A New Dawn Over Devon

by Michael Phillips

But he could not continue. The words of love with which his heart was full at this final hour of earthly meeting would have to wait until the next life to be spoken.

  Downstairs, as millings and sighs and tearful whisperings continued, a bleary-eyed Wenda Polkinghorne and Sarah Minsterly kept tea and food coming, the only way they knew to be of service to Geoffrey’s family and friends. But few appetites were working to capacity.

  Geoffrey drifted in and out of sleep throughout the evening. Visitors came and went, but he said little. Toward the end he seemed hardly aware of them.

  A little before midnight, a change came. Dr. Armbruster gently aroused Amanda and Catharine, who had both dozed off in two of the chairs in Geoffrey’s room, then went to find Stirling and Jocelyn. Jocelyn immediately went to the guest room where Gifford and Martha had retired a short while ago. After knocking lightly, she opened the door a crack.

  “Cousin Gifford . . . Martha,” she said, “Dr. Armbruster thinks you should come.”

  An hour later, Geoffrey slipped away.

  96

  Stratagems

  For three days a pall descended over Milverscombe. What curse existed here, asked some of the more superstitious residents, that took its Rutherford men, the best of the community, in the prime of their lives?

  The bank closed in honor of its founder and manager. Its doors would remain locked until after the funeral, scheduled three days later.

  Jocelyn remained almost constantly at Martha’s side doing her best to comfort the disconsolate mother.

  Gifford Rutherford slipped out of the Hall unnoticed shortly after noon on the day after his son’s death. He did not like the thought of walking all the way into town, but did not want to call attention to himself by taking Geoffrey’s automobile. When he arrived in the village, he went straight to the bank, let himself in with one of the keys on the ring he had found in Geoffrey’s room, relocked the doors behind him, and proceeded to spend an enlightening hour or two going over his son’s loan files in some detail.

  Revolving many things in his mind, he returned to the Hall. Entering, he did not pause to greet wife or cousins or any of the others whose voices were coming from the formal lounge. Instead, he walked straight upstairs to Charles’s study, where he began searching the files and folders in the desk for additional documentation concerning Geoffrey’s financial activities since leaving London.

  Satisfied at length, and carrying a small leather satchel full of papers, he descended the stairs again and entered the sitting room.

  “Martha,” he said, “urgent business compels me to return to the city immediately. I will take the three-o’clock train.”

  “But, Gifford,” she began, “the funeral—”

  “I will return by tomorrow evening.”

  ————

  Gifford returned on schedule, carrying yet more papers that would prove of extreme interest to all concerned.

  Geoffrey Rutherford was buried the next day in the churchyard of the Milverscombe church, as had been, much to his father’s annoyance, his expressed wish. His funeral was attended by everyone for miles.

  With his wife in tears beside him, as he stood listening to Timothy Diggorsfeld speak on the victorious hope of the life to come, Gifford could not help inwardly blaming all these bumpkins for the changes that had come over Geoffrey in recent years, leading him to move to this godforsaken place and thus causing his contraction of tuberculosis.

  But he would get his revenge, Gifford thought, now that Heathersleigh Hall would at last be his. If only he could have found Geoffrey’s will among the boy’s effects, it would have made matters simpler.

  But that’s what solicitors were for. He and Martha would obviously inherit the boy’s estate.

  97

  Thirty-Day Call

  The day after the funeral, when Welford Miles went to the Milverscombe bank to reopen for business, he was surprised to find the lights already on and someone inside at the manager’s desk.

  “Good morning, Mr. Miles,” said Gifford. “I will tentatively be assuming management of the bank until other arrangements can be made.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Miles, wondering if those arrangements would include him.

  “Our first order of business,” Gifford began in a businesslike manner as if nothing out of the ordinary had transpired, “is to draft thirty-day due notices for the loans made since the bank’s opening. I want to have them all delivered within two days. Then we shall begin preparing foreclosure papers for those cases in which it becomes necessary.”

  Stunned by what he had heard, Geoffrey’s assistant manager did his best to respond.

  “But, sir, if I might,” said Miles, “none of the people in the community will be able to pay off their loans within thirty days.”

  “That will be unfortunate,” rejoined Gifford. “However, the terms of the loans are quite clear that such is the prerogative of the bank. And since I am a vice-president of the bank and chairman of the London committee overseeing the activities of this particular branch, and since I deem it a necessity, they will have to do what they can.”

  “But surely, sir . . . there must be some other—”

  “Don’t argue with me, Welford,” snapped Gifford, “or you will find yourself out of a job. Now I have all the files here, and I want you to get to work immediately on the call notices.—Oh, and, Welford,” Gifford added, “please see that this is destroyed.”

  He rose, took down Geoffrey’s plaque from the wall, and handed it to the assistant manager.

  “Such notions,” he said, “no longer represent the policies of this bank and will not be tolerated.”

  In stunned disbelief, Miles took the plaque, then sat down at his desk and began the odious assignment of filling out thirty-day call notices for the notes of the friends and neighbors he had grown to care about since coming here. As he filled in the specific information, he knew that not one of these people whose names he was writing down possessed so much as an extra ten pounds in ready cash. What he was doing would cost them all their homes and businesses unless some miracle intervened.

  ————

  When word of the first round of call notices reached Jocelyn the following day at the cottage, at first she thought there must be some mistake. Within minutes she was on her way to town. Even as she and Amanda were hurriedly hitching the buggy, the uproar of angry speculation was mounting to a frenzy in Milverscombe.

  A gathering crowd, hearing that Jocelyn was on her way, milled about anxiously at the edge of town. If anybody could straighten this all out, everyone said, Sir Charles’s wife could.

  The moment Jocelyn’s horse appeared galloping toward them as fast as her shouts had been capable of urging the animal, a few cheers sounded that quickly grew to a low roar. The crowd parted. Jocelyn flew through it and made straight for the bank, with the gathered throng running and hurrying behind her.

  She reined in almost recklessly, jumped down without even tying the buggy reins to the nearby rail, and half ran toward the door.

  Gifford saw his wife’s cousin walk through the door. He had been expecting her. A few townspeople followed her inside while most of the throng remained milling about outside looking through the windows. Jocelyn slowed, trying to calm herself with a few deep breaths, and walked across the floor to Gifford’s desk.

  “Hello, Gifford,” she said in a friendly tone. “I have been hearing various reports from anxious people that their notes are all being called due. As you can imagine, some of them are quite upset. I assume that there must be a misunderstanding.”

  “No, Jocelyn,” replied Gifford without expression. “It is not a mistake.”

  “But why would the bank suddenly call all the notes due?”

  “Geoffrey’s death changes things,” said Gifford calmly. “Surely you understand that.”

  “No . . . I am not sure I do.”

  “He is no longer in charge here.”

  “I do not see what difference that should make. Geof
frey would never have done such a thing. He wanted to help the people of this community.”

  “Yes, that is all too clear,” rejoined his father with a hint of sarcasm creeping into his tone. “But I am the manager now, and it is not at all certain whether the bank will be able to continue. I am afraid circumstances thus compel me to call in all the notes made by the bank thus far. Then everything will be reassessed.”

  “But why, Gifford . . . why? If the notes represent viable, profit-making loans for the bank—”

  “Ah, that’s just it, Jocelyn,” Gifford interrupted. “They do not.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It is very simple. Nearly all the loans in question were either turned down by the loan committee in London, or would have had they been submitted on their own merits.”

  “Turned down . . . I do not understand.”

  “The Roper loan . . . the Spenser building project . . . and most certainly the Blakeley loan for medical school—these and a dozen more . . . yes, Jocelyn, I am afraid they were all turned down.”

  “Turned down? I don’t understand what you are saying. The loans were made.”

  “Yes, because Geoffrey, apparently overcome by a wave of sentiment, more likely idiocy, took it upon himself to guarantee these loans himself.”

  Jocelyn stared at her husband’s cousin, bewildered.

  “In cases where there was no tangible collateral,” Gifford went on, “such as the Blakeley matter, he advanced the money straight from his own account.”

  “Do you mean that Geoffrey paid for Stirling’s schooling, not the bank?”

  “I am afraid so. In the cases of home and building construction, he co-signed the loans, guaranteeing every one with the backing of his own assets. And this unbelievable crusade to install electricity, telephones, and indoor water,” he added, unable to keep himself from chuckling sardonically, “—I cannot imagine where such a foolhardy notion originated, but in carrying out his Good Samaritan scheme, Geoffrey only succeeded in squandering nearly his entire asset base.”

  As she listened Jocelyn sat as one stunned. Geoffrey had brought all this enthusiasm and prosperity and growth to the region in secret . . . himself!

  “But the loans are being repaid,” she insisted. “There is no risk to the bank. Why can you not let things continue?”

  “It is simply out of the question,” replied Gifford. “With Geoffrey gone, all the loans must be renegotiated according to bank policy. As I said, most were made under, shall we say, unusual circumstances. With Geoffrey’s assets gone, none have adequate collateral. The notes must be called due. If you will check the fine print, every one contains a thirty-day call clause, which option can be exercised at the sole discretion of the bank. I could not prevent my son from doing what he did, but I could protect the bank’s interests. Once paid in full, of course, anyone who wishes may apply for financing under the bank’s normal terms.”

  “But you know they cannot repay,” insisted Jocelyn. “This will bankrupt the community and make the bank the owner of half the property in Milverscombe.”

  “The bank . . . or whoever buys off the notes,” he added.

  In truth, Jocelyn was exactly right—most of the loans in question were very secure, and their payments being made on schedule. If he could get his hands on them and raise the interest a couple of percentage points—Gifford was reminded again of another of his son’s foolish gestures, that of writing all these loans at considerably lower rates than current London levels—they should turn him a handsome profit for years to come.

  But Gifford’s chief objective was Heathersleigh Hall. It would come to him because of Geoffrey’s death, of course. But then there would still be the outstanding lien against it. The simplest way was for him to purchase the mortgage from the bank. In the unlikely event that the disposition of Geoffrey’s assets proved troublesome or were contested, his ownership of the Hall would thus be insured.

  That done, he would also buy up the rest of the foreclosures for the outstanding amount of the notes. Two months from now, he would end up owning most of Milverscombe as well as the entire Heathersleigh estate.

  “I regret that all this has turned out to be the unfortunate result of my son’s philanthropic policy,” Gifford went on in an attempted sympathetic tone. “But as you can see, as the bank’s representative I have no other choice. Now really, Jocelyn, I am very busy with my audit of the bank’s loans and the execution of the call notices. There is a great deal of paper work to attend to. I am sorry to say, this bank is in a sorry state. I must do what I can to right things. So you really must excuse me. Good day.”

  Too stunned to be angry, Jocelyn turned for the door. The few people who had come in followed her through the door into the midst of the clamoring and questioning throng outside. One look on Jocelyn’s face, however, told them that she was not bearing good news.

  98

  The Will

  Within an hour of Jocelyn’s interview with Gifford, everyone in town knew that her efforts had been unsuccessful.

  That afternoon Timothy rode out to the cottage.

  “Jocelyn,” he said, “I have something to tell you that may affect all of this—on the day of his death, Geoffrey dictated a will to me.”

  Jocelyn’s eyes widened.

  “I had intended to speak with you, and perhaps consult a solicitor about what I ought to do. But then with the funeral, and now suddenly all this . . . somehow the time never seemed right. Now it seems I need to act quickly before this situation escalates further.”

  “Does his father know?” asked Jocelyn.

  “I haven’t any idea,” replied Timothy, “although I doubt it. I imagine he would have been to see me by now had Geoffrey told him.”

  “What happens next?” Jocelyn asked. “Aren’t wills usually read aloud to the family and those involved?”

  “Right, but by a solicitor,” rejoined Timothy. “I must admit, this is a first for me. I don’t really know what to do.”

  “Why are you telling me, Timothy?” asked Jocelyn.

  “Perhaps in light of what is happening, the will could change things. Without divulging its contents, I will only say that we need to get a solicitor here, and quickly, to make certain that legalities are complied with.”

  “Mr. Crumholtz,” said Jocelyn. “—I will telephone him immediately.”

  Meanwhile, throughout the village, anger mounted to such an extent that Jocelyn herself began to fear for Gifford’s safety. As the day progressed, more due notices were delivered by Welford Miles, who, sympathetic as he was with the plight of the recipients, nonetheless had to put up with a good deal of verbal abuse as a result of the notices.

  The next morning it was Timothy who walked calmly into the bank.

  “Mr. Rutherford,” he said, “I have a matter that requires your immediate attention.”

  “What kind of matter?” asked Gifford, looking up from his desk, annoyed at the interruption, especially from this fellow.

  “That will all be explained,” replied Timothy.

  “Then explain it or go about your business.”

  “Please, sir, come with me,” insisted Timothy.

  “What the deuce for?”

  “As I said, that will be explained. Now I really must insist that you accompany me.”

  “Go to the devil. I am busy.”

  Timothy did not budge.

  “I am sorry to be so importune, Mr. Rutherford,” he said. “Your wife, Lady Jocelyn and her family, Stirling Blakeley, Vicar Stuart Coleridge, and Mr. Bradbury Crumholtz, are all waiting for us at the church.”

  “I know Crumholtz. What does he have to do with anything?”

  “Lady Jocelyn and I contacted him to be present and to see to the legalities in the reading of your son’s will.”

  Gifford sat bolt upright in his chair. Suddenly Timothy had succeeded in getting his attention.

  “I see,” he said after a moment. “I was unaware my son had spoken with a solicitor.”<
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  “He did not, sir. He dictated his final wishes to me the day of his death.”

  “Ha—then it won’t be legal anyway,” humped Gifford as he rose.

  “Mr. Crumholtz has read it and has advised me to the contrary,” rejoined Timothy. “Your son was keenly aware of the law and observed every necessity to insure that the document would stand.”

  Unnerved by this unexpected development, Gifford at last consented and followed Timothy out of the bank. They walked to the church together in silence.

  As they entered, a forced round of greetings and a few stiff handshakes followed. Jocelyn and Timothy did their best to remain cheerful, but one cloudy countenance is usually enough to dampen the spirit of any gathering, and grey skies were written all over the lines on Gifford’s forehead.

  “Right, then . . . shall we begin?” said Crumholtz, moving to the front while the others sat down in the first two pews. “I have here,” he went on, “the last will and testament of Mr. Geoffrey Rutherford, turned over to me this morning by Rev. Diggorsfeld, to whom it was dictated. If there are no objections, I will proceed with the reading.”

  Crumholtz cleared his throat, adjusted the pince-nez on his nose, then began to read the will. It was simple and brief, leaving all his interest in Heathersleigh Hall and the property associated with it to his second cousin Amanda Rutherford, naming her mother, Jocelyn Rutherford, as executrix of his estate—”

  “What is this!” exploded Gifford. “This cannot be possible! My son would never—”

  “Please, Mr. Rutherford,” said Crumholtz firmly, for he had been expecting something like this, “reserve your remarks until the reading is concluded.”

  “But this whole thing is preposterous!”

  “As you see it, perhaps. But as I say, the instrument is legal. Now, with your permission, I shall continue.”

  He looked down at the papers.

  “Where was I—ah yes, ‘ . . . Jocelyn Rutherford as executrix, and whatever small sums might be left in my various investments and bank accounts should be applied against the outstanding loans bearing my co-signature at the discretion of my estate and the bank. Finally, I leave whatever of my possessions remain at Curzon Street in London to my parents, Mr. and Mrs. Gifford and Martha Rutherford.’”