The Surplus Girls

by Polly Heron

  The next morning was set aside for customers to examine the boxes. Several people popped in.

  ‘It’s an interesting idea,’ said a motherly-looking woman. ‘My niece is getting married and one of these boxes will make an unusual wedding present.’

  ‘If you want to give her a bundle of tat,’ a man muttered scornfully.

  Belinda looked at him in surprise. He was well-dressed without being expensively smart and his eyebrows beneath the brim of his top hat – top hat! – were bushy and grey. Should she defend her wares or would it be considered impertinent?

  ‘Nothing of any interest,’ he declared and left the shop.

  ‘Well!’ the motherly woman said.

  Tempting as it was to settle in for a good gossip, Belinda stuck to her professional standards. ‘Is there a box you especially like? I could put it aside for you.’

  ‘That would be kind.’

  When she closed up, she tidied those boxes which hadn’t been viewed so much as rifled through. The disagreeable man might not have liked what he found, but it hadn’t stopped him having a good rummage. One of the boxes he had sifted through contained the letter-opener and page-cutter. Should they should stay together? Separated, they could make two boxes more appealing. After all, the idea was to make money, wasn’t it? Tat, indeed!

  When Richard arrived, he took a quick look through the boxes, setting a price for each. The bell jingled as the door opened. It was the man who had been dismissive. He went straight to the boxes.

  Belinda whispered to Richard, ‘He was rude about those earlier.’

  ‘Shh,’ he warned softly, but the glance he gave her wasn’t annoyed.

  The man indicated a box with a flick of his gloved hand. ‘I’ll take this, if you please.’ With a glance at the label, he delved into an inner pocket, drawing out a leather wallet. He paid, watching closely as Richard counted out his change. ‘Thank you. My man, Pike, will collect the box.’

  He didn’t look the sort to have a man. He looked smart but not that smart. He produced a card from his wallet, offering it to Belinda.

  She looked at it. ‘Mr Rathbone.’

  ‘Indeed. And for your information, young woman, my previous rude comments, as you were pleased to call them, were a strategy. If you see something you want, you don’t announce it to the world or the world might also wish to take a look.’ He bowed his head to Richard. ‘Good day, sir, and I suggest you train your staff to have better manners.’

  The instant he left the premises, Belinda burst out, ‘Richard, I’m so sorry.’

  His eyebrows lifted. ‘Richard?’

  She caught her breath. ‘A slip of the tongue. Mr Carson—’

  The door opened again. She didn’t know whether to be relieved or frustrated. Several customers came and went; then Richard vanished upstairs. She couldn’t think straight for needing to get him on his own and apologise for her lapse, but she barely got a word out before he interrupted.

  ‘Not another word, Miss Layton. It’s forgotten.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘There’s no need to call me sir. Mr Carson will do. Friendlier, wouldn’t you say?’

  He smiled and instead of turning her heart over, it filled her with gratitude, so much so that it was some time before she recovered sufficiently to dwell on his final remark. Friendlier, wouldn’t you say? Dared she read something into it?

  ‘Excuse me, miss.’

  Her head jerked round: she hadn’t heard the door. A small, thin man stood before her. Well, he wasn’t really small, but he gave the impression of smallness. It was there in his scrawny body and stooped shoulders, his anxiously blinking eyes and twitchy half-smile, the nervy way he twisted his tatty old trilby in his hands.

  ‘I’m sorry. I was miles away. May I help you?’

  He shifted from foot to foot. ‘I’m here for Mr Rathbone’s box.’

  So this was Mr Rathbone’s man. Not very impressive. ‘Mr Pike? I’ll fetch it for you.’

  She brought it from the office. There was a bit of awkward juggling as he took the box, then had to hand it back while he put his trilby on. She opened the door for him.

  ‘Thank you, miss.’

  Richard appeared. ‘Was that fellow collecting Mr Rathbone’s box? Good. I can’t say I took to our Mr Rathbone.’

  ‘Neither did I.’ How wonderful to be in tune with one another, but before she could make the most of it, the shop door opened behind her and Richard’s expression changed from affable to fixed.

  ‘Bloody hell…’ he breathed.

  A chill seeped through her. She turned to see who had come in. Two men. One, a middle-aged gentleman – and gentleman was the right word, as his grey wool overcoat, black bowler hat, silk handkerchief protruding from his breast pocket, and serious demeanour all testified – the other, younger, not burly but strong-looking all the same, with hazel eyes above high cheekbones, and a narrow but firm jawline. His upright stature and clear gaze spoke of confidence, yet there was something vulnerable in the set of his mouth, as if he was unsure what expression to adopt.

  The older gentleman stepped forward and Belinda slipped aside so as not to be in the middle. She ought to attend to her duties, but fascination held her captive.

  ‘Allow me to introduce myself. I am Mr Turton of Winterton, Sowerby and Jenks. May I take it that you are Mr Richard Carson?’

  Richard cleared his throat. ‘I am.’

  ‘Then may I ask why you are selling the possessions of the late Mr Reginald Tyrell?’

  Richard stood up straight. ‘What’s it to do with you? You aren’t my uncle’s solicitor.’

  ‘I’m not a solicitor at all. I am the senior clerk with Winterton, Sowerby and Jenks.’

  ‘Not that it’s any of your business,’ said Richard, ‘but I’m the executor of my uncle’s will.’

  ‘I agree that you would have been the executor, had you been the heir. As it is, Mr Gabriel Linkworth is both heir and executor; and so I ask you once again, sir, what you are doing, disposing of Mr Tyrell’s estate?’

  Colour blotched Richard’s handsome face as he stared at the younger newcomer.

  The stranger stepped forward. ‘I don’t know whether we’ve met. They tell me you’re Reginald Tyrell’s nephew and I am his late wife Victoria’s nephew. Perhaps we met at her funeral…?’ A slight movement of his shoulders, the faintest of shrugs. ‘I apologise for sounding vague. I – I lost my memory towards the end of the war.’

  His right hand moved. Preparing to shake hands?

  Richard’s jaw set. He addressed Mr Turton.

  ‘I did indeed meet Gabriel Linkworth at my Aunt Victoria’s funeral – but I’ve never seen this man before in my life.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  HELL’S TEETH! GABRIEL LINKWORTH, back from the dead. Gabriel flaming Linkworth. How many times had Richard prevailed upon Uncle Reg to change his will and get rid of all mention of his other nephew?

  ‘No need,’ Uncle Reg had maintained. ‘If Gabriel predeceases me, which he evidently has, everything comes to you. Nothing simpler.’

  ‘That’s not strictly true.’ Richard had sounded goodhumoured, as if changing the will was for Uncle Reg’s peace of mind. ‘The most straightforward thing would be to remove his name.’

  ‘What for? He’s dead and gone, poor fellow.’

  ‘Precisely – which is a great shame and all that. I know you thought highly of him. After all, you made him your principal heir.’ Clever, that, recognising Linkworth’s importance. ‘But you say you want things to be simple.’ He had adopted a thoughtful tone. ‘When the moment comes, which I hope won’t be for a long time yet, but when it does, there’ll be the additional trouble of having Linkworth officially declared dead.’

  ‘Huh.’ Never a good sign, that. Huh was never a good sign. ‘I’ve already asked my solicitor. When Gabriel has been missing for seven years, having him declared dead will be a formality; so, as long as I drag myself past 1925, you’ll be all right.’


  ‘I never meant—’

  ‘I know, I know.’ His voice was gruff. They were inches from another huh. ‘You want simplicity. Here it is. Everything is left to Gabriel. If he predeceases me, everything comes to you. He has predeceased me. It’s all yours. No need to change the will.’

  And nothing short of dynamite was going to shift the old boy from that point of view. It hadn’t been ideal, but at least it had seemed safe to leave things as they were. After all, Gabriel Linkworth was dead.

  Except that he wasn’t. He was standing here, in the shop, looking troubled. Older too, but then didn’t they all look older, everyone who had been through the war, and not just because its length had piled a few birthdays on them. Linkworth looked subtly different – thinner in the face. Not that Richard really knew him. They had met just the once, at Aunt Victoria’s funeral. All the Linkworths had attended: Mr and Mrs and the two grown-up sons. The other son had copped it in the war – really copped it. Not like his bloody brother, missing presumed dead all this time and turning up now, alive and well and ready to scoop up the inheritance.

  Well, Richard wasn’t having it. He wasn’t ruddy having it. Claiming never to have seen Gabriel Linkworth before had been automatic, the instinctive response to keep his inheritance safe. Even if Linkworth hadn’t lost his memory, he would still have said those words. Hell’s teeth, Uncle Reg had believed him to be dead. Uncle Reg had been content for Richard to inherit. He had expected Richard to inherit.

  Bloody Linkworth. Coming back, ruining everything.

  Fury roared in Richard’s ears. The cords tightened in his neck, but he mustn’t show his anger.

  I’ve never seen this man before in my life.

  The words hung in the air.

  Linkworth and Mr Turton looked at one another. Linkworth frowned, but Mr Turton’s professional courtesy didn’t slip.

  ‘This is unfortunate, though it makes no difference in the long run. You will hear from the offices of Winterton, Sowerby and Jenks, Mr Carson. In the meantime, I must insist that you refrain from selling anything further. In fact, you should take steps to retrieve items you’ve already sold. Good day to you, sir, miss.’

  He raised his bowler to Miss Layton and showed Linkworth out.

  Richard couldn’t move. A fierce coldness hit him right at his core. Bugger bugger bugger.

  Gabriel Linkworth, back from the dead.

  He had relied on inheriting. A healthy sum from flogging the book stock and whatever else he didn’t want, plus ownership of the cottage, would have set him up in a tidy way.

  ‘Mr Carson, that man – is he pretending to be the real heir?’

  He looked at Miss Layton. Christ, he had even employed an assistant. What was he to do with her now? Sack her? No, let her do the donkey work of buying back the sold items, then stick Linkworth with the bill for her services.

  ‘Mr Carson?’ Miss Layton looked confused, as well she might.

  It was tempting to tell her to get lost, but, much as he needed time to think and plan and curse, there was no sense in alienating her. She liked him and wanted to please him and there was no saying when that might prove useful.

  ‘I’ve no notion who that fellow is; some trickster who knows my uncle had another heir.’

  ‘So there is another heir?’

  ‘Assuming he’s alive, which seems highly unlikely, given how long he’s been missing.’ He didn’t want to discuss it. ‘Anyway, we’d best see what we can get back from the customers.’

  Not that he intended to try very hard. Any money already in his pocket could jolly well stay there.

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ promised Miss Layton. ‘I’ve kept a record of everything that has been sold, including listing the contents of the boxes.’

  ‘You have?’

  ‘You told me to.’

  Yes, of course. He had deemed it wise, because of being a bit previous over the probate.

  ‘Though keeping a list of what was sold isn’t the same as knowing who bought what and where they live.’ Miss Layton was obviously determined to rectify the situation somehow. ‘I can write to the people who bought books by post, but as for the customers who bought books or boxes in person, unless they pop in and we recognise them, those things are gone for good.’

  ‘Oh well.’ What else was he supposed to say?

  ‘We’ve got Mr Rathbone’s address,’ she said as if expecting him to raise three cheers.

  He rewarded her with a smile and her blue eyes softened adoringly. It was rather agreeable to have a pretty girl hanging on his every word, though he took care not to say or do anything that could be construed as encouragement.

  ‘We’d better make a start. I’ll compose a letter for you to send to the people who purchased books by post.’

  That would keep her chained to the typewriter and out of his hair. He had to make a plan. Was there any point in devising a plan? Was there any plan on earth that could retrieve this damnable situation?

  Gabriel Linkworth, back from the dead.

  Hell’s teeth.

  The bell jingled frantically as the door was thrown open and almost slammed shut. Mr Rathbone marched in, his face dark with anger. This time yesterday, Richard would have felt concerned. This time yesterday, Gabriel Linkworth was still rotting in the ground somewhere in France. Today Richard didn’t care one jot why Rathbone was upset. Whatever his beef, it was nothing compared to Richard’s.

  ‘I’m here to complain,’ Rathbone began brusquely.

  ‘Good morning,’ Richard replied.

  Rathbone blinked. ‘Oh – good morning. That box I bought from you yesterday: something’s missing.’

  Richard felt like grabbing the fellow by the shoulders, spinning him round and propelling him through the door. All he said was, ‘Let me find the list.’ He couldn’t be bothered with this. He stuck his head round the office door. ‘Miss Layton, do you have the lists of what’s in the boxes?’

  Getting up from her typing, she handed him a file. ‘The lists are in number order.’

  He flipped through it as he wandered back into the shop. ‘Do you know what number your box was?’ he asked without looking up.

  ‘Twenty-two.’

  ‘Here we are. Three Men in a Boat, piano music, geometry set, blue bud-vase, pair of figurines: boy and girl water-carriers, silver letter-opener, glass trinket-dish and a volume of Thomas Hardy’s poetry.’ He looked up. ‘Something was missing?’

  ‘It certainly was: the page-cutter.’

  ‘That’s not on the list.’

  ‘It was in the box when I examined it prior to purchase.’

  Bloody typical: the one time the girl made a mistake and it had to be when his world was collapsing around him. She appeared by his side.

  ‘Mr Rathbone is right. The page-cutter was in the box when he looked at it.’

  ‘Ha!’ Rathbone exclaimed, standing tall as if posing for a portrait. ‘Now it’s missing and my man swears he hasn’t stolen it.’

  Miss Layton gasped. ‘He most certainly hasn’t. It’s in one of the other boxes. When you were so, um, dismissive, I thought you weren’t interested in anything and I swapped some items round.’

  ‘You did what?’ snapped Rathbone.

  ‘If you’d said you wanted a box—’

  ‘Do you know which box it’s in?’ Rathbone glared at the boxes as if he might start ripping them open. ‘Fetch it this minute.’

  Anger raced through Richard and he stopped feeling distanced. He felt rejuvenated and more than ready for a fight. ‘That’s enough. I won’t have you speaking to my staff in that hectoring manner. You’re the one at fault here. You made a show of being scornful to put off other customers. You have only yourself to blame if your scheme worked too well.’

  ‘How dare you?’ Rathbone barked. ‘I won’t be spoken to in this manner.’

  ‘Too late. It’s already happened.’ The air beside him quivered with Miss Layton’s shock.

  ‘The page-cutter,’ snapped Rathbone. �
�I thought my box contained both parts of the pair. I’m prepared to buy it as a separate item, if necessary.’

  ‘Impossible. In fact, I have to ask you to return the items you’ve purchased. It’s a legal matter.’

  ‘That’s preposterous. I refuse to return anything.’

  ‘Either you return the items or I’ll hand your card to Winterton, Sowerby and Jenks. They, I feel sure, will be only too delighted to pursue the matter.’

  ‘This is outrageous. I bought that box in good faith.’

  Mr Rathbone continued to splutter indignantly, but Richard barely heard. Either Rathbone returned the box or he didn’t: Richard couldn’t care less. All Rathbone stood to lose was the matching pair he coveted, while Richard was on the verge of losing the money and the home he had banked on for the past few years.

  Bloody Linkworth, coming back from the dead.

  *

  When Richard returned to his lodgings in St Werburgh’s Road that evening – the lodgings where he had jubilantly given notice to his landlady and had then had to claw it back – a letter awaited him. An official letter. He felt like chucking it into the fire. It was from Winterton, Sowerby and Jenks, informing him that there was no doubt that the gentleman whom he had met at Tyrell’s Books was Gabriel James Linkworth, but that since he had apparently failed to recognise him and since he was himself an interested party, there would be a hearing in the magistrate’s court to prove Mr Linkworth’s identity.

  Bugger bugger bugger.

  He didn’t want to go to the shop the next day. What was the point, when he was about to lose everything? He didn’t feel like attending work either. He went to the cottage in Limits Lane, but that was unbelievably depressing, so he headed for the shop.

  Miss Layton gave him a minute to take his coat off. ‘Mr Rathbone sent his box back.’

  ‘Good.’

  She was still hovering. What now? ‘He has kept the letter-opener.’

  ‘So what? I’ve got far bigger problems than a measly letter-opener.’

  She flinched.

  Damn and blast. He caught hold of himself.

  ‘I apologise. I shouldn’t have spoken like that.’