‘A policeman called here the other day. A Detective Inspector Jackson from Warwick. He wanted to know—’
‘You didn’t tell him anything, did you?’ Bella Carteret’s face had suddenly drained of colour, and her voice was uncharacteristically sharp. Her husband put a reassuring hand over hers.
‘Tell him anything, my dear? How could I tell him anything, when there’s nothing to tell? He said he was looking for – for an old clergyman, who may or may not have been living around these parts. He’d met him in the churchyard, apparently. He mentioned a name, but I’ve forgotten what it was. I suggested that he have a word with John Bold. Maybe he did, but I don’t know.’
‘What kind of a man was he, this Jackson?’
‘He was a stout, round-faced fellow in a heavy brown serge suit, a brown blocker to match, and stout boots. He looked completely out of his class in this parlour. I thought he was a foolish kind of man. Stolid, you know, and not very bright. But I may be wrong. He wasn’t here long, and he left the village that afternoon.’
‘Yes, Leo,’ said his wife, thoughtfully, ‘you may be wrong. We’ll have to wait and see. But everything went well in Town, so I think you and I can relax.’
Sir Leopold leaned forward and put his lips close to his wife’s ear.
‘The old fool had wandered off yet again,’ he whispered. ‘Gave Lucas the slip. But we soon got him back.’
‘Yes, well, very soon indeed we’ll see a solution to the problem of our wanderer. But if it’s to be a regular habit, we shall have to take positive steps to see that his wandering days are over. If not Doctor Morrison, then Doctor Zhdanov. You know what I mean.’
‘Good God, Bella, he’s your own brother! Surely you wouldn’t—’
Lady Carteret smiled, and sat back in her chair.
‘Hush, dear,’ she said. ‘Here’s tea coming in. You can read your paper now without further interruption. Don’t worry: now that I’ve seen Doctor Morrison, the long journey away from us has just about concluded.’
8
Mr Brahms Remembers
Inspector Jackson turned out of St Paul’s Churchyard and into Ave Maria Lane, walked up the white steps of a staid old house, and rang the bell. After a whole minute had passed, the door was opened by an old man in rusty black, who told Jackson that he was expected, and ushered him into the musty premises of Louis Brahms and Partners, Attorneys at Law. The old man led him into a dim room at the front of the house, and motioned towards another old man sitting behind a desk.
‘Detective Inspector Jackson is here, Mr Brahms,’ he said, in a little reedy voice, and then left the room, quietly closing the door behind him. Mr Brahms was old, but contrived to look comfortably middle aged. His hair, Jackson saw, was skilfully dyed, and his tailor knew how to flatter his aged body. When he spoke, his voice was disconcertingly loud and assertive.
‘So you are Inspector Jackson, of the Warwickshire Constabulary,’ he said, glancing at a letter that he held. ‘I must confess that I’ve never met a provincial police officer before. You don’t look like a policeman, if I may say so. I should have thought that you were a claims adjuster – something of that sort. Sit down. How did you hear about me?’
‘Well, sir, during the course of an investigation I learnt of the existence of the Forshaw family. A Mr Hardacre, the landlord of an inn at Upton Carteret in Warwickshire, told me that the Forshaws had made their fortune from building ships for the Royal Navy in the great days of sail. Telegraphic enquiries to the Admiralty confirmed this. No one there knew anything of the family, who had ceased to be offered naval tenders when steam ships had come in, but they did know that all documents concerning their contracts with the Forshaws were dealt with by your very old-established and distinguished legal practice, Mr Brahms—’
‘“Very old established” – yes, that’s true enough. We’ve plied our trade here in the shadow of St Paul’s Cathedral for the past hundred and fifty years. Don’t know about “distinguished”, though. What exactly is it that you want to know about the Forshaws, Inspector? They have long gone, you know. Do you want a history of the whole family?’
Mr Brahms turned in his chair and began to remove an intimidating leather-bound tome from a shelf behind him. When Jackson demurred, he pushed it back again with an expression of evident relief.
‘No, sir,’ said Jackson, ‘it suffices for me to know that they were naval ship-builders, and that they had amassed a great fortune. I want to know about a young man called Gabriel Forshaw, who died on 7 August, 1864, aged twenty-four years.’
Mr Brahms removed the gold-framed spectacles that he had been wearing, and sat back in his chair. He had a heavily jowled face, and pale, watery-blue eyes. Jackson judged that he was well over eighty. He rested his cheek on his hand, and stared into space for a while before replying.
‘I knew them all, you know, all the Forshaws who were alive in the fifties and sixties. They were thriving, and so was I – I was in the prime of life, then. I can see them all now, in my mind’s eye, as though they were still alive….’
He motioned towards an array of papers that he had spread out on his desk.
‘And there they are now, Mr Jackson, a labyrinth of names and dates written on reams and reams of paper. They’re all history. All dead.’
The old solicitor picked up one of the sheets of paper, stared at it for a while, and then put it down again on the desk. He saw that Jackson was looking at a tear-off calendar standing behind an array of inkwells. It was a day behind, and with a little flurry of impatience he ripped off the offending page. It now read Friday, 24 August.
‘We’ll start, Inspector,’ he said, ‘with Edward Forshaw. He was the head of the firm, which had extensive yards at Sheerness. He was born in 1799, and married a lady called Laura Blythe, one of the Blythes of Forest Acre, in Suffolk, though her branch of that family had long been established in Leatherhead. She was a charming woman, much admired for her taste in clothing. They were very wealthy, you know, but by the late forties, the navy needed ships of a different mettle. That’s when the firm – John Forshaw & Son – began to retrench.’
‘They failed to keep up with the demands of the time?’
‘No, Inspector, not quite that. Edward decided that the Forshaws were rich enough to live like gentry, and he made that conscious decision to wind the company down. All the hands were paid off and given a gratuity. And that was the end of John Forshaw & Son, shipbuilders, established 1735, and closed down 1850. Why do you want to know all this?’
‘Well, sir,’ said Jackson, ‘I’d like to say first how delighted I am that you’re taking all this time to assist me. As for why I’m asking you these questions, I think one or other of the Forshaws may have been on the periphery of an old murder that I’m investigating. I can say no more than that at this juncture—’
‘No, of course you can’t, that is quite understood. A murder, hey? Well, well….’
At that moment the clock in St Paul’s chimed eleven o’clock. The door opened, and the other old man – Mr Brahms’s clerk? – came into the room carrying a tray on which sat two cups of coffee and a plate of Bath Oliver biscuits.
‘Thank you, Steggles. Now, Jackson, let us refresh ourselves, and then I’ll tell you some more about the Forshaw family of Upton Carteret and Sheerness. You’ll never remember one half of what I tell you, because the family relationships of the Forshaws are a convoluted business. In 1853 Edward Forshaw, who was then living in retirement at his ancestral home, Waterloo House, in Upton Carteret, was found to have advanced consumption of the lungs. It was a particularly virulent strain of tuberculosis, and he died at his house on 15 October. He was fifty-three.’
‘I suppose Mr Edward Forshaw had made a will?’
‘Oh, yes, indeed. There were a lot of legal complexities to iron out, and his will was eventually proved in March, 1854. He left a vast fortune, some three quarters of a million pounds. There were a few bequests to relatives, and to a marine charity, amounting to five t
housand in all. The residue went to his wife Laura absolutely. She was a very rich widow, Mr Jackson. Very wealthy indeed.’
‘What did she do after her husband died?’
‘She left a housekeeper to maintain Waterloo House, and went to live in her native town of Leatherhead, in Surrey. She outlived her husband by eight years, and died at Leatherhead, aged fifty-eight, in 1861. They had no children, so that branch of the Forshaw family came to an end.’
‘But there were other branches?’
‘Branch. Edward had a younger brother, Henry, and when Laura died, the family fortune passed to Henry Forshaw. The legacy was passing from party to party, from son to son, from relict to relict, and there was a danger of lateral claimants trying to get their hands on at least part of the fortune. It happens, you know, and can lead to ruinous litigation. Yes. What was I telling you?’
‘About the fortune passing to a man called Henry Forshaw.’
‘Yes, that’s right. He was a cheerful, sanguine sort of fellow, and I liked him very much. He had set himself up as a marine broker in a small way, but when he inherited, he gave that up, and set about enjoying the life of an independent gentleman. You can do that, you know, with that sort of money. It was I who warned him about family hangers-on, and advised him to let me draw up a Deed of Release— you know what that is, don’t you?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Well, it’s a document that must be produced whenever someone new inherits an estate. It is a legal confirmation that the estate belongs wholly to the inheritor, and cannot be disputed. There are two types of deed, open and closed— But never mind the legal complexities!’
The old man chuckled, but then suddenly assumed a solemn look, as though he had committed an impropriety.
‘And then, in January,1862, at the age of fifty-two, Henry Forshaw was killed in a railway accident. It was a terrible blow to his family – did I mention that he had a family? He had married a lady called Cecily Bancroft who, I believe, had been a schoolmistress. They had one child, a son, Gabriel, who was born in 1841. I’m not remembering all this, Jackson, without an aidememoire: it’s all written here, in these papers on my desk.’
‘It’s very interesting, Mr Brahms,’ said Jackson. ‘You’re giving life to what could have been a mere list of names. And now you have placed Gabriel Forshaw in his context, if that’s the right word. I believe he went out to Africa, and perished there?’
‘He did. He was a very personable young man, who had been educated at Rugby School. He excelled at sports of all kinds and, at the time when he inherited his father’s fortune – he was twenty-one – he had signed an engagement with the Oxford and Buckinghamshire Light Infantry to serve with them for five years. He was a determined young man, and saw no reason to alter his decision to take up soldiering. So his fortune was put in trust here, with us, until he returned.’
‘And did he sign the Deed of Release? I assume that’s what he would have done.’
‘Indeed, yes. He signed it here, so that all was fair and square, and took it away with him. He was young, you see, and thought that it would be as well if he looked after the deed himself. As he was going out to Africa, I didn’t try to dissuade him.’
‘And so he went to Africa?’
‘Yes, he did. As a matter of fact, I went down to Upton Carteret to see him off. I’d always liked him, you know; he was a manly, thoroughly decent lad. The Forshaws lived at Waterloo House, their old family home, just a few hundred yards outside Upton Carteret. It was burnt down, you know, later in the sixties.’
‘And did you see him off, sir?’
‘What? No. When I got there, I was told that he had left in the night, in order to say goodbye to an old friend of his before he caught the train to London from Copton Vale. I must say, I was rather vexed, but then, young folk have their own ideas about these things.’
‘Can you recall, sir, who told you that he had left?’
‘It was a woman – a lady, I should say. She was alone in Waterloo House when I arrived, and I assumed she was a distant member of the family who had also come to see young Gabriel off on his African adventure. No, I don’t recall her name: indeed, I don’t think she told me. It’s a very long time ago, Inspector, and memory fades.’
Was that lady the murderous chatelaine of Mayfield Court? And had the young man supposedly left the house in a closed carriage? Easily arranged: the woman’s compliant husband could have left the house muffled up in a cloak. Such details would chime well with her modus operandi. And then, with Gabriel out of the way, they would have been free to turn their murderous attentions to little Helen. That, at least, was a working hypothesis. What was Mr Brahms saying?
‘At any rate, the regiment sent a battalion out to Bonny, in Nigeria, and poor young Gabriel caught a fever there, and died. We received a letter from a clergyman resident there, and much later in the year a confirmation from Gabriel’s commanding officer. Poor boy. He was only twenty-four.’
Jackson recalled the words of the Reverend Walter Hindle, when he was contemplating the young man’s epitaph on the Forshaw tomb: ‘You won’t find Gabriel there; and you won’t find him in Bonny, either.’ Was he to be found hidden in the burnt ruins of Waterloo House? Perhaps.
Jackson was beginning to see that the whole mystery of the Forshaws was centred on the movement of an unimaginable sum of money from one heir to another, and the pursuit of it by a vicious, perhaps half-mad killer. But surely with Gabriel’s death, either in Bonny or elsewhere, the Forshaws had become extinct?
‘You’re wondering where the money went, aren’t you?’ asked old Mr Brahms. ‘With Gabriel’s death in 1865 the Forshaws came to an end. I was the trustee: what was I to do? I had no idea what Gabriel had done with the Deed of Release, so I took counsel with one of the judges in Chancery, who told me that the fortune should revert to Henry Forshaw’s widow, Cecily, and so I arranged for that to happen. I suppose it was some kind of consolation for Cecily, for losing first her husband, and then her son.’
‘And that’s the end of the story, sir?’ asked Jackson.
‘Yes, I suppose it is, you know. All the Forshaws were dead, and the money had passed out of my trusteeship. Cecily married for the second time later that year. A few eyebrows were raised, of course, but that was only natural, I suppose. Her second husband was a very decent man called John Walsh; he was a widower with a little girl of nine. Her name, as I recall, was Helen.’
‘Did you ever see the child, Mr Brahms?’
‘Yes, I saw her once, when I was obliged to call upon the Walshes at their house in Edgbaston. She was a solemn little thing, I seem to remember. Yes, Helen, her name was. Helen Walsh. But I don’t know anything about that side of the family, Mr Jackson. I did hear that both John Walsh and his second wife Cecily were dead, but I don’t know for certain. It was all so very long ago, you see.’
Saul Jackson turned out of St Paul’s Churchyard and into Cannon Street, which was thronging with carts, cabs, and lumbering lorries. On his rare visits to London, he was both impressed and disturbed by the roar and ring of the city traffic. Londoners never seemed to notice it.
Old Mr Brahms had presented him with a plethora of names and dates, most of which he had recorded in the fat notebook, bulging with letters and papers, and secured with an elastic band, that he always carried.
Names, yes; but behind the names there lay hidden a vast fortune, which was still in existence. Where was it? Who owned it now? It had passed out of the Forshaw family with the death of Gabriel, supposedly in Africa, and had been settled on a woman called Cecily Bancroft. The widowed Cecily had married a man called John Walsh, who had brought her a little stepdaughter, Helen….
As Jackson approached the entrance to Bread Street a four-wheeler, drawn by two horses, rounded the kerb with a screech of iron tyres. He jumped back in alarm, but in that moment he had seen an elderly man looking out of the cab window. Surely it was the Reverend Walter Hindle? Jackson began a half-hearted run along Bread Stree
t, but the vehicle was soon lost in the press of traffic making its determined way to Cheapside.
Finding himself near a little public house, Jackson went in, ordered a pint of mild ale, and sat with it at a little marble table near the window. He was grateful to get out of the oppressive dust and heat of the London streets. Had he really seen the Reverend Walter Hindle? Perhaps. But he must not let himself be led astray from the task in hand. What should he do now? He would go to Somerset House, and start a search for John Walsh, and Cecily Walsh, formerly Cecily Forshaw, née Bancroft. After that, he would call upon Inspector Blade at Little Vine Street Police Station, and ask him what progress had been made in the investigation of the murder of Mr Maximilian Paget.
The heavy four-wheeler turned out of Cheapside into St Martin’s Le Grand, passed the entrance to Noble Street, and drove into a quiet court lying behind Pewterers’ Hall. The driver climbed down from the box and opened the door. A strong, beetle-browed man emerged on to the pavement. He turned to help a second passenger to alight, an amiable, frail old gentleman in clerical dress.
‘How much will that be, cabbie?’ asked the strong man.
‘One and sevenpence, guvnor.’
‘Here’s a florin. Help me get this gentleman up the steps of number three.’
Together they assisted the old man to mount the four deep steps leading up to the black-painted door of number three, one of a terrace of tall, redbrick houses with railed areas accessible from iron gates let into the railings. The strong man rang the bell, and the cabbie turned his heavy vehicle on the cobbles, and made his way slowly out of the court. A stern woman in the starched uniform of a nurse beckoned the visitors to enter the house.
‘Well, Mr Lucas,’ said Dr Morrison, ‘I’m very pleased that Sir Leopold and Lady Carteret have chosen me to look after this gentleman. How are you, sir? You’re looking quite well! Excellent!’
Ghosts of Mayfield Court Page 11
