Copper, Gold and Treasure

by David Williams

  ‘Bully for him,’ said the Major.

  ‘Her—it’s a woman, Florence Spotter, spinster, aged sixty-five, granddaughter. Writes and illustrates children’s books. Can’t do anything by herself, of course.’

  ‘And the others?’

  ‘There’s Everard Crow-Patcher, great-grandson. Won’t budge. Middle-aged, divorced, re-married—an American woman older than himself and probably for her money. She didn’t have any. They can’t wait for the Trust to be wound up.’ This slanderous summary was uttered without emotion. ‘Then there’s Stephen Spotter, also a great-grandson and nephew of Florence’s. Bit younger than Crow-Patcher. Last heard of years ago working for a bank in Hong Kong. Doesn’t answer letters. May not get them, though they haven’t been returned. We keep trying.’

  ‘He could be on our side,’ the Major put in, conscious the odds were less than even in the circumstances. ‘There’s someone else who’s against?’

  ‘Prudence, unmarried daughter of Rudyard himself. Aged eighty-six. Florence Spotter lives with her in Surrey. Looks like a bit of Balkan royalty and behaves like it.'

  ‘And she’s in favour of closing the clubs her father founded. What good can the money do her?’ Benny found the filial disloyalty hard to credit.

  Miff shook his head. ‘She’s convinced she’s doing the right thing.’ Suddenly he looked up with the most ingratiating of smiles. ‘Isn’t that so?’

  Miss McSlope, the object of the question, had entered with a tray of coffee cups in time to be included in the last exchange. ‘Miss Rudyard considers it her bounden duty to follow her father’s wishes in all things,’ she said.

  ‘That’s why she didn’t run off with a chauffeur in 1914, or so they say. Never regretted it, apparently,’ Miff put in gratuitously.

  ‘We may still hear from Stephen Spotter,’ Miss McSlope continued, disclosing she had been following the rest of the conversation through the partition wall. ‘Miss Rudyard interprets her father’s intentions as clear from the Trust Deed.’ She put the tray in front of Miff and returned to the outer office. Benny followed her movements and words with deepening respect.

  Miff coughed. ‘Miss Rudyard really is immovable.'

  ‘She is exceedingly old,’ ruminated the Major.

  ‘Oh, she could outlast us all, I assure you. In any case we’re nearly over our time limit already. Our financial year ends next month. The new balance sheet will show a loss for a third year in a row. And that’ll be it . . .'

  ‘Unless Mr Spotter turns up.’ Benny had no difficulty remembering the name. He and Rachel had once had a dearly loved mongrel terrier with bow legs called Spotter. ‘He might be on our side.’ The dog had been the friendliest of creatures.

  ‘Wouldn’t necessarily alter the picture.’ Miff took a sip of coffee, swallowing it as though it came in large lumps. ‘If the residual beneficiaries—that’s the family members— aren’t of one mind, the Trustees won’t consider promoting any Parliamentary Instrument. They’ve said so.’

  There was a pause. ‘Could you give us the address of the two ladies? Oh, and Mr Crow-Patcher?’ asked the Major with a supporting nod from Mr Gold. Miff looked hesitant. ‘We could look them up, of course.’

  The Director reached for pen and paper, scribbled some words, and handed the paper to Copper, all Buddha-like, without disturbing his head or trunk. He gave a deep sigh.

  ‘You’ve mentioned four descendants. Are there more?’

  Miff looked at Copper indicating he wished the question hadn’t been put. ‘Marmaduke had two sons and three daughters. Both sons killed in the First War. Both unmarried. Mary, the oldest child, married a Percival Crow-Patcher. He eventually became a General. They had a son and a daughter, both dead. The son was Everard’s father.’ He dropped his voice. ‘The daughter, Fay, black sheep of the family. Died in Switzerland, 1961.’ The last fact was uttered as though to provide final proof of waywardness. ‘Prudence Rudyard was her aunt, but they were nearly contemporaries, very close apparently till Prudence saw the light.’

  ‘After not running away with a chauffeur in 1914?’

  Miff nodded at Benny. ‘They say Fay did run off with a stockbroker in 1920. Prudence won’t enlarge. Says Fay was disowned.’

  While he was speaking, and with some dexterity, Miff had removed a small silver flask from a side-pocket presumably hoping the object was hidden from view in his podgy right palm. Next, shielding his cup behind his left forearm he began shifting, his gaze between his two companions like some spectator at a tennis tournament. Then, with only a momentary glance at the cup, he poured a liberal dose of whatever liquid was in the flask into his coffee, snapped back the silver top, and slowly returned the vessel to his pocket.

  There was a moment’s silence. If it was apparent to the two astonished observers that Miff had just laced his coffee with alcohol, Miff himself was wholly determined not to acknowledge the fact. He glanced once more from Copper to Gold, then back again, before raising the cup to his lips and taking a long draught.

  ‘And Mr Rudyard’s other daughter?’ It was Benny who spoke.

  ‘Victoria, the middle one, born 1887,’ Miff replied with exaggerated bonhomie. ‘She married the Reverend George Spotter, an Evangelical Anglican of no distinction, in 1910. Daughter Florence you know about. Son Michael killed in ’41. Wife dead too . . .’

  ‘The parents of the missing Stephen?’

  ‘Quite right, Mr Gold.’ He blinked, then stifled a yawn. ‘If only Miss Rudyard and Mr Crow-Patcher could be persuaded to alter their views,’ Copper offered ruminatively.

  ‘Not a possibility, I assure you.’ Miff’s eyes had half closed. ‘Good of you to take an interest. Don’t know what to do for the best. Bad day.’ He shook his head sharply. His eyes opened, then closed again. ‘Damned pills don’t help.’ He was breathing heavily. Grunts began juddering the hefty frame. The mouth and chinfolds beneath had become fixed in a sullen pout.

  It was 11.06 a.m. and Clarence Miff had gone to sleep—without, of course, having given a direct answer to the Major’s key question.

  CHAPTER 4

  ‘MIGHT BE SOME KIND OF SLEEPING SICKNESS,’ said Benny Gold charitably. He and the Major were seated side by side in the subdued interior of Le Café Américain, Victoria Street, awaiting delivery of their modest orders.

  It had been Benny’s idea—tentatively offered—that they should take an early lunch together, ahead of the office workers.

  Major Copper shook his head. ‘Saw a good deal of sleeping sickness in West Africa before the War. More likely some metabolic imbalance.’

  ‘Oh,’ Benny murmured: he hadn’t heard metabolic imbalance mentioned in Open University broadcasts so far. ‘Miss McSlope said it wasn’t serious if he does as he’s told.'

  ‘Like give up booze, perhaps. She was pretty close about it, didn’t you think?’

  ‘Very loyal. That’s nice these days. She said he shouldn’t drink when he’s on pills.’

  ‘Puts him to sleep. We could see that.’

  ‘It’s what the row was about when he went out for the whisky.’

  ‘Our whisky,’ the Major put in pointedly. ‘He had his own.’

  ‘You figure he was tipsy all the time?’

  ‘Yes,’ came the flat answer. ‘Well, perhaps that’s unfair. But didn’t it strike you he was when he arrived? Thought it was rummy the way he kept moving about. Works off the effects. In his case keeps him awake as well. Curious the way some of them can sound sober. What he was telling us was perfectly clear. Hardly justified the journey, of course.’

  ‘An alcoholic. “The heredity factor is now considered key in the incidence of alcoholism.’'

  ‘ It was something he had memorized from the ‘Developments in Medical Science’ Series. The Major failed to react to this snatch of higher wisdom. ‘Explains why he’s got such a lousy job. Can’t pay much,’ Benny added.

  ‘Probably explains the pills. Part of a cure. They say boozing runs in families.’

  Benny
let it pass. ‘Poor geyser. Educated man. Professional qualifications and coming down in the world. Get a nose for that sort, cabbies do. Dress the part but three eyes on the clock and bad tippers.’ Perhaps he shouldn’t have said that. He picked up the menu. ‘Prices are very reasonable. We could have chocolate gateau for afters. My treat.’

  ‘No, we said we’d go Dutch.’ The Major smiled. ‘I’ll bet they don’t get chocolate gateau at Rudyard Clubs, Mr Gold.’

  ‘Do me a favour? Everyone calls me Benny. Short for Benjamin.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Funny giving us the whole story like that. Makes you feel responsible.'

  ‘Involved. Must have been his interview with the bank manager. Needed to unburden to someone, not just McSlope.’ He cleared his throat. ‘My name’s Roderick.'

  ‘Oh. Well it’d be nice to help ’em out in some way . . . er, Roderick. Imagine, there’s two hundred old gents going to be turned out in the street.’

  ‘It won’t be like that. They’ll have to make provision. But in the long term you’re right, Benjamin.’ The Major disliked diminutives. ‘It’d be good to take the initiative . . .’

  ‘Grasp the nettle.’ Benny found he enjoyed being addressed by his full name: only his mother had ever called him Benjamin.” ‘Show officer-like qualities they used to say in the RASC.’ His gaze became pensive behind the rimless glasses he had put on to read the menu. After a moment he sighed and gazed about the room. In his mind he had been to El Alamein and back. ‘Nothing we can do to raise half a million, of course. Need a Monty for that—a Field Marshal, Lord Montgomery. There was a leader. Served under him in the Western Desert.’

  Through the vagaries of army postings the Major had never seen combative service in the whole of his military career. It seemed incredible but it was a fact. He had even volunteered for especially hazardous duties. Somehow he had always proved unsuitable or ended up the officer surplus to requirements—through twenty years in the infantry, a period which had included a quite lengthy World War.

  Say what you like, it had certainly affected his career prospects. It was the reason, he believed, why he had never had any real career prospects. Yet here was Benjamin Gold, cab-driver, who could say he had served as an officer under Monty in North Africa.

  Indisputably, Major Copper would enjoy showing initiative rescuing two hundred old gentlemen . . . ‘There’s something he could do about it.’ He had spoken almost involuntarily, pointing to the picture of François Cruba he had noticed earlier on the front page of The Times.

  The ex-President of Ngonga had been photographed opening a children’s playground in South London. The Chairman of the Race Relations Committee was standing beside him.

  Benny read the caption. ‘He’s loaded, huh? He gave the money for the playground?’

  ‘It wouldn’t have cost that much.’

  ‘It says the Local Authority gave the land. The ex-President provided the equipment. So he gets the credit. Smart. Good for business—whatever his business. He’d help the Rudyard Trust?’

  The Major frowned. ‘I know a bit about Cruba. Been giving his son Pierre extra tuition in maths. A Crammer in Park Crescent. They give me odd jobs.’

  He’d been lucky to get that one—called in when the intended tutor had gone sick. Then he and the boy had clicked so he had been asked to carry on. It had meant two hours’ work every Saturday for six weeks. ‘Never met the father. He’s very involved with charities.’

  ‘Public benefactor. Maybe he’s a tiny bit Jewish.’ Benny’s quip only half registered.

  ‘Sounds unkind but he goes for the most noise and the smallest donation.’ Copper hesitated to add the information had been volunteered by Pierre Cruba.

  ‘Tight with the wad?’

  ‘In some ways. The tuition for his son, that was different. The Crammer’s one of the best. Expensive and difficult to get into. The tutors are very well paid,’ he continued ruefully. ‘When there was doubt about their fitting in Pierre at short notice I gather Cruba came round offering to buy the place. The whole College. Wrong thing to do, actually.’

  ‘In England you don’t try so hard.’ Benny put in knowingly.

  The Major nodded. ‘Still, illustrates my point. He’ll shell out on things that matter to him.’

  ‘But you don’t think he’d cough up half a million for an old gents home.’

  ‘He’s got the money. He’d need to know the cause was going to be popular.’

  ‘Showy.’ Benny was looking again at The Times front page.

  ‘Yes. It would have to be good for his public relations.’ He recalled why the phrase came so easily to mind. ‘Of course, he’d do a lot for his son.’

  His companion wasn’t sure where the train of thought was leading. ‘You mean we could get at him through the boy?’

  The moustached upper lip did its involuntary twitch. ‘Something like that. It might be worth a try. Then again, we mustn’t forget the Trustees.’

  ‘You got the name and address. Special kind of bank.'

  ‘The Trustee Department of a Merchant Bank. Pretty remote sort of bunch, I’d expect. Not involved. Probably do everything by the book’— exactly what the Major had been doing all his life. ‘Ought to try them first, I suppose,’ he added instinctively.

  ‘Without letting on to Mr Miff?’

  ‘That way he can’t be blamed.’

  ‘I’d rather go for Prudence and Florence.’

  ‘Oh, them too. All in good time.’

  ‘Right you are, Roderick.’

  ‘Tally-ho, Benjamin. Ah, here come the omelettes.’

  At two-thirty the next Monday, Copper and Gold were seated with Happy Brown at a table in the brightly furnished main office of Happy Public Relations Ltd. With trepidation the Major had telephoned Miss Brown late on the Friday afternoon. On the strength of their brief acquaintance he had asked if she would help with composing a letter he and his friend Mr Gold wanted to send to a merchant bank.

  Miss Brown had come fresh from organizing a successful lunch and press conference for an important client. She had been in the mood for good causes. After hearing the Major out she had asked a great many questions, complimented him and Mr Gold on their enterprise, promised to help, turned down the offer of a fee, and arranged the date. They had been relieved about the fee.

  ‘See if this fits,’ said Happy, handing them copies of a draft letter. She was elegant and businesslike in a dark brown cashmere sweater and tweed skirt in a lighter shade. The sweater was V-necked, the sleeves pushed back. The slim hands and wrists were unadorned, like the shapely neck. She carried her head high. Her hazel eyes were wide and intelligent. Her hair she wore to shoulder length in loose, natural waves.

  ‘I’ll read it out if you like,’ she added as both men reached for their glasses.

  Benny Gold was delighted to study and listen to the beautiful Miss Brown. The Major still put on his glasses—to see her better.

  ‘ “Dear Mr Edwards . . .” ’

  ‘Who’s Mr Edwards?’ asked Benny in surprise.

  ‘He’s in charge of the Trustee Department at Grenwood, Phipps.’

  ‘You knew his name,’ said Copper admiringly.

  ‘After I’d rung them and asked for it.’

  ‘Makes a difference. Adds authority.’

  ‘Professional touch,’ confirmed Benny.

  The two nodded at each other.

  ‘ “Dear Mr Edwards, I am writing on behalf of FORT, which stands for the Friends of the Rudyard Trust.” ’ She looked up. ‘I think that sounds quite well, don’t you?’ There was no hint of dissent from the awed, assembled Friends.

  ‘ “FORT,” ’ she continued, ‘ “has appointed me as Honorary PRO and invited me to tell you about its aims.” Paragraph.’ She cleared her throat.

  ‘ “At the outset, my clients want to stress they are acting on their own initiative without involving the Trust’s management, employees or resident members. Simply, they know about the problems which face the Trustees and wish to
offer their help in avoiding closure of the Rudyard Clubs.” ’

  Happy paused again to invite comment. She received only approving expressions.

  ‘It goes on: “Specifically, FORT will be prepared to raise funds, organize petitions, lobby members of Parliament, contact opinion-formers, arrange press, radio, and television coverage, and generally assist the Trustees in their admirable commitment to have the Benefactor’s instruction to wind up the Trust set aside by Parliamentary Instrument.

  ‘ “FORT will, of course, seek immediate support for its aims from all Marmaduke Rudyard’s descendants . . .” ’

  ‘I don’t think they’re exactly committed. The Trustees, I mean,’ the Major interrupted belatedly. ‘Mr Miff said they mentioned it some time ago—and only informally.’

  ‘Exactly, but they damned well ought to be committed,’ Happy rejoined. ‘The purpose of all that waffle is to wake them up. Make them realize they have a hot public issue on their plates—that they’d better decide now to get on the side of the angels.’

  She smiled at Benny of the cherubic countenance. ‘We know they’d move if all the Rudyards backed them. We need them to move with— ’ she referred to her notes— ‘with Florence Spotter alone, if necessary. By the way, we’ll need to have known from Miss Spotter about their inclination to move at all, not from Mr Miff. You’ve arranged to see her next week. Make sure you clear that with her. In case they ask. I think that protects everybody.’

  ‘Yes. That’s what I think too,’ said Benny earnestly. The Major nodded agreement.

  ‘There’s a bit more.’ Happy read on: ‘ “Following the receipt of some formal acceptances we shall shortly be sending you the list of prominent public figures who have consented to serve on the Council of FORT . . .” ’