A Prisoner of Birth

by Jeffrey Archer

‘Could you give me a rough estimate, perhaps?’ asked Danny hopefully.

  ‘If the envelope was purchased by a dealer, two thousand two hundred to two thousand five hundred would be my guess; by a keen collector, perhaps as much as three thousand. But should two collectors want it badly enough, who can say? Allow me to give you an example, Sir Nicholas. Last year an oil painting entitled A Vision of Fiammetta by Dante Gabriel Rossetti came under the hammer here at Sotheby’s. We put an estimate on it of two and a half to three million pounds, which was certainly at the high end of the market, and, indeed, all the well-known dealers had fallen out some time before it reached the high estimate. However, because Andrew Lloyd Webber and Elizabeth Rothschild both wanted to add the picture to their collections, the hammer came down for the final time at nine million pounds, more than double the previous record for a Rossetti.’

  ‘Are you suggesting that my envelope might sell for more than double its valuation?’

  ‘No, Sir Nicholas, I am simply saying that I have no idea how much it might sell for.’

  ‘But can you make sure that Andrew Lloyd Webber and Elizabeth Rothschild turn up for the sale?’ asked Danny.

  Blundell lowered his head, fearing Sir Nicholas might see that he was amused by such a suggestion. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I have no reason to believe that either Lord Lloyd Webber or Elizabeth Rothschild has any interest in stamps. However, if you decide to put your envelope into our next sale, it would be featured in the catalogue, and sent to all the leading collectors in the world.’

  ‘And when will your next stamp sale be?’ asked Danny.

  ‘September the sixteenth,’ replied Blundell. ‘Just over six weeks’ time.’

  ‘That long?’ said Danny, who had assumed that they would be able to sell his envelope within a few days.

  ‘We are still preparing the catalogue, and will be mailing it to all our clients at least two weeks prior to the sale.’

  Danny thought back to his meeting with Mr Prendergast at Stanley Gibbons, who had offered him £2,200 for the envelope, and probably would have gone as high as £2,500. If he accepted his offer he wouldn’t have to wait for another six weeks. Nick’s latest bank statement showed that he only had £1,918, so he might well be overdrawn by September 16th with still no prospect of any further income.

  Blundell did not hurry Sir Nicholas, who was clearly giving the matter his serious consideration, and if he was the grandson of . . . this could be the beginning of a long and fruitful relationship.

  Danny knew which of the two options Nick would have settled for. He would have accepted the original offer of £2,000 from Mr Prendergast, walked back to Coutts and banked the money immediately. That helped Danny come to a decision. He picked up the envelope, handed it to Mr Blundell and said, ‘I’ll leave you to find the two people who want my envelope.’

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ said Blundell. ‘Nearer the time, Sir Nicholas, I’ll see that you are sent a catalogue, along with an invitation to the sale. And may I add how much I always enjoyed assisting your grandfather in the building of his magnificent collection.’

  ‘His magnificent collection?’ repeated Danny.

  ‘Should you wish to add to that collection, or indeed to sell any part of it, I would be only too happy to offer my services.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Danny. ‘I may well be in touch.’ He left Sotheby’s without another word – he couldn’t risk asking Mr Blundell questions to which he himself would be expected to know the answers. But how else was he going to find out about Sir Alexander’s magnificent collection?

  No sooner was Danny back out on Bond Street than he wished he had accepted Prendergast’s original offer, because even if the envelope raised as much as six thousand, it still wouldn’t be nearly enough to cover the costs of a prolonged legal battle with Hugo Moncrieff, and if he were to settle the writ before the expenses ran out of control, he’d still have enough money to survive on for a few more weeks while he looked for a job. But unfortunately, Sir Nicholas Moncrieff was not qualified to work as an East End garage mechanic; in fact, Danny was beginning to wonder what he was qualified to do.

  Danny strolled on up Bond Street and into Piccadilly. He thought about the significance, if any, of Blundell’s words ‘your grandfather’s magnificent collection’. He didn’t notice that someone was following him. But then, he was a professional.

  Hugo picked up the phone.

  ‘He’s just left Sotheby’s and he’s standing at a bus stop in Piccadilly.’

  ‘So he must be running out of funds,’ said Hugo. ‘Why did he go to Sotheby’s?’

  ‘He left an envelope with a Mr Blundell, the head of the philatelic department. It will come up for auction in six weeks’ time.’

  ‘What was on the envelope?’ asked Hugo.

  ‘A stamp issued to mark the first modern Olympics, which Blundell estimated to be worth between two and two and a half thousand.’

  ‘When’s the sale?’

  ‘September sixteenth.’

  ‘Then I’ll have to be there,’ said Hugo, putting down the phone.

  ‘How unlike your father to allow one of his stamps to be put up for sale. Unless . . .’ said Margaret as she folded her napkin.

  ‘I’m not following you, old gal. Unless what?’ said Hugo.

  ‘Your father devotes his life to putting together one of the world’s finest stamp collections, which not only disappears on the day he dies, but isn’t even mentioned in his will. But what is mentioned are a key and an envelope, which he leaves to Nick.’

  ‘I’m still not sure what you’re getting at, old gal?’

  ‘The key and the envelope are clearly connected in some way,’ said Margaret.

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘Because I don’t believe the stamp is of any importance.’

  ‘But two thousand pounds would be a great deal of money to Nick at the present time.’

  ‘But not to your father. I suspect that the name and address on the envelope are far more important, because they will lead us to the collection.’

  ‘But we still won’t have the key,’ said Hugo.

  ‘The key will be of little importance if you can prove that you are the rightful heir to the Moncrieff fortune.’

  Danny jumped on a bus for Notting Hill Gate, hoping he’d be in time for the monthly meeting with his probation officer. Another ten minutes and he would have had to take a cab. Ms Bennett had written to say that something of importance had come up. Those words made him nervous, though Danny knew that if they had found out who he really was, he wouldn’t have been informed by a letter from his probation officer, but would have woken in the middle of the night to find the house surrounded by police.

  Although he was becoming more and more confident with his new persona, not a day passed when he wasn’t reminded that he was an escaped prisoner. Anything could give him away: a second glance, a misunderstood remark, a casual question to which he didn’t know the answer. Who was your housemaster at Loretto? Which college were you in at Sandhurst? Which rugby team do you support?

  Two men stepped off the bus when it came to a halt in Notting Hill Gate. One of them began to jog towards the local probation office; the other followed close behind, but didn’t enter the building. Although Danny checked in at reception with a couple of minutes to spare, he still had to wait for another twenty minutes before Ms Bennett was free to see him.

  Danny entered a small, sparse office that contained only one table and two chairs, no curtains, and a threadbare carpet that would have been left orphaned at a car-boot sale. It wasn’t much of an improvement on his cell at Belmarsh.

  ‘How are you, Moncrieff?’ asked Ms Bennett as he sat down in the plastic chair opposite her. No ‘Sir Nicholas’, no ‘sir’, just ‘Moncrieff ’.

  Behave like Nick, think like Danny. ‘I’m well, thank you, Ms Bennett. And you?’

  She didn’t reply, simply opened a file in front of her that revealed a list of questions that had t
o be answered by all former prisoners once a month while they are on probation. ‘I just want to bring myself up to date,’ she began. ‘Have you had any success in finding a job as a teacher?’

  Danny had forgotten that Nick intended to return to Scotland and teach once he’d been released from prison.

  ‘No,’ Danny replied. ‘Sorting out my family problems is taking a little longer than I had originally anticipated.’

  ‘Family problems?’ repeated Ms Bennett. That wasn’t the reply she had expected. Family problems spelt trouble. ‘Do you wish to discuss these problems?’

  ‘No, thank you, Ms Bennett,’ said Danny. ‘I’m just trying to sort out my grandfather’s will. There’s nothing for you to worry about.’

  ‘I will be the judge of that,’ responded Ms Bennett sharply. ‘Does this mean you are facing financial difficulties?’

  ‘No, Ms Bennett.’

  ‘Have you found any employment yet?’ she asked, returning to her list of questions.

  ‘No, but I expect to be looking for a job in the near future.’

  ‘Presumably as a teacher.’

  ‘Let’s hope so,’ said Danny.

  ‘Well, if that proves difficult, perhaps you should consider other employment.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Well, I see that you were a librarian in prison.’

  ‘I’d certainly be willing to consider that,’ said Danny, confident that would achieve another tick in another box.

  ‘Do you have somewhere to live at the present time, or are you staying in a prison hostel?’

  ‘I have somewhere to live.’

  ‘With your family?’

  ‘No, I have no family.’

  One tick, one cross and one question mark. She continued. ‘Are you in rented accommodation, or staying with a friend?’

  ‘I live in my own house.’

  Ms Bennett looked perplexed. No one had ever given that reply to the question before. She decided on a tick. ‘I have just one more question for you. Have you, during the past month, been tempted to commit the same crime as the one you were sent to prison for?’

  Yes, I’ve been tempted to kill Lawrence Davenport, Danny wanted to tell her, but Nick replied, ‘No, Ms Bennett, I have not.’

  ‘That will be all for now, Moncrieff. I’ll see you again in a month’s time. Don’t hesitate to get in touch if you feel I can be of any assistance in the meantime.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Danny, ‘but you mentioned in your letter that there was something of importance . . .’

  ‘Did I?’ said Ms Bennett as she closed the file on her desk to reveal an envelope. ‘Ah yes, you’re quite right.’ She handed him a letter addressed to N. A. Moncrieff, Education Department, HMP Belmarsh. Danny began to read a letter to Nick from the UK Matriculation Board to discover what Ms Bennett considered important.

  The results of your A level exams are listed below:

  Business Studies A*

  Maths A

  Danny leapt up and punched his fist in the air as if he was at Upton Park and West Ham had scored the winning goal against Arsenal. Ms Bennett wasn’t sure if she should congratulate Moncrieff or press the button under her desk to summon security. When his feet touched the ground, she asked, ‘If it’s still your intention to take a degree, Moncrieff, I’ll be happy to assist you with your application for a grant.’

  Hugo Moncrieff studied the Sotheby’s catalogue for some considerable time. He had to agree with Margaret, it could only be Lot 37: A rare envelope displaying a first-edition stamp celebrating the opening of the modern Olympics addressed to the founder of the Games, Baron Pierre de Coubertin, estimate £2,200–£2,500.

  ‘Perhaps I should attend one of the viewing days and take a closer look?’ he suggested.

  ‘You will do nothing of the sort,’ said Margaret firmly. ‘That would only alert Nick, and he might even work out that it’s not the stamp we’re interested in.’

  ‘But if I went down to London the day before the sale and found out the address on the envelope, we’d know where the collection is, without having to waste any money buying it.’

  ‘But then we wouldn’t have a calling card.’

  ‘I’m not sure I’m following you, old gal.’

  ‘We may not be in possession of the key, but if your father’s only surviving son turns up with the envelope as well as the new will, we must have a chance of convincing whoever is holding the collection on his behalf that you are the rightful heir.’

  ‘But Nick might be at the sale.’

  ‘If he hasn’t worked out by then that it’s the address that matters, not the stamp, it will be too late for him to do anything about it. Just be thankful of one thing, Hugo.’

  ‘And what’s that, old gal?’

  ‘Nick doesn’t think like his grandfather.’

  Danny opened the catalogue once again. He turned to Lot 37 and studied the entry more carefully. He was pleased to find such a full description of his envelope, if not a little disappointed that, unlike several of the other items, there was no photograph accompanying it.

  He started to read the conditions of sale and was horrified to discover that Sotheby’s deduct 10 per cent of the hammer price from the seller as well as loading a further 20 per cent premium on the buyer. If he ended up with only £1,800, he would have been better off selling the envelope to Stanley Gibbons – which was exactly what Nick would have done.

  Danny closed the catalogue and turned his attention to the only other letter he had received that morning: a booklet and an application form from London University to apply for one of its degree courses. He spent some time considering the various options. He finally turned to the section marked grant applications, aware that if he did honour his promise to Nick and Beth, it was going to mean a considerable change in lifestyle.

  Nick’s current account was down to £716, with not a single addition to the entry column since he had been released from prison. He feared his first sacrifice would have to be Molly, in which case the house would soon return to the state he’d found it in when he had first opened the front door.

  Danny had avoided calling Mr Munro for a progress report on his battle with Uncle Hugo for fear it would only prompt another bill. He sat back and thought about the reason he had been willing to take Nick’s place. Big Al had convinced him that if he were able to escape, anything was possible. He was, in fact, quickly discovering that a penniless man working on his own was in no position to take on three highly successful professionals, even if they did think he was dead and long forgotten. He thought of the plans he had begun to put in place, starting with tonight’s visit to the final performance of The Importance of Being Earnest. Its real purpose would come after the curtain had fallen, when he attended the closing-night party and came face to face with Lawrence Davenport for the first time.

  44

  DANNY ROSE FROM his place and joined the standing ovation, not least because if he hadn’t, he would have been one of the few people in the theatre who was still sitting. He had enjoyed the play even more a second time, but that was possibly because he’d now had a chance to read the script.

  Sitting in the third row among the family and friends of the cast had only added to his enjoyment. The set designer sat on one side of him, and the wife of the producer on the other. They invited him to join them for a drink in the extended interval. He listened to theatre talk, rarely feeling confident enough to offer an opinion. It didn’t seem to matter, as they all had unshakeable views on everything from Davenport’s performance to why the West End was full of musicals. Danny appeared to have only one thing in common with theatre folk: none of them seemed to know what their next job would be.

  After Davenport had taken countless curtain calls, the audience slowly made their way out of the theatre. As it was a clear night, Danny decided he would walk to the Dorchester. The exercise would do him good, and in any case, he couldn’t afford the expense of a cab.

  He began to stroll towards Piccad
illy Circus, when a voice behind him said, ‘Sir Nicholas?’ He looked round to see the box office manager hailing him with one hand, while holding a taxi door open with the other. ‘If you’re going to the party, why don’t you join us?’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Danny, and climbed in to find two young women sitting on the back seat.

  ‘This is Sir Nicholas Moncrieff,’ said the box office manager as he unfolded one of the seats and sat down to face them.

  ‘Nick,’ insisted Danny as he sat on the other folding seat.

  ‘Nick, this is my girlfriend Charlotte. She works in props. And this is Katie, who’s an understudy. I’m Paul.’

  ‘Which part do you understudy?’ Nick asked Katie.

  ‘I stand in for Eve Best, who’s been playing Gwendolen.’

  ‘But not tonight,’ said Danny.

  ‘No,’ admitted Katie, as she crossed her legs. ‘In fact, I’ve only done one performance during the entire run. A matinee when Eve had to fulfil a commitment for the BBC.’

  ‘Isn’t that a little frustrating?’ asked Danny.

  ‘It sure is, but it beats being out of work.’

  ‘Every understudy lives in hope that they’ll be discovered while the lead is indisposed,’ said Paul. ‘Albert Finney took over from Larry Olivier when he was playing Coriolanus at Stratford, and became a star overnight.’

  ‘Well, it didn’t happen the one afternoon I was on stage,’ said Katie with feeling. ‘What about you, Nick, what do you do?’

  Danny didn’t reply immediately, partly because no one except his probation officer had ever asked him that question. ‘I used to be a soldier,’ he said.

  ‘My brother’s a soldier,’ said Charlotte. ‘I’m worried that he might be sent to Iraq. Have you ever served there?’

  Danny tried to recall the relevant entries in Nick’s diary. ‘Twice,’ he replied. ‘But not recently,’ he added.

  Katie smiled at Danny as the cab drew up outside the Dorchester. He remembered so well the last young woman who had looked at him that way.