by Irene Carr
Chrissie nodded. ‘I’m fond of it.’ Bessie Milburn had always said it had ‘cost a pretty penny’.
Arkenstall handed it back after a minute or two and as Chrissie pinned it on again he said, ‘I think you should have that valued. Why don’t you ask Smethurst in the High Street what it’s worth?’
‘I will,’ Chrissie promised as she left, but she had other business to settle first and the brooch would have to wait. She needed a second mortgage. She could not go back to Lawrence; he could lend her no more and had made that plain. In fact he had already gone further than he should and knew he could be subject to censure by his directors if the loan proved to be bad business. Chrissie made the round of the other banks again. Surely one of them would help, now that she only needed £250?
But they would not. They were unimpressed by the fact that someone had put up half the money she needed. They were not prepared to risk theirs. She tried to borrow private capital but some – Arkenstall among them – wanted a more secure investment for their retirement. Others said, some to her face, ‘I’m not lending my money to a bit of a lass.’
She acknowledged bitterly that they would have lent it to Forthrop, a male with money already.
With only two days of her month left she still needed that further £250.
She went to Smethurst in desperation and showed him the brooch. He examined it with his little glass screwed into his eye, took it out once to stare at her in astonishment, then replaced the glass and went on with his scrutiny. Finally he let the glass drop into his palm and blinked at her. ‘It’s Indian, of course. And these stones are diamonds. Did you know that?’ When Chrissie shook her head he said, ‘Well, they are. The face of the brooch is old – two, maybe three hundred years – and it wasn’t a brooch to start with, may have been some other kind of jewelled ornament or part of one. The pin was put on much later, probably just before your uncle bought it.’ He held it out at arm’s length, admiring it.
Chrissie put in brutally, ‘How much is it worth?’
‘Um? Ah!’ Smethurst pondered then decided. ‘Well, a piece like this might be better sold at auction and I’d think it could fetch up to £150, maybe a bit more. Across the counter you should get at least £100.’
He put the brooch down on his little square of black cloth and it lay there and winked at Chrissie. She took a deep breath and gazed at it for a full minute, until Smethurst stirred restlessly, wondering at her silence. He offered, ‘I might go to £140, but as I said, if you want more you’d do better to put it up for auction at a London saleroom.’
Chrissie thought that would leave her with just over £100 to find, which was still a significant amount – it would take a riveter in the yards the best part of a year to earn that. But she could borrow that, somehow. She stared at the brooch, remembering Bessie Milburn and the home she had given Chrissie. Then she sighed softly, smiled at the jeweller and picked up the brooch. ‘No. I was just curious. But thank you for your help.’ She pinned the brooch carefully back in her lapel and left the shop. It was all she had of Bessie, to whom she owed so much. She would not part with it.
She could not sleep that night but lay awake facing up to defeat. She would go to Lance Morgan next day and tell him to take Forthrop’s offer while it was still good. She would have to start again. So be it.
Only it wasn’t that simple. There was Jack Ballantyne and how he regarded her. There was one way he would think of her – she shifted restlessly in the darkness – and there were others. He had her respect and she wanted his. She did not want his pity, did not want him or anyone else to be sorry for her. She wanted Jack to love her for herself – as she loved him.
The letter was among the others on her desk the next morning. There was nothing to mark it out as of any importance so she dealt with it in its turn. The notepaper inside was headed: Massingham Motion Pictures Ltd. She glanced down at the signature and saw it was that of Phillip Massingham. A slip of paper was clipped to the back of the letter and she gave that a cursory glance too, then looked again, her eyes widening. The cheque was for £400.
Chrissie turned back to the letter with shaking hands. It read:
Dear Miss Carter,
I would have liked to have written sooner with this news but I have been visiting the USA to arrange distribution of our productions over there. In spite of it being winter, and the threat from submarines, I enjoyed the crossing, save for the presence of a former acquaintance. You may have heard of her – she performs under the name of Vesta Nightingale.
She informed me she was going to try her luck in vaudeville over there. I think she has left it too late in life and know I should be sorry for the woman, but frankly I was glad to be rid of her at the cost of $50 she borrowed (?!), on the strength of ‘old times’, as we passed the Statue of Liberty.
But to business: after a long period in the doldrums – when the company was valued as virtually worthless – and a lot of hard work, we’ve finally got a number of short features into houses for showing. In other words we are now making money and the future looks promising. All outstanding loans have been paid and provision made for expenditure on future productions over the next six months. In the circumstances the directors (my wife and myself!) have decided to declare an interim dividend and a cheque is enclosed. It comes with the thanks and gratitude of both of us. You made this success possible and your faith – and the debt I owed you – kept me going through the worst days.
Yours sincerely,
Phillip Massingham
Chrissie felt a wave of sadness thinking of her mother, despite the way Martha Tate had treated her all through her life. But she told herself this was a time for looking forward, not bemoaning the past. She banked the cheque then went to Ezra Arkenstall’s office and gave him another cheque – for the balance of the purchase price of the Railway Hotel. Now it only remained for Lance’s solicitors to do their side of the work and the hotel would belong to Chrissie Carter.
Ezra said, ‘There is another matter we must discuss. Only this morning I received a letter from associates of ours in Lincoln’s Inn, asking us to act for them.’ He paused then to apologise: ‘I think they should have written a month ago but they say they are short of staff, many of their partners and clerks serving with the colours.’ He drew a file towards him and opened it. ‘This concerns the late Major Andrew Wayman.’ He waited for a reaction.
Chrissie’s face, the blood draining from it, showed her recognition of the name but the words came more slowly: ‘My father.’
Arkenstall blinked, surprised. ‘So he states. You knew?’
‘My mother told me.’ And Chrissie thought, heart plummetting, ‘late’.
Arkenstall said, ‘I have his will here.’ He lifted the clean, typewritten sheet, the letter from the firm in Lincoln’s Inn, to show the will below. It was no more than a page torn from a notebook, crumpled, stained and dirty. Arkenstall explained, ‘He drew up the will himself – it is quite a simple document – possibly with the assistance of another officer with legal training. It is in proper form and witnessed and our associates have confirmed its validity.’
Chrissie whispered, ‘I never knew him, didn’t know he was dead.’
Arkenstall fiddled with the papers, for a moment reluctant to go on. ‘He was reported as missing, believed killed, in September 1916.’
‘1916!’ Chrissie stared at him, horrified. ‘That was two years ago!’
Arkenstall nodded unhappily, tapped the letter and said, ‘I understand he was killed at that time but his body lay in no-man’s land until we captured the ground this summer. It explains the condition of the will, which was found in a pocket.’
Chrissie thought of him – though she could not picture a face – her father, a man, lying out in the mud and filth for two years. The tears ran down her cheeks and she fumbled for her handkerchief, dabbed at her eyes. She looked up at Arkenstall. ‘I’m sorry.’
He shook his head, denying the need for any apology. ‘I understand. Are yo
u ready for me to continue?’ When she nodded he went on, ‘The will reads: “I leave my house and property in Victoria, Australia, and any other estate existing at the time of my death, to my natural daughter, Chrissie Carter . . .”’
Arkenstall laid down the will. ‘He goes on to give some details of where you might be found. Our associates in London are named as the executors. They are enquiring as to the nature and value of the property in Australia, but, of course, mails take many weeks and it will be more than a year before the estate is settled. However, they have spoken to a colleague of his, who has informed them that the property is extensive and worth several thousand pounds.’ He smiled at Chrissie, ‘So you should be able to pay off that mortgage on the hotel in a year or two.’
Chrissie wanted to say, ‘Damn the mortgage.’ She accepted that if this news had come a month ago, as Arkenstall said it should, she would have been spared the worries of the past few weeks, a mortgage easily obtained. But she did not care about that, wished her father had lived and come home to her.
Chrissie walked back over the bridge. It was an autumn day with a cold wind blowing up the river from the sea. It brought colour back to her cheeks and she stepped out more briskly. She would mourn the father she never knew but she also had cause for rejoicing now.
Arkenstall took a taxi to Ballantyne’s yard, saw old George Ballantyne in his office and told him, ‘To set your mind at rest, I am going to commit a breach of confidence.’ George stared, realising this was a serious matter to this old friend, who now went on, ‘Do I have your word not to disclose what I am about to tell you?’
George nodded. ‘Of course.’
Arkenstall recounted his interview with Chrissie and summed up, ‘So Martha Tate lied to us all those years ago. She knew your son was not the father of her child, has since told Miss Carter so. Her real father was killed in France, serving with the Australian Army.’
George nodded slowly. ‘I never believed her story. But she duped us, got the money she wanted.’ He was silent a moment, then shrugged and said, ‘That’s water under the bridge. How did the girl turn out?’
Arkenstall’s grim features relaxed in a smile. ‘Very well. She’s on the point of buying the Railway Hotel. She manages it now.’
George said, startled, ‘Well, I’m damned!’ Then he returned the smile. ‘I’m glad to hear it.’
Chrissie and Lance celebrated in the kitchen of the Bells, he with whisky and Chrissie with a sherry.
Lance toasted, ‘Here’s all success to you, Chrissie. And damnation to Forthrop.’ He drank and coughed, then said happily, ‘That’s the finish of him, anyway.’
Chrissie was not so sure but at this moment she was too happy and excited to worry. She had achieved her ambition. She was owner of the Railway Hotel and a respected businesswoman.
She called her hotel staff together and told them, ‘You know, of course, that the hotel was put up for sale a month ago and you may have been wondering who would take over and whether you would keep your jobs. Well, I can tell you that I am now owner as well as manager, though the post of manager will be Tommy Johnson’s again when he comes back from the Army. And your jobs are all safe.’
That brought applause but it was hesitant. Chrissie knew it was because they found it hard to believe that she had become the new owner. After all, she was ‘only a bit of a lass’. But then notice of the change of ownership appeared in the local newspaper and set their minds at rest.
It also brought Forthrop.
He shoved open the door of her office and strode in to lean over her desk. She flinched back instinctively, and he thrust his face close to hers. She saw a sneering Victor Parnaby standing behind him. Then Forthrop was speaking, his breath hot on her face, his voice low so no one outside the open door of the room would hear but every word was spat out with menace.
‘You cunning, conniving bitch! That’s the second time you’ve crossed me but it’ll be the last. I told you to make the most of your time. I’ll say it again, but now it’s not just your days in this office that are running out. I’ll see the finish of you.’
He turned and shouldered past Parnaby, who stepped quickly out of his way then followed him from the hotel.
Chrissie got up and closed the door, went back to her desk and sat down. She shivered. What could she do? She could lay a complaint but who would believe her? To most of the business community, Forthrop was still a respectable businessman. But she knew that had been no idle threat from him. It was a statement of intent and he meant to kill her.
Chapter 24
28th October, 1918
‘We’ll kill two birds with one stone. Take her out to the Dane and bring back a load.’ Max Forthrop broke off spelling out his plan to Victor Parnaby as his motor car rolled down the steep road to the gates of the North Dock. This lay near the mouth of the river, black with a white lacing of foam in the night, inside the enclosing arms of its two piers. On the opposite, southern shore, but hidden by the darkness, were the bigger Hudson and Hendon Docks.
Forthrop braked the 16 hp Humber, a big, open four-seater tourer. The nightwatchman on duty at the gates, who was in Forthrop’s pay, said, ‘That’s all right, sir.’ The man touched his cap then snatched the shilling out of the air as Forthrop flipped it at him. ‘Thank ye, sir!’
Forthrop drove on and picked up the thread of the conversation again: ‘And that will be the end of her. There’ll be a hue and cry, of course, but without a body they’ll get nowhere.’
Parnaby was uneasy, lacked the ruthlessness of his master. He said, ‘It sounds all right.’
‘It will be.’ Forthrop was confident.
He steered the car through the maze of railway lines and wound between warehouses and sheds, circling the dock. He braked the Humber at last on a dark, secluded wharf before a locked shed facing on to the river. He and Parnaby got down, crossed to the side of the wharf and descended the steps they found there. They went cautiously in the darkness, the stone treads slippery with weeds under their boots. At the foot of the steps lay a motor boat. It was simply an open boat some thirty feet long with its engine under a low housing in the stern. Forthrop sat down by the tiller in the sternsheets just behind the housing and looking forward over it. Parnaby busied himself starting the engine and then casting off the lines that held the boat to the wharf. Forthrop eased over the tiller and the bow came around, the boat headed out into the stream.
They had caught slack water, the turn of the tide, and forged steadily upriver, even though the engine was throttled back to a putter that would hardly be heard a score of yards away. They showed no lights. Everything they did as if well rehearsed. It was; they had done this many times before.
So they went until Parnaby called softly, ‘There she is!’ He pointed, Forthrop’s gaze followed the line of his finger and he saw the ship lying out in the stream. She was just a black hump of deeper darkness in the night, only marked by her riding lights.
An accommodation ladder hung down the ship’s side like a flight of stairs ending in a small, square platform just above the lapping surface of the river. Forthrop took the boat alongside her to nuzzle against the platform. Another boat was already tied up there. The engine died as Parnaby stopped it, then he tied the boat to the foot of the ladder. He and Forthrop climbed it and found the Danish skipper and his First Mate at the head of it, both wearing dark blue reefer jackets that looked black in the night, and peaked caps jammed on their heads.
Forthrop held out his hand. ‘Captain Nielsen.’ They shook hands all round. The Danish skipper was a big man, some inches taller than the others and heavy shouldered.
Forthrop peered into the darkness covering the deck and asked, ‘The crew?’
Nielsen grinned down at him, ‘All ashore for a long time.’ He crooked his elbow, miming drinking. ‘We took them there in our boat that you see tied up below. They won’t come off until we fetch them.’
Forthrop asked, ‘The cargo is ready?’
Nielsen waved a big h
and at a ragged-edged black heap. Forthrop stepped closer and saw it was a pile of crates and barrels. The skipper said, ‘Good Danish bacon and butter. Here is a list.’ Denmark was neutral in the war and supplying both sides.
Forthrop took the list. ‘Good. So let’s load it.’
The Danish First Mate used a block and tackle on the end of a spar, swung out over the side of the ship, to lower several crates and barrels at a time in a net. Parnaby, down in the boat, lifted them out of the net and stacked them forward of the engine housing. Meanwhile Forthrop counted the number of items that went down and Nielsen watched.
When the job was done Forthrop said, ‘Can we go to your cabin? Just us two. We can settle up for this and I want to talk to you about another proposition.’
Nielsen nodded, eyes glinting in the dark. ‘That is gut. My Mate will look after your man.’
In the captain’s cabin they sat down at a table and Forthrop took a small canvas bag from his pocket. He dropped it in front of the captain and it gave a soft chink! as it hit the table. Nielsen opened the bag and poured out the sovereigns, counted them with a thick forefinger then nodded his satisfaction. He scooped them up into the bag again and thrust it in his pocket. ‘So. That is good business.’
They grinned at each other. The provisions Nielsen had stolen would not be missed; a bribe would see to that. Forthrop would sell them ashore for three times what he had paid.
Now the big Dane said, ‘And what was this other business?’
Meanwhile, in the Mate’s cabin, Parnaby’s thoughts were also on that ‘other business’. When he had been transferring the cargo from the ship to the motor boat, the spar had hung over his head like a gibbet. Parnaby had no qualms about committing murder but he did fear the hangman. When the Mate produced the bottle of schnapps and poured generously into glasses, Parnaby gulped it down and pushed the glass back for more. When Forthrop called him from the cabin, Parnaby staggered as he rose to his feet.