Stranger at the Manor by Mary Kingswood
9: Good News, Bad News And A Dilemma
Water Street proved to be a surprisingly salubrious quarter of Market Clunbury, lined on both sides with discreet villas suitable for the aspiring merchant, moderately affluent attorney or retired naval officer. There were no tanneries, warehouses, printing presses or breweries, no businesses of any kind, still less any likely to produce profits of several thousand pounds a year.
Peter knocked at the door of number seventeen, distinguished from its neighbours only by an ugly pair of carved lion’s heads set into the wall on either side of the door. A butler with a discouraging expression answered the door.
“Is Mr Erasmus Kent at home?”
“No, sir.”
“Ah. I should have informed him of my intention to call, of course. When do you expect him to return?”
“Couldn’t say, sir.”
That was puzzling, but perhaps he was merely a junior manager of whatever business went on in the house, and lived elsewhere. “Well, is there someone else I might speak to?” Peter said.
“Card.”
“Oh, of course.” Peter could see he was not going to get inside without one, so he fished one from his waistcoat pocket. “Pray tell your master that I am here as agent for the owner of this property, Squire Winslade. I am his cousin.”
The butler grunted, opened the door a little wider to allow Peter to enter the hall and then vanished up the stairs. There was a stale smell about the hall, the stuffiness of a house the morning after a party, with a slight aroma of wine and too many sweating bodies, but everything was tidy and well dusted. The butler returned a few minutes later, and Peter followed him upstairs, to be shown into a deplorably untidy office. The man who greeted him was quite young, wearing a slightly outdated style of clothing and a full-bottomed wig, both of good quality.
“Come in, sir,” he said, with a pleasant smile. “My name is Smith. May I offer you a glass of something? Madeira? Port? Brandy?”
Peter accepted the port, which turned out to be surprisingly good. He was accustomed to weighing up men of business at a glance, and the decision whether to offer a loan or not was often made in those first few seconds, but Mr Smith was more difficult to appraise. The clothes, and especially the wig, suggested an old-fashioned man of solid worth who would be straightforward to deal with, not rich but careful with his money. The house was furnished in rather an elegant style that suggested a degree of social ambition. The untidiness of the room, however, was another matter. An untidy desk indicated an untidy mind, and not only was the desk heaped with papers and account books, there was dust on them and even a cobweb. That was worrying.
“Now, sir,” Smith said, waving Peter to a chair and pulling up another, “what is the director of the Franklin House Bank of Leeds doing in this neck of the woods?”
“The card is a trifle out of date,” Peter said equably. “The Franklin House Bank is no more, but I have not yet got round to having new cards printed. I am staying with my cousin, Squire Winslade, just until I re-establish myself, and he gave me authority to look into his financial affairs.”
“What happened to your bank, Mr Winslade?”
“We had a run on funds after a loan went bad, and were obliged to close our doors.”
“Ah. A pity, but it could happen to anyone.”
Peter smiled. “Only to those who are foolish enough to take on a risky large loan without security.”
“Even so. I have some sympathy for those whose businesses fail. Banks are such a necessary part of commerce these days, and yet it is an uncertain business. But you did not come here to discuss your bank. You wish to know about this house, which your cousin now owns.”
“I do, yes. It would interest me to know what sort of business you run in this house that brings in such a vast profit, for my cousin’s share of it is in excess of three thousand pounds a year. That is a prodigious sum, Mr Smith, far more than the rent of the property would justify. I must assume, therefore, that Lord Saxby invested funds into your enterprise, and now that my cousin owns Lord Saxby’s share of it, I should like to know what that enterprise is.”
He smiled genially, well aware that he had the sort of benign face that engendered trust in everyone he met. That and an astute eye for numbers had made him successful twice over, and he hoped would do so again. For this visit, he hoped it made him seem nonthreatening.
“This is a gentlemen’s club, Mr Winslade,” Smith said, his face bland. “Our one hundred and fifty members pay a subscription of twenty guineas a year to enjoy the facilities.”
“Which makes a turnover of slightly in excess of three thousand pounds a year, less expenses,” Peter said evenly. “Which must be considerable.”
“There are extras available,” Smith said. “Five shillings for a plain dinner, or ten and six for fancy. Two shillings for a pack of cards if the gentlemen should wish for a game. A pound for a private room, with wine provided.”
Peter executed some rapid numbering in his head. “No, I am still not seeing the sort of profits you claim, for my cousin’s share cannot be the whole of it. In my experience, and I have dealt with clubs of this nature before, such numbers are difficult to achieve without some degree of illicit activity. Gaming for high stakes, for instance, operating a brothel or molly house, evading duties on imported wines, and so forth. You would be surprised, perhaps, at the seemingly legal businesses that conceal a multitude of nefarious dealings. However, let me make myself clear, Mr Smith. I am not interested in precisely what you are, or are not, doing in these premises. As a banker, my only concern was to preserve the reputation of the bank, and, now that I have no bank to preserve, it is my cousin’s reputation that I defend. I should not like to see the good name of the squire, who is a magistrate, after all, besmirched by an ill-advised connection.”
Smith’s benign expression did not shift to the smallest degree. He looked interested, but not worried, nor did he attempt to interrupt. When Peter had finished, he said mildly, “Should you care to look around the premises?”
“Thank you, but you will show me only what you wish me to see. I had far sooner look at the books. I can tell a great deal about a business from the books.”
“I am sure you can, Mr Winslade,” Smith said, chuckling a little. “As you can see, my accounts are… somewhat in disarray.” He waved a languid hand with an old-fashioned frill of lace towards the cobwebby heaps of papers on the desk.
Peter chuckled, too, for he began to understand Smith’s game. “A very good joke, Mr Smith, but no. A man who can pay my cousin precisely seven hundred and eighty-four pounds and six shillings as his share of the profits has a perfectly good grasp of the state of his business. You have the real books somewhere else, I am sure.”
For the first time, Smith’s expression slipped. “Hmm. Very well. One moment, if you please.”
He disappeared into a back room and reappeared with a ledger which he opened and handed to Peter. It was neatly laid out with income and outgoings, the various columns and pages initialled. Peter examined it carefully, then closed it and passed it back to Smith with a smile. “Thank you, sir. That is most illuminating. I must assume that the dubious activities are kept off the books and will advise my cousin accordingly. What he will choose to do is entirely up to him, naturally, but as a magistrate—”
“Squire Winslade is a part owner of this business,” Smith said, now thoroughly alarmed. “Any… misunderstandings of the law, shall we say, will reflect on him, also.”
“Not so,” Peter said, now thoroughly enjoying himself. “My cousin was bequeathed his share of the business earlier this year, and has not previously had the opportunity to investigate his inheritance. Now that he has asked me to do so, he will be made aware of any irregularities I find and—”
“Mr Winslade, your cousin is very well aware of everything that occurs within this building, since he has been an enthusiastic participant.”
“In which particular activities?”
“The gaming.”
“And?”
A long silence. Then, almost inaudibly, “The brothel.”
“There now, that was not so difficult, was it?” Peter said genially. “No doubt you also have the Mayor and several aldermen amongst your members? A lord or two? Magistrates, like my cousin? No doubt if ever the constables were to be called in, a quick word in the right ear would— Oh, even the constables? You are very thorough, Mr Smith.”
“I like to think we have insurance for every eventuality,” Smith said warily. “I manage a number of such… gentlemen’s clubs in the county and one or two beyond, and I do try to… um, forestall any unpleasantness.”
Peter nodded. “I will discuss this with my cousin, but the final decision will be his. Good day to you, Mr Smith.”
He smiled and shook Smith’s hand as he left, but he was in thoughtful mood as he walked back to the Lamb and Pheasant, where he had left the carriage. Every instinct rebelled at the idea of the squire supporting such a dubious enterprise, but could he persuade his cousin to give up the vast income it engendered? He was a little cheered, however, when he bought a copy of the Clarion, for it featured a prominent account of the finding of the Bartwell paintings, now described as a great art collection. Perhaps the sale of the paintings would compensate for the loss of the Water Street income. And perhaps Peter himself would be rich again, or at least a little less poor. He returned to Cloverstone Manor in the best of humours.
~~~~~
The following day brought the delight of Miss Beasley’s company again. She brought Miss Charu Gage with her to help out, having missed two days of work, and Peter could not decide whether Miss Charu’s constant chatter outweighed the value of an extra pair of hands. She was a charming young lady, and very willing to do whatever was required, but she seldom stopped talking for long, leaving Peter yearning for the peaceful days when he and Miss Beasley worked quietly together. Fortunately, Miss Charu was also restless, so several times an hour she rushed off to fetch something, or to make an enquiry of the butler or footman or housekeeper, and for perhaps ten minutes there would be blessed peace in the book room.
During one such hiatus, Miss Beasley looked up from her pile of papers and said in her soft voice, “That letter is troublesome, I fear, for you have been staring at it for some time now.”
Peter smiled. “You are very observant, Miss Beasley. I have received three significant letters today, one of good news, one of bad news and one which poses a dilemma.”
Miss Charu returned at that moment, and as if by agreement, the conversation was suspended. When she left again, he picked up the three letters.
“Which would you like to see first — the good news, the bad news or the dilemma?”
“Oh, the bad news. I always prefer to get the bad news out of the way first, so that I know just how bad it is. There is nothing worse than the anticipation.”
“True enough.” He slid one letter across the desk.
“Oh! The paintings cannot be sold at all — goodness! This Mr Crossley is an attorney, I see.”
“Yes, he is the Winslade family attorney. He is quite right. I have little expertise with legal language, which in my view is unnecessarily convoluted and designed to befuddle the average mind, but having examined the title deed to the house, I find it is quite explicit on the point. The Bartwell paintings are an indivisible part of the estate and cannot be sold separately.”
“What a pity! Squire Winslade will hardly sell the entire estate, and so cannot benefit from the discovery of the paintings,” she said.
Peter nodded. He did not need to spell out the implications of that, namely that his own share of the proceeds, and hers too, would not now be realised. That little flame of hope inside him that perhaps one day he might persuade her into marriage was now quite extinguished, for he could not afford it. His heart was too full to say a word, silently handing her the next letter.
“Your house is sold? Is this the dilemma? Oh no, I see it now, a good price has been realised and there will be a little cash left after all the debts have been discharged. This is the good news, then.”
“It is,” he said, finding the subject a little easier for his breathing. “I left my attorney with all my books, Mama’s best china and silver, a few paintings, even some of my better clothes… but they will not need to be sold now.”
“He wishes you to go there to collect them from him. Shall you go?”
“Perhaps. Read of my dilemma first. It is regarding a certificate of holding I found, one of many about which I have been engaged in making enquiries. Most have been defunct for years, but this one, a coal mine, seems to be still in existence. Read it aloud, for I hardly know what to make of it myself.”
She picked up the third letter.
‘September 1st~ Leggatt House, Lofthouse, West Riding~ Please be advised that the Leggatt Mining Company is in the sole control of the Lady Wilhelmina Leggatt of this address. Her ladyship will entertain enquiries regarding the business only from members of the female sex, and only in person. Miss Francesca Pilling, Secretary to her ladyship.’
“How very peculiar!” Miss Beasley said. “Is there no man of business? No attorney or manager?”
“Seemingly not.”
“So the dilemma is how to find a female attorney, I suppose. Is there such a thing?”
“Unlikely, I should think,” he said, considering the possibility. “I have certainly never encountered such a person. One would not need an attorney-at-law, however. A sensible female of a practical and efficient nature should suffice, in the first instance. It is a matter of business, not law, and any woman used to managing a household would be more than capable of dealing with the Lady Wilhelmina.”
“Yes, of course,” Miss Beasley said. “Shall you be able to find such a person?”
He laughed. “Well, of course! I am looking at one at this very moment.”
“Well, really, Mr Winslade!” She went slightly pink. “We are not speaking of just any person. You will need someone located in the West Riding.”
“And why should that not be you?” he said, amused. “You are not rooted into the soil of Shropshire, Miss Beasley, but may be transported to the West Riding just as easily as anyone else. I have to go to sort out my affairs in Leeds, and why should you not come with me?”
“Oh, no! No, indeed, it is not to be thought of. How could I possibly—? No, I could not.”
“Why not? It is the perfect excuse, for then, you see, we might continue the few additional miles to Harrogate to find out once and for all what became of that boy of yours.”
Her hands flew to cover her mouth, and she shook her head violently, but her eyes were wide with… he could not say. Shock, perhaps, but also longing. Or was that just his imagination?
Miss Charu came back into the room at that moment, followed by Susannah and a footman with tea, so as they sipped tea and nibbled slices of pound cake, Peter explained his dilemma again.
“Of course you must go, Miss Beasley,” Susannah said at once. “What a wonderful idea! It will do you good to travel a little. Have you ever been away from home before?”
Peter could see at once that this was too difficult for her to answer, so he jumped in himself. “Miss Beasley once stayed at Harrogate when her aunt was taking the waters. Harrogate is not far from Leeds, so we could include it in the itinerary very easily.”
“I could not,” Miss Beasley whispered, her face ashen. “I cannot possibly leave Roland.”
“Nonsense,” Susannah said. “So long as his meals are placed before him at the regular time, he will hardly notice you have gone. Gentlemen never do.”
“But Viola—”
“Miss Gage will do very well without you. Really, Miss Beasley, it will do Miss Gage a great deal of good not to have you at her beck and call. You do so much for the parish and never think of yourself. It is quite time you had a little holiday and enjoyed yourself for a change.”
“No, no,” Miss Beasley said faintly. “Most improper… a single lady and a single gentleman, travelling together.”
“Not if you take a maid,” Susannah said.
“There is no one who can be spared,” Miss Beasley said.
“I should love to be your maid,” Miss Charu said at once. “There is nothing I should enjoy more.”
“There you are,” Susannah said briskly. “Problem solved. You may take the travelling coach, Cousin, for I shall not need it, and Taylor will enjoy driving you. He is the youngest of our coachmen and rarely has the opportunity for a long journey. I shall look out some more of Lilian’s gowns for you.”
“No, indeed, you must not, and it would still be improper for me to travel with Mr Winslade. Most improper.” There was a note of finality in her voice, and Susannah and Charu looked on the point of defeat, but Peter was not about to give up so easily.
“Tell me truly, Miss Beasley,” he said gently, “is it the idea of the travelling itself which you so dislike? If I were not of the party, would the prospect be more appealing?”
“It is not you personally, Mr Winslade,” she said at once. “But a single gentleman… in a carriage… staying overnight at inns… I could not.”
“No, I can quite see that,” he said thoughtfully. “Not a single gentleman… but a footman, perhaps? That would be acceptable, surely?”
“Oh yes, but I cannot take Thomas. Roland will need him.”
Peter laughed. “But you could take… a different footman? Miss Beasley of Great Maeswood, travelling with her coachman, her lady’s maid, and her footman.” He tapped his chest, beaming at her. “Most unexceptionable.”
The hands flew to her face again. “Mr Winslade! That is a quite shocking suggestion!”
“Come, Miss Beasley, where is your sense of adventure? I shall make rather a convincing footman, I think, and since a respectable footman is several rungs above a failed banker on the social ladder, I shall be improving my station quite outrageously. I shall travel on the box with Taylor, and sleep in the attics or stables, and enjoy myself enormously. And no one will be any the wiser.”
Charu clapped her hands together with glee. “Lovely!”
“So that is settled,” Susannah said, with a chuckle.
And Peter was rewarded for his impudence by a timid smile from Miss Beasley.