by Jane Feather
“A little chilly, I’m afraid,” he said. “We don’t keep a fire in here unless a client has made a previous arrangement to come in.”
“I’m sorry . . . I should have done, of course. But this came up rather suddenly,” Prudence said.
“That’s quite all right, Miss Duncan. If you’d like to make yourself comfortable, I’ll have a clerk bring you the ledgers. Will you be wanting the safe-deposit box as well?”
“Yes, please.”
The bank manager bowed himself out, closing the door behind him. Prudence shivered in the damp chill and paced the small space from wall to wall. Within ten minutes the door opened again and a clerk came in with an armful of ledgers, followed by another with a locked box. They set these on the table. “Should I light the gas, madam?” the first clerk asked.
“Yes, please.” Prudence took the key that lay on top of the box and slipped it into the lock. The gas flared, casting at least the illusion of a warm and cheerful glow over the cheerless room.
“Would you care for coffee, madam?”
“Yes, that would be lovely, thank you.”
They left the cell and she sat down at the table, lifting the lid of the box. She had the feeling that if her father had anything he wanted kept secret he would put it under lock and key, not leave it in an open ledger. The box contained only a sheaf of papers. She took them out just as the clerk returned with a tray of coffee and some rather stale-looking digestive biscuits, which he set down beside her. She smiled her thanks and waited until he’d retired, closing the door once more, then she spread the papers on the desk.
Her parents’ marriage certificate; the sisters’ birth certificates; her mother’s death certificate; her mother’s will; her father’s will. None of these interested her. She knew that her mother’s small estate had all been spent on The Mayfair Lady. It hadn’t occurred to Lady Duncan to charge for the publication, so her own money had kept it afloat. Lord Duncan’s will was straightforward . . . everything to be divided equally among his three daughters. Not that there was anything, really, other than debt, to pass along, she reflected, without rancor. Maintaining the country house in Hampshire, with its tenants’ cottages and dependencies, together with the house and staff in London, would take up whatever small revenues the country estate brought in. But that was the way it was now, so they were quite used to that. She returned the papers to the box as she looked them over and then she came to the last one.
She stared at it, feeling suddenly queasy, for a moment unable to believe what she was reading. It was a legal document. A lien on the house on Manchester Square. The house that had been owned by the Duncan family since the time of Queen Anne. She looked at the document blankly. Took a sip of coffee. Looked at it again. It was dated April 7, 1903. And the lien was held by a company called Barclay Earl and Associates.
It didn’t take a brilliant mind to make the connection. The earl of Barclay held a lien on 10 Manchester Square. A house that had never in all its history had so much as a mortgage against it, at least to Prudence’s knowledge. A slow burn of anger grew in her throat. Why? What on earth could have possessed her father to hand over the house that was his inheritance, his pride, his family’s pride?
Desperation.
There was no other explanation. There could not be another explanation.
Prudence dropped the document into the box as if it was something vile. She found the ledger for 1903. The payments started in January . . . payments to Barclay Earl and Associates. Every month the sum of one thousand pounds. And then in April they stopped. But in April Lord Duncan had given Barclay a lien on his London house. No longer able to make the payments that he had presumably contracted to make, he had done the only possible thing.
She took up the ledger for the previous year. The payments started in October. But there was nothing to say what they were for. Was her father being blackmailed by Barclay? No, that was too absurd. The two men were fast friends, or at least Lord Duncan certainly seemed to think they were.
She reached into her handbag for the note from Barclay that they had found among the papers in the library. Payments . . . schedules . . . interest. She went back to the safe-deposit box, and there she found it, tucked into a slit that formed a pocket in the lining. October 5, 1902, a few weeks before his wife’s death, while she lay in the agony he could not endure to see, Lord Arthur Duncan had agreed to finance a project to build a trans-Saharan railroad. He would make payments of one thousand pounds a month to Barclay Earl and Associates, who would manage the project.
And when he could no longer make those payments, he had accepted a lien on his house. She slid her hand into the pocket again. There was another sheet of paper. Half a sheet, rolled thin as a cigarette, as if the recipient hadn’t been able to bear reading it. When she unrolled it, Prudence understood why.
My dear Duncan,
So sorry to bring bad news. But it’s a bad business. Trouble with the Mahdi again, and people still remember the spot of bother with Gordon in Khartoum. Unfortunately, no one seems too keen on our little project at present. The rolling stock is in place, our people are set to start work. But the backers have decided to renege on our agreement. Political concerns, don’t you know. We’re all in the hole to the tune of a hundred thousand pounds. Just to reassure you, we won’t be taking up the lien unless matters become desperate.
Barclay
Presumably, they had not yet become desperate, Prudence reflected. There was no way her father could have resumed making thousand-pound payments out of the household budget without her knowing. So the lien hung there, the veritable sword of Damocles. Her father must be in torment. And yet he was prepared to stand up in court as a character witness for this thief, this charlatan, this out-and-out villain?
It was beyond her imagining. She could understand how a man unhinged by grief could make unbalanced decisions, but her mother had been dead for almost four years. Surely their father had regained sufficient control of his senses to see what had been done to him.
Prudence sat back in her hard chair, drumming the tip of her pencil on the table. Pride would keep Arthur Duncan from admitting his mistakes or confronting the man who had fooled him. Pride would keep his head firmly buried in a dune in the Sahara.
She sat up straight again. Whatever their father’s present state of mind, they did now have something to bolster their accusations of financial shenanigans. They needed to investigate the credentials of Barclay Earl and Associates. Did it exist as a legitimate entity? Had it ever? The whole idea of a railway across the Sahara had always been absurd. At least to people not crazed by grief, she amended. But to make their case, they would have to prove that it had been fraudulent from the start. That Lord Duncan had been inveigled into investing in a fraud. Investing so deeply that he handed over the family property when he couldn’t meet his payments.
Prudence, no longer in the least guilty, calmly removed all the relevant papers from the box and the relevant pages from the ledger and put them in her handbag. Gideon would know whom they could use to look into the credentials of Barclay Earl and Associates. There must be a registry of companies somewhere. She swallowed the last of her coffee, relocked the safe-deposit box, tidied the ledgers, and left the cell. A clerk escorted her to the door and she went out into the rain, putting up her umbrella with a satisfying snap.
Chastity stood at the corner of the small street outside an ironmonger’s and looked across at Mrs. Beedle’s shop. It had been ten minutes since the man in the homburg and rather shabby mackintosh had set the doorbell tinkling on his way inside.
It was drizzling and she was both well protected and relatively invisible in a Burberry raincoat, a waterproof hat with a half veil, and a large umbrella. She had strolled down the street once since he’d gone in, but hadn’t been able to see into the shop from the opposite pavement and was reluctant to cross over and risk drawing attention to herself.
The door of the corner shop opened and Chastity turned to look in the w
indow of the ironmonger’s, feigning interest in the display of cast-iron kettles. She glanced over her shoulder and saw the man in the homburg stroll down the street in the direction of the bus stop. Mrs. Beedle’s shop was visible from the bus stop, and Chastity decided she couldn’t risk going in to the shop until the man had boarded his bus . . . but since she couldn’t stand in the open street for any length of time either without causing remark, she went into the ironmonger’s, shaking out her umbrella.
A man in a baize apron emerged from the back at the sound of the bell over the door. “Mornin’, madam. What can I do you for?” He surveyed her with an acquisitive gleam in his eye. Run-of-the-mill customers in this part of Kensington could not in general afford Burberry raincoats. His mind ran over the more expensive range of goods he could show her.
Chastity thought rapidly. “A flatiron,” she said. “I need a flatiron.”
“I’ve got just the thing for you, madam. Cast iron; nice, even surface. Heats up in a jiffy. Your laundry maid will love it.” He hurried into the back, and Chastity stood at the window, craning her neck to see if the man wearing the homburg had left the bus stop as yet. She had no desire to burden herself with a heavy piece of totally unnecessary and probably expensive cast iron, but she couldn’t leave if he was still there.
She couldn’t see the bus stop, so she opened the door and peered into the street. At the sound of the bell, the ironmonger came rushing out from the back, afraid he’d lost his customer. Chastity saw the horse-drawn omnibus round the far corner of the street, and the man climbed aboard.
“Here’s the iron, madam,” the ironmonger said behind her. “Just the thing.”
“Oh, yes.” Chastity turned. “Actually, I think I’ll send the laundry maid instead. Since she’ll be using it, she might as well choose what she’d like. Expect to see her this afternoon.” With a smile from beneath her veil, she whisked out of the shop, leaving the disconsolate ironmonger holding the flatiron.
The bus passed her as she waited to cross the street, and once it had lumbered around the corner, she darted across to Mrs. Beedle’s shop.
“Why, is that you, Miss Chas?” Mrs. Beedle looked up from the counter, where she was refilling a large glass jar with peppermint humbugs. “You just missed a man asking after you. Second time he’s been.”
Chastity propped her umbrella against the door and put up her veil. “Did he say who he was? What did he want?”
Mrs. Beedle knitted her brow. “Wouldn’t really say who he was, just that he was interested in talking to someone from The Mayfair Lady, and did I know where to find you. He said something about having some good news for you.” She shook her head and resumed her task. “Didn’t like the look of him . . . something didn’t smell right.”
“So, you didn’t tell him anything?”
The woman looked up. “Now, Miss Chas, you know better than that. I told him I don’t know nothing. I just receive the letters that come in the post.”
“But he must have asked who picked them up?” Chastity was still anxious, even though she knew that by pressing she could offend Mrs. Beedle.
“Aye, he did. And I told him a boy comes every Sunday. Don’t know his name, don’t know nothing about him. None of my business. That’s what I said, both times.” She screwed the lid firmly back on the jar and wiped her hands on her apron. “You look as if you could do with a nice cup of tea, Miss Chas. Come on in the back.” She lifted a hinged piece of countertop so her visitor could get behind.
“Thank you,” Chastity said, dropping the top in place before following her hostess through a curtain into the cheerful kitchen beyond. “I didn’t mean to imply anything, Mrs. Beedle, it’s just that we’re very anxious at the moment.”
“Aye, m’dear, I’m sure you must be.” She poured boiling water into the teapot. “We’ll let that mash for a minute or two.” She opened a cake tin and placed bath buns on a flowered plate that she set on the table, where Chastity had taken a seat. “Have one of those, Miss Chas. Made fresh this morning.”
Chastity took one with unfeigned enthusiasm. “We think they hired detectives,” she said. “They’re snooping everywhere and our barrister says they’ll be very determined to discover who we are, so they’ll just keep coming back.”
“Well, they won’t hear nothing different from me,” Mrs. Beedle declared, pouring tea. “Drink that down now. It’ll keep out the damp.” She set the cup of strong brew in front of Chastity. “Strange weather we’re having. Yesterday it was almost like spring. And now look at it.”
Chastity agreed, sipped her tea, nibbled her bun. “Is there any post for The Mayfair Lady today?”
“Just a couple.” Mrs. Beedle reached up to a shelf and took down two envelopes. She handed them to her visitor, who after a cursory glance tucked them into her handbag.
“Now, don’t you be worrying about these detective folk, Miss Chas. They’ll not discover nothing from me, and no one else knows about you. Apart from our Jenkins, of course.” Mrs. Beedle always referred to her brother by his working title.
“And Mrs. Hudson,” Chastity said. “But you’re right, Mrs. Beedle. We know our secret’s as safe as the grave with all of you. And we’re so grateful to you.”
“Nonsense, m’dear. We’d have done the same for your sainted mother, God rest her soul.”
Chastity smiled, and drank her tea. The shop bell rang and Mrs. Beedle hastened through the curtain to greet her customer. Idly, Chastity listened to the conversation as she took another bath bun. A pleasant male voice with the hint of an accent that she thought was Scottish greeted Mrs. Beedle by name.
“Good morning, Dr. Farrell,” the shopkeeper replied with a genuine note of welcome in her voice. “And what a wet one it is.”
“Indeed it is, Mrs. Beedle. I’ll take a pound of humbugs, and another of licorice sticks, if you please.”
“Right you are, Doctor,” Mrs. Beedle said. Chastity heard her opening jars, shaking sweets into the scales. Who would buy a pound of humbugs and a pound of licorice? Curious, she set down her teacup and walked softly to the curtain. She twitched aside a corner and peered behind. A tall man was leaning against the counter. His shoulders were as broad as a wrestler’s, she thought. He had a rather rugged countenance, with the skewed nose that indicated it had once been broken. Oddly, rather than marring his face it seemed to enhance it, Chastity thought with a somewhat detached interest in her own observations. He was hatless and his wet hair clung to his scalp in a springy mass of black curls. He wore a mackintosh that had clearly seen better days, but he had the most delightful smile.
He turned from the counter as Mrs. Beedle weighed the sweets, and strolled to the magazine rack. He was a very big man, Chastity noted. Not fat at all, but all brawn. He made her feel quite small and delicate. As she watched, he picked up a copy of The Mayfair Lady and flicked through its pages. Something made him stop to read more closely.
“All ready, Dr. Farrell. That’ll be sixpence for the humbugs and fourpence for the licorice.”
“Oh, and I’ll take this too, Mrs. Beedle.” He laid the copy of The Mayfair Lady on the counter and counted out change from his pocket.
Chastity waited until he had left, setting the bell ringing vigorously, his vital step seeming to exude energy. She returned quickly to the kitchen table.
Mrs. Beedle bustled back behind the curtain. “Such a nice man, that Dr. Farrell. Hasn’t been in the neighborhood long.”
“Does he have a surgery around here?” Chastity inquired casually, setting down her teacup and preparing to take her leave.
“Just off St. Mary Abbot’s,” Mrs. Beedle said. “Bit of a rough part of town for a gentleman like Dr. Farrell to be practicing, if you ask me.” She began to clear the table as she talked. “But our Dr. Farrell can take of himself, I reckon. Told me once he used to wrestle for the university. Oh, and box too.” She shook her head, clucking admiringly as she put the cups in the sink.
Now why would such a man be interested in rea
ding The Mayfair Lady? Chastity took her leave, pondering the question.
She walked to Kensington High Street and hailed a hackney, unwilling to face the damp crowds and steamed-up windows of the omnibus. She hadn’t needed reassurance that Mrs. Beedle would keep their secret if she could, but the persistence of the earl’s solicitors didn’t bode well. They were clever; there was no knowing what devious tricks they would use to trap the unwary. Mrs. Beedle was a good, honest woman, but she would be no match for the conniving of an unscrupulous and sophisticated detective agency.
Chastity reached home just as a rain-soaked gust of wind blew across the square, almost turning her umbrella inside out. “Miserable day,” she said to Jenkins as she entered the hall. “Is Prue back yet?”
“Not as yet, Miss Chas.” He took the umbrella from her.
Chastity unpinned her hat, shaking out the veil. “Mrs. Beedle sends her best regards, Jenkins.” She took off her mackintosh, handing it to the butler. “I’ll be in the parlor when Prue gets home.”
Jenkins bowed and went to dispose of the rain-drenched garments. He heard Prudence let herself into the house a few minutes later and with stately gait retraced his steps to the hall.
Prudence greeted him rather distractedly. The documents in her handbag seemed to have acquired some kind of physical weight on her journey home. All the familiarity of the hall in which she stood gently dripping seemed to waver, to take on some strange patina. Because, of course, this hall no longer legally belonged to the Duncan family unless her father could discharge his debt. Or prove that debt fraudulent.
“You look a little pale, Miss Prue. Is everything all right?”
Jenkins’s disturbed tone brought her out of her reverie. “Yes,” she said. “Quite all right. Just wet.” She managed an effortful smile as she relinquished her outer garments. “Any messages?”
“A telephone call from Sir Gideon, Miss Prue.”
Prudence was aware of a surge of adrenaline, a rush of pure physical excitement that, however momentarily, chased all else from her mind. “What was the message?” she managed to ask, busily unpinning her hat.
