The Shadow in the North, Page 7

  "So the legal threat is a bluff?"

  "I suspect so. But there are other ways of injuring you, my dear, than by taking you to court, which is why I urge you again: take care."

  "Yes. I will. But I'm not going to stop looking into his affairs. He's up to something wrong, Mr Temple. I know he is."

  "You may well be right. Now, I don't want to keep you, but there's a Mr O'Connor here who's been left a thousand pounds. Shall I send him along to you, so that you can tell him how to turn it into something more?"

  At the same time, in the financial heart of the City, the ex-Cabinet Minister Lord Wytham was sitting in a corridor outside an imposing office, drumming his fingers endlessly on his silk hat and getting to his feet every time a clerk came around a corner or out of a door.

  Lord Wytham was a handsome man, but with that doe-eyed, distinguished, masculine beauty we only see these days in photographs of middle-aged male models. On a real face, it looks like weakness. When Frederick had seen him the evening before, his first impression had been of a gnawing anxiety, and if he'd seen him now that would have been intensified. His fingernails were bitten to the quick. His large dark eyes were red-rimmed, and his grey moustache was ragged from where he'd chewed it. He couldn't sit still for more than a minute; if no one came along the corridor he'd get up anyway and stare sightlessly at one of the prints on the walls, or out of the window overlooking Threadneedle Street, or down the marble staircase.

  Finally a door opened and a clerk came out.

  "Mr Bellmann will see you now, my lord," he said.

  Lord Wytham snatched his silk hat from the chair, picked up his stick, and followed the clerk through an anteroom and into a large and newly-furnished office. Axel Bellmann got up from behind his desk and came to shake hands.

  "Good of you to come, Wytham," he said, motioning him to an armchair. "Curious evening at Lady Harborough's, was it not?"

  His voice was deep and almost unaccented, his face unlined, his blond hair thick and straight. He could have been any age between thirty and sixty. Like his office, he had a factory-finished look about him, being large and smooth and heavy - but it was the smoothness of machined steel, not of pampered flesh. His prominent eyes were direct and disconcerting. They gave no hint of mood, humour or temper; they rarely blinked, yet they weren't dead; they were electrically intense.

  Lord Wytham found himself looking away and fiddling with the rim of his hat. The clerk offered to take it for him, and Wytham handed it over. Bellmann watched as the man placed it on the hat-stand and went out; then he turned back to Lord Wytham.

  "Lady Harborough's," he prompted. "Interesting evening, no?"

  "Ah. Chap disappearing like that. Yes, indeed."

  "Do you enjoy the performance of magic, Wytham?"

  "Can't say I've had much experience. . ."

  "Really? It is interesting to watch, I find. Perhaps you should have watched more closely."

  If that was a curious way of putting it, Lord Wytham did not notice. His eyes, dark and bloodshot, darted around the room as if he was unwilling to look Bellmann in the face.

  "Well, now," said Bellmann, after a few seconds of silence. "Perhaps you are wondering why I invited you to visit me this morning. I understand you have been dismissed from the Cabinet."

  Lord Wytham's face became a shade darker.

  "The Prime Minister - er - wished to redistribute the portfolios among . . . ummm. . ." he said, faltering.

  "Yes. You were dismissed. So now you are free to take an active part in the world of business, is that not so?"

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "There is no impediment now to your becoming the director of a company?"

  "Well, none. Except. . . No, none. I don't understand, Bellmann."

  "Evidently not. I shall explain more fully. I know your financial position in detail, Wytham. You are in debt to the extent of nearly four hundred thousand pounds, because of a combination of foolish investments, bad management and incompetent advice. There is no prospect of your paying it back, especially since you have no job now that you are out of Government, so you are considering bankruptcy as a final option. Of course, that will mean every kind of disgrace. Let us look for a moment at your assets: they consist almost entirely of your London house and your estate. But they are both mortgaged, are they not?"

  Lord Wytham nodded. How did the man know all this? But he was too sickened to protest.

  "And then there is your daughter's property," Bellmann said. "I understand she owns land in Cumberland."

  "Eh? Yes. That's right. No good to me though. I can't touch it - I've tried. Some kind of entail; mother's side of the family, property tied to her, that kind of thing. Mines, and so forth."

  "Graphite."

  "Is it, by Jove. Something to do with pencils, I know that."

  "Her mines have a monopoly of a certain pure form of graphite."

  "Wouldn't be surprised. My agent in Carlisle sees to it. Done it for years. They make pencils with the stuff. But there's no money in it; no way out there. . ."

  "I see," said Bellmann. "Well, there is no use my asking what you intend to do. It's plain you have no idea." Lord Wytham began to protest, but Bellmann held up his hand and went on: "Which is why I asked you here this morning. I can offer you a position as director of a company I have set up. You are no longer in the Government, but your contacts in Whitehall will be of considerable use to me. I shall not be paying you for any business ability you possess, for you have none. The fees you earn as director will be related to the connections you have in the Civil Service."

  "Connections?" said Lord Wytham faintly.

  "With officials in the Board of Trade and the Foreign Office. To be precise, in the matter of export licences. You know the gentlemen concerned, no doubt?"

  "Oh, yes. Of course. Permanent Secretaries, and so forth. But--"

  "I do not expect you to exert influence; you would not be able to. You supply the contacts, and I shall supply the influence. That settles the matter of your income. There remains the problem of the debts. You will not pay those out of a director's fees, I regret to say. However, there is a solution. I wish to marry your daughter."

  It was such a startling thing to hear that Lord Wytham thought he was mistaken, and merely blinked. Bellmann went on:

  "It has been my intention for some time now to choose a wife. I have seen your daughter, and she will please me. How old is she?"

  Lord Wytham swallowed. This was preposterous, it was insane. Damn the man! How dare he? Then came a consciousness of the catastrophe hanging over him, poised like a wave, and he sank back in the chair, helpless.

  "Seventeen. I - Mr Bellmann, you know my position. . . I--"

  "Quite as well as you. Probably better, since you are incompetent where money is concerned, whereas I am not. You have a month to find three hundred and ninety thousand pounds. And you will not find it. I cannot imagine what you will do. Your credit is exhausted."

  "I - Mary is - please, Mr Bellmann. If you could see your way to. . ."

  He faltered, having genuinely no idea what he was going to say next. Bellmann sat still, watching him closely with those wide electric eyes. Then he said:

  "You understand what I am saying. Your daughter Lady Mary will suit me very well. When we are married I shall make you a payment of four hundred thousand pounds. Three hundred and ninety will cover your debts; the other ten thousand is in consideration of the expense you will be put to to organize the wedding. I think that is quite clear."

  Lord Wytham was breathless. He had never been so dazed in his life since falling once, while hunting, and being knocked unconscious; it was the same sensation now - that of coming into unexpected collision with something much bigger and more powerful than himself. It hurt almost physically.

  "I - most persuasively put. Interesting proposition. Have to speak to my lawyer, naturally. I--"

  "Your lawyer? What for?"

  "Well, this is a family matter - my lawyer will
have to examine the proposal. You must see that."

  His brain had started to work again. It was like a fall; you were dazed, and then you found your bearings. And he saw now that if Bellmann was willing to part with four hundred thousand, he might well disgorge more.

  "Yes, I see," said Bellmann. "You want to make a little more, and you think your lawyer better able to get it than yourself. You are undoubtedly right. How much more were you thinking of?"

  Again a fall. Bellmann was too strong, too quick; it wasn't fair, Lord Wytham felt. . . But what should he say now? Back off, and he'd look weak; ask for too little, and he'd lose a fortune; ask for too much, and he'd lose everything. His mind scurried like a rat across a line of figures ending in a row of noughts.

  "I have to . . . protect myself," he said cautiously. "The estate. The house in Cavendish Square. It all costs. . . Without any capital, I. . ."

  Bellmann said nothing. He wasn't going to help. Lord Wytham took a deep breath.

  "Two hundred and fifty thousand pounds," he said. It was half the figure he would have liked to ask.

  "Very well," said Bellmann. "That sounds satisfactory to me. We agree that the value of your daughter is six hundred and fifty thousand pounds. I shall pay you a cheque for fifty thousand pounds when the betrothal is announced; that will take care of the most pressing debts and be an earnest for the rest. The remainder of the first figure we agreed, namely three hundred and fifty thousand, will be paid on the morning of the wedding. The extra amount, the two hundred and fifty thousand, will be paid the morning after, subject to my satisfaction with Lady Mary's condition. Do I have to make that any clearer?"

  That was the hardest fall of all, and this time the horse had trampled him into the ground. Bellmann was saying that if Lady Mary was not a virgin, there'd be no extra money. Lord Wytham felt ill, and heard himself whimper; this was too cruel, too shameful, too much to bear. . . People shouldn't act like this. . . Beaten, dazed, he could hardly think, he felt so confused.

  "You will want to speak to my daughter," he said faintly.

  "Of course."

  "If. . . If she should. . ."

  "If she should refuse?" said Bellmann.

  LordWytham nodded. He couldn't say it.

  "If she should refuse my offer of marriage then of course I would respect her wishes. The matter must be entirely her own choice. Do you not agree?"

  "Oh, by all means." Lord Wytham's voice was hardly audible. He knew what was meant.

  "Then, with your permission, I shall call at Cavendish Square on Friday morning to put my proposal to Lady Mary. Today is Tuesday. Three days."

  Lord Wytham swallowed. In each of his long-lashed eyes there was a tear.

  "Yes," he said hoarsely. "Of course."

  "Then that is agreed. Now to some business. We shall draw up the contract for your directorship over the next day or so, but in the meantime I shall tell you a little about the company you are joining: I think you will find it interesting. It is called North Star, Limited."

  Bellmann bent to take some papers out of a drawer, and while he was looking away Lord Wytham brushed his hand across his eyes. His dismissal from the Cabinet had hurt, but these twenty minutes with Bellmann had taken him beyond pain into a region he'd never dreamt of, where decency and dignity and fairness were blown away like dead leaves. How could he have known that, before the morning was out, he'd have sold his own daughter - and sold her, what's more (like a flush of poison, the guilty thought) for so much less than he might have done? Suppose he'd asked a million?

  But he wouldn't have got it. Bellmann knew everything; he'd never beat a man like that. Lord Wytham felt as if he'd sold his soul, and found (with the rest of eternity to think about it) that the price he'd got for it was no more than a mouthful of ash.

  Bellmann spread out some papers on the desk. Lord Wytham composed his weak, handsome face into an expression of interest, and leant forward, trying to listen, as Bellmann began to explain.

  Chapter Eight

  DECLARATION OF WAR

  Jim's latest melodrama, The Vampire of Limehouse, had been sent back from the Lyceum Theatre with a note from someone called Bram Stoker, the manager. "What d'you reckon, Mr Webster?" he said. "Does he like it, or does he think it's a load of cobblers?"

  Webster Garland took the letter and read it aloud:

  "'Dear Mr Taylor, Thank you for letting me see your farce The Vampire of Limehouse. I regret that the company's programme is full for the next two years, so we are unable to consider it for production. However, I thought it had an unmistakable vigour and life, though I feel that vampires, as a subject, are played out. Yours, etc. . .'

  I don't know, Jim. At least he took the trouble to write."

  "Perhaps I ought to go and read it to him. He probably missed half the good bits."

  "Is that the one with the bloodsucking warehouseman and the barge full of corpses?"

  "Yeah. Farce, he called it. It's a bleedin' tragedy, that one. Farce, my arse. . ."

  "Bleeding's the word," said Frederick. "It's thick with gore from start to finish. It's not a play - it's a black pudding."

  "You can laugh, mate," Jim said darkly. "I'll make me fortune yet. I'll have me name in lights."

  "Liver and lights, if that play's anything to go by," Frederick said.

  It was Wednesday morning, and the shop was busy. Solemn Mr Blaine, their manager, and the assistant, Wilfred, were serving customers who wanted to buy chemicals or cameras or tripods, while the refined Miss Renshaw, at another counter, dealt with appointments for portraits and other commissions. As well as them, the staff consisted of Arthur Potts, a cheerful middle-aged man who loaded the cameras, arranged the studio, carried the equipment when they went out, developed and printed, and helped Frederick make any items that couldn't be bought; and there was a dim boy of Jim's age, called Herbert. They'd taken him on as a general assistant, and found he was hopeless - slow, forgetful and clumsy. But he was the kindest soul in the world, and neither Frederick nor Sally nor Webster had the heart to get rid of him.

  As Frederick stood at the back of the neat, prosperous-looking shop, with its busy staff and growing reputation, its well-furnished studio and its air of efficiency and optimism, he thought back to the day Sally had first arrived: diffident, nervous, and in deadly trouble. Frederick had been in the middle of a blazing row with his sister; the place was shabby, half the shelves were empty, and ruin was getting closer by the day. But with the help of a series of comic stereographs which sold surprisingly well, they had managed to keep afloat; and when Sally was able to put some money into the business, they began to prosper. They'd given up the stereographs now; the market was diminishing, and cartes-de-visite (small portraits) were the thing these days. But they were running out of space. Soon they'd have to extend the premises, or even open another branch.

  Frederick felt for his watch, cursed as he remembered that Mackinnon still had it, and looked up at the clock over the counter. He was half-expecting Sally to call; he had the feeling that she was planning something she hadn't told him about, and it worried him.

  The manager was at the counter, writing an order for photographic paper. Frederick went up to him.

  "Mr Blaine," he said, "Miss Lockhart hasn't been in this morning, has she?"

  "No, to my regret, Mr Garland," came the mournful tones of Mr Blaine. "I wanted to engage her in discussion as to the desirability of hiring some kind of clerical help. I fear that our friend Herbert is not greatly gifted in that department, and everyone else is fully occupied already. What is your feeling on the matter?"

  "Good idea. But where would this clerking go on? There's no room to swing a cat in the files room, though I dare say you could skin one in there if it didn't wriggle. We'd need a desk. And a typewriting machine - they're all using 'em now."

  "Yes. . . It may be, Mr Garland, that an enlargement of the premises would be called for."

  "Funny. I was thinking the same thing only a minute ago. But look here -
I'm going out now. If Miss Lockhart comes in, talk to her about it. And give her my love."

  He went to fetch his coat, and caught a train to Streatham.

  Nellie Budd was feeding her cats. Each of them, she explained to Frederick, was the reincarnation of an Egyptian Pharaoh. The lady herself was as earthy as he remembered: deep-bosomed, sparkling-eyed, and given to glances of frank admiration at what she'd no doubt call his manly form.

  He'd decided to be open from the start.

  "Mrs Budd," he said once they were seated on a comfortable sofa in her parlour, "the other night I came to a seance in Streatham and took a photograph of you. What you get up to in the dark doesn't concern me in the least, and if your friends are gullible enough to fall for it, that's their look-out. But it's a nice photograph; there's a false hand on the table, a wire going to the tambourine, and what your right leg's doing I hardly dare think. . . In short, Mrs Budd, I'm blackmailing you."

  She grinned at him roguishly.

  "Go on with you!" she said. Her voice had a touch of the north in it - whether Lancashire or Yorkshire he couldn't say, since it was smoothed and refined and stagey as well. "A handsome young man like you! You wouldn't have to blackmail me, dear - just ask nicely. What d'you want?"

  "Oh, good. I wasn't really going to anyway. I'm interested in what you said in your trance - your real trance. Can you remember what it was?"

  She was silent a moment. Her eyes looked troubled, and then it passed and they sparkled again.

  "Lord," she said, "you're asking now. That was one of me turns, wasn't it? I've been having me turns for years now. That's what put meon to the medium game - that and Josiah, me husband as was, God rest him. Conjuror, you know. He taught me tricks as would amaze you. So when it comes to rattling a tambourine and squeezing hands in the dark, Nellie Budd's got few equals, though I say as shouldn't."

  "Fascinating. You're good at avoiding questions, too, Mrs Budd. What about these turns of yours?"

  "Frankly, love," she said, "I haven't the faintest idea. I come all over swimmy and swoony and a minute or two later I come to meself again, but I don't remember what I say. Why?"

  Frederick found himself liking her. He decided to show a bit more of his hand.

  "Do you know a Mr Bellmann?" he said.

  She shook her head. "Never heard of him."