by Judy Nunn
‘You must be quite looking forward to this,’ Godfrey said as he undid the ribbon around the folder.
‘What? Going to Australia?’
‘That’s true—pity it has to be Australia. But the work, old boy. You always did love field work. Being on site, mingling with the workers, what? Well, you’ll be doing all that and getting paid consultancy fees into the bargain. Best of everything, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Sure. Halfway around the world. No family.’ Paul grimaced. ‘And all that heat.’
‘Chin up, I’m told they have snow on Mount Kosciusco.’ Godfrey laughed loudly. ‘And I’m told Mount Kosciusco’s one hell of a long way from Kalgoorlie.’
He opened the folder and spread the contents out on the table. ‘Here you are, old boy. The full story of the Midas. From the sublime to the ridiculous. Minutes of shareholders’ meetings and stock reports,’ he pushed a pile of papers to one side and picked up a handful of press clippings, ‘to all the gory details as related by Fleet Street’s finest.’
Dumping the clippings on top of the reports, he opened the folded newspaper. ‘Brought you a copy of The Times too. Look at the headlines the day I left London. They won’t leave the story alone, I tell you. It’s been two damn years since the whole ugly mess but they dredged it up again five weeks ago.’
‘“LAVERTON FAMILY TRAGEDY”’, Paul read.
‘“A mother’s grief takes its toll”.’
‘Lady Charlotte had a stroke,’ Godfrey continued, ‘and they’re blaming her death on the strain of this whole business. The press are being frightfully sympathetic but of course they’re jumping for glee. The wretched Fleet Street hounds are getting twice their money’s worth.’
Beneath the headlines was a picture captioned ‘Lord Lionel is consoled by his favourite daughter-in-law, Prudence’. Paul looked at the picture. He’d never met Prudence Laverton, but he’d certainly met old Lionel. Lord Lionel and his cronies had called upon Paul’s expertise several times in the past. Simple feasibility reports as a rule—sample evaluations and cost-effective studies. This time, however, their request was a little more complicated. This time they needed him to salvage their gold mine in far-flung Kalgoorlie.
Paul looked at the granite face glaring at him from the front page. What a monster, he thought, and felt a sudden affection for his own father. The tyranny of Quenton Dunleavy paled by comparison. He looked at the favourite daughter-in-law who was ‘consoling’ Lord Lionel. It was the face of a rather plain woman with a haunted look in her eyes. Good luck to you, Prudence, Paul thought. You’ll need it.
He bundled all the papers together and called for more coffee. ‘I shan’t look at them now,’ he said, ‘I’ve plenty of time to become acquainted with the Midas. Now, tell me, how’s the family?’
PRUDENCE LAVERTON HAD finally achieved the social standing to which she had always aspired. She attended the first day’s play of the Test match between Australia and England at Lord’s; she was always offered the best house seats at Drury Lane Theatre on opening nights and she maintained a regular box during the Covent Garden opera season. And all because she was, indeed, Lord Lionel’s favourite daughter-in-law, a role which opened far more doors than that of the youngest son’s wife. But it was a hollow victory. The wives of the other three sons detested her, as did both of the Laverton daughters. It was jealousy, she knew-they were all of them jealous that the old man openly preferred her, desperate as they were to curry favour with him before he died. They’d have a long wait. Although he was in his late seventies, Lord Laverton was as strong as an ox.
Prudence couldn’t even take pleasure in the old man’s alleged affection. He still terrified her and she wasn’t sure whether she hadn’t preferred it when he simply failed to notice her. Besides, it wasn’t really affection at all, Prudence realised; it was gratitude for the way she had behaved that day and for the days and months that had followed as they were hounded, more mercilessly than ever, by the press.
‘By God, she’s a true Laverton woman, this one,’ Lionel had boasted to the rest of the family. ‘You’d do well to take a leaf out of her book, I’ll tell you.’
During the three-month sea voyage to England, Prudence Laverton had had no idea she was pregnant. She thought she was just seasick. So frightfully seasick that even her monthly cycle, which normally arrived with clocklike precision, had been disrupted. Things would return to normal, she told herself, once they were at the family estate in Hampshire. A holiday in the English countryside was exactly what she needed.
But then, to her horror, she had discovered that they had not returned to England for a holiday at all.
‘You didn’t even tell your wife!’ Lord Lionel had roared. ‘Good God, man, what’s the matter with you? It’s times like these a man’s wife must be seen standing beside him. Family support, that’s what it’s all about.’ Lord Lionel had always despised his youngest son. Weak. No backbone. It was why he’d sent him off to Australia in the first place. Perhaps the outback would make a man of him. He’d obviously been wrong. ‘The trial’s in two months for God’s sake,’ he snarled, ‘so you better start setting her straight on a few of the facts right now!’
‘What trial?’ Prudence had asked after her father-in-law had stormed off. ‘You said we were coming home to see the family.’ Then Richard, with the aid of half a decanter of brandy, had painstakingly narrated the whole sordid story.
He was to stand trial for misrepresenting the mine’s yield. The monthly reports he’d been sending to the London board of directors had been false. ‘I’ve not only been selling off my own Midas shares at inflated prices,’ he said, ‘I’ve had a go-between in London who’s been raising investment on the false reports I’ve been sending him of new finds.’
He didn’t attempt to hold anything back. ‘I got in so deep there didn’t seem to be a way out,’ he said calmly. It was a relief to tell her the truth at last. ‘It’s been going on for over five years. They’re calling it fraud on a massive scale. It’ll mean prison, I’m afraid.’
As Prudence listened, everything started to fall into place. Richard had been drinking heavily for a long time now. And then there was that evening when she’d come home from the church committee meeting to find Gaston Picot there.
‘You’re a fool, Richard,’ she’d heard the Frenchman say.
Richard hadn’t seemed in the least offended, he’d simply ignored the insult. ‘You’ll sell them off gradually, won’t you?’ he’d said. Gaston had agreed and it was then that Prudence had made them aware of her presence. She hadn’t wanted them to think she was eavesdropping.
‘Why did he call you a fool?’ she’d asked when the Frenchman had taken his leave.
‘He’s selling off his Midas shares to build this fancy restaurant of his and he thinks I’m a fool because I won’t invest in the damn thing. I ask you! The man’s selling rock-solid shares in a gold mine to set up a place where people may or may not choose to dine! Who’s the fool?’
It was she who’d been the fool, Prudence decided, not to have realised that something was shockingly wrong. And, as the weeks passed and the trial grew closer, she wondered what on earth was expected of her. The women must stand strong beside their men, Lord Lionel had said. But the press had latched onto the story with such a vengeance that she was too terrified to face them. When Richard ventured out in public, she locked herself and young Lucy up in the bedroom. And, when she finally found out that she was four months pregnant, she’d used her pregnancy as an excuse to retire altogether, even from the family gatherings, which she found loathsome.
Prudence wasn’t the only one shocked by the ferocity of Fleet Street’s attack. Lord Lionel himself had been horrified. Not that he’d expected to get off scot-free-he’d known the family name would be bandied about. But he’d expected something along the lines of YOUNGEST SCION SHAMES HOUSE OF LAVERTON and had decided that they would blame the whole episode on Richard’s youth. Well, not exactly his youth-he was nearly forty, after all
. But the youngest member of a family was often considered the weakest and it seemed as good a defence as any.
When the headlines screamed the question CORRUPTION IN THE PEERAGE? and the press hinted heavily that Lord Lionel had been in league with his son, the old man was apoplectic with rage. ‘Laverton the Younger is manager of the one of the wealthiest gold mines in Australia,’ the newspaper reports stated. ‘Laverton the Elder is chairman of its London board of directors. Just who should be standing trial for the falsified gold yield reports?’ It was a personal attack upon him, Lord Lionel decided-someone was out for his blood-and in the meantime, the house of Laverton was being dragged through the mud. It was intolerable. And all because of that young worm of a son of his, a son who didn’t deserve to bear the family name.
It was barely a fortnight before the opening day of the trial when Lord Lionel made his decision, then wondered why he hadn’t made it earlier. He called Richard into his study where they sat behind locked doors for a good hour or more. The following day, he informed his wife Charlotte, Prudence and little Lucy that they were going to London for the weekend. They would stay at their townhouse in Mayfair.
Surprisingly enough, at the last minute, Prudence refused to budge. ‘I’m going to stay with Richard,’ she said as she stood on the front steps with Charlotte and Lucy watching the chauffeur pack the luggage in the boot of the car.
Richard had been awake half the night and twice he’d vomited, but he’d refused to admit that he was not well. ‘Something I’ve eaten is disagreeing with me, that’s all,’ he’d assured her. ‘Go back to sleep, Prudence.’
Her father-in-law was about to insist, Prudence knew it, but for once she would not give in. Something had happened in that study last night and she was going to get to the bottom of it. ‘He’s not well,’ she said. ‘Lucy may go with you but I shall stay here. Take my portmanteau back inside, George,’ she said as the chauffeur started to load her suitcase into the boot.
‘Do you know why he’s not well?’ Under the shaggy leonine brow her father-in-law’s eyes were penetrating. ‘Did he tell you of our meeting last night?’
Prudence didn’t know what gave her the strength but she returned his gaze and didn’t answer.
‘Do you know what’s going on?’ he insisted.
She had her suspicions, but she didn’t dare voice them until she had spoken to Richard. ‘I know enough,’ she answered enigmatically, hoping it would make him leave her alone. It did.
Prudence hugged Lucy goodbye, kissed Charlotte on the cheek and waved to the car as it slowly drove down the tree-lined avenue to the main gates. Then she went inside.
She found Richard in his father’s study sitting behind the huge mahogany desk staring out the bay windows.
‘The inner sanctum,’ she smiled. ‘Whatever would your father say?’ He didn’t reply. She decided to get straight to the point. ‘What went on in here last night, Richard? Is your father going to disinherit you?’ Still he didn’t answer. ‘I’m your wife. I have a right to know.’
He shook his head wearily. ‘No, Prudence, he didn’t talk of disinheriting me. You have nothing to fear.’
She relaxed. Thank God for that. ‘You look pale, dear. Come for a walk with me, it’s a fine day.’
‘No, no. You go. I want to sit for a while.’
‘Please, Richard…’
‘Go for your walk, Prudence.’ It was an order, not a request, and she was a little taken aback, unaccustomed to Richard issuing orders like his father. ‘I’m sorry, my dear, I didn’t mean to snap,’ he added. ‘Walk down to the stream and I’ll join you there shortly.’ He returned his gaze to the bay windows as if she were no longer in the room.
‘Very well,’ she answered, a trifle piqued.
She fetched her shawl from upstairs and went out onto the front steps. It was indeed a fine day. But she didn’t want to walk to the stream on her own. She decided to wait for Richard, and strolled over to the vine-covered arbour, just fifty yards or so from the house, to wait for him. The climbing roses were beautiful this time of year, she thought as she picked one from the trellis and threaded it through the top buttonhole of her blouse.
She looked back at the house. It was the style of home she had always longed to call her own-twin-gabled, of Georgian design, and nestled in seventy acres of England’s glorious green countryside. When all this ghastliness was over, she decided, she would be happy here, far, far away from the endless red earth and loathsome heat of Kalgoorlie.
A sound cracked the air and, for a moment, she wasn’t sure what it was. Then she realised it was a gunshot. And, in that instant, she knew what had happened. She ran to the house, her shawl dropping from her shoulders.
The servants were gathered in the hall. A hysterical maid was being comforted by the housekeeper.
‘Don’t come in, Ma’am, you don’t need to see,’ the butler assured her, but she ignored him and she walked straight into Lord Lionel’s study.
He was still sitting in his father’s chair, but he was no longer staring through the bay windows. He was sprawled face-down on the desk. He’d shot himself through the temple with his father’s Webley .455 calibre revolver and his head rested in a messy pool of blood on the fastidiously polished mahogany tabletop.
Richard had left a note which said all the right things. He had taken the only course of action open to a man of honour, he declared, and went on to exonerate his father from any knowledge of his activities in Kalgoorlie and to beg forgiveness of the family whose name he had sullied. He’d even thought to include Prudence. He thanked his wife for her love and support during the years of their marriage.
The months which followed became a blank to Prudence. She heard herself say to the press, ‘My husband was a fine man who couldn’t live with the shame he’d brought upon his family’. She heard her father-in-law say, ‘There’s a Laverton woman to be proud of,’ and realised that he thought she had known of Richard’s intention. But of course she hadn’t. She’d had no idea.
Prudence’s stoic behaviour in the aftermath was due to the fact that she was in a state of shock.
The realisation that Lord Lionel had forced his son to suicide was horrifying, but his assumption of her complicity so sickened Prudence that her life became unbearable.
When she gave birth to her son and successfully overruled Lord Lionel’s objections by christening the baby Richard, it was a hollow triumph. She should have taken the loathsome old man’s grandson away from him, she told herself. She should leave the family fold and raise her children on her own. But she knew she never would. So she accepted Lord Lionel’s favouritism and watched the unveiled dislike on the faces of her sisters-in-law as he embraced her and called her ‘a true Laverton’.
Gaston Picot had been right. It had taken just under three years to get Harry elected to the mayoral office. But there had been one slight change in plan.
‘Deputy Mayor, Harry,’ he’d said during his brief visit for the gala opening of Restaurant Picot in the middle of 1905. ‘We will have you elected Deputy Mayor.’ He continued before Harry could interrupt. ‘It is better we elect a mere puppet to the position of Mayor.’ Harry was disappointed and wanted to argue the point but Gaston was adamant. ‘Believe me, mon ami, you will wield far more power if the full focus of attention is not upon you.’ And Harry had agreed, albeit reluctantly, to the Frenchman’s plan.
Yet again, Gaston had been proved right. There were no questions asked when the town planning committee agreed to the acquisition, by one Donald McAllister, of a further two properties in the brothel district of lower Hay Street. Neither were there questions asked when the purchaser’s application for rezoning was speedily addressed. Town planning and property zoning were but two of the many offices comprising the busy portfolio of the newly appointed Deputy Mayor, Harry Brearley.
Harry had adjusted very quickly to the business conducted in Gaston Picot’s Hay Street properties. Gaston had known that he would; that Jeanne and Emily would have
all the right answers to soothe Harry’s moral indignation.
‘But they are merely real estate holdings,’ Jeanne had answered as he had assisted her from the trap outside her Hannan Street house that day. And when Harry had continued to expostulate-she had insisted he come inside, have a glass of brandy and discuss the matter. ‘You must talk with Emily,’ she said. ‘Emily has a wonderful understanding of business.’
Still in a state of shock, Harry had agreed. Emily! he thought in disbelief. Emily the mouse running a string of brothels!
‘They are real estate holdings, Harry,’ Jeanne purred, ‘nothing more.’ She poured a healthy measure into his brandy balloon. ‘Monsieur Picot is a landlord, that is all.’ Her smile was so innocent, so serene, that Harry was momentarily lost for words. ‘You explain, Emily,’ she said, ‘you do it so much better than I.’
‘Jeanne is quite right.’ Although Emily’s voice was brisk and businesslike, her arguments were as eminently seductive as Jeanne’s. ‘Mr McAllister collects the rentals, we keep the records and deposit the cash sums, and the bank forwards to Mr Picot the statements of his accounts. It is all quite simple. The business conducted at the premises owned by Mr Picot is entirely incidental. And nothing at all to do with us.’
After an hour or so, lulled by several brandies and the propriety of the two women, Harry did feel that he had overreacted a little. By the time he was confronted, several weeks later, with cash figures and the proof of Gaston’s full involvement in the lucrative brothels, Harry was further lulled by his own percentage of the takings. The women were indeed right, he told himself, it was nobody’s business as to what was being conducted behind the closed doors of the buildings in lower Hay Street. Besides, the only name recorded on paper was that of Donald McAllister. Harry himself was in no danger of being connected with the brothels.
