Mad Dogs and Englishmen (The Brigandshaw Chronicles Book 3)

by Peter Rimmer

  “Why don’t you come and see me more often, Harry?”

  “Because I have to work harder than anyone in the office to understand what is going on. But if I did, you would get bored. You are far younger than you say and you love men, Brett darling. As many men as possible.”

  “Do you mind if I am naughty when you don’t come? Your ‘Penny’ needs to be comforted in bed. Now I am resting from the stage I need comforting more than ever… It’s that Tina Pringle, isn’t it? She’s rich and she wants you, Harry. That’s it. You don’t love Brett. I hate her. Next time I’m going to scratch out her eyes.”

  “Please don’t. And be warned. She is not what she seems. She is not rich. Her brother’s rich and sends her an allowance from South Africa. If I told you the truth, you would not be jealous.”

  “Then why don’t you come to me more often?”

  “Why do we always want what we can’t have and ignore what we can?”

  “What do you mean?” the girl was pouting.

  “Never mind, Brett.”

  Harry smiled, quite happy with the relationship he knew was only part-time for Brett. It usually was, anyway.

  Unbeknown to Harry Brigandshaw he was getting into the groove. Adjusting to his new home. Enjoying a girl who only wanted fun. Who thought marriage and babies drudgery of the worst kind. Thought living with one man for the rest of her life a perfect waste of her charms.

  “Dear old Harry. You can be a fossil. Share the happiness. Before you know what, a girl isn’t wanted. By men. If you have married, all you have then is a boring old goat and a clutch of screaming, snotty-nosed children who all want their own way. I just got out of one of those families and don’t want to go back. I’m free. I want to enjoy my freedom. Who knows, I could be run over by a bus and then what good would I be? No, Harry darling. We only have one life. More certainly we only have one youth. Oscar Wilde said ‘youth was wasted on the young’. Well not your Brett. I’m going to suck life dry to the last drop so when I’m old I never look back and regret what I could have done when I had the looks. I want the memories, Harry. Good memories. Not a house full of children that wants to suck my blood. Just the noise from ten children was enough to put me off. Now, let’s go to a supper club and dance all night. I love music. Dancing. Being full of joy. Why are you so old today?”

  The nightmare began again for Harry on the steps leading up to the Aldgate tube station. During the war, the soldiers said they never wanted to put their heads above the parapet. Only shells lobbed by the Hun could then find them in their trenches. Provided a man kept his head below the parapet he had a good chance of surviving another day. Harry, by having his name in the financial newspapers had metaphorically put his head above the parapet. He was visible. The articles announcing Colonial Shipping was going public in May made Harry glaringly visible.

  Harry felt the stare before seeing Fishy Braithwaite, his one-time commanding officer in the Royal Flying Corps. The murderer of Sara Wentworth and Harry’s bride Lucinda, the daughter of Lord St Clair. Harry expected to see a gun and was ready to throw himself along the concrete step when Fishy Braithwaite smiled at him from thirty yards and wagged his finger. Then he carried on with the flow of the home-going crowd.

  Harry was told the man would stay in a mental institution for the rest of his life. They said he was mad. Harry thought otherwise.

  The next day, Fishy Braithwaite appeared out of the crowd in front of the office building. The rush hour crowds were going to work. Again the smirk and the wagging finger.

  The man at the police station said it had nothing to do with them. If the man was Braithwaite, he had done nothing wrong.

  “He murdered my wife.”

  “You say the man is in an institution, sir. You had better ask them.”

  “But won’t you find out?”

  “No, sir, we won’t. With due respect there has not been a crime.”

  “And if he shoots me?”

  “We will investigate, sir.”

  The mental institution at Banstead, not more than four miles from Hastings Court, said Colonel Braithwaite had been released on orders from the Home Office.

  “But he’s mad. He killed my wife. You can’t let the man roam around again. The first time he escaped after shooting his fiancée Sara Wentworth. He then travelled all the way to Africa and killed my wife. I was just a friend of Sara’s brother, Jared. The bloody man was mad jealous.”

  “Please don’t swear at me, sir. I’m a very religious man.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Good day to you.”

  First, no one at the Home Office would take his call. After seeing Fishy Braithwaite again on the tube from Aldgate he demanded to see the Home Secretary. With no avail, he then chased down his MP, though Harry had never voted in England, or anywhere else for that matter, in his life. Rhodesia was still run by the British South Africa Company. The MP owed his seat in Parliament to Sir James Brigandshaw, Harry’s late uncle. After the one interview at the Houses of Parliament Harry thought the man was a bigger ass than the Bishop of Westchester. The British establishment was littered with fools.

  “There were many men traumatised during the war, Brigandshaw. The doctors are calling it shell shock. A wound like losing a leg, only shell shock can often be cured. The man becomes normal and leads a normal life, the horror of the war put behind him. You must remember that prior to the unfortunate incidents. I believe you witnessed both of them. Before then, Colonel Braithwaite was a hero of the Empire. An ace. Shooting down over forty enemy aircraft… Now I have been told on good authority that a panel of expert doctors found Colonel Braithwaite to no longer be suffering from his war wound. His shell shock. He has therefore been sent home to enjoy the fruits of our winning the war. He is an Englishman. Under repatriation, the Germans are being made to suffer considerably. The Treaty of Versailles was quite specific. The Germans started the war and must pay for the damages.”

  “What the hell’s that to do with a murderer let loose to kill again?”

  “Please, Brigandshaw! You must remember this is the Houses of Parliament. Hallowed ground. For centuries. We don’t swear at people in the British Houses of Parliament whatever they do in Africa.”

  “So you’ll only do something if he kills me. Something I know he has wanted to do since I joined the squadron as a novice pilot.”

  “My dear Brigandshaw. How could that be? You were pilots fighting a common enemy. Comrades in arms.”

  “He thought his fiancée had a romantic interest in me.”

  “Well, Brigandshaw, that just isn’t cricket. Looking at another man’s fiancée! That’s as bad as looking at another man’s wife.”

  “But I wasn’t. Her brother, you see…”

  “You don’t have to explain. I do not wish to hear the sordid details…”

  “He’s a convicted murderer…”

  “Suffering from a terrible war wound. He is now well. The Home Secretary has personally assured me. Colonel Braithwaite is now well.”

  “I never said he wasn’t,” said Harry clenching his teeth.

  “Then you have nothing to worry about.”

  The idea of confronting his old CO came to mind. The idea of going straight back to Africa came to mind stronger. Once the public offering was complete, Harry was going to go home where he could wear a gun. If Braithwaite came after him he would shoot the bastard. If they then sent him to jail for killing his wife’s killer it did not matter. There was justice and revenge. If they did not want to give him justice in England, he would take his revenge in Africa.

  Three days later, Harry saw Fishy Braithwaite at the tube station before Braithwaite saw him. Harry got right up behind the man so he could whisper in his ear.

  “If you come out to Africa again, I’ll kill you myself.”

  When Braithwaite turned round to look at him it was the first time Harry had seen fear in the man’s eyes. They locked eyes for a long moment. Then Braithwaite broke and disappeared into th
e morning crowd. The man did not appear again outside the office or at the tube station. Harry hoped he had seen the last of him.

  The following day in Pall Mall, the manager of Cox’s and King’s was having lunch at the invitation of C E Porter, something that had never happened before. On occasion he was able to persuade his important clients to have lunch with him at the bank’s expense to discuss their affairs. Never before had a client of such wealth invited him to lunch. He was duly flattered as he was meant to be.

  C E Porter and his partner Max had suspected Barnaby St Clair of trading on his own account with the information gleaned from their instructions. Without instructions, Barnaby would never have made a profit as he would not have known which company to enquire about or how to use the information. Whether to buy the shares of the company or do the opposite and sell them short.

  They wanted to teach Barnaby a lesson, but they first wished to be sure he was using his bank as a nominee to hide the purchase of his shares. The share offering of Colonial Shipping was too important to them.

  Max and C E knew Barnaby had become astute and would have some idea if the shares of Colonial Shipping were being offered to the public at a fair price. A fair price that would maximise the worth of thirty per cent shareholding being sold by Harry Brigandshaw. Not only would C E Porter and Max make a pile of cash as the sponsoring stockbroker, they would make another pile out of the profit on the shares in Colonial Shipping they bought for their own account if they could keep the offer price as low as possible without Barnaby telling his brother-in-law the true value of the shares.

  C E Porter winkled the fact of Barnaby’s nominee account out of the bank manager before the desert. He was charm personified, stroking the man like a faithful dog.

  “I shouldn’t tell you of course,” said the bank manager purring. “It’s Lord St Clair, Mr Barnaby St Clair’s father, he is concerned about. Does not wish his father to know he is in trade. Silly, in this day and age but you know those old families. So old-fashioned. I just need your word, Mr Porter, that you will never tell Lord St Clair his youngest son is now in trade. Apparently it will cause him to cut off Mr St Clair without a penny… This luncheon has been such an honour. You are such a gentleman, Mr Porter.”

  If the manager had later overheard C E Porter telling Max the story, he would have thought of him as anything but a gentleman.

  “Barnaby even convinced the bank manager Lord St Clair is still worth a fortune.”

  “How do we lay the trap for Barnaby?”

  “We’re going to tell him to sell short Colonial Shipping to keep him from the truth. We’ll tell him that in our desire to maximise his brother-in-law’s cash for the thirty per cent of the company we are selling for him we have overpriced the share. We tell Barnaby that when the share lists it will drop twenty per cent. He’ll probably not tell Harry. I mean you don’t short a family share. It will be delicious. We make a fortune and Barnaby loses his shirt.”

  “Will we tell him after the event?”

  “Of course. From then on he pays us half his share trading profits.”

  “Is that greedy C E?”

  “We made him rich. I want half.”

  “It won’t upset the offering of Colonial Shipping?”

  “How can it? All that happens is the shares go up twenty per cent when they list, Barnaby has to buy his short shares at a hefty premium and goes bust and serves him right.”

  “But if he’s broke, he won’t be able to work for us.”

  “We’ll bail him out for the shortfall. Really have him by the balls. He can pay us back later. He’s been getting too big for his boots of late. Anyway, when he has no money, I’ll be able to take out his girlfriend. All she wants is money. I just can’t wait. Tina Pringle. Really has me going.”

  “You’re a dirty old fox.”

  “Thank you, Max. Life really is a lot of fun. Once Brigandshaw has gone out to Africa, we will be able to rip the share price up and down and always know where it is going. And no risk. He said he’s going to make us his nominee on the board of Colonial Shipping. To vote and oversee the remaining seventy per cent of the shareholding.”

  “Isn’t that illegal? You will know what’s happening before the public.”

  “It damn well should be. One day I’m sure it will. For now we get rich. One jump ahead, Max. One jump ahead.”

  “She’ll never go out with you.”

  “The biggest aphrodisiac for that kind of woman is money. You mark my words. Money and power. Though they really are the same thing.”

  “Do you want to marry her?”

  “Oh don’t be damn silly. In ten years’ time she won’t be worth a look let alone the price of a wife. Wives keep you paying for what you already had. Now that’s plain silly, Max my boy. Always pay cash. Never owe anyone anything. The most expensive whore of this world is a wife. You mark my words.”

  “What about children?”

  “Who on earth wants children to spend your money?”

  “Don’t you want a family?”

  “Not if I can help it.”

  “You’ll die a lonely old man.”

  “It will be a pleasure. Far better than dying with a nagging wife at your bedside. Or a brood of children whose only interest in you is how much money they are going to get. Life is all about money, Max. Anything else they tell you is a pack of lies. To get at your money. The church wants ten per cent of your income in exchange for external life so the clergy can live well in this one. God never asked for money. Why does the church want money? To give away to the poor? More likely to give them power over the poor. They make it look right for the wrong reason. The same applies to marriage. They say we should marry for love. A man marries for lust. You mark my words.”

  “I don’t understand you sometimes, C E. You frighten me.”

  “Never mind. Being honest in life is usually painful. The truth hurts. If we all know the truth about life, we’d kill ourselves. If we were poor that is. If you’re rich, you can buy anything you want. Including Tina Pringle.”

  A week before the shares of Colonial Shipping were to be listed on the London Stock Exchange by C E Porter, Harry set off with Merlin St Clair to drive to Hastings Court. He found it more pleasant to have friends in the house. The gardens and surrounding fields were beautiful. The twenty-seven rooms in the house gave him the creeps. In Africa, Tembo was a friend as well as an employee. Harry had known Tembo most of his life. The thought of Crosswell ever becoming a friend was absurd. The man was always around hovering. Being deferential with such civility Harry knew it had to be false. The man just wasn’t human.

  They had taken the black, three-litre Bentley on condition Harry drove down to Surrey. Brett was excited as it was her first visit to an English country house and Harry had no wish to have the poor girl frightened to death by Merlin’s Brooklands driving. Tina Pringle had warned him.

  “He drives like a lunatic, Harry. Get yourself behind the wheel. Can I come if you drive?”

  “I’m taking Brett.”

  “I don’t like Brett.”

  Tina always seemed to find him. Brett liked to be seen at the supper clubs. The brief conversation had taken place in the Savoy Grill after a show. Harry only went out on Saturday nights. The rest of the week he concentrated on the business.

  “Would you mind if we went through Mickelham?” said Merlin before they got into the car outside Merlin’s flat in Park Lane. Harry had had the chauffeur pick up Brett and come back for him to the office. Harry worked until noon on a Saturday. They were all going to spend the night at Hastings Court. Harry thought he had a buyer for the house which was why he was going down into the country.

  “It’s on the way,” Harry said to Merlin.

  “We can have lunch at the Running Horses.”

  “How do you know the Running Horses? My grandfather talks about it. One of the oldest pubs in England.”

  “It’s a long story, Harry.”

  “They usually are.”
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br />   “Why didn’t you let Tina come with us? I know she asked.”

  “Brett wants to scratch her eyes out.”

  “Don’t be silly. Brett would never do anything like that.”

  “Oh yes I would. She’s always making eyes at Harry. I’m jealous.”

  “She always makes eyes at everybody,” said Merlin miserably. “Except me.”

  They drove the rest of the journey in silence. The top was down and the wind picked the words out of their mouths. Harry drove fast, twice brushing the hedgerows. Merlin smiled next to him complacently. Harry could not see Brett in the back. She was hiding under the cover that fitted over the back seat at chest height to keep the rain out. When it rained the slipstream kept the rain even off the front seats. Both Merlin and Harry in the front were wearing goggles and leather caps. That evening, Brett said it was easier to die lying down on the back seat. She said she had been petrified; it was the first time she had driven in a sports car.

  Merlin directed him to the Running Horses. Harry was not sure why. They were too late for lunch by the time they drove into Mickelham.

  They stopped on a wide gravel driveway between the outhouses and the old thatched public house. There were no other cars in the driveway. Early, Harry thought, May was either too early for the day trippers or they had had their lunch and gone. When they stopped, Brett came up for air from behind, pushing over the cover to one side. Only the side where she was meant to sit had been unclipped. She looked around nervously.

  “Is that Hastings Court?” she asked in disgust. “Why’s it got a sign hanging outside? It’s small, Harry.”

  “It’s a public house. Merlin wants to pay the place a visit.”

  “We can go and have a drink in the bar,” said Merlin.

  “That’s the only good idea today… I want a large one. My nerves.”