‘True.’
‘Does Oates hold any Ramsgill shares?’
‘Yes, damn him,’ said Hardaker with a sigh. ‘I shall have to buy him out and that’s going to cost a pretty penny. I wish I were misjudging him. He’s such a clever lad - really very capable, and as you said yourself, a good designer.’
‘Pity.’
‘Would you like to come over and have a look at him? Elizabeth may be wrong, you know.’
‘I might at that,’ said Morcar thoughtfully. He turned his shrewdest look on J. L. Hardaker. An honest, capable business man, not soft, not soft at all, in fact perhaps a trifle hard. What Jonathan would call lacking in imagination. It struck him - a horrid cynical blow -that Hardaker appeared to Morcar as Morcar appeared to Jonathan. It was just possible that Hardaker was being a trifle obtuse, a trifle elderly-prejudiced, about young Edward Oates. Was Morcar prepared to trust Hardaker’s judgement in a matter of character? I’d rather trust my own, he thought. He remembered Elizabeth Oates’ voice on the telephone. She may be a maungy piece, he reflected. How very convenient it would be if he could get Oates to Syke Mills without any merger! As for a man getting into disagreement with his wife, Morcar, divorced, had not the right to cavil at it. From these confused but relevant reflections, he came to a decision.
‘I might at that,’ he repeated. ‘But only if he doesn’t know what I’ve come for. Otherwise it’s useless.’
‘How could he possibly guess? I shan’t tell him, you may be sure.’
‘Have you mentioned anything at all about the merger to them?’
‘Harry,’ said Hardaker soberly. ‘I give you my word I haven’t said a word of a merger with Morcar’s to a living soul. It crossed my mind this morning, when Lucius and Edward Oates both seemed a bit uneasy, that they might have heard a word of it from your side—’
‘No!’
‘—so I told them I was coming over to see you this afternoon. Just to see their reaction, how they took it, as it were.’
‘Well?’
‘There wasn’t any. They showed complete indifference. Didn’t even ask me what I was coming to see you about. They dismissed it as just one of old grandfather’s—’
‘Ploys.’
‘That’s right.’
‘All right, I’ll come,’ said Morcar, who thought that Lucius Hardaker, Elizabeth’s brother, and Edward Oates her husband, partners in the same firm, might well appear a trifle uneasy over a resounding row between Elizabeth and Edward. ‘Tomorrow, eh? Because if it’s not to be a Ramsgill merger, it will have to be somebody else, you know. I want to get a good man settled here and working under me to learn my ways, as soon as possible.’
‘I understand. And I hope you’ll think better of Oates than I do. Come about half-past three and we’ll all have our cup of tea together.’
‘And no mention of a merger or anything of that kind, to a soul.’
‘You have my word,’ said old Hardaker stiffly.
Morcar escorted him to the steps. Halfway down he paused and turned.
‘Harry, I remember now I mentioned the word merger to my grand-daughter, but not your name in connexion with it.’
‘Tcha! She’ll tell her husband and he’ll put two and two together,’ said Morcar, vexed.
‘If I’m right about her relations with Oates, she won’t.’
‘And if you’re wrong and it’s just a married tiff, she will and it won’t matter,’ said Morcar with a grin. ‘Tomorrow at three-thirty, anyway.’
‘Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you.’
‘I won’t.’
Like most modern middle-aged households, the Stanney Royd establishment kept no resident help. They would gladly have done so, but nobody nowadays was willing to submit to the curtailment of liberty consequent on residence in an employer’s house, and for his part Morcar did not blame them. By employing two daily shifts they managed well enough and left Jennifer free for her cultural and sociological committees, but these non-resident helps changed often and their free nights changed with them. Of these Morcar had long lost count. He was therefore not surprised when, the house doorbell ringing while they were at their meal that evening, Jennifer signed to Jonathan, who had come home for the Christmas holidays that afternoon, to answer it. He came back looking serious.
‘It’s the police. A detective-inspector to see you. I’ve put him in the morning room.’
‘Jonathan, is this another CND—’ began Morcar, rising.
‘“Prank”?’ said Jonathan.
Morcar winced. Fancy the boy remembering Morcar’s careless word for three or four years.
‘No,’ continued Jonathan. It’s nothing to do with me, Uncle Harry. He wouldn’t tell me the purpose of his visit.’
Morcar with an impatient exclamation threw down his napkin and strode into the back room, which was generally known in the household as his den. Jonathan had not drawn the curtains, it was a clear night, through the windows the lights of the Ire Valley displayed their usual fine pattern of diamonds on black velvet, clusters on the lower slopes, long slender chains across the upper hills.
‘Detective-Inspector Watkins, Annotsfield CID.’ The fortyish man awaiting him presented his warrant card and gave his name. ‘Mr Henry Morcar?’
Morcar grunted assent. ‘Don’t tell me the mill gates have been left open?’
‘No. I’m afraid I have some bad news for you. Not about Syke Mills,’ added the man hastily.
‘Is it Nathan?’ asked Morcar in alarm.
‘No. It’s Mr John Luke Hardaker. I’m afraid he’s dead.’
‘Dead? Well, poor old chap. He was talking to me only this afternoon.’
‘Yes, that’s why I’m here, Mr Morcar. We understand from his grand-daughter that he left Ram’s Hey at three-fifty or so to come and see you at Syke Mills.’
That’s correct. He arrived about ten past four.’
‘And when did he leave?’
‘Four-thirty, or perhaps four-forty, four-forty-five. I don’t know exactly. The mill wasn’t out. We didn’t talk very long. Perhaps four-thirty-five,’ said Morcar, wondering what effect old Hardaker’s death would have on the proposed merger. Not be able to discuss it for long enough, he thought irritably. Hardaker was a warm man; his estate will be largish and probate will take forever. Lucius and Elizabeth will inherit. For practical purposes that means Lucius and Oates. Will young men want a merger with me in the chair? Oates will have Elizabeth’s shares under his control now, he won’t want to leave Ramsgill. Tiresome. ‘Why does the time matter?’ he said.
‘Mr Hardaker apparently met with a fatal accident on his way home.’
‘Good God!’
‘His car turned over and burned out in the rough ground beside the upper stretch of Scape Scar Lane.’ Morcar’s eyes turned towards the distant hill where the very faint lights of this narrow roadway could be seen coming over the ridge in sharp descent. ‘The flames were seen by a passing lorry-driver and reported to us by phone about four-fifty.’
‘The time fits. Well, I’m very sorry,’ said Morcar soberly. ‘Sit down a minute, officer. This has staggered me a bit. How did it happen, I wonder?’
‘That’s what we are wondering too.’
‘He must have missed his gear change at the top of the Lane,’ said Morcar. ‘It’s a steep turn there into the main road. You can see for yourself. Or - wait a minute - he might even have gone into reverse gear by accident. Some of the gears in these modern cars are very close together; it’s easy to get into the wrong one.’
‘Mr Hardaker’s was a very good car, sir,’ said the detective, naming its make.
‘True. But Mr Hardaker’s an old man and he’s been very ill. The shock would kill him before the fire started, that’s one thing to be thankful for. All the same, I wish I’d never mentioned Scape Scar Lane to him.’
‘You mentioned that route to Mr Hardaker? May I ask when?’
‘Oh, it’ll be several weeks ago now, when I went to see him while he
was in bed.’
‘Then anyone might have known he would travel by that route?’
‘Anyone could have known in any case,’ said Morcar crossly. ‘The re-surfacing of Scape Scar Lane has been a good deal talked about, and discussed in the press, both before and since it was done. It’s shortened the route between Ramsgill and Iredale, tremendously.’
‘Yes, that is so. Mr Hardaker’s body was thrown clear of his car, and sustained multiple injuries.’
‘I’m very sorry, very sorry indeed. What a way to end! Still, perhaps it’s better than lingering a long time with heart trouble. But no, it isn’t,’ said Morcar stoutly. ‘Everyone wants to live as long as he can.’
‘You and Mr Hardaker had a business conference, I suppose.’
‘Yes.’
‘I wonder - would you mind telling me its purport?’
‘Yes, I should mind very much. It’s important to me that it shouldn’t be publicly known.’ There was a pause.
‘Mr Morcar,’ said the detective at last, ‘I hope you will treat what I have to say in complete confidence.’
‘Of course.’
‘The fact is, there’s some suspicion of foul play about Mr Hardaker’s death.’
‘What? Foul play? What do you mean?’ cried Morcar, horrified.
‘The injuries aren’t compatible—’
‘Oh, come, Inspector, you know how rocky that rough patch of ground is.’
‘Yes. But it’s not just that. The lorry driver thought he saw another car turning out of the lane a moment after Mr Hardaker’s car burst into flames. And besides - this is extremely confidential—’
‘Go on, man!’
‘A spanner and a jack lever, both blood stained, have been discovered in the boot of the car of Mr Hardaker’s granddaughter, Mrs Elizabeth Oates.’
‘You’re not suspecting her, for heaven’s sake?’
‘No. It seems that her husband was driving her car about the time of Mr Hardaker’s crash - with her brother Lucius Hardaker. After returning to Ramsgill Mills, Mr Oates then drove the car home to Ram’s Hey. Mrs Oates then put a suitcase into the boot of the car and drove to her grandfather’s house. The suitcase when taken out was found to be bloodstained. To find the cause of the stains, naturally the boot was investigated, and the two weapons were drawn out. They were heavily bloodstained. There was hair too,’ added the detective.
‘Horrible!’ said Morcar, feeling sick. ‘And did Mrs Oates inform you of all this?’
‘No, it was her mother, sir.’
‘A silly, fluttery woman.’
‘Mrs Hardaker is apt, we have observed, to be a little emotional at times. But on this occasion all her statements proved accurate. The weapons are being tested for fingerprints. We are looking, of course,’ continued the detective after a pause, ‘for a motive.’
‘Well, I can’t help you.’
‘But perhaps you can, Mr Morcar. Perhaps your talk with Mr Hardaker that afternoon might throw some light.’
‘I don’t see how it can, because neither Mr Hardaker’s grandson nor Edward Oates knew its subject.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Mr Hardaker gave me his assurance that he had not told them. However,’ said Morcar, swinging his foot irritably, ‘I can see I shall have to tell you.’
‘If you please, Mr Morcar.’
‘We were discussing a proposed merger between our two firms. Mr Hardaker had more or less decided against it, but we were to have further discussions.’
‘Did Mr Hardaker say anything about the terms he was on with his grandson and Edward Oates?’
‘Well,’ began Morcar, sighing heavily - ‘I don’t see the use of this, Inspector. Hearsay is not evidence.’
‘No, but it might give us a line to work on.’
‘Mr Hardaker told me that his grand-daughter Elizabeth had fallen out with her husband.’
‘Edward Oates?’
‘Yes.’
‘Ah! I may say that Mrs Oates’ mother told us the same. And this might affect Oates’ future at Ramsgill.’
‘Possibly. I thought it was just a young couple’s tiff, myself. But if it was serious for Oates, that wouldn’t account for Lucius Hardaker’s attacking his grandfather, would it?’
‘There were two bloodstained weapons.’
‘Well, you’ll have to get a firm of accountants in and investigate the Ramsgill finances,’ exploded Morcar impatiently. ‘Embezzlement’s the only answer, if this foul play story is true at all. I can’t believe it, myself.’
‘It’s true, Mr Morcar,’ said the Inspector quietly. ‘It’s murder all right. I may say that we’ve already had the idea about the finances. I’m much obliged to you for your information.’
He took his leave, after arranging that Morcar should make a signed statement about the timing and purpose of Hardaker’s visit to Syke Mills, at the Annotsfield Police Station, on the morrow.
Morcar returned to the cold room and sat on there, needing solitude in which to absorb the shock and arrange his thoughts. He felt wretched. Although he recognized that he was legally and even morally quite free from blame in J. L. Hardaker’s death, he recognized also that his merger plan which had brought Hardaker to Syke Mills, had at least taken the old man to Scape Scar Lane, where his murderers had had the chance to reach him. Even if the police were mistaken and the car crash was an accident, still Morcar’s merger plan had taken Hardaker to Scape Scar Lane. Again, he had not told the Inspector about Hardaker’s distrust of Edward Oates, and no doubt this was wrong; on the other hand, much as he now agreed with Hardaker’s distrust of Oates, somehow he could not bring himself to hammer nails into Oates’ coffin. His plan for a merger would leak out now, and the whole West Riding would wonder what Harry Morcar was up to. He shuddered to think what he had escaped. Suppose he had taken that scoundrel Edward Oates into Syke Mills! Landed Jonathan with him! No more mergers for him! And if no more mergers, what other solution could he find? Of course old Hardaker’s death wasn’t really Jonathan’s fault either, but still… Yes, he felt wretched.
7. Achievement
‘Would you like a confirmatory copy?’ shrilled the telephone.
‘Yes, please. When will it arrive?’ asked Jonathan eagerly.
‘Tomorrow morning.’
‘Mummy! Mummy!’ shouted Jonathan, racing towards the stairs and falling into this childhood’s mode of address in his excitement.
‘What is it? What is the matter?’ cried Jennifer, coming quickly out of old Mrs Morcar’s room with a look of alarm.
‘I’ve got a telegram.’
‘A telegram?’ said Jennifer. She turned pale. (A telegram had brought the news of David’s death, all those years ago.)
‘Yes. I’ve got a place, I’ve got a place. A telegram from Merton. I’m offered a place, I’ve got a place. In fact, I’ve got a Postmastership.’
‘Oh, how splendid, Jonathan, how splendid! I’m so delighted,’ cried Jennifer.
Colour flooded her face, she ran downstairs, seized her son in a loving hug, and kissed him.
‘It’s good, isn’t it?’ said Jonathan, excited out of his customary reserve. ‘It’s more than a place, it’s more than an exhibition even, it’s a Postmastership! I hardly hoped for that. It doesn’t make any financial difference nowadays, of course, but it’s a Postmastership. The confirmatory copy will come tomorrow morning. I wish it were here now,’ he added wistfully.
All his noble dreams for the future, his ardent respect for the work of the scholar, his vision of a university as a place of light, liberty, and learning, glowed in his face.
‘Come and tell Mrs Morcar,’ urged Jennifer. Jonathan bounded up the stairs. ‘Here’s a postmaster of Merton come to see you, Mrs Morcar.’
‘My dear boy! Congratulations!’ said Mrs Morcar, stretching out her arms.
The two women made much of him. But Jonathan felt restless; he wanted to be out in the open air, where he could express his excitement in swift steps, he
wanted to be alone, where he could triumph in his success, gloat over it, without showing himself conceited or unmannerly.
‘I think I’ll walk down to Syke Mills and tell Uncle Harry,’ he said
‘Do, dear,’ agreed Jennifer.
Jonathan went off down the Ire Valley at a cracking pace, and burst into Syke Mills bright-cheeked and happy. Miss Mellor followed him into the inner office with Morcar’s morning coffee.
Morcar had just returned from making his statement to the police. On his desk lay the north-country newspapers, large headlines proclaiming DEATH OF A HUDLEY MANUFACTURER AND FATAL ACCIDENT TO MR J. L. HARDAKER, while smaller print made the ominous announcement that two men had been at the Annotsfield Police Station all night, ‘helping the police Morcar looked cross, sallow, and even a little untidy; he had caught cold the night before, sitting in his den without a fire, and felt uneasy in the grip of its incubation.
‘I’ ve got a scholarship to Merton, Uncle Harry!’ cried Jonathan, suiting his word to Morcar’s inexperience.
‘Good. I congratulate you,’ said Morcar drily. ‘Have a cup of coffee, eh?’
‘No, thanks,’ said Jonathan, to whom anything so mundane as coffee seemed vulgar sacrilege upon this moment of glory. ,.
‘Well. Your mother pleased?’ said Morcar.
‘Yes, very.’
At this moment Nathan came in, his ingenuous brow wrinkled with worry, as usual, a letter with a small cutting of cloth pinned to it in his hand.
‘Well, I won’t interrupt your work, Uncle Harry,’ said Jonathan hastily. ‘I just thought you’d like to know.’
‘Yes. Thank you. Congratulations again,’ said Morcar, turning to Nathan.
Jonathan rushed out. The cold wintry air seemed marvellously fresh and bracing after the atmosphere of the Syke Mills office and the slight wet-woolly smell which in Jonathan’s opinion always haunted textile establishments.
Really, it’s a bit too bad, thought Jonathan. He doesn’t care a button. Here I’ve achieved the great ambition of my life, and he doesn’t say a word. Well, he did utter congratulations twice, as a matter of fact, admitted Jonathan, who prided himself on a scholar’s truthfulness and accuracy. But in what a tone! His old bits of cloth are far more to him than my entrance to Oxford. Oxford! thought Jonathan, and winged away again into his radiant dream world.
A Man of His Time Page 6
