‘A scheme your uncle brought to me two years ago’. Mr Richards’s hand shook as he returned the stock certificates to their box. ‘It was being marketed to potential investors as a honourable, non-exploitive Christian Fund. I refused to allow him to buy shares in it because nothing was known about the people behind it.’
‘The company went into liquidation six months ago with losses of over a million pounds.’ The manager slumped back, horror-stricken, on his chair. ‘The directors have disappeared and as yet, no trace of them has been found.’
Mr Richards’s voice was hoarse with the effort it took for him to speak. ‘From the evidence here, it appears that your uncle forged my signature to cash in all of your investments and reinvest them in this Christian Fund without your, or my, knowledge or consent. But instead of paying dividends, the company kept demanding further investment to stave off bankruptcy. And that is when your uncle began to throw good money after bad. Judging by the dates on these notes and bills of sale, he drained the cash box and sold your family’s personal jewellery to meet the interim payments they asked for. And,’ Mr Richards extracted an envelope from the Deeds Box, ‘when he could no longer juggle the accounts to make it look as though the dividends on the investments your father had made were being paid, he mortgaged Danygraig House to meet your university fees, your brother and sister’s school fees and the household expenses.’
‘What about my sisters’ and brother’s accounts and my mother’s annuity?’ Geraint was trembling in shock.
‘Your mother’s annuity and your sister Llinos’s dowry went with the trust fund. Your elder sister’s dowry was paid to Owen Bull.’
‘And Gareth?’
‘Under the terms of your father’s will,’ Mr Richards frowned with the effort it took him to recall the exact terms, ‘Gareth inherited his gold pocket watch, gold cigarette case, three thousand pounds, the two farms and all the properties he owned in the town of Pontypridd with the exception of Danygraig House. The money and jewellery has gone. The only deeds left that are worth anything are to the two farms and the properties in Pontypridd that your father bought as investments to secure Gareth’s future. I negotiated the rental terms on those leases myself. All are long-term, and the sitting tenants have the right of first refusal should they ever be sold. Your uncle probably thought it would attract too much attention if he tried to mortgage or liquidate them.’
‘So Gareth has property.’
‘Which he can collect the rents on, but not sell, except at a loss to the sitting tenants and no cash.’
‘I will send for the police.’ The manager left the office.
‘Are you telling me that my uncle has stolen almost everything my father left us?’ Geraint demanded querulously.
It cost Mr Richards more than his pride to face Geraint. ‘Yes.’
‘And my mother, sisters and I are paupers.’ Geraint’s voice rose even more precariously.
‘Yes.’
‘Is there any chance of recovering the money?’
‘Not unless they find the directors of the Conversion of Savages and Pagans Missionary Fund, and the police have been searching for them for the past six months.’
Geraint laughed hysterically. ‘I bet they are a long, long way away.’
Mr Richards felt impotent, duped and shattered. The Watkin Joneses were bankrupt and his professional incompetence was to blame.
‘How much are the rents to Gareth’s properties worth?’ Geraint said sharply.
‘Five hundred pounds a year.’
‘His and Llinos’s school fees come to two hundred a year and that’s without extras, and they each have fifty pounds a year allowance. That leaves Mother and me with only two hundred pounds a year between us and no house...’
‘You are forgetting something, Mr Watkin Jones,’ Mr Richards said quietly. ‘The properties are Gareth’s.’
‘I will be his guardian from next week.’
‘Are you really prepared to rob your brother as your uncle has robbed you?’
The question hung, unanswered, in the air as they sat in silence, waiting for the police to arrive.
‘It is good of you to see me so soon after your aunt’s death, Mrs Bull.’ Sergeant Davies rose to his feet when Sali entered the room. ‘I know how upset you must be. Please, may I offer my condolences. She was a great lady and a generous benefactor to the town.’
‘Thank you, Sergeant. I see you have tea, please help yourself to biscuits and cake.’
‘The tea is sufficient, Mrs Bull, thank you.’
‘Is this a condolence call, Sergeant Davies?’
‘No, I thought you’d like to know that your ... that Mr Owen Bull has confessed to murdering not only the coachman but also Mr Mansel James.’
Sali sat in her aunt’s chair. ‘What exactly does that mean, Sergeant?’
‘It means that his trial will be little more than a formality, Mrs Bull, and neither you nor anyone else will be required to give evidence in his defence. Mr Bull has already been transferred to Cardiff jail and his case will be called at the earliest available date at the Assizes. My superiors think it should come up in the next couple of weeks.’
‘He will plead guilty? He can’t change his mind?’
‘When we formally arrested Mr Bull on suspicion of murder in the station last night, he waved his right to consult a solicitor and asked if he could see a chapel minister instead.’ The sergeant wrinkled his nose as if the memory was distasteful. ‘After speaking to the minister, Mr Bull confessed his sins and proceeded to list them in a manner that was extremely helpful to us. The minister told Mr Bull that if he truly repented, asked God’s forgiveness and told us everything he knew, he would be rewarded in this world and the next. Frankly, Mrs Bull, your husband would have been better off asking to see a solicitor. He signed a full and complete statement. Anyone reading it would be left in no doubt of his guilt.’
‘What will happen to him?’
‘For three murders, Mrs Bull?’ The sergeant looked at her in surprise. ‘Without a doubt, he will hang.’
‘Three?’ Sali queried.
‘Mr Bull admitted that he threw his brother down the stairs and broke his neck; he also admitted that he beat you and his sister. His extremely detailed confession extends to over ten pages.’
‘Thank you for coming in person to tell me about this, Sergeant.’
‘Under the circumstances, it was the least I could do.’ The sergeant rose to his feet. ‘Mr Bull asked me to convey a message to you and Miss Bull. He would like you to visit him in Cardiff prison. If I were you and Miss Bull, I wouldn’t feel obliged to do so. But you have until after the sentencing to decide what you want to do. Thank you for the tea, Mrs Bull.’ He laid his hand on the doorknob, then turned back to face her. ‘I am sorry we couldn’t help you before, Mrs Bull. But the force has a policy of non-interference in domestic disputes.’
‘So I understood, Sergeant Davies.’ Sali gave him a cold smile.
He turned aside sheepishly and opened the door. ‘Goodbye, Mrs Bull.’
The days between the sergeant’s visit and the funerals passed in dreamlike confusion for Sali. Friends and acquaintances drifted in and out of the house. Geraint and Mr Richards spent hours closeted with the police as the search for Morgan Davies and the directors of the Conversion of Savages and Pagans Missionary Fund widened from Wales to England and Scotland and beyond.
Bitter, angry, his dreams of becoming a gentleman of property and substance as his father had been before him, crushed, Geraint became surly and bad-tempered, a different man.
Guilt-ridden, Mr Richards offered to fund Llinos’s and Gareth’s remaining education, but immersed in preparations to move their family furniture from Danygraig House into the stable loft at Ynysangharad House and their mother into one of Edyth’s spare bedrooms until something more permanent could be arranged, Sali and Geraint were too busy to think of anything except their most immediate and pressing problems.
Ignoring the p
leas of Geraint and Mr Richards, and the etiquette that demanded female mourners remain closeted in the house during a funeral, Sali insisted on attending the services and joint burial of Mansel and her aunt. She wasn’t sure what the future held for her, but she did know that if she was going to move on, she had first to lay her past to rest.
‘Ashes to ashes ...’ Savouring the drama, the minister flung his hands poignantly over the gaping hole. Sali lowered her eyes to the coffins, covered by a profusion of chrysanthemums and dahlias. There were so few flowers available in autumn, and there had been fewer still in January when her father had been buried. She thought wistfully of the roses, anemones and spring blooms that her aunt had loved. And Mansel? She had a sudden vision of him walking jauntily down Taff Street, a white carnation in his buttonhole just like the one he had worn the last time she had seen him.
‘Dust to dust ...’ Bending his knees, the minister scooped a clod of damp soil, and circling his arm theatrically over the grave, he opened his hand. The lump of dank earth landed with a thud on one of the coffins below.
Aunt Edyth, Mansel, her father, Iestyn ... people she had loved, who had loved her, and whom she would never see again. The grim, rain-drizzled scene wavered before her eyes. The entire world seemed grey, not just the tombstones around her and the wall of the chapel. And there was no air. So many people were crowding around, not only in the graveyard but the street beyond.
The attention attracted by Owen’s confession and the appearance of Mansel’s body after so many years, had brought out not only the press but every curiosity seeker in the town. The minister had been forced to restrict the chapel pews and the graveyard to family, retainers and close friends.
Sali bowed her head and Geraint gripped her arm. Taking a handkerchief from her pocket, she blotted the tears from her eyes beneath her veil.
‘It’s over, Sali.’
She looked around and realised people were moving away.
‘Do you want to throw those flowers into the grave?’
She kissed the two white hothouse roses she held in her gloved hands and threw them down, one on to Mansel’s coffin, one on her aunt’s.
The crowds parted respectfully. Geraint led her to her aunt’s carriage. He helped her in and she leaned back against the padded leather seat.
‘Only the wake to go.’ Gareth sat beside Geraint.
‘And then what?’ Geraint said dejectedly. His anger at the loss of his fortune had turned to despair.
‘We move on, Geraint,’ Sali said. ‘We have no other choice.’
‘I suppose we don’t.’ He rapped the roof of the cab with his cane.
Lloyd stood back and watched Edyth’s carriage move down Taff Street, a long line of less imposing vehicles following slowly in its wake.
‘She would receive us if we went to the house,’ his father asserted.
‘If you want to go, I won’t stop you.’
‘And you?’ Billy pressed.
‘If she wants to get in touch with me, she knows where I am.’
‘You said Mrs James was a decent woman. I assumed you’d want to pay your respects.’
‘You assumed wrong.’
Billy slapped his son’s back. ‘I’ll buy you a pint in the Clarence. Then we’d better go back to Pandy for that meeting.’
‘To plan the strike.’
‘We’re still talking to management.’
‘We won’t be after today. We’ll be on strike next week and you know it.’
‘Probably,’ Billy agreed grimly. ‘And then God help us all. Management as well as colliers.’
Mr Richards edged his way through the mêlée of mourners, footmen and maids in the hall of Ynysangharad House and tentatively knocked and opened the study door. Sali was sitting with Harry curled on her lap in a leather armchair and they were looking at an album of family photographs.
‘I realise you probably came in here to escape the crowds, but would you mind very much if I joined you?’ he asked hesitantly.
‘I am always glad of your company, Mr Richards.’ Sali closed the album and set it on a low table beside her chair. ‘Get your picture book, Harry, you can look at it while I talk to Mr Richards.’
‘On your lap?’ he asked hopefully.
‘On my lap,’ she echoed. ‘Please, Mr Richards, won’t you sit down? I could ring for tea or if you prefer, there’s brandy, whisky and sherry on the tray.’
‘It would be bad form to ask the servants to bring us tea when they are busy serving refreshments to the mourners outside.’
‘It would,’ she agreed. ‘I am afraid I took the cowards’ way out and hid in here as soon as I returned from the graveside.’ She wondered if Mr Richards had guessed it had been Geraint’s suggestion that he, Gareth and Llinos greet the mourners so she could take care of Harry. Her brother had tried to make it sound as if they were doing her a favour, but she knew that while her brothers and sister were prepared to accept her privately, publicly they were acutely embarrassed by her presence. From the way all three avoided any mention of the years that had passed since she had left Danygraig House, she knew they found it difficult to accept the scandal and gossip that had been generated by her pregnancy and sudden marriage to Owen Bull. But Geraint had taken the news that she had worked as a housekeeper to the family of an employee of their father’s so badly she doubted he’d ever respect her again.
‘If you don’t mind, I will help myself to a brandy, Mrs Bull. Can I get you one?’ Mr Richards picked up one of the decanters set on a silver tray on a tripod table.
‘No, thank you, Mr Richards, but I will have a small sherry, please, so we can toast Aunt Edyth and Mansel’s memory.’
‘I had no idea Mrs James and Mansel knew so many people.’ He poured and handed her a glass of sherry.
‘Given the crowds outside the chapel and graveyard, I think every customer of Gwilym James must have come to pay their respects.’
‘I am sure that you are right.’ He pulled up a chair and sat opposite her, as Harry climbed back on to her lap. ‘You two are very close.’
‘We are.’ She kissed the top of Harry’s head. ‘I try to spend as much time with him as I can.’
‘To Mrs James and Mr Mansel James.’ He touched his glass to hers. ‘May they rest in eternal peace.’
‘To Aunt Edyth and Mansel.’ She sipped her sherry.
‘Did Mrs James ever discuss her will with you?’
‘In a letter to me once. I didn’t really take it in.’
‘She knew exactly how she wanted to dispose of her estate; the difficulty was in accomplishing it because of the age of her heir. But within certain well-defined parameters, she has managed to leave the bulk of her estate to Mansel’s son.’ He looked down at Harry who was engrossed in his book.
‘But Harry is illegitimate ... and Mansel ... there are .. .’ She faltered. ‘I know he fathered other children,’ she revealed abruptly.
‘Harry is the only one named in Edyth James’s will.’ He pulled an envelope from his pocket.
‘If you are going to read the will, Mr Richards, shouldn’t the other beneficiaries be present?’
‘The only other beneficiaries are the servants and, apart from a bequest to Jenkins of five hundred pounds, they will receive relatively minor legacies. I have asked them to assemble in the hall after the mourners have left so I can give them the details.’ He opened the envelope and removed the papers it contained. ‘I could read this to you or I could explain it. It is a little complicated.’
‘I’d prefer it if you explained it to me.’
‘Mrs James left her personal jewellery to you for your use in your lifetime, but she stipulated that you cannot sell it, and on your death it is to be passed on to Harry. Everything else she owned, this house, Gwilym James department store, the shares in the Market Company, her other investments and money have been left to Harry and he will come into his inheritance on his thirtieth birthday. Until that time, the businesses and investments will be controlled by
a board of twelve trustees, made up of the three senior members of staff at Gwilym James, the two senior directors of the Market Company, two partners from my firm of solicitors, three directors from the Capital and Counties Bank, yourself and Jenkins.’
‘Me?’
‘And Jenkins,’ he added. ‘Mrs James settled on twelve trustees because, frankly, she was appalled by the way your uncle commandeered your father’s estate. And she didn’t even live to see the fraud Morgan Davies perpetuated,’ he added bitterly.
‘You really cannot blame yourself for what Uncle Morgan did, Mr Richards.’
‘I can and I do, but to return to the matter in hand,’ he steered the conversation firmly back on course, ‘the board is to meet once a month, reasonable expenses to attend the meeting to be drawn from the trust fund, all business and policy decisions to be carried by a majority vote. This house and all its contents belongs to your son, but you can both live in it until he reaches the age of thirty, as can your brother, sisters and mother. I believe Mrs James foresaw a time when you might be called upon to act as the guardian to your family that I should have been. Please,’ he protested as she attempted to speak, ‘do not attempt to lessen my culpability by making excuses for my deficiencies. However, Mrs James inserted a clause in her will stating that neither Owen Bull nor Morgan Davies can spend a night beneath this roof.’
‘Effectively preventing them from stealing Harry’s inheritance as they did mine,’ Sali murmured thoughtfully.
‘Precisely,’ he confirmed. ‘But the validity of these exclusions are open to question. If, for example, you had wanted to move into this house with Owen Bull –’
‘That would have been the last thing I’d want to do!’
‘Nonetheless, if you look upon it as a hypothetical case, you could, in theory, appeal to the board of trustees, who have the legal right to overturn Mrs James’s instructions if they feel the situation warrants it.’
‘Please, don’t concern yourself, Mr Richards. I have no intention of appealing to the board of trustees to challenge any of Aunt Edyth’s wishes.’
Beggars and Choosers Page 46
