Days 241 and 242 – Writing Exercise
…
It had been a very difficult decision to walk away from what had been my home, and not only my home but that of my brothers and sisters, but my father’s choices, after our mother died, had created an impossible situation.
My father was never the sort of man who never argued or exerted his authority. He preferred to let his wife, our mother, do everything, and while she was alive and had the best of intentions, everything was fine
Then she got ill and died. He was like a rudderless ship, drifting in the middle of an empty ocean. When it became too much, my sister registered him with a group who had all suffered the same malaise. The loss of a lifelong partner.
That’s where he met Mathilde Watson.
Everything was fine for the first few months. He got his mojo back, and he’d found another woman who was happy to take charge.
Except …
She was only interested in what she needed for herself and her children, and simply ignored, or made it known in a less-than-subtle manner, made it known that the rest of his family were no longer welcome.
Within a year, all four of us children by his first marriage had moved out, or more to the point, were forced out, and her three children and her parents had settled in, making themselves at home.
We tried to tell him, but in the end he believed that we were upset that he had found another wife, and didn’t want him to be happy again. It was pure Mathilde speaking, but in the end, we simply acknowledged that he was not going to change.
Then, that first Christmas we all came back, she had engineered an argument, one I, and the others should have expected, and more to the point, should have known better than to bite, and for myself, my last words with him were regrettable. I didn’t stay to hear what the others had said, but our group chat on social media lit up for about a month afterwards
We had all worked hard over subsequent years to repair the damage she had inflicted, but it was too late.
For all of us.
He got ill, and Mathilde deliberately or otherwise managed to make it almost impossible for any of us to see him except at the very end, when we each got a message to come home.
At least all of us had been with him when he died. Where Mathilde was, no one asked, and we didn’t wait around to find out.
…
Legal offices were usually austere places, where visits were rare, where I had been once to sign a set of documents at the insistence of my father’s legal representative, a man as old as he was, Ferguson. I didn’t know of ever had another name.
To be honest I was not sure what they were, I trusted the lawyer and what my father told me, that I didn’t needed to know, just that it was ensuring we emremained a family, despite the new arrangements in his life. I thought it odd at the time, letting us all be forced away by Mathilde.
I just put it down to strange behaviour we had come to expect from him since Mathilde came into his life.
It was not long after I left home for good, probably not my finest hour, but I had been angry, and Mathilde, his new wife, was an easy target. I said my piece, and never went back.
Whatever it was, I never gave it another thought.
Until…
I was told he had died. Mathilde hadn’t informed us, and as little as a few days ago, my sister had phoned him to get a report and had been told by one of her sons he was fine, and not to worry.
Clearly he had been dead for a few weeks.
Ferguson was apologetic that he had been asked by the local police to hold off informing the relatives until they had completed a preliminary investigation.
What was first thought to be death by natural causes was now contentiously labelled a potential murder. His request was twofold: we all had to meet the Detective in charge of the case, and make a statement that would eliminate us from the investigation.
Clearly it had been communicated to my brother and two sisters because for the next hour the phone lines burned with regret, and a single potential accusation. If he had been murdered, we knew exactly who did it.
Mathilde.
The other reason for our presence: Ferguson had a letter from our father to read as part of the will. There were some unusual aspects related to his death that had to be worked through, but Mathilde had been asking for clarification of her position.
Unfortunately, I couldn’t control my resentment, saying that I thought that her position would have been straightforward. She had coerced him into signing everything over to her. It was the reason why she had created a hostile environment that none of us wanted any part of.
We could all truthfully say we had no opportunity to coerce him, not that we would. I may have been disappointed with him and his choices, but I had wanted to believe he was happy.
I said as much to Ferguson. I also said it was hardly worth my while, that his new family would take everything, and I didn’t ever want to see their gloating faces again.
He countered, saying my attendance would be as a favour to him and out of respect for my father. He had cared about us, despite what had happened.
It was a matter of whether I wanted to believe it, and I chose not to, but, against my better judgement, I agreed to go. I had to see the Detective anyway.
…
Before arriving at Ferguson’s office, we each visited the Detective separately. It had been suggested that we go together, but my younger brother, a junior lawyer himself, said it would look like we were colluding.
My stay was brief; he took my statement of my movements over the last three months, and any contact I’d had with the household and my father. That was easy. None. He seemed surprised until I summed up the environment. We were simply not welcome, and he had made no effort to change it.
It seemed selfish and rather pathetic that I hadn’t tried harder, but it was what it was.
Then, prior to the meeting, we met at a cafe nearby. We were all of the same opinion: the new wife and her family would get everything, and we’d get nothing. In my mind’s eye I could see her coaxing my father’s hand, creating a will in their favour.
We almost unanimously decided to get up, walk out and go home. Only a simultaneous text message arriving on our cell phones stopped us.
“Important you be there at the meeting. All will be revealed in good time.”
I shrugged.
“All in,” I asked.
Three nods. My older sister Jeanne had the last word: “If that bitch pisses me off, I’m going to punch her lights out.”
I didn’t tell her she would have to get in line.
…
The meeting room felt crowded and unruly.
Not a surprise
All of Mathilde’s family were there. Her, her parents, the three children and their spouses and a dozen kids. Jeanne said they bred like rabbits. She seemed to know a lot about Mathilde and her tribe, as she called them.
The adults all had the same expressions, the cats who’d eaten the canary and got away with it. None of them acknowledged us when we arrived, and we just frowned at them. There were no seats left at the table, so we gathered over by the windows.
Their children did not offer us their seats out of respect. And a conversation between Mathilde and her eldest son was clearly referencing us in derogatory terms. The laughter was annoying.
And provocative? Maybe. But it wasn’t going to get a rise.
That’s when Ferguson came in.
The noise level didn’t abate, nor did he get the respect he deserved. That’s when I saw him raise his hand and bring it down on the table with such force it caused the water in the jug to ripple.
It got their attention.
“This reading is for Albert’s four children from his first marriage, his second wife, and her three children. No one else. I will wait until this room is cleared before continuing.
“They are family.” Mathilde sounded and looked offended.
“That may be, but your husband made a specific request about who may attend. If you want to argue your case, get a lawyer and I’ll see you in court. Otherwise, clear the room.”
I, for one, wouldn’t take issue with him. He looked as angry as I felt.
Ferguson 1, Mathilde 0.
Her parents gathered up the children and left as requested. A sullen silence settled over the room. We sat at the end of the table, as far away from Mathilde and her children as we could get.
They had never accepted us as family, and all had been openly hostile towards us, mostly when our father was not home.
Mathilde glanced in our direction, then glared at Ferguson. “What are they doing here? They’re no longer family. They abandoned their father, and if anyone is responsible for killing him, they are “
Ferguson glared back. If she thought she could intimidate him, he was not a tall or heavy man, not like her sons; she was wrong.
He kept the stare going for nearly a minute until she began to squirm, when he fired the question, “Your opinion, if I get your meaning, is that you believe someone killed Albert?”
“I wouldn’t put it past them.”
Jeanne went slightly pink in the face, and I knew from experience that she was a sure sign she was about to explode. “Not your first rodeo, eh Mathilde, trying to shift the blame. Or should I call you Margaret?”
“What are you….” Mathilde was gaining some colour as well.
Jeanne held up her phone. “Detective Mandon, whom I know you are aware is investigating the suspicious death of my father,” with emphasis on the word ‘my’, “was extremely interested in the documents I gave him relating to another similar case in Ohio. That’s where you said you came from.”
“Whatever you think you know, you’re wrong; jealousy and spite will get you nowhere.”
Jeanne put her phone down. “You know his death is suspicious, and you’re deflecting. Only someone with something to hide would do that. You should have just sat there and shut up.”
She went to reply when her son, sitting next to her, put out a restraining hand and whispered in her ear. She shook his hand off, but didn’t speak.
Ferguson looked at the combatants, calculating what it would take if a fight broke out. Then, “The terms of the will are quite specific. If anyone sitting at this table had anything to do with Albert’s death, there’s nothing for you.”
He looked straight at Mathilde. “You’ve been far from cooperative with the police. You have made the claim that you should be compensated because, in your own words, ‘I have spent nearly every hour of every day for the last three months looking after him’. Two points arise from that: the first, that no one, and especially the four children you are accusing, could have, nor anyone else, got near enough to give him a glass of water, let alone poison. The other, again by your own admission, only you could have administered it.”
The son put another restraining hand on her and stopped her from removing it. “You are twisting her words.”
“So you are admitting your mother lied.”
“Now you’re twisting my words.”
“No. You just didn’t think things through before you wrote it down.”
Mathilde was now past angry. Which, for someone who wanted to prove she was the loving and caring partner, certainly seemed agitated when the contrary was presented.
“You cooked this circus up together, didn’t you?”
My turn. “Why didn’t you tell us when our father died? In fact, when Jeanne called a few days after we now know he had died, one of your sons said he was still alive, and for us not to worry about him.”
She looked at her son, and he shrugged
“You got your dates mixed up.”
Jeanne, now strangely calm, said, “I recorded the conversation, timestamped and filed away, with every other call I made. Your son lied. Why?”
She thought about what she would say, probably for the first time, and decided silence was a better option.
“Perhaps I might have an answer for you,” I said. “You needed the time to try and empty the bank accounts before notifying the bank of his death. The problem is, you couldn’t because he had to verify the transactions, a secondary process you were not aware of. I’m guessing you saw the confirmation request but couldn’t bluff your way through it. You knew he had several investment accounts, but he only granted you access to the everyday working account and a capped credit card. If you killed him for his money, you failed.”
Her expression said all we needed to know. It must have been hell in that house when she discovered she couldn’t get her hands on the main prize, about 30 million dollars. I shuddered to think what the state of his study was after all of them ransacked it for evidence of his riches. The paperwork would have been there somewhere, and he would not have had time to go cold before the search began.
How did I know this possible scenario? The notifications the bank sent my father asking for his confirmation also came to me. It was then I realised what those papers I’d signed meant. I dug them out of the bottom of a proverbial shoebox and read them.
That’s when I realised something had happened. He may not have been dead at the time, but totally incapacitated. I was the only other signatory who could authorise her withdrawals. It told me he hadn’t really trusted her completely.
“If I go home and have a look in his study, I’m willing to bet you ripped it apart looking for his access codes. The thing is, he never wrote them down. They died with him.”
She may have just worked out how to control her expression, but the boys hadn’t. That house would now be little more than a rubbish tip.
Mathilde regained some composure, enough to say, “You asked us here to tell us what’s in the will. My family needs some clarity about what arrangements he set in place for me.”
“Very well. We’ll presume the assumption of innocence for all for the moment. In normal circumstances, the will is quite simple in its provisions.”
An almost smug look returned to her face.
“It is important to note, before I read those provisions, the arrangements that were made some years ago, just after the death of his first wife and before he met and married you.” Ferguson looked pointedly at Mathilde. “At that time he decided to create a family trust, and then deposited the main investments and part of the funds from the sale of the house and several other properties into it.”
He paused, maybe to let that sink in, or to take a sigh of relief. I remembered overhearing a conversation he had with our father over his finances, and the need to set up a trust to protect what he had and to provide for those he deemed worthy of an inheritance.
“He also created a working account where his share of the dividends from the trust’s investments were to be directed. A few months later he transferred ownership of the trust to his four original children.”
It was a surprise to the other three, and until I got the requests for authorisation, I was equally in the dark. Our father and Ferguson would have managed it without needing to defer to us, and his managers hip would have lapsed on his death
“What does all that mean?” The smug look had gone, and the calculating mind had kicked in.
“It means Albert’s estate amounts to about a hundred and twenty-two thousand dollars. The house was leased from the trust to him for a peppercorn rent as long as he lived. Your continuing to rent the property will be at the discretion of the trustees. Bear in mind that a tenant inspection is being carried out while you are here, as provided in the conditions of the rental agreement, and if the damages to the house exceed 5,000 dollars, you will be issued a notice of eviction.”
“You can’t do that. He promised us he would look after us.”
“You didn’t ask the appropriate questions and made assumptions. The rental agreement was made in his name. He asked you if you wanted to be included on the lease agreement, but you declined. If your name was on the rental agreement, it would be a different situation.”
“So, what do we get?”
“The car, and each a share of the 122 thousand or so in the working account and an investment account in both your names. He had nothing else.”
One of the sons said, “And the dividends from the trusts.”
“Unfortunately, that money was at the discretion of the trustees, in his name only, and an arrangement made before you met him. The agreement he signed with the trust was a contract of employment, which ceased on his death. There will be some clean-up disbursements, vacation pay and possibly a bonus, but nothing significant.”
“And that’s it?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“We’ll sue.” One of the other sons, probably the first time he looked as if he was paying attention, spoke. “There’s no way at least half of whatever is in that trust is ours. It has to be worth millions. He was filthy rich. You said he was the one with the money.”
Ferguson’s phone vibrated on the desk beside the file. He picked up the phone and checked it, reading what must have been a text. There was just a hint of a smile.
“If you decide to sue, which is your right, of course, any bequests will be withdrawn, and we can argue our case in court.”
There were raised voices outside the office, and when we looked through the windows looking out over the foyer, there were two uniformed police officers and two detectives.
“The tox report had come back, and as I understand it, Albert died from slow poisoning. I’m not sure what the details are, but the police have searched the house and found evidence which they need you to explain how and why it’s there, and why it is in some of the food you kept in the freezer.”
Mathilde looked at the eldest son.
“What? It’s not my fault.”
“Shut up, you fool.”
The detective was ushered in, and without another word, we left, as all four of them immediately said they would not be cooperating until they called their lawyer.
I was positive Ferguson was not going to represent them.
…
The menagerie that was Mathilde’s family was rounded up and taken away. Ferguson was glad to see the last of them.
Legally, we had known about the trust, if push came to shove, but the reality was Ferguson kept all of the letters, documents and correspondence at his office.
Our father didn’t want to burden us with complications of investing money or managing properties. Now? Perhaps we would have to.
It was a tidy sum, and we could draw a large income from the trust if we chose. None of it could go to his new family. They were only entitled to a share of his assistance and the time of the wedding.
It was watertight and could not be contested.
And if she, or any of them, were convicted of murder, then it was a moot point.
Jeanne’s final remark: “She was, after all said and done, just a gold digger. All of them. I think we owe a great deal of thanks to Mr Ferguson for his diligence in protecting us from that dreadful woman and her family.”
Even so, I had a feeling we had not seen the last of Mathilde Watson.
…
© Charles Heath 2026
Pro Tip: Bring a camera—every corner of Schönbrunn is a postcard waiting to be snapped.
