The beneficiary of silence Eol Stoltio The problem, however, was not the cravat, it was the letter that had arrived earlier that morning. A letter from the most unexpected source. The b EnEficiary of s ilEncE Eol Stoltio Ovi ebooks are available in Ovi/Ovi eBookshelves pages and they are for free. If somebody tries to sell you an Ovi book please contact us immediately. For details, contact: ovimagazine@yahoo.com No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the writer or the above publisher of this book An Ovi eBooks Publication 2025 Ovi eBookPublications - All material is copyright of the Ovi eBooks Publications & the writer C The beneficiary of silence The beneficiary of silence Eol Stoltio Eol Stoltio An Ovi eBooks Publication 2025 Ovi eBookPublications - All material is copyright of the Ovi eBooks Publications & the writer C The beneficiary of silence I t was on a particularly ordinary Tuesday after- noon that Sir Reginald Pippinford IV, the vener- able head of the Pippinford family, found himself rather unexpectedly scrambling through his closet for a cravat. And not just any cravat ... oh no. This was the cravat he wore when he was in the kind of situation that demanded both class and subtlety. Unfortunately, the cravat had gone missing, and Sir Reginald, as befitting his position, took great offense at the idea of being forced to face his family without the requisite neckwear. “Oh, confound it all!” Sir Reginald muttered under his breath, fumbling with his waistcoat, “One would think I ran a house of ill-repute, not a respectable es- tate in the heart of Hampshire.” Eol Stoltio The problem, however, was not the cravat; it was the letter that had arrived earlier that morning. A let- ter from the most unexpected source, which had left Sir Reginald slightly unnerved and, dare one say, a touch remorseful. The letter had been short, but its contents struck like a thunderclap: “Dear Sir Reginald, It has come to my attention that I am your son. I will be arriving on the morrow to claim my rightful place in the family. Yours, Hercules Pippinford, the illegitimate.” Sir Reginald dropped his cravat, clasped his hands to his temples, and slumped into his favourite chair. “I knew there was something off about that chap who sold me the antique fish tank,” he groaned. At this moment, the door to the drawing-room swung open with all the subtlety of a camel in a ballet class. In marched his eldest son, Lord Benedict Pip- pinford, who had the demeanour of someone who had recently been informed that the family fortune was about to be liquidated for a very good reason— he simply hadn’t yet figured out what that reason was. The beneficiary of silence “Father!” Lord Benedict declared with the kind of gravitas one might expect from a man who had just been informed that his favourite brand of port was being discontinued. “I have just heard the most alarming news! It appears we have another sibling!” “I’m aware,” Sir Reginald sighed, clutching his chest. “He’s coming tomorrow. I am no longer fit for polite company, my dear boy. This will all end in tears. Have you seen my cravat?” Eol Stoltio I. The morning, as is often the case with mornings of this particular ilk, arrived far too swiftly for Sir Reginald Pippinford IV. The good man, having spent the better part of the previous night tossing, turning, and pondering the rather delicate situation that had presented itself, found himself less than prepared for the grand family reunion he was about to endure. In- deed, had he known the events of the day would un- fold as they did, he might have gone for a brisk walk in the nearby woods and gotten himself lost for a few hours, or perhaps even a few days. As it was, Sir Reginald had spent a good portion of the night contemplating what sort of greeting was appropriate for the son he’d never met. This, mind you, was no ordinary son. No, this son was, in fact, the result of a long-forgotten affair between Sir Regi- nald and a certain opera singer, a woman with a voice The beneficiary of silence like a bell and a temperament like a fox in a hen- house. And, to add a little spice to the tale, the affair had begun at a particularly wild garden party where champagne had been flowing freely and the guests had been far too numerous for any sort of sensible chaperoning. What made the situation even more thrilling, if one could call it that, was the fact that Sir Reginald hadn’t even known of his son’s existence until the fateful let- ter arrived that very morning. The letter, short and to the point, had announced the arrival of the young Hercules Pippinford, who had apparently come to “claim his birthright.” Sir Reginald had read the letter no less than three times, all the while wondering how one might be expected to behave when one’s past in- discretions came knocking at the front door. But, as was often the case in these matters, Sir Reginald had little choice but to face the music—no matter how dreadful the tune. The breakfast table, that morning, was a study in uncomfortable silence. The family sat stiffly, each person trying their best not to acknowledge the el- ephant in the room—an elephant that had, rather unfortunately, arrived by post earlier that day in the form of a letter. Eol Stoltio Lady Margaret Pippinford, Sir Reginald’s long-suf- fering wife, stirred her porridge with the sort of en- ergy one might expect from someone attempting to mix cement. It was a task she undertook with great dedication, as though the fate of the Pippinford es- tate rested on the consistency of her porridge. Her face, however, bore the expression of a woman who had just been informed that her husband had gam- bled away the family jewels to a horse named “Bin- go’s Revenge.” Lord Benedict, the eldest of the Pippinford prog- eny, sat across from his father with an air of mild discomfort. Benedict was the sort of man who pre- ferred to keep his thoughts to himself, particularly when those thoughts involved the fact that his father had, in his youth, indulged in questionable romantic entanglements. The younger Pippinford’s attempts to read the newspaper while keeping a discreet eye on his father’s every move were a masterclass in subtlety, something that, one might argue, had been learned the hard way after years of exposure to Sir Reginald’s more... expressive habits. “Father,” Benedict said suddenly, breaking the si- lence with the sort of hesitation one might expect from a man about to ask his father if he could have The beneficiary of silence the family crest tattooed on his forehead. “What are we going to do?” Sir Reginald placed his teacup down with the pre- cision of a man trying to avoid breaking it under the weight of his existential distress. “Do?” he said with a sigh. “Benedict, my boy, we shall do what any re- spectable family does in these circumstances. We shall greet him warmly, offer him a cup of tea, and pray he doesn’t ask for an inheritance.” Lady Margaret shot her husband a sharp look. “And what if he does, Reggie?” “We shall give him a biscuit,” Sir Reginald replied with a bravado that he did not truly feel, “and remind him that we are not, strictly speaking, in the business of handing out fortunes to every long-lost relative who wanders in off the street.” At that moment, the doorbell rang with a kind of foreboding resonance, as though it were warning the household that it was about to be invaded by some- thing more troublesome than the average solicitor. The entire Pippinford family froze, as though they had just been caught robbing a bank. “He’s here!” Lady Margaret gasped, her hand flying Eol Stoltio to her chest as though the doorbell had been the har- binger of a plague. “What do we do? How do we behave?” Benedict asked, his face pale as a ghost. It was as though he had just realized that his father’s past misdeeds were not only real but about to walk right into their draw- ing-room. “Simple,” Sir Reginald replied, rising to his feet with uncharacteristic gusto, as if preparing himself for the sort of crisis that demanded action and no small amount of dignity. “We behave as though we have no idea what on earth is going on, and we hope for the best.” But when the door opened, what stood before them was not the brooding figure of a long-lost son bear- ing the dark, dramatic intensity of a tragic hero. No, what stood before them was a cheerful young man with a broad grin, a suspiciously jaunty bowler hat, and an air of someone who had just discovered the cure for hiccups. “Good morning, good people!” he boomed, his voice as hearty as a foghorn. “I am Hercules Pippin- ford, your brother, and I’ve come to claim my birth- right!” The beneficiary of silence The family, in perfect unison, stared at him. Sir Reginald, in particular, seemed to be stuck in a loop of silent disbelief. “Birthright?” he repeated in a hoarse whisper. “Is this ...are you...?” “Well, this is jolly awkward, isn’t it?” Hercules continued, clearly unfazed by their shock. “I’d shake your hands, but I see you’re all still frozen in place. No worries, I’ll just sit myself down, shall I? Oh, and I’ve brought biscuits!” With this, he plopped himself down into the nearest armchair, as though this was the most perfectly normal situation in the world. “I ...I beg your pardon?” Sir Reginald stammered, his brain struggling to catch up with the spectacle unfolding before him. “Biscuits?” Hercules waved his hand airily. “Oh, nothing fan- cy, I’m afraid. Just the ones from that bakery down the road. You know the one... the one that makes the biscuits that are shaped like the Queen’s corgis.” “Er... no, I don’t know the one,” Sir Reginald re- plied, suddenly overcome by the feeling that his en- tire life had been a series of increasingly bizarre mis- understandings. “Right, well, you’re missing out. Anyway, biscuits! Eol Stoltio Should I pass them around?” Hercules beamed, oblivious to the shock and confusion that had over- taken his new family. Benedict, still blinking in disbelief, found his voice first. “Father, what are we supposed to do now?” Sir Reginald placed his hand to his forehead, the weight of the situation almost too much to bear. “What does one do when faced with a man who in- sists on calling himself ‘Hercules’ and offering bis- cuits?” he muttered to himself. “I suppose we invite him to stay for dinner?” “Dinner, you say?” Hercules piped up from the armchair, “I do hope you’re not planning anything too extravagant. I’m afraid I’m rather partial to a simple roast chicken. Oh, and I don’t suppose you’ve got any of that extra thick gravy, have you?” It was at that moment that Lady Margaret, who had been entirely too silent up until now, stood up and, with all the authority of a woman who had endured far too much nonsense in her lifetime, declared, “Well, I do believe we’ve all had enough of this, thank you very much. Let’s all just sit down and figure out what to do next. And someone pass me a biscuit.” The beneficiary of silence And so, the Pippinford family frozen in shock and bemusement began to gather around the table to face the truly absurd new reality that Hercules Pippin- ford, their long-lost illegitimate brother, was here to stay. For better or for worse. But mostly for worse. Eol Stoltio II. The afternoon was beginning to take on the sort of foggy, uncomfortable atmosphere that one might associate with a poorly executed séance, and the Pip- pinford family was in the midst of their daily ritual of tea, which, despite all appearances, was not the calm, sedate affair one might expect in a stately household like theirs. No, it had all the relaxed ambiance of a very tense family therapy session where everyone se- cretly wanted to scream but was too polite to do so. Hercules, their newfound brother and, to be frank, the family’s most recent source of both consternation and unbridled amusement was in fine form. He had taken the liberty of sitting at the head of the table as though he had been born to the position, which, as far as the rest of the Pippinford family was con- cerned, was a bit like a guest of the Queen deciding to sit in her lap. It didn’t seem right, but the guest, The beneficiary of silence unbothered by the rules of society, plopped himself down with a grunt and a wink. “Tell me,” Hercules began, after a deep swig of his tea that could have drowned a small mouse, “How did you find my mother, father? Was it the opera house? Or was it the garden party?” There was a sudden, collective freeze at the table. Sir Reginald Pippinford, a man who had spent his entire life avoiding scandal as one might avoid a par- ticularly slippery eel, turned a colour that could only be described as “lobster in distress.” “The garden party,” he muttered, looking as though he might have preferred to be anywhere else. “A long time ago. Quite an embarrassing... um... incident.” Hercules, however, appeared delighted by the reve- lation. His grin widened as though someone had just informed him that he was now the proud owner of an unclaimed fortune. “Oh, splendid! I always en- joy a good scandal. Makes life interesting, don’t you think? Rather like a family heirloom that gets passed down with a bit of a backstory.” Lady Margaret, Sir Reginald’s ever-so-dignified wife, gave a cough, which was somewhere between Eol Stoltio the sound of a lady clearing her throat and the des- perate attempt to expel a particularly stubborn fish- bone lodged in her windpipe. “So, Hercules,” she said, her voice thin and reedy, “do you... have any other talents, dear?” This was a question that one might have asked out of politeness, of course, but in the case of Hercules, it was a question that left Lady Margaret visibly hold- ing her breath, as though expecting him to announce that he was secretly the world’s foremost expert in tap-dancing elephants. “Indeed I do!” Hercules exclaimed, sounding like a man who had just been asked whether he could juggle fire and perform magic tricks with his eyes closed. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a small, decidedly worn-looking flute, and placed it to his lips as though he were about to perform a concert at the Royal Albert Hall. The family watched in stunned silence as Hercules began to play. The tune, however, was not the sooth- ing, elegant melodies one might expect from a man of his (admittedly mysterious) background. Instead, it was a discordant, blaring rendition of “Yankee Doodle” that sounded more like a herd of cows being chased by an extremely disgruntled farmer. The beneficiary of silence The first few notes were so jarring that it sent the family into a sort of stupor, each person looking at the other as though they were waiting for some sort of sign. Sir Reginald looked like a man who had just been informed that he had inherited a zoo full of par- ticularly irritable monkeys. Benedict, who had never been known for his ability to maintain a straight face, was in danger of breaking out into full-blown laugh- ter, which would have surely led to disaster. Hercules, for his part, seemed utterly oblivious to the disaster he was causing. He played with the en- thusiasm of a man who had just discovered the ex- istence of musical instruments and had not yet been informed of their proper use. “Splendid,” Sir Reginald managed, after a long, awkward silence that hung over the table like a par- ticularly heavy fog. “Really top-notch.” “Oh, Father, do you think we ought to...” Benedict began, the words trailing off as he saw that Hercules was still in the middle of his rather aggressive flute performance. “No need to interrupt, old sport!” Hercules cut him off with an exaggerated flourish of his hand, as though he were conducting a symphony. “I’ll fit Eol Stoltio right in. You know what they say: you can’t pick your family, but you can certainly pick your hobbies. And, lucky for me, I’ve got plenty of both.” Lady Margaret, having already reached the limits of her patience, set her teacup down with such delib- eration that it could have been mistaken for a minor act of defiance. “You... you’re starting a business?” she asked, her voice so thick with scepticism that it could have been used to butter toast. Hercules, quite undeterred by the fact that his musical abilities seemed to have been politely ques- tioned, leaned forward with a conspiratorial grin. “Indeed I am! A small operation, nothing too seri- ous. A bit of opera singing on the side, of course. I’ve been thinking of calling it ‘Hercules Pippinford and His Magnificent Voice.’ I can’t see how it could pos- sibly fail.” “Opera singing?” Benedict repeated in disbelief. “You’re going to... sing opera?” “Yes, Benedict, old bean,” Hercules replied as though he were explaining the concept of gravity to a small child. “It’s my calling. Every great man has one, don’t you know? I can’t very well sit around twid- dling my thumbs while my destiny beckons. And be-