The Last Baronet

by Caroline Akrill

  ‘The whole thing was impeccably organised right down to the very last detail. A letter alerted the local police within twenty four hours and I was not called home from college until everything had been tidied away according to instructions. My parents left a lot of instructions. They were extremely orderly people. They liked everything to be tidy and immaculately arranged.’

  But their daughter was not tidy and immaculately arranged. Francis surveyed with his unblinking gaze the pigtail of fair hair secured with an elastic band, the much-laundered shirt that might once have been described as blue, the faded jeans, the scuffed sandals such as a schoolgirl might wear. Most of the young women with whom Francis came in daily contact were of the business management school; girls who had learned to use clothing to project a favourable image, to create an impression of worth, diligence and efficiency. Women clients of the bank invariably dressed with some care for an interview, but not Anna Gabriel. Her garments looked as though they had been thrown onto her person as being the nearest to hand. Certainly they had not been assembled to impress a bank manager, or anyone else, for that matter. Francis pecked at his lower lip. Did this casual attitude to dress convey the message that here was a confident, positive young person who had no need of protective colouring, who could afford to dispense with the conventional camouflage of formal business attire? Or was it simply the outward manifestation of a careless and undisciplined nature? On the other hand, could it be a reaction to an impeccably restrained and painfully immaculate childhood? Had those extraordinarily close parents, those extremely orderly people, found their daughter an unsatisfactory child? If so, how unsatisfactory would a daughter have to be before a mother would choose to die rather than live for her sake?

  ‘The house where we lived was not large, hardly more than a cottage really, but there was over an acre of garden and the situation was suburban; it was a valuable infill site. Outline planning consent for two more houses on the land had already been applied for and granted, and the agent had received his instructions; my parents were pretty keen on instructions, as you will have gathered. Of course,’ Anna continued, ‘I knew nothing of this; it had never been discussed in my presence. It was a carefully planned undercover operation designed to ensure that I would be left well provided for.’ And because Francis Sparrow said nothing, but regarded her in silence, motionless and watchful as a broody hen on a nesting box, she added, ‘I was... I am... the only child. There is no other claim on the legacy. You can speak to my own bank manager. He will confirm that the money is available.’

  But Francis, (professional though he undoubtedly was, and a National Westminster man to the core) was unusually reluctant to anticipate too soon the possibility that a solution to a particularly emotive and tiresome problem may have presented itself, albeit in this somewhat unconventional and unprepossessing form. For he was not without scruple, even where the Rushbroke debt was concerned. ‘Is it your considered opinion, Miss Gabriel,’ he enquired in a careful tone, ‘that it would be entirely sensible to invest this precious legacy; a sum which, if profitably invested could provide you with an appreciable income for the rest of your life, in a speculative venture such as you have described?’

  ‘I am not sure if it is sensible,’ Anna replied with candour. ‘But it is what I intend to do.’

  ‘I see,’ said Francis. ‘But whilst I applaud your resolve, I have also to ask myself if you have fully considered the fact that should you fail in this extremely ambitious exercise, you stand you lose a great deal of your investment; indeed, you may well lose everything you have.’

  ‘I won’t fail,’ said Anna.

  Francis Sparrow placed his brown, bony hands upon his desk and surveyed them carefully, subjecting them to a most thorough and meticulous examination. ‘Miss Gabriel, I would be failing in my duty if I neglected to point out that the statistics for entrepreneurial success in the small business sector are, at the present time, not at all encouraging. The failure rate is alarmingly high. Statistics indicate that fifteen percent of new ventures fail within the first year. In the second year the current failure rate is twenty percent, and in the third year a further thirty percent fail. Of the survivors, in the present economic climate, less than fifteen percent will still be in business by the end of the fifth year.’

  ‘I am not interested in statistics,’ said Anna. ‘I do not intend to fail, but if I do, I ask you to consider that it will be my investment that will be lost, not yours. Your investment will be safe because my money will have restored the property. At the end of the day you will have gained a sound and saleable asset on which to recoup the debt.’

  ‘I am not,’ said Francis with severity, ‘looking at your proposal exclusively from our viewpoint. I am obliged to examine it from both sides. I may be employed to act in the best interests of the National Westminster Bank, but I also have a moral responsibility to consider the possible consequences for the second party.’

  ‘I am not asking for your moral consideration,’ said Anna. ‘I’m simply asking for a year of grace on the Rushbroke overdraft.’

  ‘And I am asking you to consider, Miss Gabriel, that for the sum of eight hundred and fifty thousand pounds, perhaps for considerably less, you could purchase a moderately sized hotel, already well established, in a satisfactory state of repair, with a track record of profitability, and by doing so, save yourself much anguish.’

  Anna sighed. ‘I could,’ she allowed, ‘but I most certainly won’t.’

  ‘Furthermore,’ continued Francis is a severe tone, ‘the conversion of a vast and ruinous country house into an hotel is a mammoth undertaking. It requires expertise and experience. A veritable army of builders, electricians and plumbers will have to be employed. You will need a clerk of works, possibly even an architect. Because it is a listed building, English Heritage will have to be involved. This is not a project to be tackled by an amateur.’

  ‘I am not intending to do the work myself!’ Anna protested. ‘I shall employ experience! I shall pay for expertise!’

  ‘You will need to organise the decor, you will need furnishings and catering equipment; you will need to engage staff. The grounds are exceedingly neglected; you will need gardeners. Have you considered the responsibilities involved? Do you have any idea of the enormity of what you are proposing to undertake? Have you calculated, with any degree of accuracy, how much this vastly ambitious enterprise will cost?’

  ‘Not yet,’ Anna admitted. ‘I wanted to talk to you about the Rushbroke borrowings first.’

  ‘You will need to obtain permission from the council for change of use. Your application may be refused. You will require a licence in order to serve alcoholic refreshment to your guests. It may not be granted.’

  ‘I also require help and support from the bank,’ Anna snapped. ‘It looks as though I won’t be getting that either!’

  They faced one another across the desk, their body language signalling mutual dissatisfaction. It seemed to Anna that the interview was doomed to end in failure. In weary resignation she picked up her shoulder bag from the floor. She said ‘Mr Sparrow, may I ask if this is a gender issue? If I had been a man and arrived in a pinstripe suit with a briefcase and good shoes, would the outcome have been different? Would you have taken a more positive view?’

  Francis Sparrow sat back in his chair. He folded his arms. His expression was sombre.

  ‘Without wishing to be in any way personal, you are not the only one to have formed opinions during this interview,’ Anna said. ‘I am of the opinion that whilst you are almost certainly blinkered in your view, and unbelievably circumspect, you are not a stupid man.’

  Francis found it necessary to rearrange himself in his chair. He opened a drawer in his desk and began to rustle about amongst the contents like a blackbird in a pile of leaves.

  ‘In fact,’ Anna was warming to the attack. ‘You are obviously good at your job. You are intuitive, intelligent and sharp. You must want to recoup the Rushbroke borrowings, and I would hope that
you would want to achieve it is a less painful manner than having to evict the family from a house they have owned through six generations. I must be correct in assuming that?’

  ‘Indeed.’ Francis produced from the drawer a pair of large, round spectacles and arranged them on his nose. ‘Yes, indeed.’

  Oh God, thought Anna, I am a companion to owls. Nevertheless, ‘So you can hardly fail to recognise that what I have to offer is a virtually foolproof way to recover your money? A year of interest-only payments followed by a suitably negotiated repayment scheme, or alternatively, if things go wrong, the sale of a vastly improved and renovated property? It seems to me to be an entirely reasonable request.’

  ‘It may be reasonable,’ said Francis. ‘But is it sensible?’

  ‘Bugger sensible,’ said Anna.

  In the small silence that followed Francis had regarded her speculatively through the owl glasses. Now, somehow, a notepad had appeared in front of him, a pen was in his hand. He appeared, if not exactly officious, much more professional; suddenly, he looked like a man ready to do business. ‘Then let us have your cards on the table forthwith, Miss Gabriel,’ he said briskly. ‘Favour me, if you will, with a brief outline of your proposaI. Present to me the salient facts of the matter. Tell me, in as few words as is humanly possible, everything I need to know – and by everything,’ he added severely, ‘I do mean everything. Do I make myself clear?’

  Somewhat taken aback by the turn of events Anna put down her shoulder bag. ‘Haven’t I already....?’

  ‘No. You have not. Most certainly you have not. I need to be informed of your immediate plans. I need to know how you intend to set about this gargantuan endeavour. I need you to explain your modus operandi.’

  ‘Well, I...um...’ Having gained the upper hand momentarily, Anna now found herself wrong-footed. You sneaky little bastard, she thought, then, ‘ ...I’ll renovate the central part of the house to start with. That will provide an entrance hall, a dining room, a lounge and a library for guests. On the first floor there will be four en-suite rooms for guests. I shall need to attend to the kitchen area of course, but the rest of the house, the two wings, I plan to refurbish gradually out of income. I need to be open for business as soon as possible, so that by the time the house is completely converted and refurbished, I shall already have an established reputation and a regular clientele.’

  ‘Hopefully,’ interjected Francis, making a note on his pad.

  ‘Definitely. And speaking of expertise’ (never mind that they were not, at this point, speaking about expertise at all) ‘One question you have failed to ask, Mr Sparrow, is what particular skills I, myself, can contribute to the success of this enterprise.’

  Francis made another note. ‘And what are these particular skills that I have neglected to enquire about?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m a chef,’ said Anna, and this being no time for false modesty, ‘I am fully trained and qualified and I’m a very good chef, an excellent cook, and I truly believe I have the potential to be a brilliant one. I also believe that good food and extreme comfort in tranquil and beautiful surroundings cannot fail.’

  Francis had no cause to doubt her qualifications, nor her sincerity, however, ‘What of the Rushbrokes themselves,’ he enquired. ‘What of the family? Might you not find them slightly... problematical?’ Francis chose his words with care, his bright eyes fixed upon her face. ‘Locally, I am aware that they have an unfortunate reputation for eccentric behaviour and, should they remain in residence, might they prove something of an embarrassment? Might they perhaps constitute and actual impediment to your plans?’

  Francis did not fail to register the time it took Anna to compose her reply, neither did he miss the rising flush to her cheeks, nor the slight edge of anger to her voice, try as she might to conceal it.

  ‘Mr Sparrow, at this moment there is only one impediment to my plans, and that is yourself,’ she said steadily. ‘The family will not embarrass me. I want to do this, Mr Sparrow, for my sake and for their sake, and even, if you will only allow it, for your sake. But I will not be patronised, and I am not dependent on your goodwill! I shall not be stopped in this. I do mean to go ahead with my plans. I shall do it!’

  ‘Will you, indeed,’ said Francis in an interested tone, ‘and may I enquire how you propose to proceed without the cooperation of the bank?’

  ‘I shall take out my pen and here and now write out a cheque in full and final settlement of the Rushbroke debt!’ Anna said furiously. ‘And the first thing I shall do after leaving the National Westminster Bank will be to walk straight through the door of Barclays!’

  ‘Barclays,’ said Francis in a thoughtful voice. He adjusted his spectacles slightly. His mouth twitched. ‘I see.’

  ‘I don’t think you see at all!’ cried Anna. ‘I don’t think you want to see! I don’t think you have the slightest intention of helping me, Mr Sparrow; I think you are wasting my time!’

  ‘As you are most certainly wasting mine!’ said Francis sharply. ‘Because I see more than you realise, Miss Gabriel; and what I do see, is that there is more to this proposition than you have revealed; there is more to it than meets the eye; there is some other consideration, some more important consideration, that you have so far omitted to mention; there is, Miss Gabriel, a raison d’etre!’

  Anna sat back in her chair. ‘I am not altogether sure that I know what you mean,’ she said faintly.

  ‘On the contrary, Miss Gabriel, I think you know exactly what I mean and, as neither of us is desirous of wasting even more of our most valuable time, I suggest you supply the missing information forthwith!’ In one swooping movement, Francis removed his spectacles, replaced them in the drawer and banged it shut.

  Anna contemplated him in silence. She had not intended to tell him. She had hoped it would not be necessary. But now she knew it was necessary and, rather to her surprise, now that it came to it, she did not mind nearly as much as she had expected. Somehow she knew, without any doubt, that this odd, clever little man would respect her confidence, that she could trust him. For the first time since the start of the interview, Anna Gabriel smiled, and Francis Sparrow relaxed into his chair and smiled his own beaky little smile and they had, at last, the measure of one another. ‘Now,’ said Francis with satisfaction. ‘Tell me.’

  Anna told him. And Francis gave her the whole of his attention, and whilst he listened he surveyed the young woman with the slate blue eyes and the pigtail, warming to her steady gaze, aware of her rather sharp floral scent; Jasmine? Lily of the Valley? (Francis was a Floris man himself and quite at home with a fragrance, although he was, naturally, unaware of Anna’s phobia about the smell of fish). And as she reached the end of her story he thought that, reckless, idealistic and hopelessly optimistic she may be, and most probably doomed to failure and disappointment in so many ways; but brave, he thought admiringly, most uncommonly brave indeed and, God help her, she will need to be.

  ‘And so, Mr Sparrow,’ Anna said at length, ‘now that I have told you everything, now that my cards are all on the table, am I to be granted my year of grace?’

  ‘Miss Gabriel,’ said Francis with dignity. ‘I am pleased to inform you that, subject to your concurrence with certain terms and conditions, the nature of which will shortly be manifest, you most certainly are.’

  EIGHT

  Mrs Maitland-Dell stood in the cemetery beside a hedge of shaved Cupressus Leylandii looking at the newly erected polished granite headstone, dabbing at her eyes with a small handkerchief embroidered with a C for Clarissa.

  Harry Featherstone, chauffeur, gardener, handyman, and wearing a black tie for the occasion, stood with his head suitably bowed and his peaked cap clasped in front of him in an attitude of the very deepest respect. ‘Now, don’t you go upsetting yourself again, Madam,’ he warned. ‘Otherwise you’ll get one of your migraines and then where will we be? It don’t do to take on so, and it won’t make any odds to Freddie now, will it? It won’t alter nothing at all. It won’
t bring him back.’

  ‘Losing Freddie has broken my heart,’ said Mrs Maitland-Dell. ‘Freddie was my first and greatest love. He was my best friend. We understood one another, Freddie and I. No words can express how much I miss his devoted companionship; his warm, loving and generous nature.’

  ‘We shall all miss old Freddie,’ agreed Harry. ‘It was a very sad day when he passed away, very sad indeed.’ Although he knew, of course he knew, that the recently departed had been cantankerous and bad-tempered and universally loathed by all who knew him.

  ‘We were never apart, Freddie and I,’ said Mrs Maitland-Dell, ‘never; not for a single day. I shall never forget him. I shall mourn him for the rest of my life.’

  ‘And so shall I, Madam, so shall I,’ said Harry Featherstone stoutly. After all, it was hardly the moment to admit that he had distrusted Freddie, and had been somewhat afraid of him at times, and was most heartily relieved to be shot of him at last.

  ‘This has been an extremely traumatic time for me, Harry. I am crushed and anguished by sorrow, and my poor, grief-stricken heart is broken in two. But I have the family to consider, and I must carry on for their sake,’ Mrs Maitland-Dell swallowed bravely. ‘I must count myself fortunate to have so many wonderful memories of Freddie; I must be eternally grateful that he left me so much to remember.’

  ‘There is that indeed, Madam. Memories can be a great consolation.’ In particular, Harry remembered the deceased’s rotten teeth and halitosis and how, when he had his portrait painted, the artist had tactfully hidden away his mouth in his moustache.

  ‘I do believe they have made a most skilful and artistic job of the engraving.’ Mrs Maitland-Dell leaned forward to touch, with a small, black-gloved hand, lilies and acanthus leaves painstakingly carved out of the black stone and miraculously coloured in white and green.

  ‘That’s very nice indeed, Madam,’ said Harry Featherstone warmly. ‘A very beautiful touch, if I might say so. Very tasteful. Would you be wanting to place the wreath now?’