The library was in perfect order, even Brian’s documents were stacked neatly on his desk, or else folded away in drawers. He took in the gold-and-crystal chandeliers, the rich red carpets and beautiful paintings the high ceilings and cream wallpaper, the perfectly polished floors and staircase. The mansion was beautiful, but Jim had expected that. “Shall we get started?” he asked, and led the way inside. John’s smile was tremulous, a little anxious as he looked at Roger. Roger’s eyes narrowed further, he shifted uneasily, defiance in every pore of him. Instead, he’d instructed that he was to be buried beside one Freddie Bulsara. He didn’t want to be buried next to his lady wife, or his parents. By far the oddest thing about Mr May’s will was the instructions for his burial: he didn’t want to be buried on the family plot. “Freddie?” Jim asked, and immediately wanted to kick himself.

“Roger Taylor.” The lad leaned against the doorway, insolent as anything. “Mr Beach?” the young man with brown hair said. The second young man was stunning, with long blonde hair hastily tied back and big blue eyes- eyes that narrowed in distaste as he looked at Jim. The first was a tall, lanky boy with soft brown hair, a gap in his front teeth and bright green-grey eyes. To his surprise though, when he arrived, he was greeted at the door to Thrushcross Grange by two young men. Truth be told, Jim dreaded the idea of going through that mammoth property alone. What made it especially difficult was that the only heir, Brian May’s cousin, was a student down in Oxford College, and he’d written to say he wouldn’t be able to travel to the May residence for another two weeks. There weren’t many people in the area with money, with need of a lawyer, but the Mays were an exception. Jim Beach rarely had to venture out to the moors most of his business took place in town, but duty called. “If all else perished, and he remained, I should still continue to be and if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger.” - Wuthering Heights, Emily Brontë

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