The Inheritance of Solomon Farthing

by Mary Paulson-Ellis

  Domiciled for tax purposes.

  That was what the owner called it. Accountancy. The other way in this city that money moved around.

  Through the back, off the main shop floor, Solomon parted the bead curtain that hung across the entrance to what had once been his grandfather’s office – a cubbyhole with just enough space for a desk and a swivel chair. Also a safe. The office was much smaller than Solomon remembered. He felt enormous suddenly as he edged his way in, as though at any moment he might knock something from the wall.

  His grandfather’s chair lurched to one side as Solomon sat, rather like the drunk man he had become now that he was old himself. He dipped into the top pocket of his jacket, took out the remnants of his latest client, laid it on the edge of his grandfather’s desk:

  Pawn ticket no.125.

  All that was left of a man on which Solomon Farthing could rebuild.

  There was nothing to suggest that the ticket found in Thomas Methven’s room at the nursing home had come from Godfrey Farthing’s shop. But there was no harm in checking. Heir Hunting was full of false trails, but Solomon knew from experience that there was never a dead end on a family tree, only another branch to explore.

  He bent now to the safe beneath the desk, turned the dial to its familiar numbers and waited for the click click click. It opened on his first attempt, Solomon putting one hand inside to fumble left and right. He came out with nothing but a single coin. An old-fashioned sixpence. Enough for a sherbet dip or a fistful of liquorice laces when Solomon was a boy. Not worth anything now.

  Solomon slid the tanner onto the surface of the desk next to Thomas Methven’s pawn ticket, put his hand further inside the tiny tomb. This time he came out with proper treasure – a box with a flip lid and faux-leather covering, all mottled now. He placed the box on the desk in front of him, heart beating one two at the realization that despite forty years having come and gone, the treasure might still be here. Then he flipped the lid, discovered the contents intact.

  The box contained a hundred filing cards (or thereabouts) arranged by number, each with the name and address of a client. Also a description of whatever the original owners had left behind in return for cash and that small paper slip:

  One gabardine overcoat;

  Two earrings, seed pearls;

  A pair of leather shoes with buckles.

  Amongst other things. The cards were a mishmash of ticket stubs and crossings out, new information scribbled in the margins as one colour ticket was matched to another, blue next to pink. Godfrey Farthing’s customers had been loyal before they petered away, coming back again and again as their lives progressed through births, marriages and deaths. They used to borrow against anything they could do without, taking cash in return for a lace collar, sometimes even a simple Sunday suit.

  A service.

  That was what his grandfather had called it.

  Moneylending for the poor.

  That was what his aunt had said.

  But Solomon knew even then there was more to it than that. His grandfather’s box contained all of his neighbours’ secrets. Also their lies.

  The cards smelled of mildew and mould now, each one marked with the stamp of greasy fingerprints from the constant taking out and putting back. Solomon always had been able to tell the best customers by the way the edges of some cards had furred over the years, while others stayed sharp.

  He knew that each exchange marked on the cards had been matched by a line in a ledger – a list of everything his grandfather once owed and everything that was owed to him, tallied at the end of each night. The Reckoning, his grandfather used to call it as he sat at the table in the living room totting up the figures. The Books was what his aunt had said when she took ownership herself. The ledger’s contents had taught Solomon the value of things long before he might otherwise have understood. How one year a simple gold wedding ring could be worth five shillings; and the next nothing but a farthing. How the best customers were the ones who came back again and again, even if they only ever bartered a shoe. It had proved useful in his subsequent profession, a young man buying and selling whatever he could get his hands on amongst the backstreets of a dozen cities, long before he got into the business of hijacking a family’s ancestors and selling them back for a fee.

  When his grandfather died, Solomon had not understood why his aunt might be interested in taking on the ledger. He had gone through it himself in search of his inheritance, discovered to his disappointment that there was a lot more Out than In. It was only much later that he understood. Just like Freddy Dodds, it wasn’t the money she had wanted, so much as the names – all those people prepared to borrow their way through life.

  Out front, without even a growl of warning from the dog, there was the sudden rattle of metal on glass. Through the sway of the bead curtain Solomon glimpsed a face pushed to the dirty window. He laid his hand across the flip-top box as though to protect the only inheritance he had left. Freddy Dodds, perhaps, come to claim what was his; or Colin Dunlop of Dunlop, Dunlop & Dunlop, come to steal something that was not.

  The face outside shifted and morphed as Solomon leaned back in his grandfather’s old chair, attempting to hide. His hand fluttered at the sudden thought that it might not be Freddy Dodds or Colin Dunlop who had followed him here, but an associate hired to do the job instead. A man with a pristine set of crowns, ready with a crowbar and a brick, two jobs folded into one. Freddy Dodds’s empire always had relied on muscle. And Heir Hunting was an unscrupulous industry in some quarters, nothing ventured, nothing to pay the rent.

  Blood thumped in Solomon’s temples as he felt again the loss of his lucky silver charm. Where was the DCI when he needed her? Or even better, that inscrutable PC. Then, at last, he heard his salvation. A rapid scrabbling on the cobbles. A frenzied yapping. Followed by a curse.

  ‘Fuck!’

  A scuffling.

  ‘Bloody bastard!’

  More frantic barking. Then the faintest echo of footsteps heading away along the close. Solomon waited, heart beating its swift tattoo against his ribs. Then he began once again with his grandfather’s box.

  His searching was clumsy this time, a rapid shuffle from first to last in pursuit of anything that might match Thomas Methven’s pawn ticket, no.125. A long shot, but one which could yet pay off. The first card in the box was the record for a fox stole, pawned once and never reclaimed, sold on to a man called Alfred Walker with an address in London some time not long after the first war. Solomon riffled through the rest of the cards, one by one. A coat made of squirrel. An otter in a case. But nothing to match Thomas Methven’s pawn ticket, no.125.

  At the very back of the box, the last two cards were pretending to be one, pressed together like the pages of an uncut book, camouflage of a sort. Solomon ran his thumbnail between the two cards, prised them apart. The newer card was from 1971. An era of all change. Also the year Solomon’s grandfather had breathed his last.

  The edge of the card was sharp rather than frayed. A record that had been put in the box once and never redeemed. Solomon lifted it close to see the date:

  June, 1971.

  Also the name:

  Hawes, J.

  Recognized the writing at once. Andrew’s, with its odd ‘i’s and ‘t’s, writing out the last exchange that ever took place in Godfrey Farthing’s shop. An old itinerant who came in when Solomon’s grandfather was near the end and left behind a suit. Blue like a starling’s egg, lining dark as midnight. Perfect for a burial, that was what he said. Except when they had tried it on Godfrey Farthing after he was gone, the suit had been too short.

  Solomon put the most recent card back in the box, turned to the older one instead. For a moment he was disappointed. There was no pink ticket pinned to the edge of the old card to match the one left behind by Thomas Methven. But there was something else taped to the surface. An advertisement cut from the classifieds of some provincial newspaper many years before. Solomon peered at the clipping, saw somethi
ng scribbled in the margin:

  Methven.

  Written in pencil, in Godfrey Farthing’s hand. Then he read the advertisement itself:

  WANTED: Home for a baby boy, 6 months old. Total surrender.

  As though signalling the end of a war.

  Three

  The National Library of Scotland was an austere kind of place. Twelve floors in the centre of the city, only five of them above ground, its blank edifice of stone no hint of all the treasures it contained within. Old books. And new books. And books with hand-painted pages and gold leaf on the spines. Not to mention every kind of newspaper, map, manuscript, business directory, film or photograph one could possibly imagine. Amongst other things. But Solomon Farthing had not come to browse amongst the smorgasbord of the printed word the library had to offer. He had come to dig in the stacks where all the real secrets were held.

  Solomon didn’t bother making for the library’s main entrance. Instead he cut through the dark chasm of the Cowgate, in search of an anonymous-looking metal door beneath the great curve of George IV Bridge. There was one advantage to Edinburgh’s dark passageways, he thought as he hurried along with his head down. They kept the opposition guessing. Not just Freddy Dodds looking for repayment, five thousand and counting. Or his aunt who wasn’t really his aunt pursuing him by proxy until he returned her car. But his adversary, Colin Dunlop, intent on cooking up some sort of Heir Hunter duel: let Solomon Farthing do all the leg work on Thomas Methven (deceased), then ride in at the last to take the glory. Plus commission on fifty thousand in cash, of course.

  The dog scuttled along behind, close to Solomon’s feet as though it, too, wished to avoid being seen. Greyfriars Bobby was only a two-minute walk up Candlemaker Row from where they were headed. Solomon attempted to look inconspicuous as he rapped on the metal door. Freddy Dodds’s spies were everywhere in Edinburgh, one way or another, but it wasn’t too difficult for a man of Solomon’s age and demeanour to go unnoticed in this stretch of the Cowgate. It always had been rolling with men who drank Crazy Jack cider for breakfast and sloped around with dogs on string. Still Solomon was relieved when he heard the familiar screech of metal on concrete as the door was finally opened from the inside.

  ‘Solomon Farthing,’ said the man on the other side, a file of paperwork tucked beneath his arm. ‘Welcome to the Void.’

  Mr Michaels was an Edinburgh Man of a different type from those like Dunlop who wore the suits. He was more on the academic side of the city, hair grown thin and a cycling helmet permanently rattling at his side. Mr Michaels was a member of the National Library’s Collection Support Service. Or a Book Fetcher, as they were more commonly known. He walked miles every day, up the library corridors and down the library stairs, searching out the written word. They were said to be able to navigate in the dark, the Book Fetchers, so familiar were they with the innards of the national collection, even the bits that could only be handled with gloves.

  Mr Michaels had become one of Solomon’s best contacts, ever since their first encounter in that corner of a rambling north-side cemetery where men like them often took their evening walks.

  ‘After the book?’ Michaels had asked, eyes gleaming for a moment in the twilight when Solomon admitted to his nickname, as they stood amongst the graves.

  Old Mortality.

  The man who cleaned the stones.

  After that the innards of the National Library were often placed at Solomon’s disposal. It turned out that Mr Michaels was not only a Book Fetcher, but also an expert of a literary sort, a man who had spent ten years or more failing to complete a PhD on Walter Scott.

  Now, he led Solomon and the dog away from the drunks of the Cowgate and through the slit trench that marked the boundary between the bowels of the National Library and the founding stones of the city’s George IV Bridge. Above them the void soared several floors into blackness. Beneath them their feet traversed the remains of a long-abandoned Edinburgh street. As he followed Mr Michaels, Solomon felt contentment settle on him like dust falling from a mantelpiece. There was no way any of his pursuers could find him in here. Besides, everybody knew that all of the city’s best secrets were hidden in the dark.

  Mr Michaels’s hideaway was on the seventh floor below ground, a cubbyhole in the furthest corner of the stacks. There were no windows to let in the light, only a million pipes running hither and thither above their heads. Edinburgh was warm outside now, but it could be cold as Hades once winter spread itself around. But in here Solomon knew that the curators didn’t take anything for granted. Everything was temperature controlled.

  As he and Mr Michaels made themselves at home, the dog wandered away to dig for treasure of its own, nothing but the sound of its claws tip tapping in some hidden recess the further it went. Mr Michaels leaned against the great metal shelves and nibbled on a forbidden flapjack, while Solomon perched himself on an empty book trolley beneath a sign that declared, Disaster Box. A reasonable summary of his life to date. He took a packet of cheese and onion crisps from his jacket pocket, pulled open the top.

  ‘So what’s the story?’ he asked.

  ‘Your Mr Methven,’ said Mr Michaels brushing flapjack crumbs from his T-shirt. ‘Nothing much, I’m afraid, given the very short time I had to compile it. But a few morsels.’

  ‘Tasty, I hope.’ Solomon stuffed a handful of crisps into his mouth.

  ‘That’s for you to say, isn’t it. I just come up with the facts.’

  Down in the depths of the National Library, Mr Michaels recited the headlines from his report.

  ‘Thomas Alexander Methven. Born in 1920, or perhaps 1921.’

  Two possible lies to begin with, thought Solomon. Not a bad start.

  ‘Died in the Old Soldiers’ Nursing Home in south-east Edinburgh. Birthplace unknown.’

  And two that were true. So a balanced sort of life.

  ‘Came to Edinburgh as a young man. Got a job as a clerk at the Edinburgh Assurance Company after the war. Stayed there his whole life.’

  Acumen and perspicacity. Not to mention a head for figures. Thrift, investment and sound husbandry of money. All the skills Solomon’s grandfather had wanted him to have. All the things he did not.

  ‘How do you know where he worked?’ he said now, spraying a few crisp crumbs down the front of his tweed jacket.

  ‘I checked his war record,’ said Mr Michaels. ‘Turned up on his demob papers. Then I looked in the relevant business directory for the city. Amazing what you can find in there.’

  ‘Don’t suppose there was an address for his parents?’

  Mr Michaels shook his head.

  ‘No sign of that, not mentioned at all. But when he first enlisted he was renting a room down the Canongate, by the old Holyrood Square. Wasn’t that where your grandfather used to have his shop?’

  Solomon licked his palm and wiped it on his trousers.

  ‘Roughly speaking,’ he said.

  Sometimes he wondered if Mr Michaels knew more about his past than he did. Like many of his kind, Solomon had never researched his own ancestors. Family trees were dangerous territory. Why else did Heir Hunters make sure to avoid their own?

  ‘Who did he give as next of kin on his war papers then?’ he asked.

  ‘No one,’ said Mr Michaels. ‘Maybe he was an orphan by then.’

  Like me, thought Solomon, tipping the last of the crisps into his mouth and crumpling the packet. Nothing but a boy adrift in the world.

  ‘He had a house not far from you in later life, though,’ said Mr Michaels.

  In a suburb where all the men had gold-plated pensions and were members of the Probus. For a moment Solomon’s left hand fluttered at the prospect of fifty thousand turning to five hundred thousand between one mouthful and the next.

  ‘Don’t suppose he owned it, did he?’

  Mr Michaels flashed a grin at Solomon as though he knew exactly what the Heir Hunter was thinking.

  ‘Yes. But he sold it about twenty years ago. Used up all the
capital on his nursing home fees, as far as I can tell.’

  ‘So any cash must be more recent, then?’

  Mr Michaels glanced at Solomon. It wasn’t like an Heir Hunter to question where his latest pay cheque might come from.

  ‘If it was on his person when he died, then it’s part of his estate, isn’t it? No questions asked.’

  ‘Just curious.’

  Solomon licked at the tip of each greasy finger. If he was going on a wild goose chase, he wanted to be prepared for the worst. Mr Michaels tapped at the paperwork in his folder.

  ‘Don’t suppose you want to see a picture, do you?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  Solomon levered himself off the book trolley with an eager jolt. He was an old-style Heir Hunter, liked to see who he was dealing with face-to-face if he could. The Book Fetcher turned the final page of his report to reveal a grainy photograph, a man standing amongst an array of roses.

  First Prize.

  Copied from an old edition of the Edinburgh Evening News.

  ‘He was a stalwart of the fruit and veg shows,’ said Mr Michaels, indicating the caption beneath the photograph – Mr Thomas Methven triumphs again. ‘Entered every year.’

  Solomon stared down at the face of his dead client, open like a flower to the sun. A man in his sixties then (as Solomon was now), probably lived a good life and prospered (as Solomon had not). Dead now, though, Solomon thought, reduced to clinker soon enough if that Penny woman from the Office for Lost People got her hands on him, did her job well.

  And yet . . .

  ‘He looks cheerful, doesn’t he?’ said Mr Michaels.

  And Solomon had to admit that Thomas Methven did.

  Mr Michaels flipped the cover of the folder closed. By way of reply, Solomon pulled something from his jacket pocket as though he too was a magician of sorts. He laid it on the edge of the grey metal shelf.