by Roy Lewis
There was a short silence, then David Penrose let out his breath in a long sigh. ‘So this is the end of the line, on the appeals.’
‘That is the recommendation of counsel,’ Eric agreed. ‘And would you go along with the recommendation?’ Anne Morcomb asked sharply.
Eric glanced at Joseph Francis; with a sight inclination of his head the senior partner directed him to answer. ‘Let’s put it like this. No one’s infallible. The Inland Revenue Commissioners employ sound lawyers. We’ve now asked the opinion of a leading barrister — and he gives you the same story as the Commissioners are saying. That doesn’t prevent you going to the House of Lords on appeal. But it’s going to cost money — and it’s likely to fail. My . . . our advice would be, accept this opinion. Give up the fight.’
‘My father . . .’
Her words died away as David Penrose caught her glance. ‘We ought to be realistic,’ he said quietly, and she nodded, after a brief hesitation, capitulating.
They sat there for a little while silently, waiting for Anne Morcomb to speak. At last, quietly, she said, ‘My father has given me full authority to make decisions this afternoon which he will regard as binding. There will, of course, be opportunity later for proper documents to be signed by Lord Morcomb, but for the time being we need to decide what action must be taken. You will all be aware that it is not so much the different valuation that was of importance — though it was significant enough. There was also the question of delay. It will not be easy, in the short term, to raise sufficient money to pay the death duties falling on the estate. We now need to decide, therefore, how the money is to be raised, since the moment we step back from our decision to pursue the issues to the House of Lords we effectively concede the point to the Inland Revenue Commissioners and thus become liable for the payments.’
Henried cleared his throat. ‘I think I should come in here. I won’t go into details, though the facts are in these portfolios here. The situation, simply, is this. To meet the liabilities for death duties you must either sell a considerable part of your land holdings, or else you must relinquish a large part of your shareholdings.’
‘And what would your advice be in that respect, Mr Henried?’
‘The portfolio developed by the late Lord Morcomb was a peculiar one. It contained very few company holdings, in fact — and these were somewhat speculative, to say the least. The present state of the market shows these holdings to be at a low ebb; a significant sale of the shares would also produce a fall in prices. I would not be happy, therefore, to sell in a falling market. I would press consideration of the other alternative.’
‘The sale of land,’ David Penrose said. ‘I don’t think that’s on.’
Henried fluttered his hands in concern. ‘I fail to see—’
‘The basic problem outlined in Lord Morcomb’s arguments with the Commissioners applies,’ Penrose said sharply. ‘We couldn’t find a buyer to pick up large slices of our land here — not otherwise than at giveaway prices. The estate would lose a considerable portion of its holdings — and in my view, land is something you need to hold on to. It’s always there — not like shareholdings which can rise in value, or fall, overnight.’
Eric Ward was surprised at the vehemence in his tone, but Penrose hadn’t finished.
‘Apart from that, there’s only one buyer at the moment who would be interested in picking up large sections of Morcomb land. And even if we had time — which we don’t — that buyer might still come in heavy and get what is desired.’
‘Mr Penrose is referring to a company called Carlton Engineering,’ Anne Morcomb explained. ‘I have discussed the matter with him at considerable length and I agree with his views. We have certain responsibilities in this area of the county, responsibilities which would not be discharged if we allowed a company like this one to come in and scar the landscape, change the life of the inhabitants—’
‘I can’t quite agree,’ Henried murmured. ‘They would also produce work — that is, if they ever did what they say they want to do. I have some doubts indeed whether they are truly interested at all in the Morcomb estates. My contacts in the City suggest—’
‘I wonder what our legal brothers feel about it?’ Penrose interrupted harshly.
Once again, Joseph Francis gave Eric his baptism of fire. He raised an eyebrow, leaving the field to Eric, who cleared his throat nervously. ‘I’ve looked at the holdings. There are complications. Some of the land-holdings could not be sold without some difficulty. The proceeds could not be used to clear death duties because the estates are entailed, to Lord Morcomb and the heirs of his body. The rest would be the land in which Carlton Engineering would seem to be interested. On balance, therefore, it seems to me dispersal of some of the shareholdings would be best.’
‘And in particular,’ Penrose said quickly, ‘the holdings in Amalgamated Newfoundland Properties. They’re never going to be at a better price, and they would in no way unbalance what is a pretty unbalanced portfolio anyway.’
Eric Ward stared at him in some surprise. David Penrose seemed particularly well versed in the holdings of the Morcomb estate, for a mere estate manager. Then he caught Anne Morcomb’s glance fixed on David Penrose, and realized that Penrose was more than just an estate manager. He had the confidence, and perhaps more, of Anne Morcomb.
The afternoon wore on as Henried expounded on the detailed holdings of the estate. Strictly speaking, it was not within the brief held by Francis, Shaw and Elder, but since they would be called upon to carry out the legal procedures consequent upon the decisions taken, the senior partner and the articled clerk stayed on. When tea was served, however, Joseph Francis drew Eric to one side, congratulated him briefly on his summary of counsel’s opinion and then suggested that while he might conveniently withdraw at this stage, it would be useful if Eric could stay on to the end of the meeting.
Eric agreed, Joseph made his apologies and left, and the meeting went on, after a short period when Anne left the room, presumably to see the doctor who had been expected at four. At six o’clock the decisions were finally taken. Henried would, as soon as possible, put the shareholding of Amalgamated Newfoundland Properties on the market, and Francis, Shaw and Elder would undertake the necessary legal procedures to sell the shares transfer the certificates, and then negotiate with the Inland Revenue for the payment of death duties, after complete valuation on the basis of the principles applied already. Henried said goodbye and left; David Penrose stood up, stretched and walked over to Anne.
‘I’m sure we’ve done the right thing,’ he said, and that he was convinced was obvious from the note of exultation in his voice. ‘But my head’s splitting now — I need some fresh air. I’ll see you this evening?’
She nodded. ‘You’re expected at dinner. Michael’s coming over too.’
David Penrose pressed her hand and over his shoulder her glance met Eric Ward’s. Penrose nodded toward him and then left the library, walking quickly. Anne Morcomb moved towards Eric as he stood gathering up his papers.
‘So that’s all settled, then.’
He nodded. ‘I think it’s probably the right decision provided you had all the facts at your disposal.’
‘What do you mean?’
Ward shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Henried wasn’t too happy. And he seemed to have some doubts about the Carlton intentions.’
She smiled. ‘Mr Henried is concerned only with money; I have other responsibilities. I talked to you about them. This, I think, is the best way to discharge them . . . However, I’ve seen the doctor, Eric.’
‘Yes?’
‘He doesn’t think it would be a good idea if Daddy saw anyone tonight. Mornings are his best time. He’s sleeping now . . . You haven’t told me why you want to see him.’
‘No.’
‘It’s about Arthur Egan, and Vixen Hill, isn’t it?’
He looked at her, wanting to say no more but knowing that he had to do so. He knew he could walk away right now, not see the old man
upstairs, and perhaps it was the wisest thing to do, but he had started this thing, it had become an obsession with him, and now he wanted to know the truth. He was almost there; he wanted merely confirmation of the fact that Arthur Egan had been sent to prison for a crime he did not commit and then, perhaps, it would be over. Slowly he nodded. ‘A few questions, that’s all. And then . . .’
‘In the morning, then,’ she said softly. ‘After all, it was I who told you to finish the thing, wasn’t it?’
‘I’ll call around eleven—’
‘No.’ She hesitated, half turned away from him so that he could not see her eyes. ‘It’s been a long day and I’ve been watching you. You’re tired. It would be far more sensible — rather than have you drive away and back again in the morning — if you stayed here tonight. It would be no problem.’
‘I can hardly do that. I—’
‘Michael Denby is coming to dinner this evening. He could, in other circumstances, have chosen a better time, but he’d heard Daddy was ill. He and David will be there, with me. I’d be happy if you could join us.’
She looked at him again, then, and he knew there was more to this than mere kindness on her part. There was something she wanted to know, and this would be her way of finding out.
* * *
Dinner turned out to be a more stilted affair than Eric had expected. Anne Morcomb seemed preoccupied and though David Penrose introduced an air of gaiety, seemingly at the top of his form, she made little response, and Michael Denby, whose eyes had expressed surprise at Eric’s presence, also seemed rather morose. Dinner was also interrupted by a phone call from Jackie Parton, which Eric took in the library.
‘Eric? Really slumming these days, aren’t you!
‘It’s the middle of dinner, Jackie.’
‘Sorry, I’m sure. All right, I’ll be quick. First of all, Tommy Andrews. I think we’re really going to draw a blank there.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I’ve now had information that he was killed in a brawl in Buenos Aires, maybe ten years ago. Can’t be certain, of course, but this feller is prepared to swear . . . So it looks like there’ll be no heirs of Arthur Egan to track down. One thing is certain — this French feller — he’s not Tommy Andrews, as I had a kind of suspicion he might be.’
‘Who is he, then?’
‘He works for Carlton Engineering.’
‘Carlton Engineering?’ Eric was puzzled. ‘What was he doing at Warkworth, then, and Vixen Hill?’
‘Can’t answer, old son. But . . . get back to your dinner, hey? All I can say is, that black Ford is registered with the firm I mentioned.’
When he put the phone down Eric stood in the library for a few minutes, puzzled. Carlton Engineering. Where did they fit into all this? Michael Denby was concerned that the company might be interested in Vixen Hill, slicing his farm in two. But there was something else as well . . . a rumour that Joseph Francis had heard.
Somehow, it disturbed him; it had some reference to decisions that had been taken today. Something, somewhere didn’t quite fit.
His head was beginning to ache. He returned to the dining-room and listened to the desultory conversation, tried to take part in it but all the while the half-understood questions whirled around inside his head. He was missing a key — and at a time when he had other, more important issues on his mind, such as the projected interview with Lord Morcomb. Suddenly, he felt he wanted an end to it all; he wished he had agreed not to stay. He wished he had not gone out to Hartburn; he wished he had not decided to confront Lord Morcomb with old, buried, halfforgotten lies.
He realized Michael Denby was speaking to him. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘I asked you how things were going with your Egan administration thing.’ Michael Denby’s moroseness might have been a reflection of his feelings at the illness of his landlord, Lord Morcomb; it might have been the result of something else. Right now, however, he seemed to have taken a little too much wine, for his glance was blurred, his tone a little unsteady, hovering on the belligerent. ‘You won’t know about Egan, David. He murdered my father, you see, and now he’s dead and Eric is still trying to find out things about him, but exactly what I’m no longer certain. But how is it going, Eric, how is it going?’
Eric Ward averted his eyes. ‘It’s about finished,’ he said aware of the constricting band that seemed to be encircling his forehead.
‘Closing the file? Well, what’s happened? What have you found out?’
‘I don’t think—’
‘Lawyers are always so close-mouthed,’ Denby sneered. ‘This is discreet company.’ He grimaced towards Anne. ‘We can be trusted to keep quiet, can’t we?’
David Penrose leaned forward, his dark eyes concerned. In a soothing tone, he said, ‘Mike, I really don’t think this is the time—’
Michael Denby glared at him. ‘What the hell do you know about it? Egan murdered my father. For years I’ve wondered about the man who killed him, what kind of bastard he was, and now I think I have every right to know just what Eric has been uncovering about him!’
‘One of the things he’s uncovered,’ Anne said quickly, to Eric’s dismay, ‘is that Egan probably didn’t kill your father after all!’
There was a silence, and Michael Denby’s flushed face turned first to Anne, then to Eric Ward. He found some difficulty getting the words out. ‘Egan? But of course he killed the colonel. Damn it, he did seven years for it!’
‘We think—’ Eric caught the swift glance that David Penrose shot towards her as she used the word ‘we’ ‘that it wasn’t Egan at all. He had a half-brother of whom he was fond. It was that man who killed your father, and Egan covered up for him.’
‘To the extent of going to prison? That’s a bit far-fetched!’
‘He had other reasons too,’ Eric said.
‘Such as?’ Denby challenged.
Eric made no reply. He wanted an end to this conversation. His head was aching still, and he felt shivery, slightly nauseous. ‘No matter,’ he said shortly. ‘Let’s leave it that he was prepared to serve a term of imprisonment rather than shop his younger half-brother. It doesn’t matter anyway—’
‘Doesn’t matter?’ Denby looked around the table in mock helplessness. ‘I never went a bundle on my father, but I always had more than a little bit of hate in me for Arthur Egan! Now you say I should have been concentrating on someone else, and it doesn’t matter? You’re no great psychologist, Eric, believe me! What you’ve said only whets my appetite. What the hell have you found out?’
Anne was looking at him, half expectantly, half sympathetically. To help him, she turned to Michael Denby placatingly. ‘The fact is, it seems he was prepared to do this to save his half-brother, and it suited the police also — they planted certain evidence that helped convict him—’
‘Anne, you can’t believe that,’ Denby protested, ‘It’s getting even more ludicrous than ever! You mean there was a conspiracy to put Egan inside, and he went along with it? I’ve not heard anything so ridiculous in my life, and if—’
‘That’s precisely what happened,’ Eric Ward snapped The sickness was rising in his stomach, and his eyes were beginning to burn, ‘And that’s one of the reasons why I want to see Lord Morcomb!’
Anne’s head turned; she was staring at him. David Penrose leaned forward. ‘What’s Lord Morcomb got to do with it?’
The cat was beginning to sharpen her claws; the first stabs of almost delicious agony were beginning to touch the back of his eyeballs, He heard Michael Denby say something, but he could not make out the words. He rose sharply, apologizing when his chair went over backwards and then he was hurrying from the room as the unsheathed claws ripped at him in that old, familiar, horrifying way. He stumbled up to his room, closed the door behind him, took out the fluid and applied it, his hands shaking, then lay back on his bed, waiting for the sickness and the nausea and the pain to pass.
It did not; it receded, but he felt the claws were still there, w
aiting, and then he must have fallen asleep for when the light knocking woke him he glanced at his watch, and saw that some two hours had passed, He rose, went to the door, and opened it.
It was Anne Morcomb.
‘Are you all right?’
He nodded. ‘I’m sorry. I upset your dinner-party.’
‘It was hardly a cheerful one to begin with. It . . . it was an attack?’
‘Yes. A bad one. I’m sorry.’
‘No. You’ve no reason to apologize.’ She moved closer, her face in shadow for he had not turned on his bedroom light. ‘What . . . what was it you meant about Daddy?’
‘I didn’t mean—’ He shook his head. Words were difficult to come by; they were dangerous. He was still thick-headed, not controlling his speech.
‘Is that why you wanted to see him in the morning? Does he have some connection with Egan, and Vixen Hill? What’s it all about, Eric?’
He shook his head stubbornly. He had to see Lord Morcomb first, to clear his suspicions. He felt her take his hands.
‘Was Daddy behind Egan’s being sent to prison? I must know—’
‘I don’t know that, Anne,’ he said, wanting desperately to relieve her distress. ‘I’m confused myself, particularly now. I don’t know the real connections between Egan and your father, any more than I know why Sarah Boden was killed, but I have suspicions, guesses about some of it that only your father can explain.’
Her hands fell away from his. There was a short silence.
Then he heard the horror in her voice. ‘You said Sarah was killed.’
He almost groaned aloud. He was in no condition to be cross-questioned. ‘Please,’ he said. ‘In the morning, after I’ve seen your father. Then we can talk.’
After a while she touched his hands again. ‘All right,’ she said softly. ‘Michael is just going; David will go soon. You get some sleep now, and we’ll talk again. In the morning.’
