The Crack In the Teacup

by Michael Gilbert

  “There’s the field that’s let to the cricket club. Well, that’s not so important, as we’re getting another one. That makes up what you might call the municipal slice of the cake.”

  Mr. Hiscoe had picked up a blue pencil and was gently hatching in the areas as Anthony mentioned them.

  “Next?”

  “The next bit’s Castle House School. It’s a boys’ prep school. And its headmaster is being oppressed by the local authorities.”

  Anthony launched into that part of the story. Mr. Hiscoe’s pink face had grown serious.

  “Do you suggest,” he said at the end, “that the Borough Engineer and Surveyor is corrupt?”

  “I think Macintyre’s been feathering his nest in half-a-dozen ways. The local gossip is that he has a share in the big underground garage. It’s the only one in Barhaven.”

  “Local gossip?”

  “I can’t prove it.”

  “I see,” said Mr. Hiscoe. He sounded sadder than ever. As Anthony was speaking he had shaded, in yellow, the grounds of Castle House School. Between the yellow and the blue lay a long, wedge-shaped area of white. “You said three parts?”

  “Yes,” said Anthony. “And that last piece is really rather a mystery. It’s bang in the middle of the development, and is obviously going to be terrifically valuable – if they go that way. But nobody knows who owns it.”

  “Nobody knows?”

  “I expect somebody does. I mean, that it isn’t public knowledge, and it’s difficult to find out. It’s three large fields. Willie Law – he’s one of our local farmers – keeps a few animals on it. He has a periodical grazing agreement, which can be terminated at any time—”

  “Who does he pay his rent to?”

  “An accountant in London.”

  “I see.”

  Mr. Hiscoe had got to work with another pencil, and was colouring the wedge-shaped piece red. He said, “By the way, Mr. Brydon, I was intrigued, when I first read your instructions, to note that Barhaven was a Borough. It had not occurred to me that it could be large enough.”

  “We may not be big,” said Anthony. “But only Canterbury is older than us. Our charter as a Borough was given to us by Edward the Fourth, and it was confirmed by Queen Victoria. And I don’t see anyone taking it away from us in a hurry.”

  “Antiquity is still valued in this country,” agreed Mr. Hiscoe. “But it may, in this case, operate against you. As a Borough, you control a great many matters which would otherwise be outside your scope. Roads, education, police—”

  “Yes,” said Anthony. If he spoke shortly, it was because Mr. Hiscoe was voicing uncomfortable thoughts which, until now, he had kept at the back of his mind.

  “But not planning, of course.”

  “No. That’s delegated to the County Council, fortunately.”

  “I’m not sure about that, either,” said Mr. Hiscoe. “If the Borough Council were the planning authority, they would be so obviously being judges in their own case that a Ministry Inspector would lean against them. As it is, they’re in a very strong position. Very strong indeed.”

  “Are you saying,” said Anthony, “that this appeal has no chance of success.”

  “There’s always a chance,” said Mr. Hiscoe. If he noticed Anthony’s irritation he seemed quite unaffected by it. “But you must appreciate what your clients are trying to do is to use the processes of law for their own ends. As I said, I can probably show good cause, on planning grounds, why Barhaven should be developed west, rather than east. But your clients, as I understand it, want me to go a good deal further. They want me to show that the people who are planning the eastern development are doing so for improper reasons. Possibly for corrupt reasons. If we are to do that, we shall need something more cogent than local gossip.”

  “Is he always like that?” said Anthony as he and Powell walked back up Middle Temple Lane.

  “Like what?”

  “He seemed to see nothing but the difficulties.”

  “Better now, than later.”

  “I shouldn’t think he’s much use in court.”

  “You don’t want to judge by appearances,” said Powell. “What about a cup of coffee? I usually have one at this time in the morning.” He steered Anthony into a cafeteria, where they sat on stools like outsize drawing-pins, and balanced their coffee cups on shelves. “As a matter of fact, when he gets into court, he’s very effective. I heard him take on the South London Construction Group and the L.C.C. singlehanded in that Battersea case, and talk them out of court. Give him good ammunition and he’ll fire it off for us.”

  Anthony’s heart warmed to Powell. So many people would have said, “He’ll fire it off for you.”

  “What do you suggest?” he said.

  “The strongest card would be to find out that that piece of land in the middle belongs to one of your Councillors – or to that Borough Surveyor fellow – Macintyre. They wouldn’t be able to talk their way out of that very easily.”

  “It seems a stupid question for one lawyer to ask another,” said Anthony, “but just how does one find out who land belongs to?”

  “I was thinking about it as we walked up,” said Powell. “Oddly enough, it isn’t at all easy. One way would be to squat on it. Park a caravan there, or something. Then the owner would be bound to take some action to turn you out.”

  “Wouldn’t it be more logical for the tenant to do it? Willie Law’s a friend of mine, but he wouldn’t want a caravan parked among his cattle.”

  “Law’s the farmer who owns the ground on the far side?”

  “That’s right. The main part of his farm is up in the Liberties. That’s the land which was won when the River Barr was diverted, and it’s Green Belt, and untouchable for building. Last year he bought a second strip, farther south—” Anthony unfolded the map with difficulty on to the shelf—“it’s that bit north-east of the school. And this year he made this arrangement about keeping his animals on the red land. But he doesn’t own it. He just rents it.”

  “Is Law one of your clients?”

  “No. Mentmores acted for him. Incidentally, we’re not on very good terms with them.”

  “Pity.” Powell stirred his coffee without taking his eyes off the map which seemed to fascinate him.

  “Would Law let you look at his title deeds?”

  “I should think so. What was in your mind?”

  “Rights of way, drainage, obligations to erect fences. Even acknowledgement of earlier title deeds.”

  “That’s right. Of course. There might be. I hadn’t thought of that. I’ll tackle Law as soon as I get back. I had a rather simpler idea. I’m not sure if it’d work, though. I was going to have a word with the Greyslates people. They’re the people who are going to do the development. Do you know them?”

  “Yes,” said Powell. “I know them.”

  “You don’t sound as if you like them.”

  “One of our clients had a bit of trouble with them. I expect they’re all right really. How were you proposing to tackle them?”

  “I hadn’t worked out anything elaborate. I thought I’d just go along and do a bit of sounding.”

  “I see,” said Powell. He paid for the coffee, overruling Anthony’s protests, and they walked out into Fleet Street. It was a beautiful summer morning, with enough breeze to take the edge off the heat.

  “If you want Greyslates, you’d better take a bus to the Bank. Anything from here except a thirteen. They go up Cannon Street.”

  “Thanks for all your help,” said Anthony.

  There was no bus in sight, and they stood for a few moments in silence. Then Powell said, “There’s just one thing. I shouldn’t show too much of your hand at Greyslates. They’re a tough crowd. And there’s an awful lot of money involved in this. Have you thought just how much may turn on this decision?”

  “I hadn’t got as far as working it out.”

  “Do the arithmetic some time. I think it might surprise you. If a man buys a hundred-acre field
at agricultural prices – that’s about £200 an acre nowadays – and happens to be able to sell it, as building land, for £5,000 an acre, how much profit does he make?”

  Anthony was working this out as his bus crawled towards the City.

  The Greyslates Property and Development Company Ltd. occupied one of the new buildings on the south side of Tower Wall. It was constructed of grey, pre-cast, interlocking slabs with synthetic marble insets, oxydized bronzine strip and self-coloured glass.

  Anthony pushed open the door, which hissed back at him, and walked up the long entrance lobby. He passed what he took to be the model of a submarine, but which turned out to be a reclining female nude, of strange proportions, carved in basalt, and balanced on one buttock on a chromium pedestal.

  “Mr. Morgan?” said the white-haired man at the desk. “Might I have your name, sir?”

  “It’s Brydon. I don’t expect Mr. Morgan will know it. But if you say it’s in connection with the Barhaven development he’ll probably see me.”

  “Let’s try, shall we?” said the man.

  He put down the Directory of Directors which he was studying, and picked up the receiver. A one-sided conversation ensued, which ended with the white-haired man saying, “If you’d take the lift to the third floor and ask for Mrs. Horseburgh she’ll look after you.”

  He dismissed Anthony from his mind and returned to his study of the Directory. Anthony thought he was probably choosing another firm. The basalt girl had got him down.

  When the lift came to rest with a bobbing motion at the third floor and the bronze doors clanged open, Mrs. Horseburgh was waiting for him. She was middle-aged and wore glasses and an air of absentminded efficiency. She said, “Mr. Morgan can see you now. You’re lucky, you know. He’s usually busy in the mornings.”

  Anthony followed her down the passage. It was panelled in imitation rosewood, close-carpeted, and lit by indirect lighting from the cornices. They passed a great number of doors.

  “This is a very splendid office you have here,” said Anthony.

  “Isn’t it,” said Mrs. Horseburgh. She seemed as pleased by the compliment as if it had been directed at her. “The door fittings are phosphor bronze. They were specially cast for us by a firm in Wolverhampton. Here we are.”

  The man who rose to greet him had iron-grey hair cut en brosse, a pale face, and eyes of neutral colour behind rimless glasses. He smiled briefly, showing teeth which were as great a credit to his dentist as his grey suit was to his tailor.

  He said, “Please sit down, Mr. Brydon. You’re lucky to find me free.”

  “So your secretary told me. I’ll keep it as short as I can. I’m a solicitor—”

  “Brydon and Pincott, 12 Connaught Square, Barhaven. And you must, I fancy, be Mr. Anthony Brydon. It’s all right—I’m not psychic. I looked you up in the Law List. You wanted to talk about our Barhaven development.” He reached into the bookcase behind him and brought out a folder, bound in Cambridge blue.

  “Your proposed Barhaven development.”

  Mr. Morgan looked mildly surprised, and said, “I thought it had got rather further than a proposition.”

  “That’s what I wanted to talk about,” said Anthony. “I imagine that you can’t be certain of going ahead until you’ve got the land to build on.”

  “True,” said Mr. Morgan. His hand moved, fractionally, under the desk, felt for the button concealed there, and pressed it twice.

  “Have you got it yet?”

  “I don’t really think—”

  “I appreciate,” said Anthony, “that I’m asking an impertinent question, and one that, very possibly, you won’t feel inclined to answer. But bear with me for a moment. The land you want is on the east of the town. Roughly half of it is Council property, and if the Council supports the development, you’ll get the use of it. The other half is private property. I imagine you’ve got some sort of option on it.”

  He paused, invitingly, but Mr. Morgan said nothing.

  “But even so,” Anthony went on, “one-half will be no use to you without the other.”

  “Since, according to you,” said Mr. Morgan, “we have both halves, why should we worry?”

  “Because, if the Independents lose control of the Council at the next election you won’t get the Council land.”

  “Do you think there’s any likelihood of that happening?”

  “A fortnight ago, I should have said ‘No’. Now I’m not so sure.”

  “I see. Is this just a friendly warning, Mr. Brydon, or were you going to suggest, perhaps, that if we employed you as an agent, you could secure a happy result in the forthcoming elections?”

  “You’re joking,” said Anthony. “I’m not the boss of Tammany Hall. No. What I had in mind was this. Wouldn’t it be a good idea, from your point of view, if you backed yourself to win both ways? I feel sure you don’t want to drop this proposition. I’ve no doubt you’ve drawn up a lot of plans. Perhaps even signed a few sub-contracts. If the election goes against you, you could carry out your development – with a few very minor modifications – on the west side of the town.”

  A deep silence fell on Mr. Morgan’s office. In it, Anthony could hear the ticking of a clock. Since there was no clock visible, he assumed that it must come from somewhere else. He noticed, for the first time, that what he had thought was continuous panelling had, in fact, a door in it, and that this door was very slightly ajar. It was interesting, because he was tolerably certain that it had been shut when he came into the room. He noticed, too, that when Mr. Morgan spoke, he raised his voice very slightly.

  “That is a very remarkable proposition, Mr. Brydon,” he said. “Do I understand that you represent the owners of the land lying west of the town, and that you are in a position to offer us an alternative site if the eastern one falls through?”

  “That’s it,” said Anthony.

  “And you would make us a formal offer? Give us some sort of option?”

  “The option my clients would give you, and the price they’d ask for it, would depend on one thing. How far you had got with the owners on the other side.”

  “I don’t entirely follow.”

  “Oh, come,” said Anthony. “If you’ve got binding agreements there, with all the existing owners, and a fair chance of getting the Corporation sites, then you’re obviously in a strong position. If not, it’s equally clear that it would pay you to take up my offer.”

  “And you expect me to show you our hand.”

  “Certainly. This is the sort of deal which will only work with all cards down on the table.”

  “It’s an interesting idea. I can’t give you an immediate answer—you appreciate that—”

  “Don’t wait too long,” said Anthony. “There’s another firm very interested in the project.”

  “Would you care to tell me their name?”

  “All cards will be placed face up on the table—simultaneously.”

  Mr. Morgan smiled. It was a cold smile.

  “You’re wasted as a lawyer, Mr. Brydon,” he said. “You ought to be in the property business yourself.”

  When Mrs. Horseburgh had removed his visitor, he walked across to the communicating door and went through.

  Mr. Grey, Chairman and controlling shareholder of the Greyslates Company, was a tiny man. He sat, perched on a thick foam-rubber cushion, on his chair. His right eye was a blank screen, the iris fused into the cornea in the milky whiteness of advanced traucoma. His left eye glittered coldly.

  “Impertinent bluff,” he said.

  “I agree,” said Mr. Morgan.

  “All the same, it wants watching. We don’t want to lose this job. There’s too much money sunk in it already.”

  “I don’t think there’s any real danger of that.”

  Mr. Grey said, “I’ve seen a lot of deals slip up, because people thought there was no chance of them going astray. In a large property transaction, you’re dealing with a lot of people. Each one of them represents a chance of h
uman error. I think you’d better go down to Barhaven, and do a little checking up.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The Sunshine Boys Arrive

  In the hot but stimulating summer of 1940, when German fighters were swarming like black bees across the South Coast of England, when the Home Guard was mustering with high spirits and few weapons and Winston Churchill was adding a robust chapter to English martial mythology, an observation post had been set up on Roman Camp looking down over Barhaven and the estuary of the River Barr. From it, with a good pair of glasses, could be seen nearly twenty miles of coast line from Dungeness Point in the east to the outskirts of Hastings in the west.

  The post, now long abandoned, had never consisted of anything more than a hut of railway sleepers with a corrugated iron roof built on the forward edge of a knot of beech trees, with a concrete platform in front of it and a water point beside it. From it the Sussex turf, short and springy, ran down to the hedge and gate which marked the top of the sunken lane leading to Charlie Andrews’ farm.

  It was a good spot for a camp; and the Sunshine Boys had settled down into it with the speed and dexterity of old soldiers. Two army tents had been put up beside the hut. From a pole in front of the tents hung their flag, green with a golden sun on it and, underneath it, the Club motto “Labor Vincit Omnia”.

  A hearth of bricks had been built and a blow-lamp, of the type used by house painters, was directing a blue flame on to a dixie of water. The two smallest boys were still unloading stores from the old motorcar and trailer, which had been backed into the gate at the lower corner of the field and covered by a pegged-down nylon sheet. The other five boys were sitting in a semi-circle, cross-legged, round the hearth waiting for the dixie to boil.

  All of them were smoking. Eric, the troop leader, a stout, well-muscled boy with blond hair and placid, oriental features, was smoking a cheroot. He surveyed the scene with satisfaction. Below them the hard outlines of Barhaven were blurring as the gold of day softened to the grey of evening. Behind Barhaven was the sea, an unruffled palette of grey-green and blue. A line of clouds on the horizon marked the Pas de Calais.