by Sam Nash
On his return, I asked, “Are they alright?” but I sensed she had upset him again.
“Fine.”
“Mary is okay?”
“Yes.”
I sipped the rest of my tea, monitoring his reactions without subtlety, waiting for him to thaw. The hiatus seemed interminable, but I’m a patient man. By our second round of hot drinks, his brooding lessened, and the strong technical operative returned to duty.
“What’s our plan of action?” He ventured, avoiding eye contact with me, and tapping a sugar sachet against the table. It was as though he was almost ashamed of his former adolescent behaviour. I chose to ignore it. He has every right to be annoyed.
“We need to find out where the Sedgewell Estate is, then call Wildman during his lunchbreak. How are we off for cash?”
“Not a problem. I have bank accounts and cash cards under aliases on every continent. Not even Six could trace them back to me.”
“I take it we are going to ditch Derek and David Cross, this side of the Channel?” A daft question, in retrospect. The French authorities would have contacted British police regarding the drivers of the bashed up, hired Renault involved in a fatal accident.
“Yeah, I can use another ID. Do you have a rough idea where to look for the Sedgewell Estate? Can you remember anything else from the documents - a nearby village, town, the county even?” He finished his coffee then glanced at his watch. He had a point. All I could recall was that the majority of the properties and lands had been sold off at auction. Without more information, we would be at a standstill. I rummaged in my trouser pocket for a few coins.
“Have you got anything to write with? I’ll call Wildman now, get him out of bed. At the rate I am going, I shall owe him a whole case of the good stuff.”
The telephone box was vandalised, the glass panels smashed in, allowing a cool wind to cut through. There were only three phone numbers that I could recite from memory: David’s home, the surgery staff line and Wildman’s.
Balancing a restaurant napkin on the tiny metal shelf, I punched in Wildman’s number and squashed the earpiece against my shoulder, freeing my hands to jot down the information I needed.
It rang several times before he answered. “Yes, what do you want? I was in the shower, damn you.”
“Wildman, it’s me.”
“Shit, sorry Lawrence. Thought it was the bloody Out of Hours Service again. Where the hell are you?”
“Portsmouth, on our way to London.” I fed more coins into the slot.
“You met up with David then, thank God…”
“Listen, I haven’t got much change on me… I have to be quick. Can you remember where the original Sedgewell Estate was located?” The cost of the call counted down on a digital display at the top of the machine. It ate the last of my coins while I waited.
“It was in Cumbria, or Cumberland as it was known at that time, on the edge of the Lake District. In fact, I think there is a village of the same name, or was that the mine?”
“Mine? What mine?”
“Oh, that you still own. It wasn’t sold off like the main house, tithe cottages, farms and lands. For some reason, the redundant mining facility was part of the transfer of assets. I opened the mail you sent me to pick up from your house, like you suggested…” The loud pipping noise blared into our ears, warning us of an end to our call, without further payment. “Give me five minutes to get the papers, then reverse the charges…” Wildman shouted above the harsh pips and the line went dead. I hung up and shivered in the breezy booth until I could establish a new connection.
I filled both sides of the napkin with my scrawl as Wildman dictated bank details, account numbers and the location of the bank box. He went on to read out a brief paragraph regarding the site of a disused mine, that fell into redundancy when it was no longer deemed profitable. Managers sealed the entrance for safety, although winding gear would require a full service before a potential recommission.
That was an unexpected turn of events. Would Grandma Phebe’s maid have had access to the mine shaft in order to hide the sealed tin? Doubtful. And there would be too many tunnels to make finding it possible. No, I don’t think Phebe would have left it there for me. I suspect her gift was strong enough to see the fate of the Estate in this era. Still, it’s curious why the mine was not sold as part of the auction lots.
I returned to our table and divulged all that I had learned from my best friend to David. He absorbed the facts with an occasional passive nod, and then said;
“We could really use an atlas of Britain.”
“An Ordnance Survey Map would be better. That would show us where the largest buildings are in Sedgewell.” I stood up and cleared the debris from our plastic tray into the rubbish bin.
“You can photocopy map sections at any decent sized library. Plenty of those in London. Come on, Old Timer, we have a long way to go yet.” David grinned for the first time in an age, holding the heavy door open for me, and taking charge.
David opted for a small red Ford, at the rental company. It was a nippy little thing. Nowhere near the poke of my Volvo, and the seats were a bit cramped, but I enjoyed the ride. It reminded me of my first car, a Triumph Spitfire, with an exhaust so loud that you could not hear the radio over the roar.
I took the first shift, easing onto the congested London Road, through the overpopulated urban sprawl, and out onto the dual carriageway. I caned the tiny engine all the way to Surrey, when David suggested a swap, since I had the upper hand over navigation.
With the A to Z road map on my knee, we joined the Kingston Bypass, skirting Wimbledon, then Clapham Common, branching off at the Elephant and Castle to cross the Thames at Westminster Bridge. I shuddered, as we cruised by the Ministry of Defence buildings at Whitehall, recalling the unpleasant encounter with Anthony Knight just a few days ago. So much has happened since, that it feels like a whole lifetime has passed, yet the threat is still fresh in my mind. I should never underestimate that man’s reach.
David knew of a sneaky car park, not far from Leicester Square. From there, it is a short walk behind the National Galleries, down Orange Street to the Westminster Reference Library. He, of course, had been there before. I trailed down the steps after my son, who aimed straight for a pretty young librarian standing behind one of the counters. Her face lit up in recognition.
I knew my boy could be persuasive, but by Christ, he could charm the birds from the trees. I hung back, concerned that I might break his spell over her. She preened, tucking her mousey locks behind her ear and sucking in her bottom lip repeatedly. She led us to a section filled with magazine racks, each one stacked with labelled Ordnance Survey Maps. David muttered something close to her ear. She giggled, and then sifted through the papers, plucking out two folded maps that fulfilled our needs.
“Was that part of your basic training too?” I said, after the young lady had returned to her desk. David shrugged, half embarrassed, half tickled.
We smoothed them out over a large table in one of the reading rooms, using the name lists at the side to find the grid reference for the estate. At the edge of the map, where the contour lines spread from rocky escarpments to flat pasture land, just a few miles from the sea, was the village of Sedgewell.
Woodland flanked the path of the River Sedgewell, along a gentle valley towards the coast. The village itself, no more than a few rows of cottages and a couple of farm buildings either side of the branching road. Our eyes were immediately drawn to a shapeless mass which scarred the landscape just two miles further down the valley.
“Lovely neighbours.” David said, with flat sarcasm infused with disgust.
“Good job the estate was sold off back in the nineteen twenties. They couldn’t have known that the largest nuclear reprocessing plant in Europe would end up on their doorstep.”
“Or maybe they did. Do you have any idea whether Phebe’s family knew of her ability?” David enquired.
I didn’
t. I still don’t. Shaking my head, I said, “I’m hoping that her journal will give us the answers to all our questions.”
He gathered up the enormous sheet, folding it carefully to the section in question, and then carried it to the young librarian. For a small fee, she photocopied the village and surrounding districts, before offering to return the maps safely to their homes, on his behalf. Honestly, it was like watching a hypnotist, such was his power over her.
“Pheromones.” David offered up in explanation.
“Well, I can smell something rural and organic, but it’s not that.”
David tittered, and then encircled three large buildings on the photocopy in biro. “The main house could be any one of these. How will we know which?”
“I don’t suppose we will till we get up there and start asking the locals. We need to get to the bank first. According to Wildman, it’s on Fleet Street.” I watched him glaze over, thinking while he folded the photocopies and tucked them into the back pocket of his jeans. “What?” I asked, aware that his ruminations were usually fruitful.
“We were bloody lucky to get that parking space. There is zero chance of getting another close to the bank.”
“We should walk there, you mean?”
“Or you could walk there, I give you twenty minutes or so, and then collect the car and come and pick you up?”
“This isn’t some ruse so that you can go on chatting up that witless librarian, is it?” It was meant as a joke, but David looked affronted.
“I’m not my wife. Marriage means something to me. I can use the time to go to a cash point. We will need more petrol and supplies before we head north.” He was cross with me, but he kept a lid on his emotion. He always did bottle everything up. It’s not a healthy strategy. I patted him around the back of the neck, half pulling him towards me, until I could see a glimmer of a smile return.
“Here…” he said, his palm outstretched. “Give me the Derek Cross ID. You don’t want to be fumbling with two passports in the bank. They might call the police.” It was a shrewd move, but then this is his world. Swapping identities and manipulating folk as pawns or assets was his bread and butter. I don’t think I could ever get used to lying to the people around me on a day to day basis. “Will you be okay on your own?” He asked.
I nodded, but for a few moments, my legs felt weak. The wobbling swept up through my torso, making my chest constrict. I swallowed, forcing myself to take slow, calming breaths. “I’ll be fine, son. If I am not waiting outside the bank when you get there, drive around the block.” It was just a visit to a bank. I surprised myself at how much my nerves got to me. Perhaps the enormity of the legacy had finally sunk into my brain. I am the Eighth Earl of Sedgewell.
Once outside, I considered walking to Charing Cross Tube station, but Fleet Street would still be a considerable walk from the nearest stop, and that would be after changing from the Northern to the Central Line at Holborn. Chances are, it would work out quicker to walk. We hurried to the end of Orange Street, and I watched David disappear into the crowds of tourists milling about the theatre district. I turned right, skirting the National Portrait Gallery entrance to the foot of Trafalgar Square.
With half an eye on the stream of traffic, looking out for a lit beacon on the roof of a vacant taxi, I took in the open space from a new perspective. Where once, this grand square and lofty column symbolised the strength and unity of our nation’s capital, it now seemed rather grubby. The idolised Admiral Lord Nelson standing proud above us all, was just a boastful man with advantageous family connections.
How history paints fiction over facts. I peered up at the little stone man, hiding a wealth of secrets behind the prestigious uniform. Not all sailors are fortunate enough to secure the nepotism of senior ranking officers and politicians of the day. Few can call upon great-uncle Walpole, practically the first prime minister of Britain, or uncle Maurice, the Captain of Nelson’s debut to the seven seas.
And now I am counted as one of them. An Earl by inheritance, not merit. Expected to influence and manipulate the governing powers of Westminster, to the benefit of another boastful man in parliament. Do the ruling families of yore, pull the invisible strings of democracy still? How many other viscounts, barons and duchesses does Knight have in his back pocket?
An icy breeze funnelled between the buildings, scattering a flock of pigeons in coordinated flight. Still no sign of summer in this beleaguered land. I turned from the tourist trap, over the pedestrian crossing, and hurried towards The Strand.
The first six blocks or so, came and went in a blur of hailed and failed taxi bids. My pace slowed, with the onset of a cramping pain in my lower shin. By the tenth block, I could see where the signs altered from The Strand and became Fleet Street. It was pointless hopping a cab at this point.
I caught my breath by the statue of Samuel Johnson, and trudged on. I passed the Old Bank of England and modern tower blocks fighting for space with the gothic architecture of ancient churches. Finally, I stopped opposite my quarry and looked for a crossing. A fair few people were on the street, on this unremarkable summer’s day, and yet it felt ominously quiet. I got the distinct impression of being watched. That tiny shiver at the back of the neck, like being brushed with a noxious feather.
An unusual break in the flow of traffic sent me scurrying across the road, and into the Georgian façade of Boare and Co, the oldest private bank in Britain. I straightened my collar, and smoothed my hair, aware of my shabbiness at this highly regarded establishment.
Entering their foyer provoked a feeling of timelessness. A suspension of modern progress in favour of tradition. Oak panels and marble tiles, tall Georgian windows and lots of white - every surface a crisp clean white. A woman in her forties approached, her hands neatly clasped together against the linen skirt of her suit.
“May I help you, sir?” A polite and friendly offer, despite my appearance.
“I hope so, I have a bank box bequeathed to me in rather odd circumstances. I believe it is within this building somewhere.” I drew the key from my pocket and held it up for her to see.
“Ah, yes. We have been expecting you, my lord. Allow me to summon Mr Boare. Please excuse me.” She wandered off, through a panelled door, and within moments, I was shaking hands with one of the family directors of the bank. Clearly, this caused somewhat of a commotion. Other senior staff and their assistants, tried to catch a glimpse of me as I was led to the director’s office.
“You must forgive us, my lord, but this is quite momentous for our little crowd here at Boare and Co.” As dour as the man appeared to be, his face was animated. The wrinkles in his cheeks strained against his muscles’ command to smile. He could be no older than myself, but his mannerisms were positively Dickensian.
“How so, Mr Boare? And please call me Phillip.” I sat down at his invitation, while he fussed with papers on his desk.
“Ah, it is of little consequence, my lord…Dr Lawrence. To business, then.” He tried on each of my titles for a best fit, eschewing my offer to dispense with formalities. I let him lead the way. “Firstly, and it is a security issue, you understand, but I will need to see some definitive form of identification before we proceed…” He left the statement hanging in the air. An assumed rudeness in asking made his cheeks flush.
“Of course.” I produced my passport, silently thanking David for his forethought in relieving me of the fake version. Mr Boare pushed out his desk chair, opened a deep drawer and scanned my passport details into a hidden machine. He took in my look of amazement.
“While we do have all the modern facilities here, we choose not to have them on display.”
It was my turn to grin. “You said you were expecting my arrival? Did the solicitor, Mr Bunyan, telephone ahead? How did he know which day I would arrive here?” I could not help but bristle at the thought.
“Mr Bunyan has worked closely with this establishment for many years, Dr Lawrence, as did his father before him,
and, I believe his father also, but he did not book your appointment today.” The muscles tightened into a full beamed smile, his eyes twinkling.
He wanted me to ask, this was what had his staff in such a tizzy. “Then who did?”
“Your grandmother made your appointment, delivering the key and leaving explicit instructions with my father, in nineteen forty-two.”
My mind ceased functioning for a full minute. I was unable to form words, expressions or do anything but breathe. The banker before me was frozen in his delight at my existence, and the perfect coordination of my grandmother’s timing. As my wits returned to me, pieces of the puzzle began snapping into place.
Boare and Co. must have known about the abeyant earldom and the heir all along. For Grandma Phebe to have attached her own bank box key to the abeyance documents, they would have worked closely with the solicitors dealing with her brother’s last testament and estate. I ventured a tentative question. “Were Mr Bunyan’s relatives also my grandmother’s solicitors?”
“They were indeed, Dr Lawrence, just as mine were her bankers. She opened her own account when she came of age. We also handled the affairs of the former Earls of Sedgewell, right back to our founding days in fifteen-sixty-three.”
Now I could see what all the fuss was about. My arrival marked the culmination of decades of planning and legal manoeuvres. Of confidences kept and passed down through each family line in turn. How many others had she co-opted in this way?
“You look pale, Dr Lawrence. Can we get you anything… some tea perhaps?”
I nodded, forgetting my manners and then thanked him. This was all taking much longer than I had anticipated. David would be getting dizzy driving around the block. Even still, it was important to fully understand the situation.
He called his assistant to ask for refreshments and to bring in the documents relating to the earldom accounts. Mr Boare began a convoluted story regarding the sale of the estate and the investments made subsequently in order to preserve value to the wealth accrued.