We stood in the Drying room for a few minutes, watching the complicated processes, but I had to admit it was all lost on me.
In the second room, George Leeson looked out of the little glass-panelled cubicle that was apparently his office. He came over to us at once, and began to explain things to me in a proprietorial way, taking over from Max.
Leeson toured around with us, and I got an impression that each man resented the presence of the other. There wasn’t anything you could nail down as an atmosphere between them, but they certainly didn’t seem to care for one another too much.
When we got upstairs there was no sound coming from Dr. Hamilton’s room. I wondered if he was in there, but felt disinclined to risk interrupting him again. I found his extreme bad manners disturbing. It looked as if Max felt the same way, for without hesitation he strode past the closed door.
Outside the office Max paused. The overseer had stuck with us all this time, and was quite obviously intending to continue hanging around.
But Max could be firm when he wanted to, all right. ‘Thank you, Leeson,’ he said in flat dismissal.
George Leeson must have been furious to be cut down to size, especially in front of a woman. But he put a good face on it.
‘I’d best be getting along now,’ he said with a wink. Must make sure the wheels are running smoothly. See you later.’
In the outer office a woman of around forty was busily typing. She was short and rather plump and very homely. She smiled at me with an appealing shyness—an old-fashioned little woman. Max introduced her as Miss Fenders, and we chatted about nothing in particular for a few minutes.
Max led me through into an adjoining office, calling back, ‘Bring us some coffee, will you, Fendy? There’s a dear.’
The secretary nodded and smiled again with a pathetic desire to please.
“Our Miss Doris Fenders is a treasure,’ said Max, when we were sitting down with the door safely closed. ‘Not much there to take a man’s eye, and not a spark of originality. But ask her for statistics, something good and concrete, and she’s got it all nicely documented.’
‘What more could you want?’
He regarded me quizzically, an eyebrow cocked. ‘In a secretary?’ he asked. ‘Or in a woman?’
I let that pass.
‘Well now,’ said Max, more businesslike, ‘what do you want to do, Dulcie? What shall I show you now?’
‘Well frankly, Max, I think I’d learn more from the seeing the firm’s account books than looking round the works. How about starting with the last balance sheet, to put me in the picture?’
Max regarded me open-mouthed. ‘You mean to tell me you can understand mumbo-jumbo like that?’
It was pleasant to surprise him with my knowledge. I certainly hadn’t been a brilliant pupil at business college, but I’d picked up an ability to put two and two together. It had been drummed into us that whatever surface appearances might indicate, they didn’t always make four.
The ‘treasure’ came in just then with the coffee. Max asked her for the latest balance sheet. ‘And while you’re about it, better bring along all the books. Miss Royle wants to get a general idea how things are going.’ He sketched his hands vaguely in the air. ‘I leave it to you to fetch what you think is necessary.’
A casual glance at a balance sheet can’t tell anyone much, but I got an impression of a healthily-based business. No large payments dues, nothing spectacular either way. I thought the trading account showed a surprisingly modest profit for the amounts involved, but I wasn’t too concerned about this. A single year’s figures can mean so little. Nevertheless, I thought it worth a comment.
‘The doc would never allow the selling price to be put up,’ Max explained. ‘I argued about it, told him we’re not in business for fun. But he wouldn’t have it. He said the people who needed our stuff couldn’t afford high prices, and I suppose that’s fair enough.’
I was satisfied. More than that, for I was pleased to have this tiny clue to my father’s nature. It showed him as a man with a conscience about other people.
I had it in mind to write the letter to old Archie Best about my clothes, so I could catch an early post. But Max kept me talking. Out of the blue he returned to the subject of buying my shares, and his bluntness surprised me.
‘Look here, Dulcie, don’t let’s beat about the bush. I gave a lot of thought to this last night, and I reckon I could offer you seventy-five thousand for your shares in the business. Now that’s pretty generous.’
I frowned. ‘But I’d still have the house to think of. It would be a bit of a white elephant, considering it’s next to the laboratory.’
He said quickly, as if he’d anticipated this. ‘I could always take it off your hands, too. We’d get a surveyor to put a value on it. How’s that?’
‘But what would you want with the place, Max?’ He had spoken enthusiastically about his flat in Cheltenham, inviting me to go and see it sometime. He just wasn’t the type of man to bury himself in the country.
He spun me a tale about turning the house into a hotel or country club. I didn’t believe him. I guessed he knew something about the firm’s potential that I didn’t. Not that I blamed him for it. We might be friends, but when there was a question of buying and selling it didn’t pay to put all your cards on the table. I’d have to make it my job to find out what he was holding back.
‘Maybe,’ I said cautiously, ‘I’ll be able to give you an answer by next week. Certainly not sooner.’
We left it at that. Max told me he had to be going. He didn’t seem to spend any too much time at Malverton.
On my own, there was nothing for me to do, and I was heading to the door through to the house. But the bright sunshine tempted me—it was my first chance of seeing the grounds since I’d arrived. I went out of the laboratory’s main entrance at the side of the building, and found myself on a wide paved area. The minibus Max had mentioned was parked in one corner, together with a couple of cars.
The grass was still wet, so I stuck to the gravel path that swept around the back of the house, and way across the lawn. A small movement in the shadows under the big cedar caught my attention. I looked more closely and saw it was Dr. Hamilton. He must have been watching me, thinking he was unobserved.
I wasn’t going to let him get away with that. ‘Good morning,’ I called. ‘Isn’t it lovely?’
He moved forward ungraciously, his dark eyes screwing up as he came out into the sunlight. He mumbled a greeting.
I pushed the conversation along. ‘Having a breather?’
‘I’m thinking.’
He didn’t help much. Talking to him was heavy going.
‘I guess you have to chew things over a lot in your sort of job...?’ I said.
‘I’ve got a great deal on my mind.’
The amazing thing was that I troubled to control my fury. The man got my goat.
‘Well,’ I said weakly, in retreat, ‘I’ve got things to do. Better be going.’
I went into the house by way of the French doors. He was still watching me when I turned to look back, and I cursed myself for letting him catch me out.
When I’d got around to writing the note to old Archie, I went in search of Mrs. Cass to ask where the nearest mailbox was. It was strange to hear voices coming from the kitchen instead of the heavy silence I was becoming used to in this house.
Of course, this was one of the days when Mrs. Cass’s niece came up from the village to help. But it wasn’t ordinary conversation I could hear. The voices were loud, raised in anger. I was tickled with the idea that maybe Mrs. Cass was tearing her niece off a strip for housework that didn’t come up to her own high standard. Mrs. Cass might be tiny, but I guessed she’d be a tartar to work under. Discreetly I backed out of the way, not wanting it thought that I was trying to eavesdrop.
The niece must have been quite undaunted by the set-to, because a few minutes later I heard her singing softly to herself as she worked. I ran into her lat
er in the morning when she was dusting the stairs. I wondered at her relationship to the diminutive Mrs. Cass because the young woman was very tall—a good two inches above me, and plumpish with it. She wasn’t pretty but had a pleasant face and a ready smile. She introduced herself without diffidence.
‘I’m Janet.’
I took to her at once. We chatted for a few moments and she was soon telling me about her children whom she had to leave with a neighbour when she came up to help her aunt at Malverton. I asked how old they were.
‘Jenny’s three, and Peter’s a year older. And they’re a proper handful when they get together.’
I smiled. ‘I bet they are. You’re lucky to have one of each. A girl for you and a boy for your husband.’
Her bright face clouded over. ‘My husband is dead. He was killed in an accident at work twelve months ago.’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry....’
The smile came back, a little wistfully. ‘Never mind, Miss Royle. You weren’t to know.’
She returned to polishing the banisters. I wondered if she was already being courted again. Over and above her sunny nature there was perhaps a secret happiness in the way she went around the place singing.
‘Does it bother you, Miss Royle?’ Mrs. Cass asked as she came into the dining-room to serve me with lunch. ‘I could tell Janet to stop it....’
‘No, please don’t do that. It’s very pleasant. She has a nice voice.’
She grunted, wrinkling her nose in distaste.
I took the chance of telling the housekeeper I intended to stay on at Malverton for a while. I couldn’t judge whether the news pleased her or not.
‘You must carry on just as you have always done,’ I said. ‘I mean, taking the same time off, that sort of thing.’
‘Well,’ she said doubtfully, ‘I used to have Sundays off. It suited the doctor, you see, because he was always out himself then, and I could go to Janet’s.’ She jerked her head in the direction of the voice outside. ‘But I expect you’d rather I had a week-day instead?’
‘No no,’ I said, ‘Sunday suits me fine. But don’t you take any other time off?’
She seemed reluctant to stake a claim to any more. ‘I have been having Thursday afternoons—that’s for the Women’s Institute at Woolcombe.’
‘Thursday? That’s today.’
‘Oh, I wasn’t thinking of going today.’
‘But of course you must. I can look after myself for a few hours.’
‘Thank you, Miss Royle.’ She gave me a wintry smile. ‘I usually lend a hand with the teas. Of course, I’ll leave a tray ready for you, and I’ll be back soon after five. By the way, hadn’t I better give you a front-door key? I’ll get one now.’
So I had an afternoon to myself. From a window I watched Mrs. Cass depart. Rigged out in a brown coat and a light straw hat topped with a pink rose—her tribute to the sun—she trotted briskly down the drive.
I decided to explore the grounds, and perhaps a bit beyond—a walk would do me good. I went through to the kitchen and called softly, ‘Jenner, coming for a walk, old boy?’
The dog lumbered out of his basket, tail wagging, making curious little whining noises of excitement. I looked around for a leash, but couldn’t see one, either here or in the hall,
‘I guess you don’t really need one though,’ I said. ‘You don’t look as if you’d want to run off.’
In spite of his poor sight the old spaniel went surefooted round to the back of the house and past the laboratory. I could see figures inside busy at their mysterious work. At an upstairs window I thought I caught a glimpse of a tall figure in a white coat, but if I did, it was gone in a flash.
I was ready enough to let Jenner take me where he wanted. I realized he would choose a favourite walk of my father’s. After a few minutes we came to an old stone wall which bounded the grounds. The gate across the path was locked, but beside it the wall was crumbled away, so it was easy to get by.
We were in a beech wood, and the path curved downwards to the right. Jenner, tail held high in sprightly fashion, snuffled happily amongst the leaves and lolloped after imaginary rabbits. The ground was soft and spongy and my heels sank deeper with every step. I realized at once that my shoes were utterly unsuitable for the country. Either I’d have to abandon the walk altogether, or go back to the house and change. My flat-heeled pumps wouldn’t be much better, but they’d have to do.
I called Jenner to heel, explaining the situation in the foolish way one talks to a dog. ‘I’m sorry, old boy, but I’m afraid I have a whole lot to learn about the country.’
The disappointed animal followed me obediently, head hanging. He looked disgusted at my stingy idea of an outing. I left him sitting on the front doorstep.
‘I won’t be a minute changing,’ I said.
I heard the noise when I was crossing the hall. A faint rustling sound which seemed to be coming from the study. The door was ajar, but I felt sure it had been closed when I went out.
My curiosity turned to alarm that somebody had broken in. Then the explanation hit me. It would be one of the staff from the laboratory, come to fetch something. But who could it be? Surely only Max Tyler would have any sort of authority to be there, and he had returned to Cheltenham for lunch,
I pushed the door wide open and found myself looking into the startled eyes of Dr. Hamilton.
‘Might I ask what you are doing here?’ My voice was deliberately chilly, but it trembled slightly from a remnant of fear that stayed with me.
It was perhaps half a minute before he replied. ‘I suppose I shall have to try to give you an explanation.’
‘You certainly will. It’s clear as day you knew the house was empty, and decided to take the chance of going through my father’s desk. Why so underhand, Dr. Hamilton? What did you hope to find here?’
He winced, but continued to regard me steadily. ‘I suggest you sit down and I’ll try to explain.’
‘Thank you. I prefer to stand.’
He shrugged. ‘Very well, but it’s a long story.’ He ran a hand through his dark hair, and took one or two nervous strides about the room. Then he seemed to make up his mind.
‘Your father and I had quite a serious disagreement a few days before he died. I had come to dinner as I often did, and he tackled me about what he called the disgraceful spoilage rate in the manufacturing process. You may have heard that this is a major drawback of MJ71—it’s very tricky stuff to handle, particularly in the early stages.’
I nodded. ‘Yes, Mr. Tyler told me that.’
‘It’s my responsibility to maintain technical standards, and Dr. Drysdale felt I was letting him down. He said the wastage of raw materials was going from bad to worse. I don't mind admitting I was very annoyed indeed, because I’d been pleased with the results I’d been getting in recent months.’
‘Surely it was a simple matter of fact? One or other of you could be proved wrong?’
‘No, it wasn’t as easy as that. You’ve got to understand that the dried Physolaria plants we use cost next to nothing—little more than the cost of transporting them to this country. It wasn’t loss of money Dr. Drysdale was concerned about, it was a matter of efficiency—or lack of it. It hurt his pride as a scientist.’
‘But even so....'
‘Naturally, the lab’s total consumption of Physolaria is recorded in the office stock book. But I’ve never troubled to keep a note myself of the spoiled batches. I knew in my own mind that efficiency was improving, and I was content to leave it at that. So we disagreed. He had the evidence of the firm’s books, I the evidence of my own knowledge. I was very angry that he should blame me. I’m afraid I lost my temper. I feel rather badly about that—I never had a chance to apologize.’
‘I gather you admired my father, Dr. Hamilton?’
‘He was a very great man.’ His remark sounded deeply sincere, but the look he gave me was scornful. ‘Of course, you wouldn’t know about that, would you?’
The unfairness of h
is sneer hurt.
‘You still haven’t explained what you were doing rifling through the desk,’ I said, curbing a desire to hit back.
‘Dr. Drysdale told me that he’d jotted down some of the recent consumption figures. As a matter of fact, he was just going to get them from his desk, but I was so angry that I walked out on him. I was wondering if that bit of paper is still here. That’s what I’m after.’
‘But you’re crazy! You’ve only got to ask Miss Fenders and she could give you all the information you need. Why all this hole-and-corner stuff?’
‘Because I don’t want to make a big point of asking for the figures. Don’t you see that if the books really do show a bigger wastage than actually takes place, there’s something seriously wrong.’
‘But what could be wrong? You said yourself the stuff costs next to nothing. You can’t believe anybody is stealing it?’
‘I’m not sure. But I propose to find out.’
I looked at Dr. Hamilton thoughtfully. There was somehow a ring of truth about his improbable story. When he wasn’t being surly or sarcastic, he had a kind of sincerity about him. If he had been unjustly criticized, I could well believe it would rankle with a man like this, a man with a deep sense of pride in his work. He would be determined to clear himself, and he might go to extreme lengths to do it—like breaking into my father’s desk.
But was all he’d told me just a cock-and-bull story to put me off the scent? Had he in fact been searching for something altogether different when I had interrupted him? Amongst those hieroglyphics that had meant nothing to me, was there buried some valuable information my father had left? Some secret formulae which Dr. Hamilton was intent on stealing to put to his own advantage?
I hastily dismissed this theory as altogether melodramatic. Such things were always happening in the scripts of TV thrillers I played in, but not in real life.
I settled for a far simpler explanation.
It was much more likely that Dr. Hamilton believed himself so infallible that he pig-headedly refused to accept the real wastage figures when challenged. His professional pride was at stake, and he was going all-out in a futile attempt to prove himself right.
A Cotswolds Legacy Page 4