A pause while he re-consulted his crib and then, using Maynard’s pen this time, he inscribed a second endorsement, immediately below the first, in a slow, painstaking imitation of Maynard’s script and turn of phrase.
‘To Jarret and Son, Bnkrs. Chardwell:
On demand pay Mr Yuart the value embodied in this bill less discount of one per cent, the said bill, when minuted, to be retd, to me at Loxe Mill, as holder payable in due course.’
Underneath this false endorsement Charles then wrote the false signature: ‘Thos. Maynard of Loxe Mill.’ Lastly, to complete the false transaction, he endorsed the bill yet again, in his own name, as current payee.
His task ended, he sat back and lit a third cigarette. His hands were shaking badly; there was sweat on his upper lip; and the tightness in his chest was now severe. To calm himself, he inhaled the smoke deep down into his lungs and let it out very slowly, eyeing his handiwork all the while. He had committed a forgery but had not yet uttered it. There was still time for him to draw back. But even while he sat and smoked and weighed the alternatives, this way and that, he knew he would not draw back now. For one thing, it meant destroying the bill, with all the complications involved in informing Francus Warde of its loss. No, the act must be completed, otherwise production at Hainault would soon come to a standstill, and his future there would be imperilled. All because of some scare in the City which would, no doubt, be all over in a week or two, like so many others that he could recall.
Furthermore, this forgery was merely the means of effecting a loan, but without the lender’s cognizance. Maynard would have his money back as soon as Warde’s acceptance matured and that would be in ninety days. The chance of his ever discovering the deception was so remote that it could easily be dismissed. He rarely visited the bank now. If he wished to know how his credit stood, he asked Charles to obtain a note of it when he was there on the mill’s business, and, Loxe Mill credit being always in a highly satisfactory state, the requests were few and far between. As for the mill’s official audit, that was still a long way off.
Charles, all in all, was pleased with himself. A man whose livelihood was seriously threatened must use whatever means came to hand if that livelihood was to be protected. He was reasonably calm now. He had done what he knew he had to do and this had brought a sense of relief. He stubbed out his cigarette and dealt with the papers on his desk. The Warde acceptance he returned to his notecase, and this he returned to his breast pocket. He took up the sheets of paper on which he had practised his forgeries and burnt them in the fireplace; also the top page of his blotter and the contents of his ash-tray. By now it was nine o’clock; he lit the gas and turned it up; returned Maynard’s pen to its proper place, and sat down again at his own desk. He took the mill’s order-books from a drawer, together with the day’s correspondence, and applied himself to the day’s business. There was nothing unusual in his staying so late at the office. Running two mills meant a great deal of work and often he was at one or the other until ten or eleven o’clock.
The following morning, at Coulson’s Bank, he sat again in the manager’s office, and again the Francus Warde acceptance lay on the desk between them.
‘If you will turn it over, Mr Harriman, you will see that I have taken your advice and applied to my partner for assistance. He has agreed to discount that bill for me with a draft on the Loxe Mill account at Jarret’s.’
‘Ah, yes. Yes, indeed.’ Mr Harriman, having read the endorsements on the back of the bill, laid it down again, well pleased. ‘How very satisfactory,’ he said. ‘The brotherhood of the trade, eh? One clothier helping another. I am delighted, Mr Yuart, as I’m sure you must be. Mr Maynard is a sound man. No one could hope for a better business associate, as I’m sure you’ll agree, and it is obvious from this that he in turn must have come to value you very highly during your three years of partnership.’
‘I think I can safely say that we have a good understanding, he and I, based on mutual respect and interdependence.’
‘Quite so. And what better basis could there be on which to found such an understanding?’
‘Do you wish me to wait while you send across to Jarret’s?’
‘That will not be necessary. Mr Maynard’s signature is guarantee enough for me.’
‘In that case, as my balance with you is now in credit, I assume that I may have the use of it without any further delay. For one thing, while I am here, I will draw cash for the Hainault wages, which will save me coming in again tomorrow.’
Mr Harriman, far from demurring, accompanied Charles out to the public area of the bank; chatted to him while he drew his cash; and instructed a runner to carry the bags of coin out to Mr Yuart’s horse. He and Charles then shook hands. The status quo ante had been restored.
Driving away from the town, Charles congratulated himself. His stratagem had worked well. Hainault was safe. He could breathe again. His only remaining anxiety lay in watching for the Warde acceptance when it arrived at Loxe Mill. As it transpired, he had not long to wait, and luckily, when the post came, he was alone in the office. The envelope, bearing the Jarret insignia, was easy to identify. He extracted it from the pile of letters and put it into his pocket, where it remained until late that night, when, alone in his office at Hainault, he could safely open it. The trade bill, duly minuted, with the second endorsement officially marked ‘Paid As Directed’, had in addition, pinned to it, a separate docket with the written instruction: ‘Return to Mr Thos. Maynard at Loxe Mill, near Patesbridge, as holder payable in due course.’
Charles put the bill and docket together into his notecase, which he always carried everywhere, safe in his inner breast pocket. Just how he would deal with the bill so that, on maturity, it would repay Maynard’s ‘loan’, Charles had not yet decided; but as Maynard himself also did business with Francus Warde, and had acceptances in his name lodged at Jarret’s, it should be easy enough to arrange. Anyway, he told himself, he had almost ninety days in which to solve that small problem. At present he had more urgent matters on hand: two busy mills to manage and a so-called crisis threatening the country’s trade. He had sailed in these troubled waters before; he must steer a more careful course this time if Hainault was to weather the storm.
He had paid off his overdraft and was in credit to the tune of two thousand pounds, and Coulson’s now, he was confident, would discount future acceptances for him without any quibble. They would not, however, allow him the use of any further overdraft; nor could he hope to borrow elsewhere; and this just at a crucial time when Hainault cloth was in such demand! All of which meant that he and his clerk would have to put their heads together to ensure that Hainault’s limited resources were put to the best possible use.
The crisis, he found, was real enough; and soon, with the Bank Rate fixed at ten per cent, its effects were felt throughout the country. All along the Cullen Valley, frightened clothiers were reducing production, and Thomas Maynard was one of them.
‘I’ve been reading the London papers and I don’t like the look of it. It’s even causing trouble in Europe and it seems we’re in for a rough ride.’
Charles, though he knew that Loxe Mill finances were founded as though on solid rock, agreed to Maynard’s proposed reductions without question, because less work at Loxe meant more time for him to spend on his own affairs at Hainault. There, for the time being at least, production went on as usual, for Charles, taking advantage of his fellow clothiers’ nervousness, had bought their ‘surplus’ stocks of wool, some of it the finest merino, which they let him have at bargain prices. Furthermore, these clothiers ‒ Sidney Hurne was one of them ‒ had agreed to issue trade bills giving him credit of six months, thereby showing, he thought with contempt, that they trusted his handling of the present crisis but not their own.
So, the Hainault looms were as busy as ever, and his cloth, both worsteds and superfines, was leaving the mill as soon as it was ready. True, his buyers, such as Francus Warde, were also asking for long credit, bu
t this he could well afford to give. ‘Whatever you make, I will take,’ Warde had said to him, earlier; and his trade bills came back, signed in acceptance, as promptly as they had ever done. Altogether, the present situation, so alarming to the timid, was turning out pretty well for Charles; but this fact he kept to himself and, following the wisdom of the prophet, told it not in Gath nor in Askelon. Whenever Maynard asked him how he was faring at Hainault these days, Charles always made the same reply: ‘Oh, we are just marking time, that’s all, like everyone else just at present.’
‘Very wise,’ Maynard said. ‘You can’t be too careful at times like this.’
Within another few weeks, it appeared that the worst of the crisis was past. The newspaper pundits predicted that the Bank Rate would soon return to normal, and with it, little by little, the life-blood of the country’s commerce would begin flowing freely again.
Charles, as he read, smiled to himself. Not only had he weathered the storm but the ill wind had blown him some good; all because he had kept his head and maintained a firm grip of the wheel. This was what he said to himself, sitting at his desk in the Hainault Mill office, as he laid the newspaper aside and turned his attention to the morning’s post. The pile of letters, opened by his clerk, lay ready for him to read; all except one on top of the pile, which remained sealed in its envelope, this being very clearly inscribed: Private and Confidential.
This letter, Charles found, was from the office of Francus Warde and Son, cloth merchants of Brigg Street, London, but was written by a firm of accountants, informing all who might be concerned that the said Francus Warde and Son, having found themselves unable to meet their financial obligations, had declared their condition to the Court of Equity, and that the said court had appointed Messrs Smith and Gray, accountants, of 12, Market Row, London, to act as Receivers.
Mr Yuart, as a creditor of the firm of Francus Warde and Son, was invited to submit details of all transactions he had had with the said firm, stating the value thereof, and to state the value of any trade bills held by him against payment in the name of the said firm. The writer added that it was his duty further to inform Mr Yuart that Messrs Netherton and Phillips, solicitors and Notaries Public, had issued a statement to the effect that trade bills and all other acceptances signed by Francus Warde in recent months were invalidated and would not now be honoured, etc., etc..
Charles stared at the letter in disbelief and for some seconds was utterly numb, divorced from thought, feeling, and consciousness, as though by the effects of ether. When the letter slid from his grasp, the sudden movement startled him, for his nerveless fingers had loosened their hold without the knowledge of his brain. At the same time he became aware that his clerk, Preston, across the room, was looking at him in concern.
‘Is anything wrong, Mr Yuart, sir? Have you had bad news?’
‘Yes, I have had bad news,’ Charles said, and it took all his self-control to utter these words without choking. Abruptly he rose from his desk. He picked up the letter again, folded it quickly and noisily, and thrust it into his pocket. ‘News that means I have to go out.’
‘Shall I send word to the stables, sir?’
‘No, no. I’ll go myself.’
His one idea was to get away; to be alone in some quiet place, where he could recover himself, safe from inquisitive eyes; where he could think without interruption and weigh the gravity of his position in the light of this disaster. Within a short time, therefore, he was well away from Hainault, riding along the narrow lanes between Brisby and Cowle, ascending gradually until he came out on to the open slopes of Brisby Common. There he dismounted and sat down on a slab of rock. He took out the letter and read it again, though its words and their meaning were clear enough, and were already incised upon his mind.
No amount of close study could alter the facts contained therein, nor reduce their significance. The Francus Warde acceptance, by means of which he had ‘borrowed’ nine thousand, five hundred pounds from the Loxe Mill account at Jarret’s Bank, was now worthless. Worthless, too, were a number of other Warde bills discounted for him by his own bank in sums totalling another four thousand pounds at least. Together with the wool-bill which he had delayed paying at Loxe, and other bills from local tradesmen, his debts at Hainault were now immense. Furthermore, there was a risk that the method by which he had transferred money from Maynard’s account to his own might now be exposed, bringing his probity in question, since his motives were bound to be misunderstood.
Rack his brains how he might, there were only two possible solutions to his problem: one, if he could borrow enough money to make good his peculations; the other, to throw himself on Maynard’s mercy, requesting time to pay his debts, little by little, out of Hainault’s future profits. Either way, he needed to act; it was no earthly use his skulking here; and so, still sick in the stomach, he re-mounted his horse and rode back down the lanes till he reached the main road to Chardwell.
Throughout the morning, and for part of the afternoon, he went from one place to another, desperately seeking a loan; and everywhere he received the same answer, couched always in the same brusque terms used by his friend and solicitor, the first of those on whom he called.
‘Yuart, I don’t understand you. To expect a loan at a time like this, when the country is only now emerging from one of the worst financial crises of the century! I don’t know what trouble you’re in, but whatever it is I cannot help. No, I will not listen to you! You may promise what interest you like but promises are not security and without security, as you surely must know, you cannot possibly hope to borrow such a considerable sum. You will only be wasting your time if you try.’
And so it proved, with every money-lender in Chardwell itself and with three more in Sharveston. Charles endured insolence and impertinence; even derision; but still he returned to Hainault empty-handed. Only one course remained: he would have to see Maynard; but still he delayed doing this, telling himself that first he would write to the bankrupt Warde’s receivers, demanding that all stocks of Hainault cloth be returned to him immediately, so that he could sell it elsewhere.
But he had barely crossed the threshold when his clerk handed him a copy of The Chardwell Gazette, which carried, on the front page, a full report of Warde’s collapse. Therein it was stated that Warde’s warehouse at Friary, London, had been found to be completely empty; that Warde had, some weeks before, sold all the cloth in his possession at knock down prices and had used the money thus quickly raised to dabble in risky speculations. Almost all of it had been lost and it was feared that Warde’s creditors ‘would be lucky to receive two pence in the pound’.
In addition to the newspaper, Preston handed Charles two notes, both of which had been delivered by hand. The first was from Maynard, asking Charles, in a terse sentence, to come at once to Loxe Mill. The second was from Mr Harriman, asking him to come to the bank. Obviously, both men had read about Warde in the newspapers; and Maynard, having done business with Warde, would that morning have received a letter from the accountants, as Charles had done.
Charles sat down and scribbled an answer to Maynard: ‘Busy at present. Will come when I can.’ He wrote in similar vein to the bank. He then wrote a brief note to his wife, saying that, as he would be working extra late that night, he would probably sleep at the mill. Having sent these three notes off by messenger, he asked for a fresh horse to be saddled for him, and immediately went out again, chiefly because he was afraid that Maynard might come looking for him. There was nothing he could do; only postpone all confrontations for as long as possible, in the desperate, irrational hope that something miraculous would intervene to save him from ruin.
Katharine, receiving her husband’s message, found nothing in it to make her anxious. He quite often slept at the mill and always kept a change of clothes there. Dick, however, when he got home, found his father’s message disquieting, for he had seen the day’s papers and knew of Francus Warde’s collapse. Mr Bonnamy had drawn his attention to the news item
, asking if his father would suffer by it. Dick thought it only too probable and had asked permission to leave the office early that day. His chief concern was for his mother and it was some relief to him that as yet she knew nothing about it.
‘You are home early today,’ she said. ‘Why is that?’
‘I have an important errand to do, over at one of our building-sites. I came to tell you I should be late and not to keep supper for me.’
On this pretext he left the house and walked over to Newton Railes, to discuss his anxieties with Martin. Martin, as it happened, had been in Chardwell that afternoon and had found the whole town alive with talk concerning the Warde debacle.
‘I went to see you at Bonnamy’s but you had already left. Does your mother know about Warde’s collapse?’
‘No, not yet. My father sent word to say that he was busy and wouldn’t be home tonight, but she sees nothing untoward in that. And so far she has heard nothing of it from the neighbours.’ Dick paused. His young face was pale with worry. ‘I wish I knew what was happening. Warde was my father’s biggest buyer. He’s bound to have been affected by this.’
The Old House at Railes: A heartwarming rags to riches Victorian family saga Page 41