by Alan Jansen
Continuing with Uncle’s diary, I read on:
The next morning after breakfast, I said goodbye to Hans and his family before ordering a taxi to take me to Waterloo Station. Young Emily looked strangely at me, as if trying to remember something, a puzzled, faraway look in her eyes. She was trying to remember something important concerning me, and was apparently baffled at coming to a dead end. I knew from experience that she would never remember …
Arriving back at the farm, I put my plan into action. I had appointed Hans and my London solicitor, Eli Goldwell – a thin, dry, and cautious gentleman – to jointly sell off the painting and the furniture discreetly. Eli had earlier on procured the services of an antique furniture expert to scrutinize the two pieces of furniture, and the results confirmed my earlier assessment. A famous auction house was contracted by Eli to auction off the furniture and the painting – with explicit instructions that the seller wished to remain anonymous. A week later, the London Times and other prominent English dailies were full of the discovery of these unique treasures. There was worldwide representation at the auction sale of the painting and the furniture. After paying commission to the auction houses and making payment to Hans and Eli, a gargantuan sum of money was deposited into my London bank account, as I was the official seller of the items. I intended of course to later on hand over the entire proceeds to the Darlingtons.
Revenge is sweet, they say, but in this case it was more justice that was at stake and not revenge. I wasted no time in making Blenkinsop suffer for all his bullying and general unpleasantness towards the Darlingtons and God knows how many other people who had crossed his path. I telephoned Mr Blenkinsop at the bank. He kept me on hold a good five minutes before answering. I cut direct to the chase. ‘Good morning, Mr Blenkinsop! Permit me to introduce myself. My name is Cheroot Voldemort. I am a lawyer from London. Mrs Julia Southton has engaged my services to look after Mr Richard Darlington’s interests. I understand that the bank fears he may debunk on his loan payments?’
Blenkinsop didn’t sound much too pleased at my introduction, barking out his displeasure. ‘Now what has that old donkey gone and done, eh? The bottle of the man! Hiring the services of a lawyer when he hasn’t even the means to come up with the next monthly mortgage payment. We have a sound legal department too, you know, Voldemort, and our solicitors from the head office in Rothwell have informed me [this was a lie; I instinctively knew that] that the bank simply can’t renegotiate the terms of the loan. If you are instructed to plead or appeal to us in any way, I must inform you that we can do nothing and that you are wasting your time.’
‘No, no, my dear Mr Blenkinsop, not at all. It’s nothing about renegotiating the terms of the mortgage. Mr Darlington just wanted me to ask you to reconsider his offer of purchasing the equipment, old furniture, paintings, and other odds and ends in his barn. He thinks that there may be some items of value there. Barring the bank, there is no one else in the little community who would buy the lot. He said the proceeds of the sale will definitely help cover this month’s mortgage and that if that is done, he would be able to think of a more permanent solution. Perhaps you could call over and appraise his stock?’
‘For the last and final bloody time, Voldemort … neither I nor the bank have any interest in that old junk he is trying to sell. Absolutely not! Can’t that old fool bow out gracefully? Permanent solution, indeed! Who is going to bail him out permanently? Who, eh?’
‘All right, Mr Blenkinsop, sir.’ (I purposely added the ‘sir’ just for my own devilish amusement.) ‘I’ll inform Mr Darlington of your final decision. I sincerely hope you are not missing out on anything by refusing his offer. Who knows, eh? Maybe the barn will reveal a lost and forgotten painting by an old master, or some genuine antique furniture! You never know what can turn up at these old barns.’
‘Ha, ha, ha! Old master indeed! And antique furniture? Blimey, man, other than the gentry, who do have a good deal of genuine antiques in their mansions, who the devil else in this small community buys or even knows of such things? Old Lord Sidcup had some good stuff, but it was all sold off at an executive auction – every single piece. All there is in these old farm barns is just useless and rotting home furniture, cheap reprints of famous paintings, and obsolete farming machinery. Why, only at last week’s village market, Mr Boycott, the bits and pieces man, was selling a whole heap of reprints of the Mona Lisa in cheap plastic frames. Antique furniture and old masters, my holy aunt!’ Thus saying, the great man cut the telephone line, leaving a beeping handpiece in my hand …
Uncle’s diary entries were quiet for some time, but at one point he resumed, as follows:
A fortnight had passed since I spoke with Mr Blenkinsop. I decided to put a lid to the whole affair. I strode into the bank wearing my wonderfully cut Saville Row suit and my black patent leather shoes, and for good effect had a favourite walking cane with a carved silver lion head in my hand. With me, I had Mr and Mrs Darlington and Julia. I presented my card to the bank clerk, who immediately took it to Mr Blenkinsop after giving me a once-over and noticing my splendid attire. The card simply read, ‘C. Voldemort – Legal representative’, and underneath that was a host of legal titles, concluding with an impressive ‘Agent for Herbert Smith’ – a very famous English law firm. My titles were all bogus, of course, although I have a keen legal eye and a wealth of legal knowledge, both British and international. Mr Blenkinsop condescended to meet me although I had no prior appointment, most probably intrigued by my master touch declaring I was a free agent working for Herbert Smith. He was even more impressed upon seeing me in person as I entered his office with the Darlingtons and Julia trouping behind me. My clothes, the silver-headed cane, my manner, and the air of well-being and importance I purposely intended to project made him draw his breath sharply.
‘Good morning, Mr Blenkinsop. I shall not waste your time, sir. I’m here as Richard Darlington’s legal advisor to immediately settle the matter of his bank loan and mortgage, and also to open a new capital account in his name. Please draw up the necessary documents while we wait. I have with me a bank cheque drawn from Darlington’s account at Barclays’ London branch, which will not only settle his mortgage but also repay his outstanding loan in full. Additionally, there will be a substantial sum left over, which he would like to keep in a capital account at your bank.’
Saying thus, I handed him a cheque for twenty thousand pounds – a colossal sum of money in the decade we lived in. Mr Blenkinsop’s eyes nearly popped out of their sockets when he saw the amount written on the cheque. He was shaken to the core – dumbfounded. His hand shook as he stuttered. ‘But, but, but … how? I mean, how did your client obtain such a vast sum of money, Mr Voldemort?’ (He addressed me as ‘Mister’ for the first time. and there was a marked deference in his voice and attitude.) ‘How on earth? I mean, only last week he was without any funds whatsoever and wanted to sell off his stuff! And here you are giving me this cheque!’ He looked once more at me very closely, this time scrutinizing my rich attire from head to foot, saying subtly, ‘Is this your money, Mr Voldemort?’
‘No fear, Blenkinsop.’ (I purposely dropped the ‘Mister’ and ‘sir’.) ‘I am only Darlington’s legal representative hired by my old friend Julia Southton. The money is all his. It is a part of the proceedings of a Constable painting and two items of Chippendale furniture found in his old barn after an appraisal was done at the instructions of Mrs Southton. Maybe you have read of the discovery of these treasures in the main UK newspapers? The Times especially wrote a long piece about it all, although I understand they didn’t write in what part of the country these treasures were found.… I do believe Mr Darlington made you an offer to buy all the stuff in the barn, didn’t he? Even I made you a similar offer at Mr Darlington’s request over the telephone. You were quite adamant in your refusal, Blenkinsop. Well, I don’t have much time to dilly-dally. Please call your assistant and get this transaction done without further dela
y. We are off to London after this meeting, where Mr Darlington is intent on buying a considerable share post in your bank.’
The last bit of news jarred the baffled Blenkinsop even more. In future, he would have to deal not only with a very wealthy client but also with a potential large stock owner of the very bank he worked for – a client whom he had besides treated like a pariah. I would hazard a guess that Blenkinsop was inconsolable for a long time afterwards. He knew he had missed the opportunity of a lifetime by spurning Darlington’s offer to buy the contents of the old barn. I well imagine he cried himself to sleep each night, probably downing several glasses of whisky to fall asleep.
I doubted very much that Mr Blenkinsop would ever recover from the incident and the fact that he had actually refused to buy a genuine Constable and the two pieces of Chippendale furniture. They say that lottery ticket owners who miss out on the winning lottery by a single preceding or subsequent number are inconsolable, forever ruing what might have been. Blenkinsop will regret to his dying day that he didn’t acquire the barn and with it the Constable and the Chippendale pieces …
Uncle’s diary entry recounting the whole incident ended there. However, turning over the pages, I came across the following short entry he had made a week later:
News arrived to me today that our Mr Blenkinsop has, shortly after the Darlingtons’ change of fortune, resigned from the bank and disappeared to where nobody knew. … Village gossip says he is a sort of travelling scout these days, going around the British countryside inquiring of farm owners if he could have a peep at their old junk, and if possible put in an offer. Undiscovered Constables and Chippendales do not grow on trees, and are so rare these days especially, that they may never surface even in a lifetime’s search. Blenkinsop’s quest seems quite hopeless – doomed to failure from the very onset. Still, it is not impossible to find a needle in a haystack, and against all odds our former bank manager might just get lucky. I have my very serious reservations, though …
Chapter 4
A Touch of Casanova and a Whiff of Machiavelli
Never attempt win by force what can be won by deception.
Niccolò Machiavelli
Another entry in Uncle Cheroot’s diary which I would draw your, my reader’s, attention to is the description of the unpleasant altercation that arose between my parents and our wealthy neighbour Lady Janet De Court Plutney. It was Uncle’s second visit with us since that wonderful Christmas visit that he had extended to almost a full year. That penultimate visit was eventful, to say the least. His involvement with the business of the Darlingtons, his rollicking affair with Verity (known only to me), his encounter with that awful dragon-like creature who was afraid to enter the farm (also known only to me, for I hadn’t blabbed about it to anyone), and other episodes were just the top, or rather the cream, of a list of incidents that are too many to include in this book, although Uncle had meticulously written most of it in his diary. Perhaps in hindsight I ought to have published his unabridged diary instead of this work of ‘fiction’. But then again, an uncondensed work would lack proper structure and might be conceived as a mad jumble of events. Also, publishing a work of fiction instead of Uncle’s actual diary would probably shield Uncle’s incognito status from the ever-prying eyes of the authorities, something Uncle would appreciate.
At the risk of repeating myself, I know today that Uncle’s true name is indeed Voldemort. I searched for him in my seventy-fourth year, unable to bear any longer not knowing how I had achieved this sort of everlasting life I was given. I can never reveal the final outcome of my search – as recorded in the last chapter of this book – where I live today, or if Uncle had welcomed or discarded or even harmed me when we met up at last. At least my readers will know I am still alive. My proof is this book that you read …
Although money doesn’t mean a thing to me now, I was, and am still, somewhat vain. Like most humans, I strive to achieve some kind of fame (perhaps only amongst readers of Gothic tales and the supernatural) and am expecting this book to bring me just that, even though I won’t have the satisfaction of seeing my real name accredited as the author. I believe I have a way with words, and yearn to be as successful in writing as Mom was in her painting. Even though I will never get the satisfaction of seeing my real name attributed to this work, knowing that I have written it will always please me enormously.
Two years had passed. I was now fourteen when Uncle graced us with this second visit. It was early spring in 1956. My relative surprised us all by knocking on our front door without prior notification that he would be visiting. He wasn’t expected, and we had no forewarning that he would be arriving. He had wired Mom in advance of his last visit, but not this time around – not diminishing the fact that we were over the moon to see him again, especially Mom. Even Pop managed a small grunt of pleasure. Life was always exciting when Uncle was around. Even on this visit we all had a marvellous time, except for a brief and dark interlude when a neighbour turned positively nasty and almost drove my parents bonkers. Uncle, of course, figured very much in the successful outcome of the whole business, although none of us at that time knew just how he had managed it all. I know now, very many years later, thanks to Uncle’s marvellous diary. Without beating about the bush, here is Uncle’s account of what happened exactly as he had written it all down in the diary I had found:
I was never an odious person, but resentment over feudal nobility, lording it over and trampling those unable to fight back, always got my goat. Reminiscing the past, I do think the French Revolution was barbarous, but whenever some especially nasty nobleman was executed, I silently cheered. Lady Janet Plutney had to be punished as she ought to and deserved. A plot was forming and unfolding in my head, not a plot involving injury to limb or other violence, but a surreptitious superior sort of scheme that would put my old friend Niccolò Machiavelli to shame …
As soon as I read the beginning of this diary entry, I knew immediately what this particular episode was all about, even before I had read it all, although it bewildered me why Uncle talked of the French Revolution as though he had been there. Of Machiavelli I knew nothing at that time, being just fourteen years old, but judging by the way Uncle wrote those lines, it appeared that he knew this individual very well …
It all started one day late that spring when Pop discovered to his astonishment and outrage that our apple orchard that bordered the property owned by our aristocratic neighbour, Lady Janet, had been encroached by a sturdy barbed wire fence stretching between wooden poles sticking out from the ground in evenly paced lengths. The fence was about fifty yards into the orchard and had claimed a good many apple trees in its merry march onto our property. The fencing work must have been done at night, because we hadn’t seen or heard anything during the morning or afternoon. The orchard was of course quite a distance away from our farmhouse, but even so both Inky and Gobble, the farm’s valiant ‘security’, would have noticed or sensed something and given off the alarm had the work been done by day. Pop was initially flabbergasted, not knowing quite what to do. Dismantling the fence was beyond his capacity. It would take at least three men to remove the poles with the help of a tractor or some other motorized vehicle. Pop’s surprise turned to seething anger; his miff reached its zenith after he received a letter that same day informing him that Lady Janet had seen fit to claim that bit of land as rightfully hers. Pop was instructed in the letter to contact Lady Janet’s solicitors if he had any legal complaints about the acquisition. Mom was equally mad as Pop. That particular section of the apple orchard that was encroached was where she almost always set up her easel to paint whenever the weather permitted, often painting the apple trees in summer when ripe with fruit, but also at times in autumn when the leaves turned deep orange, and in early May when the buds broke out into flower. Even some of her still lifes were painted on that spot, where the objects she painted were placed on a table. At dinner that day, she was still raging and fuming, saying vehe
mently to Uncle, who was well informed of Lady Janet’s land-grabbing tactics, which after the letter from her solicitor seemed final and biding, ‘The bloody upstart!’ Mom said angrily – nay, fuming – over the turn of events. ‘The audacity of the woman! Where does that dolled-up floozy get off claiming the best part of our land? Why, my family has owned that land for centuries! Lady Janet indeed! The bloody woman wormed her way into Lord Plutney’s affections and hoodwinked that horny old goat into marrying her after he had gone and made her his secretary. That was old Plutney’s only way of bedding her! I’m going to tear down that bloody fence myself this very day if Jim doesn’t do it. At least I can cut the damn barbed wire!’
‘Now, now, Julia. It’s no use. You’ll only make matters worse if you touch that new fence. I have some legal knowledge, and I’ve seen that letter from those lawyers of hers. It’s almost watertight as far as I can fathom. But leave it to me. I will make some inquiries through my legal contacts in London and see what can be done.’
‘Will you, Cheroot dear? I mean, there must be something we can do. Are we to take all this lying down like lambs? I know my Jim. He shouts and raves about it, but he wouldn’t dare cross the so-called aristocracy. Bows and scrapes before the lot. … Thinks too much of these kind of people to stand up to them.’
‘Give me a day or two, Julia, and we’ll see,’ Uncle replied, waving his hand in a dismissive fashion as if to signal that the conversation was now at an end.
Uncle took charge of the whole matter as he had assured Mom he would. He travelled up to London and consulted a reputed firm of solicitors who, after examining Lady Janet’s old deeds, maps, and proof of ownership, informed Uncle Cheroot that the aristocrat was in her full right to claim the property as hers. There was nothing one could do, the solicitors informed. Uncle left London that day by the evening train, returning to us at the farm. Inside that giant brain of his, a plan of action was emerging, as clearly shown in the diary entry I discovered …