In the car Nicholas took the letter and smoothed it, resting it on the dashboard in front of him.
‘Dear Mrs Caverel,’ it began. ‘By thus addressing you we mean no discourtesy but only that this is the correct way by which you should be addressed.’
He looked at the heading. Michael Stevens and Co., Solicitors and Commissioners for Oaths. Above the date he saw not ‘The Lady Caverel’ but ‘The Hon. Mrs Robin Caverel, Ravenscourt, Wiltshire’.
He read on. ‘According to the instructions we have received from our client, backed we may add by the information we have gained through our own researches, it appears that you have no right and never had any right to the title of “The Lady Caverel”. For you are not and never have been the wife of a baron, for your husband was never a peer and had no right to the title which he assumed in his lifetime. Nor has your son, Francis, on the death of his father, the Honourable Robin Caverel, the right now to be called or to call himself Lord Caverel. Above all, neither you, your late husband nor your child has any right to be in possession of the estate and property entitled Ravenscourt.’
‘Have you ever heard of them?’ Andrea said. ‘Why are they writing like this?’
‘Let me finish it,’ he said.
‘Our reason for making the above statement is that we act for Miss Fleur Caverel who was born in South Carolina, USA, on 26th March 1971, the daughter of the Hon. Julian Caverel and his wife, Florence, née Wilson.’
Nicholas raised his eyes from the letter and looked through the rain-spotted windscreen at the ride ahead, remembering a scene almost thirty years ago. He’d been in a taxi making its way through the heavy traffic in the King’s Road on his way to Chelsea Barracks, and he was late. He had leaned forward to peer through the window over the driver’s shoulder to see how they were getting on and he’d seen Julian, on a pedestrian crossing, hanging on to the arm of a tall man, with a short pointed beard, a black beret on his head, and a cape above narrow black trousers. Julian was looking up into the man’s face for all the world like a girl looking up into the face of her boyfriend. His mouth appeared to be painted. As they crossed in front of the taxi, he rested his head against his companion’s shoulder. Then the pair disappeared into the crowd on the pavement and the taxi had moved on. That was the last time Nicholas had set eyes on Julian Caverel.
He turned back to the letter, the second page.
‘As doubtless you are aware, the Caverel barony is one of those peerages created by Writ descendible to the heirs general of whomsoever first received a Writ of Summons to Parliament and then took his seat in the House of Lords. In other words, the Caverel barony is one which a female can inherit. As the daughter of the Hon. Julian Caverel, the elder son of Walter the 15th Lord Caverel, it is Miss Fleur who was the rightful heiress to the barony when her grandfather Walter Caverel died, taking precedence over her uncle the younger child of the 15th Lord Caverel, Robin, your late husband. Thus it was Miss Fleur and not the Hon. Robin Caverel who on the death of her grandfather was entitled to all the estates attached to the barony, including the family seat, Ravenscourt.
‘Your use of the title of Lady Caverel arises from the no doubt sincere but wrongful usurpation of the title by your late husband which we accept that he did while ignorant of the existence of his niece. However we must now invite you to acknowledge Miss Caverel, as she is presently styled, as the true and rightful heiress to her grandfather and thus to all the settled land and estate of the Caverel barony, and we must require you without too lengthy a delay to vacate the estate and the house of Ravenscourt where you and your son, Master Francis Caverel, are presently residing.
‘Our client will require a full and complete account of all monies which have passed since your late husband wrongfully took possession of the settled land, up to the date when you hand over possession and our client enters into her inheritance.
‘Failing your formal acceptance of the rights of our client, we are instructed to make an early application to the court for a declaration that Fleur Caverel is entitled to possession of the said Ravenscourt estate and house, and once in possession of such an order from the court our client will petition the Crown for her right to a Writ of Summons to take her rightful place in the House of Lords as the Baroness Caverel.’
‘Who are these people?’ Andrea repeated.
Nicholas could see the tall figure of Headley at the edge of the wood, dark and sinister against the trees.
Julian, the homosexual son of the fashion model who had run off with an Argentinian polo player, the son whom Walter Caverel had never acknowledged as his. Now a young woman was claiming to be Julian’s daughter.
‘Lawyers, of course,’ he said savagely. ‘We must get back to the house and call Oliver Goodbody.’
Andrea switched on the engine and the car jerked forward down the track, splattering Headley with mud as he stood aside and watched it go.
‘What does it mean?’ she asked.
‘It means war,’ he replied grimly, ‘war to the death.’
9
Willoughby Blake and Michael Stevens were in a taxi on their way to dine in a favourite haunt of Willoughby’s. They were discussing Dukie Brown. After the publicity of his release, Willoughby said, he had started well enough but interest had now waned. Brown himself was the reason. ‘Too moody, too erratic. Sometimes he goes well; at other times, not a spark and the show’s a flop. The word’s got round you never know how he’ll do and it’s a risk booking him.’
‘He needs time,’ Stevens replied. ‘Three years is a long time away.’
Willoughby grunted. ‘I’m sending him overseas. If he refuses, I’m through.’
Stevens had looked after Dukie for a long time, ever since he’d got him off the murder rap, and had visited him during the years in prison. He was fond of Dukie but he wouldn’t argue. If Willoughby Blake was going to chuck Dukie, there was nothing he could do.
In the restaurant, Willoughby ordered a grouse, roasted, very under-done, and a bottle of Château Pichon Longueville 1976. Stevens ordered a grilled sole, declined the wine and drank Perrier. As Willoughby ate, he gossiped happily about some of his more notorious clients. When he had pushed aside the cadaver of his grouse and ordered coffee, he took out a cigar. He put a match to it, carefully examining the end to make sure it was properly lit. A plume of blue smoke floated up above his head.
‘Now, about young Sarah Wilson.’ Then he corrected himself. ‘No, not Sarah Wilson. Fleur Caverel. That’s her name and that’s what we call her. Miss Fleur Caverel, heiress to the Caverel estates and barony.’ Stevens nodded. ‘This is big, Michael, very big.’ Stevens sipped his coffee, watching Blake over the rim of the cup. ‘I’ve had a call from Jameson. He’s located the grandmother in BA, and he’s bringing her to London. She’ll acknowledge Fleur Caverel as her granddaughter.’
‘But they haven’t met.’
Willoughby winked. ‘A photograph, Michael, she’s been shown a photograph, a true likeness of her long lost granddaughter. But Jameson says the old girl will need watching. She has a taste for vodka.’ Willoughby knocked the ash from his cigar. ‘Like her as a house guest, Michael, to save on costs?’ He laughed happily. ‘Don’t worry, I intend to roll out the red carpet and put the old dear into an hotel. She’s Fleur Caverel’s little grandma who has crossed the ocean to be beside the long lost heiress, and she’s going to be looked after.’
‘Will she make a good witness in court? That’s all that matters.’
‘That’s up to you, Michael. You’re in charge of the law. My job is to assemble the cast – and prepare the public.’
He signalled to the waiter and ordered brandy. ‘But there is someone around who we do not need,’ he went on. Stevens knew who he meant. ‘Paul Valerian. We must get rid of him.’
‘How can we? I know he’s not very prepossessing –’
‘Prepossessing! There’s the lawyer for you. He’s fat, he’s ugly, he can hardly speak the Queen’s English and he looks a villai
n. If he’s around when we produce her, he’ll do immense damage.’
‘He’s the client. Or rather, they are the clients. It’s their case. He found me. He came to me.’
‘And you did very well, old son, by coming to me. But I want the Pole out. He must go. He has some hold over that girl. It’s not good, it’s not healthy. He’s a Svengali. We’ve got to get her away from him – and quickly.’
‘She’s with him now in Paddington. She won’t leave him. She trusts him. She’s his friend.’
‘But not, I judge, his mistress,’ Willoughby mused. ‘At least no longer, though she may have been at one time in the past.’ He struck the table with the flat of his hand, making the coffee cups rattle. ‘But we can do without Mr Valerian both in the run-up to court and at court. He’s greasy, he stinks of liquor and he looks a crook whether he is one or isn’t. The family lawyers would have a field-day with him – not to mention the press.’
‘How do we get rid of him?’
‘Pay him off, tell him he’s harming her chances by staying around. From now on this is our show, Michael, and that’s the way it’s got to stay.’
Your show, you mean, Stevens thought. You and your people have taken it over.
‘He’ll want a lot of money,’ he said. ‘He believes the family will negotiate a settlement.’
‘Will they?’
‘How can they? They might pay a little to get her to go away if she will irrevocably renounce her claim, to rid themselves of a nuisance. But it wouldn’t be enough for him. It’ll end in a court case, and he’ll be beside her when it does.’
‘If we’re to succeed, he has to be eliminated. Get him to your office, promise him a share. Tell him we’re all more likely to get something if he clears off.’
‘And if he refuses?’
‘We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Talk to him. See how he takes it. I suppose that in the life she was leading, she had to have someone to look after her, but it’s odd she chose someone so repulsive.’ Willoughby looked amusedly at Stevens. ‘Now if it had been you, Michael, I could understand.’
Stevens, embarrassed, drank from his coffee cup.
‘Thinking of trying your luck with her yourself, Michael?’
‘Of course not.’
Michael Stevens lived an impeccable existence in an expensive villa in north London with his plump, serious wife and two earnest children.
‘Just pulling your leg, old son. Have you had any reaction from the family?’
‘No, and I didn’t expect to, not yet. I’ll hear in a few days. I have to give them time.’
‘No, old cock, you do not have to give them time. Call their lawyers tomorrow and tell them to reply pronto or we go public.’
‘What do you mean, go public?’
‘I mean that I intend very shortly to introduce the lost heiress to the Great British Public. The time has come for us to launch her and to help us along, we need public opinion on her side.’
‘It will be for a court to decide, a judge will decide, not the public.’
‘Don’t underestimate the GBP, Michael, and the effect of public opinion, even upon such unimpeachable characters as Her Majesty’s judges. They won’t say so. They can’t show it, but they’ll feel it, provided public opinion is properly targeted. They’ll understand. They watch the telly, you know.’
He leaned back in his chair, looking benevolently at Stevens. ‘Have you begun court proceedings?’
‘No, of course not. As I told you, I must wait until I get a reply from the family.’
‘Exactly. So there’s no worry about contempt of court and no objection to telling the little lady’s story to the world. The hacks’ll love it – and love her.’
He again rocked back on the back legs of his chair, his eyes turned up on the smoke from his cigar above his head. ‘And when we tell her story, the toffs’ll be rubbished, you’ll see, rubbished.’ He brought down his chair with a bang and leaned forward. ‘This is big, Michael, bigger than anything you and I have handled before. Think of that estate, the rolling acres, the pictures, the silver, the porcelain, it’s worth a king’s ransom. That young lady’s going to be very, very rich – and so, Michael, are we.’
‘Nothing is hers yet,’ Stevens said. ‘Maybe nothing ever will be.’
‘It will, one day, and that day is not too distant. Then it’ll all be hers – and ours. I know it’ll come to a court case, but before it does I’m going to make sure the world knows all about her – and likes what it hears.’ He wagged his cigar at Stevens. ‘The sympathy factor, old cock, the perception of what’s fair, whether it is or whether it’s not. Beautiful young black barred from barony and fortune by a bunch of toffee-nosed snobs. Can’t you see the headlines? Beautiful, just beautiful. What we have to do at this moment in time, as the pundits say, is to create an image, a politically correct image, of the deprived, snubbed, humble but beautiful young female black, an image so powerful, so sympathetic, so politically correct it might even induce the family to throw in the towel.’
‘They won’t do that.’
‘Perhaps not, but they’ll feel the pressure and it’ll scare them. They won’t be used to it and they won’t like it. Have you ever experienced a rent-a-crowd of hacks outside your home, Michael, with the telephoto lens on the bathroom curtains?’
Stevens played with the spoon of his coffee cup. Willoughby laughed again. ‘No, of course not. But when the Great British Public and the Great British Media learn all about the heiress denied her rights because of her sex and her race, the family may just think again.’
He stubbed out his cigar. ‘I’ve set up a press conference for next week, so whether you’ve heard from the family or not, next week I go public. And when I do, I’ll go public in style.’
10
Dukie Brown lit a cigarette. Then he ruffled the blonde head that lay on his shoulder. ‘All right?’ he said.
The head turned; a snub nose, freckles and the eyes, when they opened, very light blue.
‘I’ve a date with the Almighty this morning,’ he said, inhaling.
‘Sod him,’ said the girl. They were lying naked under an embroidered duvet on a large double mattress on the floor. Every now and then the whole building shook as the trains entered and left King’s Cross station. It was a large, wide room, a great polished table in the centre with an elaborate silver centre-piece. At the far end was a Victorian bath tub on legs with clawed feet; a door near to it led into an enclosed loo. Against one wall was an electric cooker and a sink; opposite, on the other side was a large iron stove. The whole served for bed, bath, cooking and eating.
Dukie stubbed out the cigarette into the ashtray on the floor beside him. ‘Time to move, Clem,’ he said.
His hands behind his head, he watched her walk naked across the room and disappear into the loo. When she emerged, she turned on the bath and sat on the edge yawning and stretching. He threw aside the duvet and went to the sink. He looked at himself in the glass. Christ, he thought. His hair was longer now, not as long as in his prime but curling respectably at the back of his neck. He hadn’t shaved for five days; today he thought he would. Not in honour of the Almighty, but because he felt like it.
Dukie left Clem at a café and went alone to the offices in the Shepherd’s Market. He sat in reception on a black leather sofa, watched by the receptionist behind her desk. She was in her late twenties, a brunette, with a good figure which she worked on but a bad complexion. She liked Dukie Brown. She always had. As a kid she’d loved his music and she still did. She had agonised for him during his trial and had enthused when the boss had taken him on after his release. Now she was suffering as his come-back faltered and the engagements only came in fits and starts. She knew what he was going to be told.
‘Coffee, Dukie?’ she asked.
‘No thanks, love. What time is it?’
‘Eleven fifteen.’
‘What time did he say?’
‘Eleven, but there’s been a crisi
s,’ she lied. ‘He’s been badly caught up all morning.’
Dukie stood up. ‘I’ll come back later.’
‘Oh no,’ she said quickly, ‘don’t leave, I’m sure he won’t be long. Do stay, Dukie, do.’
Her concern touched him. ‘Why?’ he said. ‘Why should you care?’
She blushed. ‘I just do,’ she said. He smiled and leaned across her desk, gripping the edges with his hands, his head towards hers.
‘Hullo, hullo,’ a voice boomed. ‘What’s going on? Dukie Brown making love to my lovely Pru?’
Dukie straightened up and half turned. Willoughby put an arm round him. ‘Sorry to have kept you, old son, but I see you haven’t been wasting your time.’ He laughed genially, slapping Dukie on the back. ‘Come into the inner sanctum, old cock. I’ve plans for you, the chance of a lifetime.’
And with his arm still around Dukie, he led the pop star into his room.
* * *
Clem was still at the café. Dukie slipped on to the bench beside her. ‘Want anything?’ she asked.
‘Wine,’ he replied. He only drank red wine, and that in the evening.
‘This early?’
‘I need it.’ Clem beckoned the waiter.
‘What is it then?’ she asked after she’d ordered.
‘A tour, several months.’
‘Here you go,’ said the waiter, putting the two glasses on the table.
‘The States?’
‘No such luck. Ozzie-land.’
‘Do you have to?’
‘The last chance saloon. Otherwise, he says, he’s through. He’s fixed Perth, Adelaide, Melbourne, Sydney, Brisbane, up to the north then back south to Auckland. Home via the Cape and Jo’burg. Months.’
She was silent. Then she asked. ‘And me?’
He took her hand. ‘You’re part of the baggage. You’re on if you want to.’
‘What’s Oz like?’
‘Sun, sand, ocean, chips everywhere, especially on shoulders. Good blokes, better sheilas.’
‘I’ll come,’ she said.
* * *
The Caverel Claim Page 5