by Ashe Barker
Adam scanned the short note, then raised his gaze to meet that of his lawyer. “Is there any substance to this claim?”
Horace shook his head. “None, sir. None at all. I did the usual checks in the conveyancing, and have revisited the documentation since this letter arrived. Mr. Wynne was the sole owner of the entire property, and it was his to dispose of as he saw fit. His signature was all that was required to effect the transfer of ownership. Legally it is now yours, of that there is no doubt.”
Adam glanced again at the note. “V. Wynne? I assume the author of this letter to be Edward’s younger brother then. Presumably the elder son inherited, but the younger has run the business.”
“That is my assumption too, sir. And he has run it well if the initial figures I have had access to are any indication. I have sent instructions to our agents in Leeds to obtain the full set of books and send them on to me for proper scrutiny, but I expect those accounts to bear out my conclusions so far.”
“I see. I am not without sympathy for the dispossessed brother, but the facts in this matter are clear. Please respond accordingly, dispelling any doubt as to the current status of this business. Have you commenced the disposal process yet?”
“We will require vacant possession of the residential premises in order to attract a buyer. I will issue notice to the present occupiers immediately. The mill is of greater value as a going concern so we should appoint a manager.”
Adam frowned, thoughtful. “On the face of it we could do worse than appoint this V. Wynne, though I daresay that could prove awkward and his loyalty would be suspect.”
“I would concur, Mr. Luke. Best to put our own man in there. With your permission I will address that matter too.”
“Thank you. Is there anything else?” Their business concluded, Adam started to rise.
“No, Mr. Luke. That’s quite all, for now.”
Adam skirted several precarious towers of books on his way to the door. “Keep me informed, if you would, please. I will remain in the city for the rest of this week and next, then you will find me in Portsmouth for a few more days prior to my voyage to America.”
“You intend to survey your new holding in person then?”
“Of course, Mr. Catchpole. I wouldn’t miss it.”
* * *
Dear Mr. Wynne,
You are mistaken; there is no lack of clarity in the matter of Wynne’s Weaving Mill. The transaction is complete and the property is now in the ownership of my client.
I would be obliged if you could vacate the business and domestic premises by the end of this month. A manager will be appointed to oversee the affairs of the company until such time as my client issues further instructions as to its disposal.
Yours faithfully,
H. Catchpole, Solicitor
Mister Wynne indeed. Arrogant, misogynist prig.
Victoria scanned the curt few lines and wondered if she might be sick. She certainly felt it to be a real possibility. By her interpretation of the brief note, Adam Luke’s man of affairs had not so much as referred her query to him. She had been summarily dismissed.
The end of the month! Edward had said as much but she had ignored his words. She glanced at the calendar on the corner of her desk. It was already the thirteenth; she had a little over two weeks before she and her family would be homeless. Destitute. She had to do something. Something decisive. There was nothing else for it; she needed to appeal to the man himself.
“Mr. Timmins, do you have a moment?”
Her clerk appeared in the doorway. “Yes, Miss Wynne?”
“I need to know the time of the earliest train to London tomorrow morning. And I need to know the address there of Mr. Luke. Are you able to suggest how we might discover that?” Mr. Timmins had an inventive streak to him that Victoria had always admired. If anyone could find the information for her at short notice, he could.
“One moment, Miss Wynne.” Her clerk inclined his head politely and withdrew.
Less than a minute later he was back.
“One of the hands has been dispatched to the station to request details of trains to London. I guaranteed an extra penny in his wages this week if he returns within the half hour.” He stepped forward and laid a sheet of paper on top of Victoria’s blotter. “And here is Mr. Luke’s direction in London. He has business premises and lodgings in Portsmouth and in Liverpool, but his main residence is in Knightsbridge.”
Victoria gaped at her efficient employee. It did not occur to her to doubt the accuracy of his information. “How did you find this out so quickly?”
Mr. Timmins availed himself of the spare chair. “It took me three days, in fact. I knew you were in correspondence with Mr. Catchpole, but I suspected we might find it necessary to make contact with Mr. Luke direct. The morning after your brother’s visit, I telegraphed my cousin, who is a waiter at White’s. He is acquainted with others in similar employ, including the second footman at Crockford’s. That individual was able to ascertain Mr. Luke’s address in the city from their member’s list…”
Victoria shook her head in disbelief. “Mr. Timmins, you are indeed amazing.”
“I did offer my help, Miss Wynne, and I have almost as keen an interest in rectifying this unfortunate set of circumstances as you do. I like working here for you.”
“You are an excellent clerk, Mr. Timmins and I expect your job will be safe, whatever happens.”
“I am afraid I cannot share your confidence, Miss Wynne. A new owner would doubtless have his own staff, or would wish to select them.”
Victoria merely shrugged, unable to entirely refute his logic. In Mr. Luke’s place she would probably do the same thing, though she would offer the most heartfelt recommendation for her loyal assistant if it actually came to that.
Mr. Timmins made to rise. “If there is anything else I can do, please do not hesitate to ask me. Would you like me to accompany you to London?”
“Thank you, but no. I believe I should see Mr. Luke alone, and ideally without his solicitor present if this is to be that man’s attitude.” She gave the letter a disparaging prod. “The man is a pompous ass.”
“Indeed,” agreed Mr. Timmins. “Let us hope Mr. Luke is more biddable.”
* * *
“I wish to withdraw one hundred pounds in cash, please.” Victoria issued her instructions to the bank clerk as she tugged on the fingers of her gloves in preparation for signing the required documentation. The man eyed her in a manner she found somewhat disconcerting, before he slid from the high stool he occupied behind the cashier’s desk and scurried off into the bowels of the bank. He returned several minutes later with a suited gentleman in tow. The badge on his chest announced the status of the newcomer to be the deputy manager. He carried a sheaf of papers.
“Good afternoon, Miss Wynne. How nice to meet you. I was hoping to speak to you, if you have few moments?”
Victoria was uncertain of the man’s name; she had not encountered him before. “Of course, though I am extremely busy today. Is Mr. Meadows not available? He usually handles our accounts.”
“I am Mr. Norman. Mr. Meadows has the shingles, I am afraid, and I am standing in for him for a few weeks. Would you step this way, please?” He gestured toward a row of small offices where the bank’s more favoured customers could transact their business in private. Victoria usually made use of those facilities, but today she was in something of a hurry. She had yet to pack for her trip, and to prepare her arguments to present to Mr. Luke when she was able to see him. She could not even be certain of meeting with him tomorrow since she had no appointment, but would seek accommodation in a hotel and was prepared to wait him out. Hence she required sufficient funds to finance her trip, and she needed the money quickly.
She allowed herself to be ushered into the small interview room where she took a seat at a polished wood table. She laid her gloves on the gleaming surface and folded her hands in her lap. “How may I help you, Mr. Nor
man?”
“An awkward irregularity has arisen, I am afraid.” The deputy manager sat down opposite her, and laid the pile of documents on the table next to her gloves. He looked at the top one, as though making his final check before lifting his gaze to meet hers. “I am afraid you no longer have access to the Wynne’s account.”
“I beg your pardon.” Victoria’s usual reserve shattered. She goggled at the bank official as though he may have inadvertently slipped into some obscure dialect of Swahili.
Mr. Norman was unflappable. He met her startled gaze. “The bank has been given to understand that Wynne’s Weaving Mill is under new ownership, and the account is frozen pending further instructions. I am sorry, Miss Wynne, but you cannot withdraw funds from it.”
“It is my money. Of course I can…”
The deputy manager shook his head. “No, Miss Wynne, the money belongs to the company. And all assets are currently frozen. We have correspondence confirming this from a Mr. Catchpole, who acts for the new owner. We have, naturally, contacted Mr. Catchpole to verify this information, and I am afraid there can be no doubt of it. He was most emphatic that no one should withdraw any money. He mentioned you specifically, Miss Wynne.”
Victoria was speechless. Horrified, and utterly impotent. For the first time in her life she was faced with the reality of penury, and found it not to be to her liking. Not one little bit. She gaped at Mr. Norman, entirely at a loss.
The deputy manager offered her an embarrassed smile, his expression not unsympathetic. “We are aware of your long association with the bank, Miss Wynne. You have been, you are, one of our best customers and we would wish to be helpful during what must be a most difficult time for you. Your personal accounts are of course unaffected by this situation.”
Victoria shook her head. Her personal account would be of little use to her; she had almost no funds deposited in her own name. All profits not required to meet their regular business or living expenses were reinvested in the mill. Virtually all she owned was tied up in the firm, and now, apparently, inaccessible to her.
“But, I’m going to London tomorrow. On business. This is all a mistake. It’s true that we have some temporary issues to resolve, but my meeting tomorrow…”
Mr. Norman’s demeanour remained unruffled. “Of course, Miss Wynne. In view of your excellent record with us, the bank is happy to extend personal credit. Shall we say ten pounds?” He pulled a sheet from the pile in front of him and shoved it across the table to her. “An overdraft, Miss Wynne, at the usual rates. I trust this will be convenient.”
In a daze Victoria took the paper and studied it. The bank was prepared to advance the sum of ten pounds, to be repaid within twenty-eight days. A glance at the features of the deputy manager convinced her this was the best offer they were prepared to make. She swallowed hard and nodded.
“Thank you, Mr. Norman. That will be perfectly convenient. Thank you.”
* * *
Awed, Victoria stood at the foot of the imposing flight of steps leading up to Mr. Luke’s front door. His elegant London townhouse was by some margin the smartest on this extremely fine street, the gleaming black door catching the mid-afternoon sun as she gazed up at it. She counted the rows of glinting, highly polished sash windows, extending to eight on either side of the door, and three storeys above it. This was not only the smartest house in the vicinity, it was the largest too, and perhaps the most forbidding. The pale red decorative brickwork denoted this to be a relatively new dwelling, and stood in sharp contrast to the row of highly polished black railings along the front.
She was exhausted, her feet smarting in her finest leather shoes. She had walked here from Kings Cross station, a distance of three and a half miles. The trek had taken her well over an hour, and she would have to make the same journey back to catch her train home. The ten pounds loaned by her bank had been sufficient to secure her a third-class return ticket on the steam train that chugged out of Hebden Bridge station at six minutes past five that morning. Four changes and ten fraught, crowded hours later she had arrived in the capital, with sufficient funds remaining to purchase a meal before embarking on her journey back to Yorkshire. Provided she was careful, of course.
Her meagre resources were not enough to enable her to hire a hansom cab to convey her to Mr. Luke’s residence, so she had had no alternative but to seek directions at the ticket office, then walk. Her footwear was never designed for such extremes. On further reflection she might forgo the meal and pay for transportation back to the station.
She carried a modest bag containing some papers she had thought might help her cause and some swatches of cloth. As she had no money for a hotel she had seen no need to pack additional clothing or other necessities, so mercifully the bag was light. She had however copied out a summary of her year-end accounts for the last three years, and brought samples of their fine cloth to demonstrate the quality of their products. She wanted to impress Mr. Luke with both the business and her management of it.
The bag now sat at her feet as she surveyed the grand front entrance to Adam Luke’s home. Her gloved hands were behind her back, the fingers on each firmly crossed. She silently prayed that Mr. Luke was at home, and that he would agree to see her. With a sigh she picked up her bag and started to ascend the stairs.
The sound of the large brass knocker reverberated, echoing down the street. She cringed; had she rapped on the door too loudly? She must be polite, couldn’t risk irritating him. She peered uneasily over each shoulder, expecting to have turned heads in the street below. The pavement was empty.
The sound of footsteps within the fine residence brought her attention right back to the matter in hand. The door opened and she was confronted by a middle-aged woman, plainly but smartly dressed, her hair caught back in a severe bun. The occupant of the house cocked her head as she regarded the visitor.
“May I help you, madam?”
“Yes. Yes, I’m looking for Mr. Adam Luke. I believe this is his house?”
The woman inclined her head. “It is, madam. Do you have an appointment?”
Victoria blinked. This was it. “No, I’m sorry, I do not. It is imperative that I speak with him though, on an urgent business matter. Is Mr. Luke at home? Or Mrs. Luke, perhaps?”
The housekeeper, for this was what Victoria surmised the woman to be, raised her eyebrows. “You are a friend of Mrs. Luke then? An acquaintance?”
“No, I just thought perhaps I might leave a message with her. Or perhaps she could speak to Mr. Luke on my behalf.”
“I see. Mrs. Luke resides in Portsmouth. It is unlikely she could be of assistance. When in town, Mr. Luke normally conducts his business meetings at the offices of his legal advisers. Would you like their direction?”
“No. No, thank you. It really is very important to me to speak with Mr. Luke today. I am happy to wait for him if he is expected to return later.”
“I do not know his plans for the rest of the day, madam, but as I have explained, Mr. Luke is unlikely to wish to discuss his business affairs here in his home. I really do recommend you make contact with his lawyers, who will be able to accommodate you.”
“No, they won’t. They won’t let me see him.” She had not intended to blurt that out, but by the time she regained control of her tongue it was too late. The housekeeper lifted one imperious eyebrow.
“Indeed, madam. May I ask why?”
“It doesn’t matter. But I do need to see him. Please, I must. I’ll wait here in the street if I have to.” Victoria silently cursed her feckless brother. How had he managed to bring her to this?
“I see.” The austere face before her appeared hesitant, then softened into a formal smile. “In that case I see no alternative but to invite you to take a seat in our front parlour, and perhaps prevail upon you to take some light refreshment whilst you wait.”
She stepped back, opening the door wider. Victoria couldn’t believe it, she was being invited to wait inside. All she ne
eded now was the presence of the man himself, and her plan was in motion.
An hour later, and having fortified herself with three delicate cups of tea and a plate of sandwiches brought to her by a smiling maid, Victoria was still alone in Mr. Luke’s fine parlour. The housekeeper, who introduced herself as Mrs. Jennings, had made a note of her name and promised to alert her employer to Victoria’s presence the moment he returned. As yet though there was no sign of the owner of the house. The mantel clock opposite where she sat declared the time to be almost six o’clock. She knew the last train to Yorkshire today would leave Kings Cross at seven o’clock sharp. She was already too late to make it to the station on foot, and would soon be cutting it fine for a hansom cab as well. But she was resolute. She could not leave the city without having achieved her aim. She crossed her ankles and resolved to wait.
At five past six the housekeeper approached her again.
“Miss Wynne, I am afraid Mr. Luke may well not return this evening. If he is not at home by this time, it is his usual habit to go straight to his club. Perhaps you would like to return tomorrow? I will inform him of your desire for a meeting, and make an appointment for you. Indeed, if you would leave me with details of where you will be found in the morning, I will send word to you of what time to return.”
Victoria remained in her seat, her spirits sinking. “I, oh, dear. I really do need to meet with him.”
“I appreciate that, madam, and you have been most patient. But as he has not yet returned, it is unlikely he will now do so until much later tonight.”
“I am not from London. I have come here today especially to meet with him.”
