The man smiled, bid her good day and took off his hat.
‘Can I help you?’
‘I’m William Shellard. We need to talk.’
He said it in a rush, as though he had to get it over with.
Catherine frowned.
‘I’m Walter’s brother.’
Her heart was racing. She’d not expected a brother – an uncle. She’d only recently heard there was one. But why was he here?
He’d thrown her off balance. She reminded herself that he was still a Shellard. She stood her ground, her chin held defiantly, her hands clasped in front of her.
‘What do you want?’
Long, sensitive fingers fiddled with the brim of his hat. She sensed his unease, but did not allow herself to be sympathetic.
‘Can we talk in private?’ he asked.
‘Here is good enough.’ Her voice was sharp. She saw him wince.
He glanced at the open door between the shop and the passageway to the stockrooms used to bring bottles of red wine up to room temperature. Beyond that was the backyard where the vans loaded.
Catherine shut the door and stood in front of it. ‘Go ahead. Talk.’
His eyes wandered over the gleaming bottles and the shelves made from wooden crates. ‘Very imaginative. It looks very attractive.’
She folded her arms across her chest. ‘I’m sure you didn’t come here to discuss the décor. What is it you want?’
‘I knew your mother,’ he said in a soft, halting voice. ‘I loved her.’
Catherine felt numb. There were a number of things she thought about saying, but none of them suited the moment. She waited for him to continue.
He took a deep breath. ‘I didn’t mean to say that. I suppose it was bound to come out sometime. But not yet.’ He looked directly at her. Again she saw those eyes that were hers yet not hers. ‘I came to warn you and to help if I can. This building…’ He gestured with the hand holding his hat. ‘It’s mortgaged to the hilt. My brother – Shellard Enterprises – intends buying the debt. He owns the neighbouring buildings and intends knocking them all down to build a brand-new hotel. This building is the key to doing that.’
Catherine felt her blood draining from her face. ‘He can’t!’
Now it was her saying something stupid. Of course he could.
‘I could help. I’ve some property of my own and some personal wealth.’
‘No!’ Her response was immediate and not without reason.
She couldn’t find it in herself to accept help from the brother of the man responsible for her mother’s death and she told him so.
He nodded. ‘I understand.’
She turned away from him, her thoughts racing. Finally the contents of Aunt Lopa’s coffer were about to come into their own. She only hoped there was enough in there to get her out of this.
* * *
That afternoon she arrived home early and went straight to her dressing room. Her heart pounded as she eyed the iron-bound chest. Her great-aunt had told her that her mother’s diary was in that chest along with ‘some valuable bits of pretty paper, a few investments made years ago from my crochet money.’
Having locked the dressing-room door behind her, she took the key from its hiding place on a hook in the wardrobe and pushed it into the lock.
Apprehensive as to what she would find, she opened it slowly. It held surprisingly little; a blue silk dress, a white mantilla, a silver crucifix, a series of diaries and a brown cardboard file box.
It was this last box she guessed contained her supposed fortune, a fortune made from peddling crochet, other handicraft and the odd goat’s cheese from door to door. Using both hands, she lifted it, shaking it in order to gauge its weight. It didn’t feel as though it held a lot of money. Feeling slightly disappointed, she set it down and ran her hands around the inside of the coffer, searching for some secret compartment containing jewels perhaps. There was nothing.
Her gaze fell on the diaries. She fingered the rough leather, opened a front cover, but let it fall again. No. She wasn’t ready to read them. Not yet. Perhaps she never would be.
With a disappointed sigh, she turned her attention back to the file box, undid the cord bound around it and opened it. Just as her great-aunt had described, there were indeed ‘pretty bits of paper’. ‘Just a few share certificates.’ Catherine understood more or less what they were. She took in the large bundle wrapped around with pink embroidery thread. This was more than a few!
On top of the paper was an envelope addressed to ‘My dearest Catherine’.
Catherine opened the envelope and read the contents.
To my dearest Catherine,
If you are reading this, then I am surely departed for Paradise. I trust I have been a good guardian, for indeed you have been a joy to my soul.
As promised, I have left you your inheritance which includes your mother’s diaries, bless her soul.
Your inheritance is not quite as you may have expected.
You know me as a person who has always done things with her hands and sold on what she’s made. I did this even before I entered a convent. I had the good fortune to attract the attention of an elderly banker. His wife was incapacitated and I helped him look after her. We both had a great love of animals. His wife had never shared his love. He also advised me on where to invest the little bit of money I made from selling my work. As you can see, years before 1914 I began investing in Standard Oil and the Ford Motor Company.
My banker’s wife died and he died shortly afterwards.
That was when I entered the convent, though I found the life didn’t suit me.
I love you very much and hope you’ll be able to do something with the share certificates. I don’t know how much they’re worth. Good luck, and have a good life.
Affectionately,
Anna Marie Rodriguez
A heavy knocking sounded on the door. ‘Catherine? Are you in there?’
Robert!
She quickly put everything back into the box.
‘I’m coming.’
She said a swift prayer before opening the door. Robert hadn’t spent a night home in ages and hadn’t bothered her in bed. She’d thought it strange for a man like him, but she was grateful. Her gratefulness shone in her face when she opened the door.
‘Robert,’ she said brightly, taking in the fact that he was already dressed to go out.
Thank God!
At first he looked at her with eyes full of suspicion, but the look passed swiftly. ‘I’m going out.’ His eyes dropped to the pulling on of his gloves. ‘I need some money.’
She opened her mouth to protest that she didn’t have much housekeeping left – only enough to pay the greengrocer, who refused to supply them unless he was paid up front. But she too wanted to go out tonight and the last thing she wanted was for him to stay home.
‘I’ll see what I’ve got,’ she said, plastering a smile on her face.
She waited until he was gone before phoning James Birkett and explaining what she’d found.
‘Phew!’ said Birkett, his exclamation whistling down the phone. ‘How many do you think there are?’
‘I’m not sure. Lots. A few hundred of them, perhaps more.’ She told him the name of the companies.
Her tenant and new-found solicitor fell to silence. At last he found his voice. ‘We could be looking at thousands of pounds.’
‘I need to sell them – or at least some of them. I have an immediate need for some money to pay off the mortgage on the property.’
She’d had the foresight to check the records in Robert’s study. She’d gasped in dismay at the sight of the size of the mortgage. Five thousand pounds!
‘I need five thousand pounds almost immediately. Can it be done?’
James was adamant that the best course was to find a ready buyer. ‘I have someone in mind,’ he said. ‘There’s a well-heeled old gent who’s become a client. My second! He comes in to buy wine now and again. Thinks you’re the prettiest
thing on two legs – as do we all,’ he added with a light laugh.
Dimples appeared at the sides of Catherine’s mouth. She knew James had a thing for her and liked him well enough. However, this was business and she’d found that she was surprisingly good at separating one aspect of a relationship from another while still using her attractiveness to her advantage.
James continued. ‘This old gent doesn’t seem to go much on the Shellards. Think he used to work for them. His name’s Seth Armitage. I’ll get on to him right away.’
Thirty-Nine
Even though the windows were tightly shut and a cast-iron radiator thrummed with heat, the atmosphere in the boardroom of Shellard Enterprises was decidedly chilly.
Peter Reading had lost a little of the self-confidence he had exuded on achieving the post left vacant by Seth Armitage.
‘I don’t know how it happened,’ he said, beads of sweat breaking out on his broad brow, a stray lock detaching itself from his oiled hair.
William Shellard smiled behind steepled fingers.
Reading looked like someone about to get his head chopped off – which was extremely likely judging by the look on Walter’s face.
To Walter’s credit, he never lost his temper. His razor-sharp mind saw no profit in the heat of anger. Cold, calculated revenge was more his style.
Walter’s unblinking gaze was fixed on his flustered financial director. His eyes were as cold as his anger. ‘Of course you don’t, Peter. But you should.’
‘I know the name of the company who have bought the property and paid off the mortgage. Wolverine! Wolverine Investments!’
Poor man, thought William, recognizing Peter Reading’s desperation to get back into Walter’s good books.
Walter was unmoved. ‘Approach them. Offer whatever they want. Now get out.’
Looking as nervous as a whipped dog, Reading left the boardroom. Only Walter and William remained.
William knew Walter was no fool and that he’d probably noticed the sparkle in his brother’s eyes.
A chill ran down William’s spine when Walter’s eyes fell on him.
‘Is Diana pregnant by any chance?’
William was caught off balance. ‘No.’ He frowned. ‘What makes you say that?’
‘You look happy,’ said Walter, his own expression far from being so.
‘Diana’s staying on the south coast near Portsmouth. She’s got a cousin there.’
Walter’s mouth curved upwards in a cruel smile. His eyes glittered. ‘You should watch her, my dear William. There are a lot of sailors in Portsmouth.’
Walter had hit a raw nerve and its ache stayed with William as he made his way from the office to Catherine’s wine shop. The crisp air of autumn was turning swiftly into a frost-laden winter, but the light from the shop window made him feel warmer.
He had intended going in to congratulate Catherine on outwitting his brother. He paused on hearing laughter. Keeping back so he wouldn’t be seen, he looked in. Four people were raising their glasses in a triumphant toast. One of them was Catherine, of course. There was also a young man in a dark suit; he recognized him as the lawyer who rented offices on the second floor. The third man was Townsend, the manager. The fourth was Seth Armitage, the man most likely to be the prime mover behind Wolverine Investments.
Dear Catherine, he thought as he walked away, turning up his collar against the chilly air. She was just a woman after all. Seth Armitage was the one who’d forestalled Walter’s plans.
* * *
Catherine felt drunk with power.
She called for more champagne. Townsend did the honours.
‘It’s all mine,’ she said, her eyes glowing as she read the deed for what must be the seventeenth time. ‘Thank you for doing what you did, Mr Armitage.’
When he smiled, his bright-red cheeks turned as glossy as freshly picked apples and his eyes twinkled. ‘My dear, it was a pleasure. I’d have loved to be a fly on the wall when Walter discovered this property had slipped through his hands.’
‘What will he do now?’ she asked, her face flushed as much with triumph as with champagne.
‘Make you an offer you can’t refuse.’
‘Which you will refuse,’ added James, who was also feeling as though he were rising in the world. The word was going round that he did a good job for his clients, and that one of them was no less than Seth Armitage, formerly of Shellard Enterprises. Things could only go from good to better.
Catherine was strangely silent, looking down into her champagne. ‘That depends.’
The three men looked at her. Two of them looked puzzled, but not Seth Armitage.
‘You have a quick mind young lady. Dare I say it, but you remind me of your…’ He paused. ‘Your grandfather. I take it you’re going to wait for their offer and double it.’
He flinched at the brightness of her eyes when she looked up at him from beneath the long dark lashes.
‘Perhaps.’ She turned that same vibrant look on James. ‘As representative of Wolverine Investments, you will suggest a partnership. Shares in Shellard Enterprises in return for use of our premises – but not to knock down and build anew. I think Wolverine would prefer to convert the existing buildings into a hotel – a hotel with a period feel. I think I would like that. Never mind art deco and modern trends. Let’s offer the traditional; take advantage of people’s nostalgia for the old days.’
The three men stared at her silently. At last, Seth Armitage put down his glass and clapped. ‘Well done, young lady. I was right about you taking after your grandfather. He’d be proud of you, as I most certainly am. I can see nothing to stand in the way of your success.’
The three men raised their glasses again and toasted her. Catherine smiled, but behind that smile lurked thoughts of the one person who could stand in the way of her plans. Robert.
Forty
Diana was never around and William had no family that he wished to spend his leisure with – certainly not his brother – and so he’d made Catherine his cause célèbre. That was why he was following Robert Arthur Freeman.
The only person he confided in was Ellen, Walter’s wife.
‘That man’s a monster,’ he’d said, cracking his knuckles as he fought to suppress his anger. ‘I’d quite happily kill him. Fortunately Catherine is rapidly growing into a woman, hence his loss of interest in her. He has a new love interest. I believe she’s about twelve years old.’
Ellen had turned quite white as the brevity of what he had said sank in. ‘You won’t do anything silly, will you, William?’
He hadn’t answered, just hung his head.
The chill air of the last few days had metamorphosed into a white mist made thicker by the smoke and steam from thousands of coal fires and coke furnaces.
By day it was bad enough, but by night city landmarks were made invisible by the thickening fog.
Gas streetlights flickered as though gasping for air, their meagre light doing little to alleviate the gloom.
William heard Robert’s laughter. ‘Come on, Susan. Be nice to me.’
He heard the girl protest, though laughingly like young people, as though she wasn’t quite sure what he was asking her to do.
Careful not to be seen, William stopped when they stopped. More laughter. The larger grey shape – Robert – glanced over his shoulder. William was positive he hadn’t been seen. He had become quite adroit at merging with the shadows. At times he asked himself what he proposed doing should Robert realize he was being followed. He wasn’t quite sure. So far he’d been lucky, but who knows how long luck would last?
He heard Robert offer the girl a sovereign. ‘A gold sovereign.’
‘I don’t know,’ the girl responded, her words muffled by the mist. ‘My father will kill me if I let you do that.’
‘Of course he won’t. Anyway, you’ve already let me do it to you. One more time isn’t going to hurt, is it?’
Again he heard that girlish, nervous laugh. The two figures combined
into an amorphous blob and fell into a shop doorway.
He drew closer and listened. At first there was the rustling of clothes, then the throaty cries of the girl, the urgent grunts of Robert as he began doing what he’d paid for.
William thought of Catherine. She was young. Too young to be married to a man like that. It wasn’t right. He saw Ellen’s strained expression, the look of horror in her eyes, but most of all he saw Leonora’s eyes. He owed it to her to stop this, to end what he saw as Catherine’s imprisonment.
Blinded by anger and fog, he charged into the doorway. Robert’s back was towards him. The girl’s white, underdeveloped thighs shone through the murky darkness.
William raised his cane. Again and again he brought it down on the back of Robert’s head.
He heard the girl’s muffled shout. ‘Get off! Yer too heavy!’
Whatever happened next, he wasn’t sure. The girl began to scream. Perhaps she’d felt the warm sticky blood falling on her face.
William didn’t stop to find out. He ran before she could see him, before she had fully realized what had happened.
* * *
The police told Catherine that he’d been beaten to death. They interpreted her lack of tears as shock and didn’t press for details of where she’d been that night. Not that it would have mattered. She’d been at home attempting to understand why Robert’s daughters locked their bedroom door against her. It was young Charlie who’d enlightened her. ‘It’s because father visits them in the night when he’s drunk. They don’t like it.’
‘He was with a young woman,’ said one of the police officers, coughing behind a closed hand before he went on to explain further. ‘Begging your pardon, ma’am, but we don’t know too much about why they were together…’
She’d nodded quietly. Of course they knew and so did she. It was James who told her that they’d arrested the girl’s father on suspicion of smashing Robert’s head in.
‘Robert got what he deserved,’ said Catherine without regret.
House in the Hills Page 30