawyer.

Mr Wesley cleared his throat then picked up an important-looking document that was placed in front of him. He shuffled it between his hands. In precise, dry tones he began to read.