by Pamela Pope
‘Something’s definitely got to be done,’ Ellie said. ‘Sir Robert must be made to understand the situation. I’ll speak to him today.’
That evening, for the first time since she had been there, Grandfather Cromer was found in the study adjoining the drawing room, sitting at an oak desk covered in papers. She approached him boldly and tackled the problem from the angle which would affect him most.
‘Grandfather, there is only one more bottle of brandy left in the cupboard. When it’s gone there won’t be another. We’ve no money.’
He didn’t lift his head. The mountain of letters and bills hid the green leather top of the desk, and when he thumped both fists into the middle of the pile they scattered everywhere.
‘Do they have brandy in the debtors’ prison?’
‘I’m sure they don’t.’
‘Then I’d better get used to water because that’s where I’m heading. You’d have been better off not coming here, girl.’
The following day the bailiffs arrived.
Twelve
Oliver Devlin didn’t tell Ellie that he was going to Southampton. First he wanted to see for himself the calibre of Julian Cromer. The supporting of Sir Robert Cromer, now that he had been evicted from his home in Chesterman Court, was his son’s responsibility, and he had to be made aware of it. Oliver had found temporary accommodation for them all in Clerkenwell, paying the rent for it himself, but it was no good waiting until the Chesterman Court house was sold to see if there would be anything left to live on.
‘You’re the most generous man I have ever met, Oliver,’ Ellie told him emotionally, clinging to his hand. ‘We’ll see that every cent of your money’s repaid, you know we will.’
‘And how will you be doing that? The old man’s debts are colossal. I doubt there’ll be a brass farthing left after settling the bills.’ The feel of her fingers curling round his drove the Irishman wild with longing. He disengaged them. ‘Your uncle should be told.’
‘Grandfather’s forbidden me to get in touch with him. You know how proud he is.’
‘What alternative is there?’
‘I’ll write again to Mama,’ she said.
‘And that will take time. My money won’t last forever.’
‘Oh Oliver, I hate having to use it at all. You’re doing so much for us.’
The tall Clerkenwell house was sparsely furnished, but Oliver felt warmer here than he had ever done in Chesterman Court. It was not only physical warmth. Ellie’s gratitude and her nearness had as much to do with it.
‘It’s for you I’m doing it, mavourneen,’ he said. ‘No one else.’
Two days later, in late October, he was travelling down to the coast by train from London, this time in a second-class carriage. He was impressively dressed in a city suit, his sandy hair oiled smooth and covered with a bowler hat set at an elegant angle. His shoes gleamed from polishing, and his reflection in the carriage window pleased him so much that he repeatedly glanced at it, on the pretext of admiring the scenery. He was a man of many parts, none of them irredeemably wicked, but all geared to improving the lot of Oliver Seamus Devlin, who had started life in a mud-and-wattle dwelling on the edge of a field in County Cork. Today he intended to be seen as the advocate for Sir Robert Cromer and his granddaughter, Mrs Elena Berman, and he wouldn’t be allowing any excuses to let Julian Cromer escape his duty.
His concern for Ellie was the most genuine thing about him. He daren’t even let himself think where his feelings for her were leading. She bewitched him. Ever since he had called at the tenement in Pullman he had been unable to get her off his mind. The fortuitous meeting with Max on the dockside at Southampton had been quite amazing. Every time he thought about it he couldn’t believe his luck, and he blessed the saints who had put the right words into his mouth to persuade his brother-in-law to head back to America alone. The fool had actually trusted him with more money than Oliver had ever dreamed of holding, and it had only taken a second to decide that it would go into no pocket but his own. Ellie, to all intents and purposes, had been on her way to relatives richer than the family she had left behind and wouldn’t need it, and Max would be too far away to find out where it had gone.
But what a disastrous turn things had taken. He would never forget Ellie’s face when she’d discovered the appalling mess which had greeted her in London. His privation-hardened heart had almost melted with pity. It wasn’t fair of Fate to be so hard on one person and he had never admired anybody mote than Ellie Berman for the way she had handled the situation. He didn’t think he could have been so strong himself.
The crux of the matter lay in Ellie’s totally unexpected need of the money Max had left her, but without incriminating himself there’d been no way of returning what was rightfully hers. He couldn’t produce it from his pocket and say, ‘Oh, by the way, Max gave me this to give to you.’ She would know by the delay that he had intended to keep it. The only solution had been to use it for her benefit, and that had led to enormous expenditure in the last few weeks which had to be stopped or there would be nothing left. Oh, it had raised Ellie’s opinion of him a hundredfold. Her gratitude was sweet and he wallowed in it, dreading to think what would happen if she were to discover his poor old mother had actually died in the workhouse. He didn’t think he could bear it if she were ever to find out the enormity of his deception.
His thoughts turned guiltily to Katrina, the wife he had loved and so tragically lost. Katrina wouldn’t have approved at all. He had met her through a Jewish friend who had invited him to some celebrations during a Shavuot festival. She’d been sweet and gentle, possessing all the attributes lacking in the women he had previously known, and he’d been irresistibly drawn to her. It had meant pretending great piety to win her, but it hadn’t been difficult. Her influence had made him a better man. How sad she would be, to know he had slipped back into the old ways …
The railway carriage jolted and swayed at speed, causing Oliver’s stomach to revolt, but the feeling of sickness was more to do with his emotions. He wished Ellie was sitting opposite so that he could feast his eyes on her exquisite face. Max must have been out of his mind to leave such an adorable creature, but Max’s stupidity was going to be Oliver’s gain.
He loved Ellie: she had now taken Katrina’s place in his heart. He wanted her esteem. He wanted her body. She was still too mentally bruised to be rushed into anything, so he had cultivated a brotherly attitude that wouldn’t frighten her, and hoped she would soon see him in a different light.
He was glad when he arrived. The boom-boom-boom of the wheels had oscillated in his ears. To his surprise he discovered that his destination was within walking distance of West Station. As the train came out of the tunnel at the west end of Southampton he looked out to his left and saw a collection of workshops grouped around a square white office building of two storeys which had COURT CARRIAGE WORKS emblazoned in large brass letters between the ground and first-floor windows. Had he noticed it previously, it would have meant nothing. Now it set his nerves tingling.
The autumn day was bright and warm. Sun glinted on Southampton Water and waves lapped up to the Western Shore alongside the railway line where a small crowd was watching corporation horses bathing up to their bellies. The light had that golden tinge so typical of England in autumn, and industrial buildings were reflected in the calm water further along the bay. Within minutes Oliver was alighting at the station, and in spite of the short distance he had to go he hired a hansom. He needed to make a good impression.
Judging by Pullman standards the office building was not large, but the inside reception area amazed Oliver. There was every sign of luxury, from the marble floor to the chandelier and plush furnishings. It was more like an hotel.
No wonder ‘Uncle Julian’ also had financial difficulties, Oliver mused.
Gilt-framed photographs on the walls showed distinguished-looking people in royal regalia; among them, Oliver recognised the Prince and Princ
ess of Wales. Others looked foreign. Above the oak reception desk hung a painting of a royal train arriving at Kings Cross station, and there were several other pictures showing the interiors of rail-coaches, more elaborate even than anything George Pullman had yet designed.
A clerk in black trousers and frockcoat appeared from a side room. He had a carnation in his buttonhole.
‘May I be of service?’ he asked.
Oliver removed his hat. ‘I’ve come to see Mr Julian Cromer.’
‘Ah yes, we’re expecting you, sir. May I say what a pleasure it is to welcome you to Court Carriages.’
‘But …’
‘I regret that Mr Cromer has been unavoidably delayed. He sends his abject apologies and has asked me to see that you are looked after by our senior manager, Mr Wilkinson. Would you care to step this way?’
Oliver raised his eyebrows in surprise and did as he was told. There was obviously a mistake, but it could prove useful.
He followed the clerk from the office building and across a rail siding leading to the main line where a locomotive crouched in an open-fronted shed in readiness for harnessing to repaired or completed cars. In the timberyard, mahogany logs were stacked up everywhere in readiness for making panels, and there were strips of oak in all shapes and sizes.
‘We let the wood season for three years here,’ the clerk said conversationally. ‘Of course, being so near the docks is ideal for receiving imports of teak which we use in great quantity, and we’re experimenting with Padouk wood from South Australia. Have you had experience of it?’
‘Er … no,’ said Oliver. ‘I’m more familiar with the use of steel. How close are you to a foundry?’
‘I’m afraid steel frames have to be sent down to us from Crewe, but it isn’t a great problem, I assure you.’
‘And how many shops are there here?’
‘Twenty, sir. Over seven thousand vehicles pass through these shops each year for repair, and then there are the special cars which are a feature of our company. Mr Wilkinson will be in the body shop, I imagine.’
Inside the shop where a fifty-foot carriage was under construction, the clerk again aired his knowledge. ‘You’ll recognise the cantrails of this model are oak, and yellow deal is being used for the roof and floor and partitions. We strengthen the outside mahogany panels with a strong canvas glue, which you can probably smell. Not too nice, I’m afraid.’
Oliver was intensely interested. He had held a good position at Pullman, being in charge of the fitting shop there until Katrina’s death, so he made keen comparisons, and approved of what he saw. The car body had curved ribs of channel steel spanning the roof, and this was to be a corridor coach in the latest style.
‘How many coats of paint does the wood receive?’ he asked.
‘Let me see … There are three coats of white priming, four to fill up and one of red stain. Then there are three coats of lead, one of Kremnitz white, one enamel, and three of varnish. That makes sixteen. On the chocolate body it’s slightly different. We use carmine, and that’s very expensive.’
‘You know all about the job, Mr … er …’ The smell of the varnish caught in Oliver’s throat, but it was a heady reminder of Pullman and he felt a momentary tug of nostalgia.
‘Carew, sir. Thomas Carew. I’m only just learning, but I want to know everything so I can rise to management.’
‘A man after my own heart, so you are.’
‘I’m so sorry, I don’t know where Mr Wilkinson can be.’ Thomas Carew was becoming agitated. ‘I’m afraid you arrived a little earlier than we expected. Perhaps the upholstery department … There’s a lady there Mr Wilkinson rather admires.’
Oliver smiled. The young man might be quick at learning construction details but he urgently needed lessons in diplomacy.
The high-ceilinged body shop echoed with the sound of hammers, but for a company with such potential there didn’t seem to be enough going on. It needed someone like George Pullman to come along and get things moving. The men doing the hammering worked in a desultory fashion and seemed to have no motivation.
‘You know, of course, that some of our customers are the highest ranking nobility,’ the clerk said, with a certain awe.
‘Very impressive,’ said Oliver. ‘Are your books full?’
‘That’s something you must discuss with Mr Cromer, sir.’ The young man’s boyish shoulders rounded with deference to Oliver, who enjoyed the fawning. It gave him a feeling of power. ‘You’ll not regret buying into this business, sir. It is truly an expanding company. We receive orders from European royalty all the time, and there is talk of an Eastern gentleman, a Sultan, I believe …’
‘I think you’re under a misapprehension,’ Oliver interrupted.
At that moment a tall man with receding fair hair strode into the workshop, immaculately dressed in a grey suit of the finest cloth with every crease pressed to perfection. A diamond pin held a black cravat in place, and the gold watch-chain across his waistcoat weighed enough to have graced one of the royal personages pictured in the reception office. He had a high forehead and a silken beard lightly covering his deep chin, giving his face an elongated appearance. As he approached them he was obviously trying to conceal anger.
‘Mr Carew, just what do you think you’re doing, bringing Mr Kendall into the workshops?’ he demanded of the clerk. His eyes were as grey as his suit, and ice-cold.
‘But sir, you asked me to find Mr Wilkinson to look after him!’
‘In the comfort of the reception office. Return to your work at once and I will speak to you later.’ He turned to Oliver, his mouth expanding into a tight smile. ‘My dear Mr Kendall, I do apologise for the inefficiency of a very new clerk. I’m sure you understand how difficult it is to get good staff these days. Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Julian Cromer.’
‘I found your Mr Carew very helpful,’ said Oliver. ‘It would have been better, however, if he had asked my name beforehand. I’m not Mr Kendall, so I’m not.’
‘Not …’
‘No, sir.’
‘Then please explain who you are and why you’re here.’ Julian Cromer’s gracious expression slipped. ‘If you’re an industrial spy for the opposition in Eastleigh I’d be obliged if you’ll leave now before I have you forcibly removed.’
‘My name’s Oliver Devlin and I’m here on behalf of your niece, Mrs Elena Berman. Is there somewhere we can talk in private?’
The fair eyebrows rose, the smile again in place. ‘Elena,’ he said, letting her name linger as if with affection. ‘I had heard, of course, that she is staying with my father.’
‘Had you heard also that Sir Robert has been evicted from Chesterman Court? If so, I feel you could have shown some concern. There is too much to discuss standing here. Do you have a personal office?’
The man inclined his head. ‘Forgive me, of course we must talk privately. And what is your relationship to my niece, Mr Devlin?’
‘I am brother-in-law to Mrs Berman and financial adviser in her present straitened circumstances.’
‘I trust you are not looking to me for financial help. Perhaps she should have stayed in America.’
‘That’s as may be.’
Julian Cromer indeed had an office. It was more like a salon in an exclusive club, the bookcases filled with leather-bound volumes, the paintings rare and beautiful, the floor richly carpeted. He invited Oliver to sit on the chesterfield while he took the high-backed leather armchair himself which had been strategically placed so that sunlight played on his face and shoulders, making his grey eyes more penetrating. The dark background accentuated the lightness of his appearance and gave him a strangely menacing air.
‘Now, Mr Devlin, let me assure you I had no idea my father had come to such a pass. Why was I not told? Has my niece got through what was left of his money in the short time she has been living off him?’
Oliver was not intimidated. ‘The old man drank away his fortune, as I�
�m sure you know. Ellie has saved his life. And with my own money I’ve re-housed him, so I have, after the bailiffs laid claim to everything. But I need reimbursement now, and the responsibility is yours, not mine.’
‘If I could afford to support my father, do you think I would be looking for an injection of money into my business?’ Julian Cromer’s fingers clawed at his knees. He had spoken hastily, almost to himself, and a nerve twitched at the corner of his mouth.
Oliver cast his eyes round. ‘You’ve some beautiful paintings here, Mr Cromer. They would have looked very fine gracing the walls at Chesterman Court.’
‘If there is a family matter to be discussed I would prefer to do it with my father or my niece personally.’
The clerk returned in a state of new agitation, and crossed to his employer, braving the look of disapproval shot at him like a barbed dart.
‘Mr Cromer, sir, I’ve just had Mr Kendall on the telephone. He asked me to tell you he’s changed his mind. He won’t be coming after all.’
‘Changed his mind? About —?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Julian’s pale face became flushed. He stood up. ‘You must excuse me, Mr Devlin. I’ve no time for you right now. I’ll order a hansom to take you to the station, and if you will leave the address with Mr Carew I’ll try to get up to town at some future date. Good day to you.’
Oliver’s dismissal contrasted baldly with the effusive welcome he had received earlier, but it didn’t worry him. When the hansom arrived he cancelled it, and walked instead to the South Western Hotel which was only a few minutes away. There he booked a room and installed himself for an indefinite number of nights so that he could do some quiet thinking, make some discreet inquiries, and seek advice from the Southampton branch of the bank in which he had deposited Ellie’s money in his name.
*
Ellie was very worried. It was six days since she had seen or heard anything of Oliver and his desertion awakened new fears. She had come to rely on him. Surely he hadn’t walked out, after all he had done to find them somewhere else to live? He wouldn’t leave her without word. Each morning she awoke with a deepening fear that once more she had been deserted.