by Giles Ekins
‘THE ONE THING I DON’T UNDERSTAND,’ Flanagan said as they rode in a cab on their way to the Strand and Portman’s Bank. ‘Sinistrari bought the house in his own name. Why?’
‘Arrogance, Flanagan, sheer unbridled arrogance. Sinistrari obviously never expected to caught or else he would not have used his own name. This may be his biggest mistake and we have the sharp eyes of Percy Gutteridge who led us to Sinistrari in the first instance to thank. Without him, we might never have found Blackwater House and Blackwater House will be Sinistrari’s downfall. I am certain of it. Sinistrari bought the bank through Portman’s, what other transactions took place? What other property might he have bought? This is what we must find out?’
PORTMAN’S BANK WAS AN IMPOSING WHITE PORTLAND STONE EDIFICE on the corner of the Strand. Tall circular pepper pot towers framed each corner of the building, whilst Corinthian columns, four storeys high, soared up to a horizontal cornice, deeply shadowed dentils and a crowning triangular pediment embossed with scenes from classical Greek mythology that centred the elevation over a daunting portico. The heavy bronze entrance doors were twenty feet high, leading into a high banking hall the size of a railway station. A uniformed commissionaire only reluctantly allowed Collingwood and Flanagan entry; quite obviously they were not ‘quality’ and even more obviously, not moneyed and therefore unworthy of access to the hallowed halls of wealth.
Inside, the cavernous banking hall there was a hushed reverential silence, the business of money to be conducted in muted whispers; the worship of Mammon at Portman’s was a silent celebration. The clatter of Flanagan’s heavy shoes, toed and heeled with steel clips, echoed like gunshots on the glass-smooth mirror-polish marble floor, causing heads to rise above the parapet of the long polished walnut counter like curious rabbits popping out of their holes.
A flustered under manager in a black morning coat and grey striped trousers scurried over, twisting his pale hands together like a knot of writhing snakes. Although probably not forty years of age, he looked old before his time, almost bald apart from a few strands of brown hair that he laid across the top of his scalp in the forlorn hope that he might look less hairless. However, his moustache was full and flourishing, totally obscuring his upper lip and curling down the sides of his mouth and back to his side-whiskers as if to compensate for the lack of hair on his head. His chin, however, was clean-shaven.
‘May I be of assistance … er … gentlemen?’ he asked, looking disdainfully at Flanagan’s shoes. ‘Perhaps you have mistakenly come to the wrong location. This is Portman’s,’ he exclaimed reverentially ‘Portman’s! Allow me to escort you to the door,’
‘My name is Detective Chief Inspector Collingwood of the Metropolitan Police and this is Detective Sergeant Flanagan. We are here on police business,’ Collingwood said forcefully. ‘And rather than escort us to the door, you will in fact escort us to Sir Montague’s office.’
Flanagan had established that the chairman and most senior official at Portman’s Bank was Sir Montague Portman, great-great grandson of Sir Mortimer Portman who had founded the bank in 1723. Collingwood reasoned that only the chairman would be authorised to release information about any of the bank’s customers.
‘Sir Montague? Sir Montague?’ the under-manager repeated, his voice getting higher in pitch as he spoke, hands twisting even more agitatedly. ‘Erm, er, Sir Montague is otherwise engaged and the general manager, Mister Pritchard-James, is indisposed today but I am fully authorised to deal with any such matters whilst he is busy. In any case, Sir Montague does not involve himself in the day to day affairs of the bank; he delegates such matters to Mister Pritchard-James and myself.’
‘And you are?’ Collingwood asked.
‘Numbles, sir. Oliver Numbles, second assistant manager.’
Second assistant Manager?’ Collingwood said.
‘Yes sir. And duty manager for the day whilst Mister Pritchard-James, the manager, is indisposed.’
‘And as second assistant manager are you authorised to give me details of one of your customer’s dealings and accounts?’
Numbles looked as though he had been asked to parade naked down the Strand with a bunch of lilies inserted into his fundament. ‘Of course not!’ he exclaimed, indignant that anyone could even contemplate such an action. ‘This is Portman’s, sir. Portman’s. We never ever disclose details of our customers’ affairs to anyone.’
‘Then you are of no use to me, Mister Numbles. Now, if you would be so kind, escort myself and Sergeant Flanagan to Sir Montague’s office.’
‘I … I don’t believe I can do that, sir.’
‘Sir Montague is in the building, is he not? Collingwood said, glowering down at the unfortunate second assistant manager. ‘That fact is already established.’
‘He is … certainly he is … but I believe him to be with a very important client and so cannot be disturbed.’
‘Numbles, listen to me. I repeat, we are here on urgent police business and whatever Sir Montague is engaged upon will simply have to wait. Now, you will show Sergeant Flanagan and I to his office immediately or else I will arrest you for obstructing a police officer in the course of his duties. Flanagan!’
‘Sir?’
‘Be good and sure to have your handcuffs ready.’
‘Handcuffs?’ spluttered Numbles, visions of incarceration in Newgate Gaol flashing past his eyes.
‘I have them right here, sir,’ Flanagan answered, unclipping them from his belt to demonstrate.
‘I … er … can show you to Sir Montague’s office but he truly cannot be disturbed at this moment. If you can wait but it may be some time, hours possibly? Or come back tomorrow?’ Numbles added hopefully, ‘Mister Pritchard-James is sure to be available then.’
‘No Mister Numbles, I cannot wait. I cannot come back tomorrow. Now, for the last time, be so good as to show me to the chairman’s office.’
Numbles nodded in defeat and scurried on ahead of them, a haunted look across his face, twisting his hands together even more.
‘Numbles? What kind of a name is that?’ queried Collingwood as they followed on.
‘Numbles, why they are the entrails of a deer, sir. The same as grallochs.’
‘I know what numbles are, Flanagan. And also what are grallochs. I was merely wondering how the he came by such a strange name.
‘Maybe his ancestors were ghillies in Scotland and came by the name that way?’
‘Maybe so, it’s only of academic interest anyway.’
They climbed for two storeys up a wide staircase laid with a deep maroon carpet and then along a wide corridor similarly laid with maroon carpet, interwoven an elegant pattern of navy blue P’s. The corridor walls were hung with dour dark brown portraits of various stern faced managers and self-important chairmen of Portman’s Bank. The vocation of banking did not appear to be one of enjoyment, not one single smile or amused gleam of eye graced any of the canvasses.
At the end of the corridor, a double door faced them and Numbles knocked timidly on the left hand leaf and after hearing confirmation to enter, opened the door and nervously stuck his head through. There was muffled conversation before Numbles jerked his head backwards as if he had been slapped and softly pulled the door closed again.
‘Yes?’ boomed Collingwood.
‘That is Mister Goodley’s office. Mister Goodley is Sir Montague’s personal assistant. He instructs that Sir Montague is not to be disturbed under any circumstances. Not even, I’m afraid on police business.’
‘Is that so?’
‘Yes, sir. I did warn you. You may wait here if you wish. Perhaps Sir Montague may see you when he has finished his business, but I did warn you that it may be some considerable time. You really would be best served by making an appointment to see Mister Pritchard-James tomorrow. I really do doubt that Sir Montague will be free to see you today; as chairman of Portman’s he is a very busy man, as I am sure you will appreciate.’
‘Is that so?’ Collingwood said again, a
hard crust of menace in his voice. ‘Well I am also a very busy man and I do not intend to wait out here like some supplicant outside an alms house.’ He checked his pocket watch. ‘You may tell Mister Goodley and Sir Montague that I shall wait precisely five minutes. No longer.’
‘I … er … cannot disturb Mister Goodley again,’ answered Numbles sheepishly. ‘I am already in some considerable trouble for disturbing him last time.’
‘I thought you were the duty manager?’
‘I am, but only on the banking floor, not up here in the executive offices.’
At that, Collingwood seized hold of the door, opened it and marched through, followed by Flanagan and Numbles, who practically fell over himself to get in front of Collingwood and bar his passage. An overweight grey haired man seated behind a wide empty desk sprang to his feet in indignation as Collingwood bore down on him.
‘You cannot just march in here unbidden, sir. I must insist you leave immediately. Numbles escort these … gentlemen out of the building and then report back here to me. I believe you have some explaining to do.’
‘Mister Numbles will do no such thing. You are Goodley, is that correct.’ Collingwood asked, glowering at him.
‘I am Goodley, yes and I insist you leave forthwith or else I shall send for the police.’
‘I am the police, as Mister Numbles no doubt advised you, sir. You are impeding a police officer in the commission of his duties, a serious offence, Mister Goodley.’
‘I am fully aware of that you may be from the police but I still insist that you leave, sir. I have my instructions from Sir Montague. Sir Montague is on extremely close terms with the Home Secretary and the Commissioner of Police and I have no doubt that a report outlining your appalling behaviour will shortly be on its way to them. Good day, sir,’ answered Godley, sitting back down again, not in the least bit fazed by Collingwood veiled threats.
‘Which is Sir Montague’s office?’ This one?’ asked Collingwood, pointing at a pair of doors to the right of Goodley’s office.
‘Yes. I mean no. No.’ flustered Goodley.
‘No? In which case you won’t mind me looking will you?’ and Collingwood turned and walked resolutely towards the doors. Goodley tried to get to his feet to prevent him but was impeded by the size of his desk. Numbles gallantly placed himself before the menacing policeman but was, quite gently, pushed aside. ‘Lord Arthur Malvern is within,’ Goodley cried. ‘Sir Montague cannot be disturbed.’
Collingwood took no notice and opened the left hand leaf and marched on through into the office of Sir Montague Portman, Chairman and majority shareholder of Portman’s Bank, Flanagan close on his heels. Numbles and Goodley followed on, protesting wildly.
The chairman’s office was large and airy. A large desk occupied most of one end; Sir Montague Portman obviously believed that a large imposing desk signified power and money and influence – which in this case probably did. A pair of maroon leather chesterfields occupied the length of one wall; the other was taken up with glass-fronted bookcases containing leather bound ledgers, audit reports and heavy tomes authoritative on all matters banking.
Sir Montague, a burly red-faced man in his sixties, instantly recognisable from the most recent of portraits in the corridor outside, sat on the furthermost settee. His visitor, Lord Arthur Malvern, an effete looking young man with a thick shock of curly brown hair worn with a lock curled across his left eye, sat close at his side, his head thrown back, his eyes closed. Sir Montague’s right hand was nestled deep into Lord Arthur’s unbuttoned trousers, caressing him. Sir Montague’s lower clothing also seemed to be in some disarray. Both he and Lord Arthur manager reacted as though they had been shot as Collingwood strode into the office, a look of white-faced disbelief flooding across the younger man’s face like whitewash. However, Lord Arthur recovered the quicker of the two men and quickly got to his feet, fastened himself up, his erection strongly evident, and ran to the open doors wiping his eyes, almost knocking Numbles to his feet.
Sir Montague also got to his feet, in his case bright red in the face from either rage or embarrassment or possibly both.
‘How dare you,’ he bellowed in fury at Collingwood. ‘Get out. Get out. This is outrageous. Goodley call the police, I want these villains arrested and charged with every damn offence that can be thought of.’
Collingwood turned to Numbles and Goodley who were standing open mouthed by the doors. ‘I suggest that you two gentlemen leave, the business I have with Sir Montague does not concern you. Flanagan.’
‘Yes sir. Gentlemen,’ Flanagan said and taking Numbles and Godley each by the arm, quickly and firmly ushered them from the office and decisively closed the doors behind them, standing against the doors to prevent further access.
‘As Goodley will tell you, Sir Montague I am the police. Detective. Chief Inspector Charles Collingwood from Central Office CID at Scotland Yard.
‘I don’t care if you are the Home Secretary himself, how dare you barge in here like that. My God sir, I will see you discharged from the force for this, just see if I don’t.’
‘I suggest sir,’ answered Collingwood mildly, ‘that before you do aught else you rearrange your clothing or else I may have to arrest you for indecency,’ nodding at the front of Sir Montague’s trousers from which the pale pinkly-purple tip of his penis protruded. Sir Montague hurriedly turned his back and re-arranged himself. ‘Now get out,’ he snarled again, ‘or By God … I’ll … I’ll,’ he spluttered, searching for a suitable threat. ‘I shall take this matter up at the highest level, I doubt that either of you will be in employment by the close of day.’
‘Be sure to advise those at the highest level of your own activities at the same time sir,’ answered Collingwood calmly.
‘Dare you to … threaten me, sir?’ blustered Portman.
‘Sir Montague, I am conducting a murder enquiry. I have no time to spare for niceties. By all means raise a complaint with the Commissioner if you wish, however I am duty bound to inform you that in such an event all relevant details will be brought to light. All relevant details.’
‘What transpires in the privacy of this office is of no concern to you or the police.’
‘Perhaps. Perhaps not but I do apologise for your discomfort and that of your visitor,’ Collingwood answered placatingly. ‘However …’ he added with soft menace, aware, as no doubt was Sir Montague; that since 1885 homosexual relations between men was a criminal offence.
‘Lord Arthur is the son of a very old and valued customer; he was here to negotiate a loan. Goodness knows what he must thinking, he is such a sensitive young man and delicate in disposition. In view of that I may not to report this incident to Sir Henry Matthews, it is probably best if this incident be forgotten by all concerned. Now, sir, I have nothing else to say to you. You will leave this instant and do not return.
Sir Montague then suddenly seemed to realise his potential predicament, after all, he had been caught committing a criminal and highly embarrassing offence. ‘You may see Pritchard-James, the general manager upon his return tomorrow and discuss any issues with him,’ he added condescendingly. ‘Goodley will arrange an appointment. Now good day to you, sir, I have many important matters to attend to.’
‘I am conducting a murder enquiry Sir Montague, and there are matters of great urgency which I must discuss with you. They cannot and will not wait until the morrow. I must remind you sir, that the obstruction of a police officer in the course of his duties is an offence.’ Collingwood let a meaningful silence develop. ‘Another offence,’ he said, none too subtly reminding Sir Montague of the criminal nature of his activities with Lord Arthur Malvern.
Montague rose to his full height and gave Collingwood an obelisk stare, trying to intimidate him but the policeman would have none of it. At last Sir Montague broke away and strode over to his desk and sat down. Collingwood followed and unbidden sat down in one of the plush padded visitors chairs.
‘Very well, Collinson, is it? Inspector? I can
give you ten minutes.’
‘Collingwood, Sir Montague. Chief Inspector.’ Collingwood turned and beckoned Flanagan over. Sir Montague glared in irritation as Flanagan too sat down unbidden before him.
‘Very well, Chief inspector, kindly get on with it.’
‘I am conducting an investigation into the financial affairs of Edward James Sinistrari. Did Sinistrari bank with you, here at Portman’s?’
‘An investigation into financial affairs? You told me this is an urgent murder enquiry, inspector.’ Sir Montague snapped angrily.
‘Indeed I did, sir and that is true. Did Edward Sinistrari hold an account with you?
‘Sinistrari? I don’t believe I know the name. Sinistrari? Ah yes, now I recall, Was not an Edward Sinistrari hanged for murder some months ago, I do seem to recall something of that nature?’ Collingwood nodded in assent. ‘Kindly tell me Chief Inspector how the affairs of a dead man constitute an urgent murder enquiry? I do believe that you are wasting my time.’
‘There are some … relevant follow up matters concerning Sinistrari and his finances which are germane to current enquiries. Current murder enquiries.’
‘I do not believe you, sir.’
‘As you will. Now Sir Montague, I will ask you again, did Edward Sinistrari hold a bank account with you?’
‘I cannot tell you.’
‘Do you mean that you do not know whether Edward Sinistrari held an account or that you will not tell me?’
‘Portman’s Bank is founded on the highest ideals of customer confidentiality. To break any such confidentiality would destroy the cornerstone upon which the founding father, my great great grandfather Sir Mortimer Portman built this establishment,’ Sir Montague said pompously, ‘I cannot and will not divulge any such information.’
‘Even in pursuit of a murder enquiry?’ Flanagan asked, his soft Irish brogue making the word ‘murder’ sound like ‘mordar’. Portman looked at him as though he were something unpleasant that the cat had regurgitated upon the carpet and deigned not to answer.