by Roy Lewis
‘No local lasses either,’ Parton reported. ‘So the plot thickens. I suppose the answer is we’ll have to see if he laid any of the dairymaids around the local farms in Northumberland now. That’ll be a long job, if you ask me.’
‘There’s money to back it . . . for a while.’ The law required Eric Ward to make all reasonable enquiries before the estate could be regarded as bona vacantia, but the question was, where did reasonable enquiries end? ‘Anyway, a few trips out in the country will do you no harm and you might come up with something. Keep in touch.’
‘I’ll do that — but something on account would help.’ Eric Ward laughed. ‘I’ll arrange something for you in a couple of days. Against itemized expenses.’
‘Including a bottle of “broon”?’
* * *
The trouble was, of course, the trail was so cold. Arthur Egan had died of cancer at the relatively young age of fifty-five. He had spent some fifteen years after his release from prison working in’ Stanley and living a quiet, unobserved life. The seven years prior to that had been spent in prison, and people forgot during that span of time. He would have left Byker perhaps in his early twenties, over thirty years ago, and it would be difficult now to trace people who might remember whether or not Arthur Egan had got a young girl in trouble.
For he had certainly not been married.
Eric Ward wondered about that. There was the possibility that this was nothing but a wild goose chase. The Arthur Egan who had died in Westerhope would have been a different person from the young man who lived in Byker. And Ward knew how life in prison could change a man. It seemed to have made Egan shun society and live a lonely, enclosed life. Perhaps that very loneliness had eventually closed in on him until he had begun to people it with persons of his own imaginings, family who had never existed.
A child who had never been born.
The letter from the Egan file lay on his desk. Ward picked up the phone and dialled the number of the market garden in Stanley where Arthur Egan had worked for almost fifteen years.
Yes, of course they remembered Arthur Egan; very well, in fact. Been with them a long time, he had. No, couldn’t remember when he’d started, but it would be when Bob Jackson was running the place. Bob? He was dead, now: bronchial pneumonia six years ago. No, there was no one around who’d be able to say who might have put Arthur Egan in the way of a job at Stanley.
Eric Ward put down the phone. Another dead end.
Testily, he put the letter back in the file and pushed it to one side. He was spending too much time, too much thought on the estate of Arthur Egan. He couldn’t account for what seemed to be developing into an obsession with him. From the glance that Paul Francis cast in his direction, when he came into the room five minutes later and saw the file on his desk, he knew that the young solicitor was of the same opinion.
‘Aren’t you ready, for God’s sake? You know we’re expected at Lord Morcomb’s place. Look, I’ll take Joe; you’d better come along in your own car. It’ll save me coming back to the office, anyway. But get a move on. We mustn’t keep his lordship waiting!’
* * *
Eric enjoyed the drive out to the Morcomb estates. The road took him off the main road north beyond Scots Gap and he was skirting wooded hills and rolling fells, dipping past craggy outcrops of rock and tiny farms nestling in little valleys until the sweep of the moorland opened out before him and he could see the crest of Carter Bar beyond Jedburgh, barring the entrance to Scotland. Swinging left, the road was quiet, winding along beside the river, dropping down into a long valley where, according to Paul Francis’s instructions, Lord Morcomb now lived, at Sedleigh Hall.
When he entered the narrow roadway pheasant strutted across his path, forcing him to slow, and magpies planed across the fields to his right. On his left the trees were dense, but he caught a glimpse of an ornamental lake encrusted with water-lilies and on a promontory a bell-topped tower, a crumbling folly half hidden by silver birch. Then the roadway opened out ahead of him: the entrance to the courtyard was dominated by a clock tower and when he drove through the archway he found himself beside a green, scattered with small cottages, almost a village in itself. Beyond, on a slight rise, was Sedleigh Hall, Doric pillared, massive, square-built with wide stone steps, ivy-wreathed walls and high, dominant windows. The late morning sun glinted and flashed on the windows as he drove slowly towards the house; to the left the lawns were bright green and close-cut; to the right a meadow sloped down to the edge of the wood. Beyond, the ground rose again, scarred by an old quarry, evidence that Lord Morcomb’s forebears had been prepared to sacrifice view for profit at some time or another, and past the hill, he guessed, would lie the small village of Sedleigh, razed a hundred and fifty years ago to satisfy the lady of the manor’s passion for geometric layouts.
He stopped, got out of the car and looked about him.
It was a world away from Newcastle, a million miles from the huddled, ranked terraces of Tyneside, and it gave him the feeling that it would last forever.
Unless the Inland Revenue Commissioners had their way. Paul Francis’s car was already there. Eric walked past it and climbed the steps to find that elderly butlers were still in service in some households of consequence; this one opened the door before he rang and when he entered the wide hallway, and stood feeling lost in front of the sweeping oak staircase, a discreet cough turned him towards the library, where he found Joseph Francis and his son waiting with a tall slim young man dispensing glasses of whisky.
Joseph Francis made the introductions. ‘Eric Ward David Penrose. Mr . . . ah . . . Penrose acts as Lord Morcomb’s estate manager, and is obviously concerned with issues arising out of our visit.’
Joseph appeared slightly uncomfortable. Ward guessed that the senior partner regarded himself as a man of some consequence in the city and was ill at ease here because he felt the pressure of inferiority. It was not so much Penrose’s easy manner, as the impending arrival of Lord Morcomb; there could be no question of his lordship meeting them — he would arrive in his time, to consult his legal advisers.
Ward accepted the whisky and water from Penrose almost without thinking, then, holding it without sipping it, walked across to the shelved books. They gleamed at him, row on row, in faultless bindings, probably untouched from one year to the next.
‘You like books?’
David Penrose was standing beside him, legs braced, a whisky glass in his hand, the other arm locked behind his back. He had a vaguely proprietorial air about him which surprised Ward. ‘I do,’ Eric said, ‘though I don’t know what I’d do with a library of this kind.’
‘They look good, of course,’ Penrose said. His voice was pleasantly deep, his accent decidedly aristocratic. ‘But I did enough reading when I took my degree at the University of Reading. I vowed then I’d work for the outside life and I’d enjoy it, with books out of the window.’ He grinned, infectiously; he had good teeth and bright, humorous eyes, dark-lashed above tanned features. Ward liked him, particularly when he lowered his voice and added, ‘The old man should be down shortly. He draws no distinction between professional advisers and tradesmen and thinks both should be put in their place. But he’s a good stick in his own way. Drink up, and I’ll get you another one.’
Ward declined, explaining one was enough for him, and asked Penrose how long he had been working for Lord Morcomb.
‘Oh, ever since I took my degree. About ten years, now. I was lucky, really; there was an old chap called Acton here then, but he was pretty old hat in his methods and parts of the estate were quite run down. Lord Morcomb soon found I knew my way around, even if I was a bit on the young side, and retired Acton about four years ago. He appointed me. Like I said lucky.’
Not so much luck, Ward thought as Penrose walked back to check on the others’ drinks. Ability . . . and perhaps an eye for the main chance.
‘Ah, gentlemen, you being looked after properly? David, doing your duty?’
The voice husked at th
em from the doorway and Ward swung around to meet Lord Morcomb. He was perhaps seventy years of age, tall, slightly bowed now with a seamed leathery skin in which pouched blue eyes gleamed, all ice and cold light, as he surveyed his advisers in the library. He was dressed in cavalry twill slacks and an old tweed jacket — perhaps de rigueur for lords in country seats, Ward thought to himself — and gave the impression of a man out of his time clinging to the old traditions. But his mouth was thin-lipped and his jaw determined, and Eric Ward guessed Morcomb would be a man dangerous to cross, even at his advanced years. As he came forward there was a certain unsteadiness about his gait, but his grip was strong enough as he condescended to shake hands with his visitors. ‘A brandy for me, David,’ he said as he walked towards the windows, glanced briefly out across the meadows and then lowered himself into a leather armchair with his back to the light. ‘Sit down, gentlemen, sit down. I’ve taken the liberty to arrange for some sandwiches to be brought in later — don’t take lunch meself — dinner suits the digestion better, but we can carry on with our conversation as you refresh yourselves. Good of you to come all this way.’ His sharp glance fixed on Ward, weighing him up for a few moments. ‘Yes, good of you to come.’
The preliminaries were over. Joseph Francis cleared his throat. ‘My lord, I think it would be useful if we were all to refresh our minds about the litigation in question before we go too far. The previous Lord Morcomb, with whom you lived, died in 1970.’
‘That’s right.’
‘At which time you inherited the estate. The properties in question comprised the Hardford Estate, and those of Sedleigh, Chaston and Fengrove. These comprised, principally, farms and farm buildings, smallholdings, allotments, gardens, agricultural land, woodyards, residential properties—’
‘Sporting rights, ground rents, licensed houses, yes, yes,’ Lord Morcomb interrupted somewhat testily.
Joseph Francis, surprisingly in view of his earlier lack of ease, stood his ground. ‘Together with certain leases, of quarries and of collieries.’ He cleared his throat again. ‘On the death of your uncle in 1970 estate duty became payable, and it became a matter of dispute as to how a proper valuation of the estate might be achieved.’
‘Dispute is the right word for it,’ Lord Morcomb grumbled.
Joseph Francis nodded, then glanced at his son. ‘Perhaps you’d like to take it from there, Paul?’
Paul Francis opened his mouth then glanced across to Eric Ward. ‘It might be more useful if Eric . . .’
Aware of the glare Joseph Francis sent in his son’s direction, Eric nevertheless knew that he had to save Paul from his lack of work at the weekend. ‘As I understand it, Lord Morcomb, and in discussion with Paul, the Lands Tribunal were called upon to consider your appeal against the system of valuation used by the Inland Revenue Commissioners. They in fact upheld the principles used — namely, that the Hardford Estate should be used for the purposes of valuation. They agreed therefore, with the viewing of that estate as 480 separate units, and a valuation of £800,000.’ He checked his figures again, swiftly. ‘That meant your total estate holdings would produce a valuation of £3,176,650.’
There was a short silence in the room, as though Eric Ward had said something obscene. For himself, the enormity of the sum came home to him for the first time; for Lord Morcomb, he suspected, it was the size of the valuation against his contentions that kept him silent.
‘My valuation and that of my financial advisers,’ Lord Morcomb grated, ‘is more in the nature of two and a half million.’ He glared around him as though daring them dispute his figures. ‘And that’s where we’re stuck.’
‘Not quite,’ Joseph Francis said nervously. ‘We have the fact that the Court of Appeal have now rejected your submissions, upheld the Lands Tribunal and the Commissioners, and really the question is whether you’d be wise at all to press your claim further.’
The morning wore away as Joseph and Ward went over the figures, and the legal principles involved. Lord Morcomb showed his mind was sharp enough when contemplating his own stance, but when Eric attempted to point out the counter-arguments and the possible outcome, he seemed to resist any suggestion that the arguments would hold water.
David Penrose, surprisingly, stepped into the discussion as they paused for their sandwiches and coffee. ‘It seems to me, if you’ll forgive a lay interpretation of what’s going on, that the whole thing comes down to this. Lord Morcomb is arguing that it is unrealistic to split Hardford into 480 units and assume a sale of each of them at the same time.’
‘Damn right,’ Morcomb grunted. ‘Only purchaser would be an investor or a speculator.’
‘And he would have to pay a reduced price to safeguard himself against risks, delays and uncertainties in affecting re-sales. There’d also be the costs of such transactions. Accordingly, the sum of £800,000 should be reduced to take this into account.’
‘And then there’s the time of death,’ Morcomb interrupted. ‘Don’t forget the time of death.’
‘That’s right.’ Penrose agreed earnestly. ‘His lordship argues that it is also unreasonable to assume that the valuation should take place at time of death. Rather, it should be construed to mean a reasonable time after the death.’
‘And that would mean our figure of two and a half million is nearer the mark. Bloody commissioners!’ Lord Morcomb drained his glass and thumped it down on the table.
Ward was watching Penrose. The estate manager seemed to have a considerable grasp of the principles involved and it was obvious that Lord Morcomb used him as a confidant, trusting in his abilities. But there were problems in his summary, already dealt with by the Court of Appeal. When Joseph Francis, munching a sandwich, made no attempt to speak, Eric came in again.
‘The time of death thing is probably an ill-founded argument,’ he suggested. ‘In my view, and I’ve checked some of the authorities, it would go against the clear directions of section 7 of the Finance Act 1894.’
There was a short silence. A faint flush stained Penrose’s cheek. ‘You have the advantage of me, of course,’ he said. ‘I’m no lawyer.’
Morcomb stared coldly at Eric Ward. Joseph Francis, suddenly aware of the hostility that had crept into his client’s demeanour, hurried to say, ‘Well, it’s a bit early to give such advice, of course. We should take counsel’s opinion first on these issues, before we seriously deal with the matter of an appeal to the House of Lords. Counsel’s opinion—’
‘Don’t forget,’ Lord Morcomb remarked coldly, ‘there’s also the discrepancy, the marked discrepancy we would point to, between the sale price of one of the units in the Hardford Estate, achieved in 1955, and its valuation in 1971. If that individual valuation is too high, as we claim, it could affect the valuation of all the units, and that will bring down the total valuation as well. And my liability for the damned estate duty.’
There was a short silence. Joseph Francis cleared his throat. ‘I don’t think at this stage we need go into the details of your liability. Your accountants -’
‘Damn my accountants,’ Lord Morcomb snapped testily. ‘This is important. My predecessor was a man of property — land and shareholdings. And he had a certain view of life. The Morcomb estates had run down to virtually nothing: the title had little to support it. My uncle was a damned good businessman and he pulled together a hell of a lot of money, a hell of a lot of land. And though it was his — not attached to the Morcomb title — he wanted it to go together. He wanted to restore the dignity of the name. Do you understand that?’
‘Yes, my lord, of course, but—’
‘He left it to me in his will — to me, and the heirs of my body. And I have the same ideas as he did — even though in most things, during his lifetime, we did not see eye to eye. I want the Morcomb estates, as they’ve been restored, to stay as much as a unit as possible, within the family. But that can’t happen if half the damned money drifts away into the pockets of the Government!’
‘That’s an exaggeration, my l
ord—’
‘Francis, let me put it to you clearly,’ Lord Morcomb said heavily. ‘I’m short of ready cash. If I’m to meet heavy death duties I have a clear choice — either I sell part of the lands now held by me, or else I start to siphon off some of the shareholdings in the portfolio that my uncle got together. I’m reluctant to do either. Share prices are depressed, and as far as the land holdings are concerned I don’t want to lose them. I want them to go with my successor — my daughter, and the man she marries. But if we have to settle for the system the Commissioners suggest, damn it, it’ll take a big slice from the estate.’
Paul Francis was as lost now as he had been at any time during the last two hours. He attempted to make up some ground. ‘Er . . . I’m not clear, my lord — the 1955 sale you referred to, a unit of the Hardford Estate?’
‘The sale of Vixen Hill,’ Lord Morcomb said testily, ‘together with the manor house, to Colonel Denby.’
‘Colonel Denby?’
Eric Ward had repeated the words before he could control himself. The name had cropped up so unexpectedly; the Egan matter had been commanding his attention so persistently; now, hearing the name on Lord Morcomb’s lips he had been unable to remain silent. He regretted his words immediately. Lord Morcomb stared at him, frowning. After a little while, he asked, ‘You knew the colonel?’
Eric glanced at Joseph Francis but the senior partner was staring fixedly at his coffee cup. ‘We’re . . . no, I didn’t know Colonel Denby,’ Eric said lamely. ‘It’s merely we’re administering an estate . . . a man called Egan . . .’
Something had happened to the atmosphere in the room. Lord Morcomb’s eyes had flickered away from Ward’s, so he was no longer subjected to their cold glare. But there was an almost fluorescent pallor about the old man’s features suddenly, and his tight lips seemed to sag, momentarily. Ward was aware of the manner in which the veins stood out on the backs of Lord Morcomb’s thin hands, and he watched as the old man carefully wiped the palms of those hands, as though they were damp. There was a short silence, then Lord Morcomb raised his head.
