A Conspiracy of Aunts

by Sally Spencer

  Joyspear’s director, no doubt to shield us from the sight of his rapidly crumbling star, had the camera sweep the audience – then probably wished he hadn’t, because Joyspear was not alone in his discomfort. A number of men had twisted their ties into knots, and several of the women looked on the point of hysterics. Even the monocyclist, now back on camera, was fiddling nervously with his harmonica.

  It wasn’t so much Cypher’s words which had produced this effect, it was his presence. The man generated an aura of naked, unashamed greed which was suffocating. Worse, he managed to suggest that he was nothing more than a magnified reflection of what is in all of us. He made me feel uneasy, nearly a hundred miles from the television centre – it must have been hell in the studio itself.

  ‘Well, that … that seems to be all we have time for,’ Cadbury Joyspear stuttered.

  The camera panned round, accidentally revealing the floor manager, who was frantically signalling that the show still had several minutes to run.

  ‘Yes, we have to go now,’ Joyspear said off camera, in a shaky, yet determined voice. ‘We’ll be back next week, when my special guest will be … will be … someone else.’

  The credits rolled. For a second, the screen went blank, then it was filled with a hastily slotted-in video of Queen singing Another One Bites the Dust.

  ‘He’s going to be a dangerous enemy,’ I said.

  Aunt Sadie made no reply. She was still staring at the television screen with an intensity which even Freddie Mercury, one of the most charismatic rock stars of the decade, didn’t seem to merit.

  ‘Auntie Sadie?’ I said. ‘Is anything the matter, Auntie Sadie?’

  This time I did seem to get through to her.

  ‘I’m sorry, Rob. What was that you said?’

  ‘He’s going to be a dangerous enemy,’ I repeated.

  ‘What power he has,’ said Aunt Sadie, in what was more a statement than a reply.

  7

  I spent most of the night analysing and re-analysing my scheme to save Shelton Bourne from the evil clutches of Sir Llewellyn Cypher, and, finding no obvious weaknesses in it, I put it to Aunt Sadie over breakfast.

  ‘It’s very simple,’ I told her. ‘There are enough well-heeled conservationists living in the village to form a limited company and buy all the cottages in the almshouse.’

  ‘But the old folks will never sell. They want to stay there.’

  ‘That’s the point – they can. That will be part of the deal. They get the money now, but they keep their homes until they die, at which point the cottage reverts to the company. And then you can lease it out again. It doesn’t matter how long the lease is, because as long as the company controls the freehold, Cypher can’t touch it.’

  ‘Will people want to invest in a company which won’t show a return for a long time?’ Aunt Sadie asked.

  ‘Do they want a drive-in discotheque and car-exhaust franchise on the edge of their village?’ I countered.

  ‘It just might work,’ my aunt said.

  ****

  It did work! Three weeks later, Shelton Bourne plc was registered at Company House. Aunt Sadie was its Chairperson and Managing Director.

  I devoted even more of my energy to making the company work than I did to playing bridge. I spent hours arguing with retired colonels and ex-civil servants that it was in their own interest to invest in the company.

  ‘If you want to know what it’ll be like living near a discotheque,’ I told them, ‘just put a metal bucket over your head, and then get someone to hit the bucket with a large hammer.’

  They nodded thoughtfully and then reached for their cheque books.

  I gave over days and days to persuading the pensioners in the almshouse that they would be better off signing their property over to Shelton Bourne plc.

  ‘You’ll keep your home,’ I said to one doubting old woman, ‘but at the same time, you’ll get some money.’

  ‘So I could go and see my grandchildren in Australia!’

  ‘Of course you could.’

  By the end of June, we’d raised all the money we needed. By the middle of July, the houses were ours. I flattered myself that my contribution had been vital – my logic swaying the investors, my earnestness and transparent honesty convincing the old folks that they were in safe hands. Yes, whichever way I looked at it, a great deal of the credit had to go to me – which meant, of course, that if anything went wrong, I should shoulder a major part of the blame.

  And things did go wrong – as they were bound to, when dealing with a demon like Sir Llewellyn Cypher.

  8

  The first whiff of the trouble ahead did not reach me until the middle of December, and had I not been such an obsessive bridge player, I might not have smelled it until even later. It was my partner, Martin Lord, who gave off the odour. He’d been a competent player up until then, but suddenly his game went to pieces. I carried him through a few matches without complaint, but when, in the last big pre-Xmas tournament, he failed to double the opposition’s rashly bid six no-trumps – even though he held two aces and had the lead – I felt I had to say something.

  ‘Are you ill, Mr Lord?’ I asked him.

  ‘Ill?’ he replied, avoiding my eyes. ‘Yes – ill with worry.’

  Ill with guilt, too, by the look of him, I thought.

  But apart from screwing up a few matches – which was annoying, but didn’t really matter in the long term – what could he possibly have to feel guilty about?

  ‘It might help to talk about it,’ I suggested.

  ‘You’re a good boy, Rob,’ Lord said, patting me affectionately on the shoulder, but still keeping well clear of any eye contact.

  ‘Is it money?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course it’s money,’ Lord said, laughing hollowly. ‘The result of forty years’ hard work wiped out just like that.’

  ‘Have you made some bad investments?’

  ‘No, it was my broker who did that,’ Lord said tiredly.

  ‘But you must have agreed to them.’

  ‘He didn’t consult me. I trusted him completely, and he had power of attorney, you see. Known him for years, and he’s always been such a sensible, conservative chap before, the sort who deals mainly in Gilts and Treasury Bonds. But the last few months, I don’t know, he seems to have gone completely haywire. What could have possessed him to sink half my savings into a company prospecting for diamonds in the Lake District? And as for that scheme for laying a floating railway across the Atlantic Ocean …’

  The stench of corruption was filling my nostrils by now. Martin Lord’s guilty looks, the timing of his broker’s going haywire – it was all starting to make sense.

  ‘You sold your shares in Shelton Bourne plc, didn’t you?’ I said.

  ‘I had to, just to stay afloat – which is more than the bloody transatlantic railway did,’ Lord confessed. He put his hand back on my shoulder. ‘I’m sorry, Rob. I know how hard you’ve worked on our behalf.’

  ‘And who did you sell them to?’

  ‘A company called B.L. Zebub. I think it’s Belgian.’

  It was, but it was also wholly owned by a Spanish company – Dia Blo S.A. – which was, in turn, a subsidiary of Llewellyn Cypher (UK) plc.

  And the broker who was so profligate with my partner’s carefully accumulated savings? By the time Martin Lord and I were having this conversation, that broker was already CEO of Llecyph Investments plc, a company created with the sole purpose of giving him his just reward.

  ****

  Aunt Sadie and I turned our usual round of Christmas visits into interrogations.

  ‘Yes,’ Mr Paice at the Old Mill admitted. ‘I have sold my shares. The bank called in a short-term loan my son had taken out on his business. No explanation – they just said they wanted their money back. I couldn’t let him go to the wall, could I? And the shares in SB were the only way I could raise cash in a hurry.’

  ‘Certainly I
sold them,’ Wing Commander Crabtree of Riseholme said defiantly. ‘Got a damn good price for them, too. And there’s no point in looking at me like that, Rob. I fought in the War for the right to sell my shares when I wanted to.’

  ‘Well … err … yes, I did sell them,’ Mr Holroyd of Hollywell House mumbled. ‘And I’ll tell you why, Rob, because I know I can rely on you not to repeat it. I’ve been seeing a certain young lady in London, and it appears that someone, somehow, managed to take certain pictures of us – pictures which my wife, Mrs Holroyd, might possibly misinterpret if she saw them.’

  ‘You mean pictures of you in bed with her?’ I asked.

  ‘Not just in bed,’ Holroyd said gloomily. ‘On the tumble drier, in the chest freezer, under the sink – God, she was an inventive little minx.’

  ‘And you were told that if you didn’t sell your shares, the photographs would find their way to your wife?’

  ‘Not in so many words, but that was what was meant.’ Holroyd shuddered. ‘Mrs Holroyd has many fine qualities, Rob, but the quality of mercy is not numbered among them.’

  ****

  Our round of Christmas visits brought nothing but gloom. Cypher now had control of about 30% of our company, my aunt and I estimated, and if we didn’t do something about it now, he could soon have a great deal more.

  We held a meeting of the surviving shareholders just before the New Year. The village hall was still decked with streamers, and as I climbed onto the platform, the portrait of Digger Morton – edged with tinsel – glared down at me.

  ‘Digger never gave anyone a second chance,’ I told my audience towards the end of my speech, ‘and neither will Sir Llewellyn Cypher. The village is a treasure chest for Cypher, and all he needs is a way to dig it up. Please don’t help provide him with a spade.’

  It was a little trite – I knew that even as I was saying it – but the effect it had on the retired businessmen and military dinosaurs who’d trudged through the snow to listen to me was electric. Mr Acland, who’d spent a career buried in the sombre world of discount undertaking, looked positively alive with enthusiasm. Colonel Todd was ready to hobble home, rummage through the attic for his sword, and lead the charge against headquarters.

  ‘You’ve done a marvellous job, Rob,’ Aunt Sadie assured me. ‘After what you said, Cypher won’t be able to get his hands on any more of our shares.’

  And I nodded – almost complacently – unaware of just how powerful Cypher was.

  Unaware of the enemy within!

  9

  In March, I learned that Professor Smallridge had crowned a lifetime of advocating a return to Olde England by sinking his money into a tin mine in Cornwall.

  ‘And the beauty of it is, we’ll be using methods of extraction which go right back to the Middle Ages,’ he told me excitedly.

  ‘But will it be economically viable?’ I asked.

  ‘What?’ the professor replied, blinking uncomprehendingly at me.

  ‘Will it be able to compete with the Malaysians?’

  ‘Malaysians?’

  It was pointless my saying more. I should have realised earlier that for a man who mentally dwelt in an age when maps of all the land masses beyond Europe showed nothing but a tentative coastline and fiery sea serpents, my question about the Malaysian tin industry had little meaning.

  The tin mine failed, as it was intended to. Professor Smallridge lost a modest amount in comparison to the sum invested by the majority shareholder, but then Sir Llewellyn Cypher could stand the loss, and Smallridge could not. In order to avoid bankruptcy, the professor was forced to sell his shares in SB.

  ****

  In April, Dr Mulroon confessed that he had sold his shares, too.

  ‘I had to,’ he told me as we sat together in his pretty, pretty living room.

  ‘Had to?’

  ‘I enjoy the company of young men, you see. I mean, I don’t do anything improper, I just like to talk to them.’

  ‘Your hand is on my knee, Dr Mulroon,’ I told him.

  ‘So it is,’ he agreed, apparently surprised by the discovery.

  ‘Take it off.’

  Mulroon removed the hand, and crammed it awkwardly into his jacket pocket to prevent it wandering again.

  ‘Anyway,’ he continued, ‘one of my young friends – a charming boy called Bunnie, such lovely pink hair – well, his mother needed an operation, you see. And I couldn’t refuse, could I? I mean, I did try, but he got quite cross and started making all sorts of nasty threats.’

  ****

  Sir Anthony Fitzsimmons, the village’s only baronet, had a penchant for the horses.

  ‘It’s in the blood,’ he boasted. ‘My grandfather was a giant of the turf. Bet a thousand guineas – and that was real money in those days – without even blinking. He made an absolute fortune out of the nags.’

  It was unfortunate for Shelton Bourne plc, then, that Sir Anthony himself was watered-down stock.

  ‘Can’t understand it,’ he told me. ‘Met this perfectly splendid chap over a few drinks at my club, and he said he had a certain winner in the two o’clock at Ascot. Knew for a fact it had been stuffed up to the eyeballs with pep pills. And then he was even decent enough to ring up his bookmaker for me.’

  ‘But the horse didn’t win, did it?’ I asked.

  ‘Bit of bad luck there – fell at the first furlong,’ Sir Anthony admitted. ‘But then this fellow said never mind, because he had the name of a sure thing in the three-thirty at Doncaster, and if I put my packet on that, I’d get all my money back and more. Well, I’d had a few drinks, and it started to seem like a pretty good idea.’

  ‘And that horse lost, too?’ I asked, fearing the worst.

  ‘Well, yes. As a matter of fact, it came in seventh. But you can’t blame this chap in the club for that. Horse had always done well before. Even the tipsters were surprised.’

  But not, presumably, the horse’s owner – Sir Llewellyn Cypher!

  ****

  ‘You worry too much,’ Aunt Sadie told me as we sat side by side on the patio, watching the swallows swoop.

  ‘Of course I worry,’ I said. ‘This was all my idea, and now it looks as if it’s doomed. Cypher’s managed to con or bully nearly two dozen people since January, and now he’s got forty-eight percent of the shares. Another three percent and he’ll be in complete control.’

  My aunt reached over, and ruffled my hair.

  ‘Rob, we are happy together, aren’t we?’ she said.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And whatever happens, nothing can change that?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Then stop trying to spoil a perfect summer evening by taking all the troubles of the world on your own shoulders.’

  ‘I can’t help it,’ I said. ‘It’s the way Mother brought me up.’

  Aunt Sadie sighed heavily. ‘Ah yes, your mother. Always your mother. There are times when I’d have liked to … I sometimes wish Catherine, Jacqueline, Peggy and I had never agreed …’

  She stopped abruptly.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked, alarmed by the edge to her voice.

  ‘Drinks,’ Aunt Sadie said. ‘We need some drinks.’

  Then she stood up and rushed through the French windows into the house.

  She emerged again, a few minutes later, carrying a tray containing a whisky bottle, two glasses and a soda siphon.

  ‘I think it’s time you tried it,’ she said, by way of explanation. ‘After all, you are almost a man.’

  ‘Okay, I will,’ I agreed.

  She poured two glasses, handed one to me, and sat down again.

  ‘It’s only the lame ducks who’ve sold their shares,’ she said. ‘The ones remaining are as solid as rocks. And without another three percent, Cypher can do nothing.’

  ‘I’m not convinced,’ I told her.

  ‘I’ve got to go down to London for a couple of days soon,’ Aunt Sadie said. ‘Whi
le I’m there, I’ll pop in on a few of my old friends in the City, and ask them exactly what Cypher might try, and what we can do to prevent it. Would that make you feel better?’

  ‘Much,’ I admitted.

  ‘Right, that’s dealt with,’ my aunt said, draping her arm over my shoulder. ‘Now let’s not waste the evening. Let’s pretend it’s the last one that you and I will have together and—’

  ‘Don’t talk that way, Sadie!’ I interrupted. ‘I don’t like it.’

  My aunt gently stroked my hair.

  ‘In this world, my dear sweet Rob, we all have to put up with things we don’t like very much,’ she said. ‘Would it be so very hard to pretend – if you knew that by pretending, you’d be pleasing your old auntie?’

  I grinned. ‘You know how to fight dirty, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ my aunt said seriously. ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘All right,’ I conceded, ‘we’ll pretend it’s our last evening.’

  The unfamiliar taste of whisky left an exciting tang in my mouth. My aunt’s skin felt soft and cool against my neck. Together we sat perfectly still – perfectly contented – and watched the sun set.

  10

  Aunt Sadie, in her own magical way, had managed to melt my mood of despondency, and as I drove her into Hoxwold to catch the London train, I was feeling on top of the world. True, there was the dark cloud of A-Levels hanging over me, but it did not hang as heavily as it did over my contemporaries – I was confident of doing reasonably well, and anyway, I’d never contemplated a university career. As for the other business – Shelton Bourne plc – I was sure that Aunt Sadie, who could do anything she set her mind to, would come up with a solution while she was in London.

  I changed gear, and the back of my hand brushed against my aunt’s knee. I turned to look at her. The sun shone on her hair, making it more golden than ever. She was wearing a simple white blouse which clung to her rounded breasts, and a lightweight summer suit. On the lapel of her jacket, she was proudly displaying the latest brooch I’d made for her.