by Roy Lewis
‘Marjie mustn’t know,’ repeated Prudhoe stubbornly. ‘If the police don’t find this . . . this swine, she’ll be told, as soon as he knows the police are looking for him.’
‘All right,’ considered Peter. ‘Your only other course is to await developments — and think about who this blackmailer could possibly be. What about Miss Varley?’
‘Please!’
It was quite remarkable the way that Prudhoe sprang to the girl’s defence. It was obvious to Peter that the most positive result of the liaison had been that the girl had generated a certain affection in Prudhoe; an affection that might be overridden by his regard and fear for his wife, but which nevertheless prevented him from harbouring any suspicion that the girl herself might be trying to cash in further on the affair.
‘Well, who else would be likely to know enough about the matter to be able to blackmail you?’
‘Hell, I don’t know! We were careful. London trips were usually business trips. I don’t recall seeing anyone we knew. Around here, we usually went to pretty lonely spots. It had to be that way.’
‘No jealous boy-friends of Miss Varley who might be getting their own back?’ Prudhoe’s cheeks wobbled when he shook his head.
‘Shouldn’t think so. Susan tended to play the field. We had this . . . arrangement, but there were others. I don’t think I was cutting anyone’s throat. As I said . . . it was just an arrangement, a business arrangement if you like, between the two of us.’
Peter shrugged.
‘Well, Mr Prudhoe, I suggest you wait for a while and hope this blows over. But as soon as you hear from this person — I hope you don’t, but if you do — get in touch with me at once. We’ll take it from there. In the meanwhile, try not to worry.’
Though that, he knew, was easier said than done.
Prudhoe agreed to leave the letter in Peter’s custody. Peter stared at it curiously for a while. He wondered whether it was an isolated case — or whether there was more of it going on. It looked pretty amateurish, really. The paper was of quite good quality, though of a kind commonly sold in most stationery shops. The use of a typewriter wasn’t too clever because that could conceivably be traceable.
He pushed the letter inside a file cover and marked it with Prudhoe’s name. He’d better not let Betty have the handling of that file. It would have to join the files which he kept separate from the general office folders. There were a number of stories in those files which could cause problems if they were to be casually glanced at by an office girl.
Even by Joan.
He dismissed the thought of Joan from his mind and attended to the papers on his desk. He worked through till lunch-time before he came up against a problem that was going to require some thought. It would seem that one of the big oil companies had lent money to a local garage to enable them to expand their premises some years before. As part of the agreement there had been a clause tying the garage to supplying only that oil company’s petrol. The garage proprietor wanted to know whether he was bound by this tying agreement — now that the price war was hotting up and he could get more favourable terms from another supplier. Peter was pretty sure that he had read something about such clauses recently in the law reports. He’d have to think about it. Over lunch.
He decided on a quick snack at the Bull. Perhaps it was the chatter in the smoke-room which prevented him from concentrating, but he was unable to recall precisely the case he wanted. He’d have to look it up when he got back. And that would mean a bit of digging. He’d often enough had cause to rail against the inefficiency of a legal system that based its law on statutes that ran back to the twelfth century, and court decisions that may or may not have been published according to the whimsical decision of a court reporter as to whether the case was important or not. When one allied to this the fact that it was not difficult for a solicitor or counsel to miss an important reported decision in an abstruse problem, it was hardly surprising that the Court of Appeal and House of Lords had more on their plates than they could digest, and that laymen (as well as lawyers) called for law reform.
What was that case he and John had spent so much time on last year? Ah, yes: Old Fletcher, at the farm in Cardington — he had bought 70 ewes on hire-purchase from a finance company, sold them to his son without disclosing the facts of hire-purchase, then defaulted on his payments. The problem was that when the finance company took back the ewes, lambing time had come and gone — and there were then 67 ewes and 74 lambs. John and Peter had to convince the court that the lambs belonged not to the finance company but to young Fletcher. It was Peter who went burrowing back into Blackstone, and it was John who had triumphantly prepared the brief for counsel, drawing the distinction between a sale and a lease: for the hire-purchase agreement was classified as a lease. They’d convinced the court: Fletcher had to relinquish the ewes, for they were ‘leased’ and therefore owned by the company, but could hang on to the lambs — for they were ‘owned’ by Old Fletcher when he’d sold them to his son. But the time they’d spent on that one and the agonies they’d gone through delving into Roman and Roman-Dutch law . . .
And he remembered the cry of delight from Jeannette when Fletcher’s wife had come round at Christmas with the fowl and the wine. ‘For winning that there case for us . . .’
Peter realised with a start that since ten o’clock that morning his mind had dwelt neither on Jeannette, nor Billy Sneed, nor the Gaines trust.
Nor on Shirley.
He took his time going back to the office.
The sun was warm on the back of his neck; the girls were in light summer dresses. It was all so normal — apart from the occasional glance that came his way. It could have been the discolouration of his face that drew their eyes, but he was inclined to guess it was more than that. They knew him by sight, or knew of him.
In a couple of weeks he would be out of this town.
And away from Shirley.
He ran up the stairs to the office. He slumped in a chair and phoned upstairs for the 1965 and 1966 Law Reports. The junior informed him that Mr Daly was using them. Peter hesitated; it might be quicker to ask John first — he might well remember the case. He rang through to John’s office. Penny, John’s secretary, answered.
‘Oh, Mr Marlin, he’s just on the way down to you. He should be there by now.’
As if on cue, John Sainsby tapped and entered the room.
‘Ah, John, come in — just the man I want to see! I’m stuck on a reference: wasn’t there a case on solus agreements recently, last two years or so? Tied garage — mortgage—’
John Sainsby’s narrow eyes were thoughtful; he stroked his precise moustache with a delicate hand.
‘The Harper case,’ he murmured. ‘Garage owner tied to one petrol supplier for twenty-one years, the supplier making a loan secured by mortgage and repayable over that period. Now then . . . the House of Lords held that the tying clause was unreasonable and oppressive — not a reasonable protection of the supplier’s interest. Harper’s could redeem the mortgage and be free of the tie, but would remain subject to the tie until such time as they did redeem. Why? You have something similar?’
Peter explained briefly.
‘Ah-uh,’ commented John, looking pleased with himself. ‘That’s the one — I think you’ll find the details in the ’67 All ER Esso Petroleum Co. Ltd., v Harper’s Garage (Stourport) Ltd.’
‘Can’t tell me the page?’ commented Peter in amused tones.
‘I’m sorry, no,’ replied his partner. He seemed hardly aware of Peter’s amusement, and from the look on his face it would seem that he was already grappling with some other problem. It soon came out.
‘Stephen came in to see you this morning, didn’t he — about the partnership?’
Peter nodded and told him what had happened. John shook his head.
‘You should have got more than that. I recommended—’
Loyalty to Stephen made his voice die away, but it was a loyalty that caused him some anguish, obviou
sly. He couldn’t look Peter in the eye: Peter had been his partner too, and they had had more in common than John and Stephen, in spite of the blood tie. Even so, over the years, John had become accustomed to being overruled and guided by Stephen and it was perhaps too late to change now.
‘You haven’t told Stephen yet,’ said Peter quietly.
‘That I’m leaving? No.’
‘When are you going to tell him? You haven’t changed your mind?’
‘No, I’ve not changed my mind. I’ll be telling him soon — it’ll have to be soon anyway.’
‘I don’t follow you.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ shrugged John.
‘I still think you’re nuts — and Stephen will use harsher words. He’ll have told you that he’s expecting to be — ah — elevated, as he puts it.’
‘Yes. I’m pleased for him. It’s what he wanted.’
‘He won’t have much time for the firm then.’
‘He’ll get a couple of assistants, no doubt. Some youngsters who’d love to sit under a title.’ John brushed nervously at some non-existent fluff on his dark grey suit. ‘Did I see Mr Prudhoe in the office? What did he want?’
‘Baring his soul,’ sighed Peter. ‘He’s in trouble.’
‘What kind?’
‘Blackmail.’
The room was suddenly still. John’s eyes flared and he went pale.
‘He — he showed you a letter?’
In surprise, Peter tossed him the Prudhoe file which still lay on his desk.
‘Yes — it’s in here. Take a look. Not very pleasant.’
Sainsby seemed unwilling to touch it. With a distinct effort he opened the file and extracted the letter. He read it briefly, then seemed to pull himself together somewhat. He thrust the letter back and closed the file.
‘Nasty,’ he commented.
‘Makes you wonder,’ said Peter thoughtfully, watching John with care. ‘This town, what is it, 40,000 people? Less, I imagine. Yet there could be a murderer here. And it would seem now a blackmailer too.’
‘I don’t like the offence of demanding money by threats,’ said John slowly. ‘In my opinion it’s the most despicable of crimes.’
‘You’ll see plenty of it at the Bar.’
John Sainsby shook his head.
‘No, I shall stay in the Chancery field. I’ve already written to Lincoln’s Inn. Have you decide what you’ll do when you leave?’
‘Not yet. Take a holiday, perhaps. It’s a long time since I’ve had one.’
‘Yes . . . I haven’t even asked how you are after the attack the other night.’
‘Fine — you’ll have got the details of the story from the others.’
‘It’s all around the town,’ John said. ‘You’ve no idea who your assailant was?’
‘None.’
John looked unhappy and began to walk to the door; halfway there he stopped and looked nervously to Peter.
‘Do you mind if I — take another look at that Prudhoe letter? Take it upstairs with me?’
‘No, sure, take it — but for God’s sake don’t mislay it. And if you get any ideas, let me know.’
‘Ideas?’
‘About the blackmailing swine who wrote it, of course.’
It wasn’t until after John had left with the letter that Peter realised what the expression on John’s face really signified.
He was frightened.
* * *
Mrs Gaines sat in the window seat overlooking the lawns and flowerbeds at Greygables. It had been a summer day like this when William had died; she remembered the spreading honeysuckle against the south wall, and the hum of bees — they were the first realities that had returned to her after the initial shock of the news.
It was such a long time ago.
He would have coped so much better than she; he would have been able to manage the family affairs so much more efficiently, he would have been able to talk to Sam, reason with him, form his character in a way that she would never be able to do.
Mrs Gaines sighed. She knew she was regarded as an extremely capable woman and she supposed she was, but it had been a strain — it was still a strain — attempting to shoulder the burdens alone. If only William had lived. If only—
She saw Sam stroll across the lawn; his hands were deep thrust in his pockets, his shoulders bowed as he looked down to the turf, his fair hair falling over his eyes. Was she too lenient with the boy? If she had been stricter he might have been less inclined to waste his time at the country club and car rallies, gallivanting all over the two counties, keeping all hours. She might then have been able to avoid the terrible incident last year, when Sam had collided with that other young man late one Saturday night — there had been trouble over that, they had taken him to the police station for beating the other man severely. They agreed that he had been provoked, but she felt that it was out of respect for her that they had finally brought no charges against him. That, and the fact that the other man was a local thug, a known trouble-maker. But they had hinted that the man — no, she wouldn’t think that, or accept it. It was Sam’s love of cars that was half the trouble. One of these days he’d kill himself in a car: she’d often told him that, cynically, but in the quiet of the night, in her bed, it caused her a real fear.
He was all that was left to her since William died. He was her only son. And she was worried about him. He had a happy, quick disposition normally, but of late he had become introspective. She knew what the trouble was: not the meagreness of the allowance she gave him — that was a traditional complaint that had never really affected his cheerfulness. No, it was the trust holding. He had tried to tell her, several times, that there was something going on that he didn’t like. She had insisted that it could wait until the next trustees’ meeting. He wanted the meeting to be soon.
Of course he could be right. But she had more faith in her own judgment. She had known Peter Marlin as a child, watched him grow, and had recognised the difference he had made to the firm of Martin, Sainsby and Sons. She had every confidence in him as a solicitor to the trust. And if he said that it was necessary to support the takeover by Amalgamated Industries Ltd., she was inclined to take him at his word.
Sam was not. He had insisted that there was — to use his words — ‘something fishy’ going on. He had told her of the glance he had intercepted between Marlin and the man who would be taking a seat on the newly constituted board of Noble and Harris. He had told her of his own attempts to discover more of this man, this man Jackson. He had told her that he was convinced that there was some connection — ‘fraudulent connection’ he had said — between Jackson and Marlin. She could not believe it. Her judgment cried out against it.
She knew Peter Marlin almost as well as she knew her own son.
That had angered Sam. He’d gone off to London the next day. To City House and the Companies Registry. And two days ago John Sainsby had come out to the house and had spent a long time in the study with Sam. Mrs Gaines did not care for John Sainsby.
There was something about him, his carefulness, his precision perhaps, which offended her, stiffened her back.
But it would be simplest to write to him now, now that Peter Marlin would be leaving the firm.
She rose. She felt old. It was such a long time since William had died. Perhaps it would not be long before she joined him. Then everything would be Sam’s. She hoped he would order his life wisely. He could still do so, if he kept the trust going though Peter Marlin had advised her that once she died Sam, as sole beneficiary and of full age, would be entitled to bring the trust to an end and do as he wished with the holding.
She had once thought that Peter Marlin would be able to exercise the kind of influence over Sam that would have prevented a foolish frittering away of the holding. But Marlin had his own troubles . . . and would be leaving. She wondered whether John Sainsby could ever have such an influence over her son.
When she wrote the name on the envelope she could not understand why,
involuntarily, she shuddered.
* * *
John Sainsby returned the Prudhoe letter on Friday afternoon, without comment. But he produced two other verbal bombshells.
‘I had a letter this morning, from Mrs Gaines. She suggests that since you’ll shortly be leaving the firm and will obviously be unable to continue as solicitor to the Gaines trust holdings it might be a good idea that I take over in your place. Obviously, she doesn’t know that I — I will probably be leaving soon.’
Peter stared at him, his pulse quickening. ‘What — what are you going to do?’
John looked surprised. He ran the fingers of his left hand nervously around the inside of his right shirt-cuff.
‘Well, do as she suggests, I suppose. I — well, I don’t want Stephen to know just yet that I will be going and he’s likely to ask questions if I suggest that he take it on. Besides, he’s so full of his damned honours stuff at the moment that he wouldn’t think of looking at the Gaines file. Anyway, look, Peter, just let me have the papers and I’ll take a look at them over the weekend, then we can both go along to the trustees’ meeting next Tuesday—’
‘Next Tuesday!’ Sainsby was startled.
‘Yes — what’s the matter? She wants a meeting next Tuesday, and I gather Sam — Mr Gaines — is going to raise the question of the· takeover by—’
‘Is he, be damned,’ said Peter grimly. ‘The blasted thing is all but through!’
Sainsby shrugged.
‘Well, I know nothing about it all, of course, but if you’ll let me have the file—’
‘I’ve not got the stuff here at the office,’ lied Peter.
‘Oh? Well, when it’s convenient.’
Peter was conscious of John’s narrow eyes upon him. Casually, he rose to his feet.
‘I took them home . . . er . . . last week, to do some work on them after the Noble and Harris meeting. Best thing I can do, I think, is to let you have them on Monday.’
‘All right,’ said John Sainsby slowly. ‘Perhaps you wouldn’t mind sticking in some explanatory memoranda also.’