Kitabı oku: «In the Lion’s Den: The House of Falconer»

PART ONE

ONE

Dread. That was the feeling James Lionel Falconer was experiencing as he sat at his desk in his office at Malvern House in Piccadilly.

It was the afternoon of Wednesday 25 September 1889, and an hour since a packet of documents had arrived by courier from Paris. James had opened the packet hastily and read them immediately, shocked by the bad news they contained.

James looked down at his hands resting on the pile of documents, a chill running through him at the thought of giving them to Henry Malvern, who was an ailing man. Rocked by his daughter’s breakdown and his brother Joshua’s stroke and lingering death, his employer had been unwell all summer with a debilitating fatigue. But James had no choice. The head of the company had to know everything.

A deep sigh escaped him as he opened the top drawer of his desk, placed the documents inside, locked the drawer and pocketed the key.

Taking out his watch he saw that it was almost seven o’clock. At least he didn’t have to face Mr Malvern until tomorrow morning, by which time his friend and colleague Peter Keller would be in his office next door if James needed him. Keller was stalwart; they had shared interests and had become close friends. And Keller worked in the Wine Division and might be able to help solve this mess. Though it was hard to see how, since it now turned out that Percy Malvern, Mr Malvern’s cousin, was not only a thief who had stolen millions from the Wine Division in Le Havre, but also a bigamist.

Striding across the room, James put on his coat and left his office.

When he stepped outside onto Piccadilly, it was drizzling after a day of heavy rain. The early evening light had dimmed, and there was a slight mist, but the street lamps were aglow. People were rushing home, dodging in and out and around each other, the pavements wet and slippery. James joined the throng.

He hurried toward Half Moon Street, wanting to get home as fast as he could. The sound of horses’ hooves, the rattling of carriage wheels, and the general bustle of the traffic in the streets grated on him tonight. He turned up the collar of his topcoat and plunged his hands into his pockets. It was not only wet but also cold for September.

The moment he opened the door and went into the small flat he shared with his Uncle George, a newspaperman, James felt a great sense of relief. The gas lamps on the walls filled the room with a shimmering light and a fire burned in the hearth. In an instant his uncle’s smiling face appeared around the kitchen door. ‘Supper is almost ready!’ he announced. Smiling, James hung his damp coat on a hook behind the door, then returned to the kitchen to help George.

His uncle was deftly carving a large piece of roast beef, and he said, without looking up, ‘Your grandmother left this for us today, while we were at work.’ Laughing, he added, ‘And these two loaves of freshly baked bread. You see, she dotes on you, Jimmy lad.’

‘And you too, Uncle George … you’re her son.’

A smile slid across George’s face, and he finally looked across at his nephew. ‘She’s the best there is, nobody like her.’

James nodded, and spotted the small glass pot with a white paper label stuck on it. Horseradish sauce, it read, in his grandmother’s handwriting. He smiled inside. She always thought of every little thing, right down to the last detail.

Sitting at the kitchen table a bit later, eating their roast-beef sandwiches and drinking mugs of hot tea, James was quiet. His mind kept going over the problems dogging the Wine Division in Le Havre, problems that the documents he’d received today confirmed.

‘I dread giving the terrible news from France to Mr Malvern,’ James said, grimacing.

‘Just give him the documents and tell him he won’t like what he reads,’ George had suggested. ‘You may well find that he’s been expecting bad news anyway.’

Sleep did not come easily that night. James considered it to be his saviour, the key to his health. Yet when it was elusive he did not toss and turn like some people might; instead he lay perfectly still. Reflection and analysis were his special friends during these wearisome, sleepless hours.

He was glad he had his uncle to talk to. He had always been particularly close to George, even as a child, and they had truly bonded on a different level when he moved into the flat on Half Moon Street in Mayfair. Not that they saw much of each other. George was a journalist working on The Chronicle, where his star had risen over the years. His hours at the newspaper changed constantly.

James appreciated George’s wisdom and began slowly to relax, stretching his long legs in the bed, settling himself comfortably on the pillow. The dread had slithered away. Mr Malvern had to know everything, and perhaps he might not be too surprised after all.

Unexpectedly, and much against his will, thoughts of Alexis Malvern, Henry’s daughter, crept into his mind, and for a moment he felt a rush of emotion, a sudden desire for her. But he squashed this when he focused on her lack of concern for her father and for the business she would one day inherit. He saw her continued absence as a dereliction of duty. And these thoughts damaged her image in his mind. He thought her behaviour didn’t quite live up to his standards, just didn’t ‘fit the bill’. Then, quite unexpectedly, Georgiana Ward came into his mind, and he wondered how she was, how she was doing. He had only ever once asked his cousin William if he had any news of her. William had shaken his head, then told him, ‘My mother has only heard from her once, letting her know that she was feeling better away from London fogs. That’s all I know.’

James had remained silent at the time, not wanting to probe too hard. A small sigh escaped as he turned on his side. Whenever he thought of the older woman who had been his first lover, he realized how kind she had been to him, how much she had cared about him. One day, he thought. One day I will meet someone like her … I know I will.

He also missed William, who was far away in Hull. As he fell asleep, his thoughts were only about the importance of family and friends.

James sat up with a start, as if someone had shaken his shoulder. He was wide awake, and the room was very bright. He blinked as he got out of bed and went over to the window. The moon was riding high in the midnight-blue sky, and it was shining into his bedroom because he had forgotten to close the curtains last night. He noticed that the rain had stopped.

He was suddenly restless, wanting to be outside, walking the streets, as he sometimes did, thinking through his problems. And clearing his head. Within minutes he was dressed in his trousers, shirt and shoes; he pulled on a thick jacket for warmth and slipped out of the flat quietly. All he needed was his uncle to wake up and ask where he was going at two in the morning.

His answer would have been nowhere in particular, because that was the truth. Once outside, he walked along Curzon Street and turned onto Park Lane, heading down towards the Wellington Arch and on towards Buckingham Palace. It wasn’t far away, and as he caught sight of it in the distance he noticed there was no Union Flag flying on its flagpole. Queen Victoria was at Balmoral, and the Prince of Wales, her heir to the throne, lived in his own home with his wife, Princess Alexandra. Now there was a beautiful woman, he thought, one who was elegant and regal. She was deaf, but did not appear to let that bother her. Uncle George had told him she was Danish and that her sister Minnie was married to the Romanov Tsar of Russia.

As he neared the palace walls, James slowed down and stood staring at the regal building, almost entirely in darkness, only a few lights showing through upstairs windows. During the summer, Princess Louise, daughter of the Prince and Princess of Wales, had been married there.

Married, he thought. I wonder if I will ever get married. He grimaced to himself. The idea did not appeal to him at the moment. He had other fish to fry. His career. He knew within himself that he was doing well, so lucky to work for the Malvern Company, to be close to Mr Henry. Yet he was always aching inside to be on his own, to start his own retail business. Ever since his childhood he had longed to become a merchant prince. Too soon, he thought. It’s too soon.

He sighed under his breath, slowly walking away from Buckingham Palace. He was still too young to go out on his own. He mustn’t be impatient. His grandmother was forever reminding him of that. He headed down the Mall, his thoughts shifting to the days when he worked on his father’s stalls in the Malvern Market. He had been eight years old, and fell into the work at once, loving every moment of the day. Stay calm and keep going. Slowly, he told himself. And one day you’ll get to where you want to be.

TWO

The following morning James went to Malvern House very early. As he walked down the corridor to his office, he relished the silence, the closed doors, and the lack of lights. He was the first to arrive today.

He immediately unlocked his desk drawer and took out the batch of documents that had been delivered the day before. They had come from Philippe de Lavalière, a private detective in Paris, whom the company had hired to look into the fraud they had discovered. Swiftly, he went through them all, reading a number of them again, and then put them away.

Mr Malvern wasn’t in yet, and so he studied some of the reports from Natalya Parkinson, who had been Alexis’s assistant and was helping to manage the work in Alexis’s continuing absence. He enjoyed working with Miss Parkinson, or Natalie, as her friends and family called her. She was efficient and had quite a flair for helping their tenants arrange the windows of their shops appropriately.

A bit later, when he heard Mr Malvern’s footsteps in the corridor outside his office, James rose and strode out. ‘Good morning, sir,’ he said.

Henry Malvern turned, smiled at James. ‘Morning, Falconer,’ he answered. His employer was looking better these days, though he still tired easily.

‘I wonder if I can come in and see you for a moment?’ James asked. ‘It is important.’

Malvern nodded. ‘Of course.’ As he moved on, he added, ‘Come in now, Falconer. I have a meeting in half an hour with the accountants.’

‘Right away, sir.’ James rushed back into his office, took out the documents and hurried after his boss.

After hanging up his overcoat on the coatstand in the corner, Henry Malvern sat down behind his desk. Looking across at James, who was already making his way into his office, he said, ‘Are those documents why you want to see me?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Not from Alexis, I don’t suppose?’

James shook his head. ‘No sir. They arrived late yesterday by courier just after you left. They’re from the Paris office.’ James stopped at the large Georgian partner’s desk and placed the bundle of documents on it. ‘I’m afraid it’s not good news.’

Henry Malvern inclined his head and gave James a hard stare. ‘I wasn’t expecting good news, Falconer.’ He began to read the documents, but then said, ‘Please sit down, you know it makes me nervous when you’re hovering.’

‘Sorry, sir,’ James replied, and sat down in the chair opposite the imposing desk, patiently waiting for his boss to digest everything.

At last Henry looked up, sat back in his chair and shook his head. ‘A bigamist! I’m not too surprised he stole so much, but his romantic philandering does surprise me. My cousin is such a plain man, and rather short, with quite a reserved manner. But as my mother always said, “Still waters run deep and the devil’s at the bottom.” I think her words may well apply to Mr Percy Malvern.’

The documents revealed that Percy Malvern had not only embezzled money from the company, but also had two wives. His English wife Mary, and a seventeen-year-old daughter Maeve, were living in Nice. A second wife, Colette, a twenty-six-year-old Frenchwoman, was living in Beaulieu-sur-Mer, outside Monte Carlo, with a six-year-old son, Pierre.

Percy Malvern himself was nowhere to be found. He had disappeared into thin air.

In the letter he had written, Philippe de Lavalière had suggested that Percy might well have fled abroad, perhaps to somewhere like the French West Indies, where a man could hide for ever. There was little chance of ever finding him.

James nodded. ‘He must be very devious. It takes a special kind of skill to keep two families going. But then money helps, I suppose. Do you think we can recoup any of it, Mr Malvern?’

‘I’ve no idea, Falconer. It doesn’t sound hopeful. In the meantime, I shall have to plan on putting some of my own funds into the Wine Division in Le Havre. That’s the only thing I can think of.’ The older man frowned. ‘It will be a long haul to get back into profit. I’ll have to increase revenue from other parts of the company.’

James paused, and gave Malvern a quizzical look before saying, ‘It might seem strange to suggest spending money at this point, but have you given any more thought to my suggestion that we build an arcade in Hull, sir?’

‘The City of Gaiety, you say it’s called.’ Henry nodded. ‘I have given it some thought. If you can find the right spot, one which you know people will easily frequent, then I might be persuaded. Fortunately, retail is in good financial shape in general, and I’m not against expansion. We’ll need something to make up for this disaster.’ He gestured at the documents from France.

This response made James happy, and a cautious smile broke through. ‘My cousin William Venables has several sites he wants us to look at, whenever you can spare the time to go to Hull, Mr Malvern. And when you’re ready to give it your attention. Also, I’ve done a bit of research and come up with the plans you had made for the Harrogate arcade. They would work very well for the Hull project.’

‘Very enterprising of you, Falconer,’ Henry answered, with a small rush of pleasure. He had always known that this young man was clever; he had also proved to be a hard worker and extremely disciplined. Occasionally he was also fierce, a young lion marking out his territory. And now he had offered a way out of this hole. Henry Malvern thought for a moment then cleared his throat and said, ‘We should go to Hull as soon as possible. Maybe we can make a start on this before the cold weather sets in. What do you think of that?’

James beamed at his boss. ‘I’ll start making the arrangements immediately, sir.’

Esther Marie Falconer was the kind of woman whom everyone liked, and many truly loved. To her family she was Mother Earth, compassionate, understanding, full of wisdom and kindness. To her employers, the Montagues, she was the best head housekeeper in London, calm, organized and discreet. And as her staff and her children knew, she could also be tough, relentless, and implacable, but by nature loving in her heart. And she loved her family to the very depths of her soul. They were her whole life.

Now, she sat in her small but comfortable housekeeper’s parlour, which served as an office in the Montague mansion near Regent’s Park. Five days ago her husband, Philip Falconer, the house’s butler, had fallen down the stone steps leading to the cellar and broken his ankle. He had only just been discharged from hospital and she had some thinking to do.

She cringed yet again when she thought about the accident and how lucky he’d been. If he had fallen and hit his head, he might not be alive today. She closed her eyes, leaned back in the chair and thanked God for protecting him. Her devoted husband, her stay and her stand, had never had an accident of any kind before in his life. And she prayed that the first would be the last.

Opening her eyes, Esther glanced at the calendar once more, adding up the weeks the Montague family would be travelling through Europe. It was as she thought. They would not return until late October. Lucky again. Philip would be recovered by that time.

It struck her suddenly that she and Philip had always been lucky. In a certain sense they had led charmed lives.

Her thoughts fell backwards in time … to when she was twelve years old, growing up in Melton, a small village just outside Hull, one of the great seaports in England.

Even at twelve she had been clever and ambitious, and also quite pretty. She knew perfectly well that those were the reasons she had been taken into service at Melton Priory, home of Lord Percival Denby, the Sixth Earl of Melton.

Through her mother’s connection to Lady Minerva Denby, Lord Percival’s sister, Esther was trained to be a lady’s maid in order to look after Lady Agatha, the sixteen-year-old daughter of the earl.

Esther had been with her mistress ever since, travelling with her when she was a young girl and staying with her once she married – for fifty years, to be precise.

How time flies, Esther thought, with a small shock, remembering she was now sixty-two years old. Philip was four years older, almost sixty-six. Not that he looked it, and neither did she. But then they had been protected and well fed living with the Montagues, who appreciated their loyalty, honesty and devotion, and all the hard work they put in. As long as his ankle healed well, they would continue to serve. She rubbed her left hand absent-mindedly, where a niggling arthritis made it ache.

Over the years, Esther had risen in the ranks to become the head housekeeper at Lady Agatha’s two homes – the John Nash-designed Regency house in London and the old country estate in Kent, Fountains Court.

Esther and Philip had met at the London house when Lady Agatha married the Honourable Arthur Blane Montague, who owned both of their homes. Philip, a Kentish man, had also gone into service when he was young, just sixteen. Having started out as a junior footman at Fountain Court, he was now head butler and devoted to the Honourable Mister, as he referred to Mr Montague.

Like his wife, Philip had remained with his original employer and was highly valued.

Just imagine, Esther thought, glancing around her parlour, I was married from this house and I am still here. She smiled as she looked at the small photograph of her husband with their sons and grandchildren and remembered the boy she had fallen in love with all those years ago.

We met, looked at each other and just clicked. Lucky. Indeed, I was. And so was he, she thought.

Pushing back her chair, Esther got up and went out into the corridor, walked down to the kitchen, pushed open the door. ‘I’m going upstairs now, Cook, since we’ve settled everything about supper tonight.’

‘It’s all in hand, Mrs Falconer,’ Cook answered, and gave her a huge smile. ‘I’m looking forward to cooking a few of your family’s favourite dishes.’

Esther smiled back and retreated. She climbed the back staircase and crossed the hall, discovered Philip and their grandson sitting together in the conservatory, which opened onto the garden at the back of the house.

‘There you are!’ she exclaimed, hurrying across the room. ‘Nattering away like two old codgers.’

‘I am an old codger,’ Philip said with an amused laugh.

‘That’s not so!’ his wife answered, and went and sat next to James on the sofa.

‘I’m so happy we can have our Saturday supper here downstairs in the servants’ dining room, instead of at your house. Easier for your grandfather.’

James nodded, glanced at Philip. ‘It was nice of the Honourable Mister to let us all come here, wasn’t it?’

‘Indeed it was, James,’ Philip replied, and looked down at his left leg encased in plaster of Paris, stretched out and resting on an ottoman. ‘He sent a telegram from Monte Carlo immediately after he received mine. He insisted that you all join us here for our traditional supper. Even told me to choose one of his wines.’

‘Wonderful things, these telegrams,’ Esther observed. ‘I can’t imagine how we ever managed without them. The Honourable Mister also insisted your grandfather rest in here as well, to benefit from some light and warmth. Anyway, James, I’m relieved to see you looking well. Your father told me you are working long hours.’ She gave him a hard stare.

‘Yes, I am, Grans, but I’m in fine fettle at the moment. And Mr Malvern is such a nice man to work for. We’ve been doing some reorganization of the whole company, and he’s appreciated my help. He says he couldn’t have done it without me.’

‘James, whatever happened to Mr Malvern’s daughter? Is she not working alongside her father and you?’ Philip asked.

James shook his head. ‘No, I’m afraid not.’ He looked from his grandfather to his grandmother, and continued in a solemn voice, ‘It’s rather a sad story, really. Miss Alexis doesn’t seem to have recovered from the death of her fiancé. Just a week before they were to be married. She lives in Kent and hardly ever comes to Malvern House.’

Esther frowned, said in a low voice, ‘I seem to remember you talking about her. She was a first-class businesswoman, one of only a few in London.’ Esther paused and shook her head. ‘Isn’t she his only child? Mr Malvern’s heir?’ she asked, puzzlement echoing in her voice.

‘That’s correct, Grans. But she doesn’t seem to be interested in the business. Or anyone. Not even her father. It’s a shame. So sad to see the pain he’s in. He’s heartbroken, in my opinion.’

Esther leaned back, shaking her head again, looking nonplussed.

It was Philip who now spoke up. He glanced at James, a brow lifting quizzically. ‘Is she physically ill in some way?’

‘Not that I know of,’ James answered, his forehead puckering. ‘What are you getting at, Grandfather?’

‘It sounds to me as if Miss Malvern is mentally disturbed. How long has she been acting this way?’

‘It’s over a year since Sebastian Trevalian died.’

There were a few moments of silence. Glances were exchanged. It was Esther who spoke first. ‘It seems to me that she can’t let him go, that she’s hanging onto his memory. Very sad. I’m sure the sudden loss of the man she was about to marry was a shock. It would leave a terrible sorrow. However, to avoid society for so long appears abnormal, in my opinion. The way she is behaving is odd, to say the least.’

‘She went to see a famous doctor in Vienna,’ James volunteered. ‘His name is Doctor Sigmund Freud. Seemingly he examines the mind, not the body.’

Philip suddenly was sitting up straighter and nodding his head vehemently. ‘I’ve read about him! In one of Lady Agatha’s science magazines. He is called a mind doctor. The patient talks to him, and he does an analysis of the things the patient says. I’m not quite sure how he cures the patient, though. But he is becoming famous.’

‘She was treated by him for six months,’ James confided. ‘That is why Mr Malvern offered me a job as his … assistant, I suppose you’d call me. Miss Malvern had gone to Vienna.’

‘I remember it now,’ Esther exclaimed. ‘Your father told me the story.’ Esther looked off into the distance, as if she could see something far away. After a moment or two, she said, ‘So what is going to happen, James? Is she ever coming back?’

‘I’ve no idea. To be honest, I don’t think Mr Malvern knows either.’

‘But what is he going to do without an heir?’ Philip asked.