Rising, leaving the playroom, Vicky manoeuvred herself down the stairs to her bedroom, found a nailfile and a pair of nail scissors in her manicure case, went carefully back upstairs to the playroom.
Sitting down at the table, she very gently inserted the nailfile and began to lift off the brown paper backing. It was a slow job, but within ten minutes she had loosened one side, and began to work on the edge across the bottom.
The moment she pulled the backing off completely, Vicky saw the large piece of folded paper laying on the photograph; she knew instantly and without question that the brown paper backing had been put there by Grace’s mother, not the photographer, as she had originally believed.
For a moment she did not touch the piece of folded paper, simply stared at it worriedly, wondering what it was. In a sense she was almost afraid to reach for it, afraid of what might be written on it, what she would discover.
Coward, she told herself, and finally picked up the large piece of paper and unfolded it.
Vicky had thought it would most probably be a letter, but it wasn’t. It was a birth certificate. However, inside the folds of the birth certificate there was another piece of paper. She placed this on the table, anxious to read the birth certificate.
A woman’s name was written on it, a name Vicky did not recognize, and the square where the father’s name should have been written was totally blank. She’s illegitimate, Vicky thought. Grace is illegitimate. Her eyes went to the top of the birth certificate, and she now read: County of Yorkshire, and underneath: WHITBY, the name of the town. At least she now knew two more things about Grace: her mother’s name and her place of birth. Anxious now to know even more, she reached for the smaller piece of paper and opened it. A lock of red hair fell out; Vicky put this on the birth certificate, almost absently, and looked down at the paper in her hand, reading swiftly.
‘Oh my God!’ Vicky exclaimed out loud. ‘Oh my God!’ she cried again, and her eyes, unexpectedly, filled with tears. She blinked them away and read the short note once again, took the lock of hair, put it back inside the note and folded it. To her surprise, Vicky discovered her hands were shaking as she replaced the note inside the birth certificate. Swiftly, she put both in her skirt pocket, and sat back in the chair, too stunned to think straight for a moment, utterly astounded.
It was the carriage clock on the mantlepiece chiming the half hour which brought Vicky Forth out of her reverie. She blinked, sat up straighter in the chair, glancing at the clock. It occurred to her that she had only half an hour to put a new backing on the photograph and get it inside the silver frame before Amos, Nanny and Grace returned.
Standing up, she went to the bell at the side of the mantelpiece and pressed it. Within seconds Elsie, the parlour maid, was hurrying into the room. ‘Is there something you need, Mrs Forth?’
‘Elsie, please do me a favour. Bring me a roll of the brown wrapping paper, a pot of glue and a pair of scissors. I want to tidy up this photograph before putting it in the new frame.’
Elsie nodded. ‘Right away, mum.’ She dashed out.
Vicky sat gazing at the picture of Grace’s mother, wondering whether to keep the discoloured cream mount surrounding it. She made a decision and lifted it off. Printed in a type of scrolled handwriting was the name of the photographer, and underneath the town: Whitby. Without the discoloured mount, the photographer’s name was revealed. For the moment Vicky did not want anyone else to know a single thing about Grace’s background, and so she put the mount back in place even though it was a bit grubby.
Once Elsie returned with the items she requested, Vicky cut out a piece of the brown paper, glued it on the back of the photograph, and put the picture in the frame.
‘Now it fits,’ she muttered under her breath as she replaced the wooden back covered in blue velvet. Turning it around, standing it up on the table, she nodded to herself, pleased with her handiwork, thinking how happy Grace would be when she saw her mother’s photographic portrait in the handsome silver frame.
FORTY-THREE
‘Fer a rozzer yer not a bad chap,’ Albert Draper muttered, staring at Amos Finnister. ‘Even if yer bold as brass, askin’ me agin abart Nappo. I told yer all I knows afore.’
‘First of all, Albert, I’m not a copper anymore. I’m a private detective,’ Amos explained, shaking his head, looking into Albert’s eyes. ‘And you know it. Also—’
‘Once a copper allus a copper,’ Albert cut in, grinning hugely.
‘I concede you might have a point there, Bertie, but please help me. I must find out who this Nappo fellow worked for up West. It’s worth quite a lot to me.’
‘’Ow much?’
‘Definitely a fiver…’
‘Five quid! My Gawd!’ E must’ve done sumfink awful, a real bleedin’ ’orrible crime. I wus goin’ ter arsk yer for ten bob. Changed me mind, though.’
‘Why did you do that? I’d always give it to you, Bertie. Anytime.’
‘Changed me mind ’cos I ain’t no cadger, can’t stand cadgers, Amos. Bad way ter make a livin’, innit?’
‘I suppose it is, and I know how proud you are. Come on, Bertie, you’ve got the goods on Nappo, so let’s have it.’ Reaching into his pocket, Amos put some loose change on the counter and called out, ‘Two more pints of bitter, please.’
The bartender of the Mucky Duck called back, ‘Comin’ right up.’
Turning to Albert, Amos continued in a low voice, ‘Nappo was bumped off a few weeks ago. It wasn’t suicide, you know that as well as I do. The Yard have come up with nothing, and I just need to know who it was he worked for up West.’
Albert bit his lip, shook his head, looking worried.
Amos said, ‘Nappo caused a terrible accident in Hyde Park—a good woman was killed, another wonderful woman injured. Both of them have been involved in Haddon House. Hasn’t your sister Gladys had a lot of help from them in the past…when that no-good husband of hers beat her up?’
‘Beat ’er to bleedin’ pulp,’ e did, bleedin’ bastard. If I ever gets me ’ands on ’im, I’ll do ’im!’ Bertie hissed, keeping his voice low. ‘So them fancy bits wus ’elping Lady Fenella? A saint I calls ’er. That wot yer sayin’, Amos?’
‘I am.’
Bertie nodded, his mind made up after hearing the name Haddon House, and drew even closer to Amos. ‘Wot I’ve ’eard is this…it’s the Frenchie wus employin’ Nappo as a driver of ’er carriage, so I ’ears from me mate,’ im as knew Nappo. Margo, that’s ’er name. Can’t think of ’er last name.’
‘Grant, Margot Grant,’ Amos said swiftly, his excitement obvious. ‘Is that the name?’
‘It is! That’s it!’ Bertie exclaimed, grinning from ear to ear. ‘Tells me mate ’e fancied ’er, wanted ter get ’er up the apples and pears, would’ve paid a king’s ransom ter do ’er,’ Bertie explained. ‘Oh, yeah, Nappo fancied ’er awright. Wishful thinkin’, innit?’
‘Only too true. Are you certain of the name?’
‘I am that. Let me think a minit…Grosvenor Street…no, not right…Upper, that’s wot’s missing…Upper Grosvernor Street, up West, that’s where Nappo worked and dreamed of feckin’ the Frenchie woman.’
Amos felt a rush of relief flood through him. He wanted to shout out with glee, but restrained himself. ‘A name, Bert? Surely your mate knew Nappo’s actual name.’
Albert began to chuckle. ‘Yer knows wot, Amos,’ is real name wus Napoleon, t’weren’t a nickname, the bugger wus called Napoleon by ’is muvver.’
‘His last name?’ Amos probed.
Grinning again, Bertie said, ‘Sure as ’ell t’weren’t Bonaparte.’ The Cockney began to laugh.
Amos couldn’t help laughing with him, even though he had one other horrendous problem to deal with. He had always liked Albert Draper’s Cockney humour and wit. ‘So, come on, lad, let’s have it.’
‘Dupon, or Dupont.’ Albert emphasized the T. ‘That wus the geezer’s name. Or Dupond.’
‘Thank you, Albert.�
� Amos put his hand in his pocket and brought out a small packet. ‘A fiver in there for you, and I appreciate your help.’
After pocketing the envelope of money, Albert looked hard at Amos, his eyes narrowing. ‘They did for ’im, did they, them buggers up West?’
‘In my opinion, yes.’
‘D’ya think Nappo got in ’er knickers? That why they did ’im?’
‘No, I doubt very much that he got anywhere with her. They had him killed because he knew too much.’
‘Bloody ’ell!’
‘Thanks again, Bertie, you’ve been a genuine help.’
Albert Draper nodded. ‘Ta fer me dosh, Amos, yer a good un.’
Amos nodded, picked up his pint and drank half of it, put the glass back on the counter. ‘I’ve got to be going, and thanks again, Bertie.’
‘See ya, Amos.’
Once he was outside in the street, Amos pulled out his pocket watch and looked at the time. It was almost seven o’clock. He had told the two actors he would meet them at the Mandarin Garden at half past seven, so he must hurry now.
As he strode along the wharves, he sniffed, grimacing, fully aware of the stink of the Thames on this warm June evening. It was the most beautiful river in the world to him, but it was the dirtiest, and it was rank in warm weather.
Walking at a rapid pace, he thought about the information Albert Draper had given him. He had known Albert for many years, since he had been on the beat here in Whitechapel, and he trusted him implicitly. He now had a name to give to Neville Watkins—more importantly a positive identification of Margot Grant as Nappo’s employer. This tied her and possibly Henry Grant to the crime. At least he had done something right. The failure of the two actors to persuade Beaufield, Deever and Clifford to resign was the most unhappy conclusion to that particular part of his work for Neville Watkins.
Charlie had told him the actors were good, often played toffs in the theatre, and that they would do a proper job. Those were Charlie’s exact words, ‘a proper job’, just before he had sailed off to New York. To the New World. To a new life.
Amos made it to the Chinese restaurant in record time, and, as he was shown to his favourite table in an isolated corner, he asked the waiter for jasmine tea. He sat down, a bit out of breath, thirsty, and relieved to see he was the first to arrive.
But he did not have to wait long. Ten minutes later the two thespians appeared, and were suddenly sitting down opposite him. Justin St Marr, as he called himself, in reality Alfie Rains, and his companion, Harry Lansford, who was really Jimmy Smithers. Two good-looking Cockney lads, old friends of Charlie, talented actors by profession. Nice lads, he decided, looking across at them. But somewhere they had gone wrong on the job for him. He aimed to find out how.
‘Good evening, chaps,’ Amos said cheerily, smiling at them.
‘Good evening, Mr Finnister,’ they said in unison, speaking in upper-class voices. They were staying in character for the moment.
‘Care for refreshments?’ Amos asked, raising a brow.
‘The same as you, I think, jasmine tea, please,’ Justin replied in his plummy tone.
‘I’ll have tea also,’ Harry added, equally posh.
Once the order for the tea had been given, Amos leaned across the table and said in a low voice, ‘I’ve got a real problem, lads, and I certainly need you to help me solve it.’
They both nodded, looked at him eagerly, obviously wanting to please.
The waiter deposited the teapots and teacups, and hurried away.
Amos leaned forward once more, speaking in the same low voice. ‘I want you to tell me again what happened when you finally pulled the rabbit out of the hat so to speak, and told those chaps you would expose them to the world. Expose their guilty secrets.’
‘They laughed,’ Justin answered. ‘They just didn’t seem to care, did they, Harry?’
‘Justin’s right, Mr Finnister, they were totally unconcerned, acted as though it didn’t matter one iota.’
‘Think, lads, go back over it in your minds. Didn’t they say anything about the board, their immediate superiors, the consequences?’
‘No,’ Justin said, shaking his blond head, biting his lip.
Harry looked as though he was remembering something; his eyes narrowed as he stared out into the room above Amos’s head. ‘Well, there was one thing…something Jack Beaufield said, and it struck me as being rather odd, sort of…well, out of context.’
‘What did Beaufield say?’ Amos demanded, his heart tightening in anticipation.
‘He said there would be no more summers in France if they were thrown off the board, and all three seemed to think it was funny. But I didn’t get it, not at all.’
Oh, but I do, Amos thought, his heart leaping. They know something about Summers and Margot, something explosive. An affair? I do believe they think they’ve got him by the cojones. But we’ll see about that, won’t we?
Harry now asked in a puzzled voice, ‘You look extremely pleased, Mr Finnister, do you know what Beaufield was talking about?’
‘I’m not quite sure,’ Amos answered cagily, and then smiled. ‘But I think my boss will, and he’ll certainly know what to do. Now, lads, the treat’s on me. What would you like for your supper? Have anything, anything at all.’ He lifted his hand, summoned the waiter. He suddenly felt light-headed with happiness. Perhaps he hadn’t failed after all.
FORTY-FOUR
Today it was Tuesday, June 21st in the year 1904.
It might turn out to be an auspicious day. Certainly today his destiny would be sealed, of that he was absolutely sure.
Edward Deravenel stood at the window in his office at Deravenels, looking down into the Strand, thinking about the ordeal which awaited him.
In a short while he would go into the boardroom and face seventeen men, the members of the board who would either champion his cause, or defeat him.
His cousin Neville Watkins, his mentor, had told him it was up to him to convince them his was a just cause, a rightful cause.
‘You are a seducer, Ned, not just of women, but of…well, just about everyone,’ Neville had told him earlier this morning, over breakfast at the Charles Street house. ‘You can convince anybody, when you so wish. Do it today, Ned: charm them, beguile them, make them want you to win, not Henry Grant. But remember, you must do it with a cold heart. You must be ruthless.’
‘I know that,’ Edward had answered his cousin. ‘And your own motto is engraved on my heart…never display weakness, never show face.’
Neville had nodded and smiled, patted him on the back, and added, ‘Be inscrutable. Show no visible emotion, reveal nothing of yourself. Bear those points in mind and you will succeed.’
Last night they had had a long session with Amos over dinner, and the private detective had told them about two meetings he had recently had.
One had been with a contact in Whitechapel. This man had given Finnister information about the Corsican, the rider of the horse, perpetrator of the accident in Hyde Park. According to Amos, the Corsican had been employed by Margot Grant as one of her drivers: she was irrevocably tied to the accident, which was not an accident at all, as far as Amos Finnister was concerned. ‘Premeditated,’ was the way he had put it. ‘Murder, in fact, to my way of thinking. The Corsican did set out to kill Mrs Overton.’
The private detective had then gone on to tell them about the actors Justin St Marr and Harry Lansford, who had inveigled themselves into the tight-knit social circle where Beaufield, Cliff and Deever were prime movers.
Each actor had tackled the men individually—first Beaufield, then Deever, finally James Cliff. They had explained that they knew dangerous secrets and would reveal them to the world if each man did not resign from Deravenels.
The actors had really believed they had succeeded in convincing them all to step down in order to avoid a huge public scandal.
‘And then suddenly everything changed,’ Finnister had said. ‘Deever and Cliff told Justin and Harr
y to go to hell. It was a case of publish and be damned, that sort of attitude. My actors were a bit flumoxed, I don’t mind telling you. Later they were even more taken aback when they ran into the toffs at White’s, and the three men laughed in their faces. It was Beaufield who then said something about “no more summers in France” if they were kicked off the Deravenel board.’
‘He was alluding to John Summers and Margot Grant. As you surmised, they must be meeting secretly. There is no doubt there’s a sexual liaison there,’ Neville remarked.
‘No doubt whatsoever, sir. I got it from the horse’s mouth—this morning. The butler at the Grant house in Upper Grosvenor Street is about to vacate his position and was happy to blab.’
Edward had jumped into the discussion at this point, and directed a question at Finnister. ‘Do you think that Beaufield, Deever and Cliff conferred with each other and decided to brazen it out?’
‘That is my conclusion, Mr Edward. I thought at first they might have spotted my two thespians, and realized they were imposters. But I’ve changed my mind. We know those fellows are in cahoots, and have benefitted from the Indian skimming situation. Therefore, I think they know everything there is to know about each other. Birds of a feather, and all that.’
Neville had laughed, then turning to Ned he had pointed out, ‘But the other board members don’t know a thing, and you, my dear Ned, are going to give them all the gory details. No holds barred.’
When he had arrived home last night Edward had made innumerable notes, committed everything to memory, like an actor memorizing his lines. That was the way he had thought of it then, and now. When he walked into that boardroom he had to dominate, as a leading actor dominated a stage. He had to persuade, convince, beguile, and conquer his audience. He had to make them his.
The Ravenscar Dynasty Page 39