The Power of the Dead (10 page)

“Thank you, sir, may I come one day with Lucy, and bring my rod?”

They travelled many miles in the next two days. The farthest
point was to East Hampshire, where lived an uncle who was a retired sailor. They stayed the night. At dinner Admiral Copleston asked where they were bound; Ernest hardly spoke, and then only in monosyllables.

“Oh, we’re touring round, sir,” said Phillip, and thereafter found he could not broach the subject. After dinner, when the Admiral was talking to Phillip before a small fire in his smoking room, he turned to Phillip and said, “Damme, are all Adrian’s boys like Ernest? He don’t say a dam’ word. How long have you been touring? What’re you doin’, gettin’ local colour, what?”

“In a way, yes, we are, sir. You see, I’m writin’ a book about Nature in Devon, among other things.”

“By God, you seem to be goin’ in the opposite direction to get it,” replied the Admiral, pouring him a whisky and soda.

The next morning they went north to call on Aunt Kimmy, who said that the idea of buying
£
100 worth of machinery was quite out of the question, for she had nowhere to put it. She gave them some lemonade, and they returned to Dorset, where Phillip found a cheque for
£
18.18
s.
from his agent for a short story sold to a magazine.

This kept away the bailiffs for three more days.

Then, as a last resort, he telegraphed to Uncle Hilary in
Bournemouth
, where he lived with his sister Victoria. Hilary drove over in the afternoon. Phillip asked him straight out if he would lend him
£
100 on a bill of sale of the Gopleston machinery. Hilary said he would see his solicitor in Colham and let him know when they would arrive at the Works, later that day.

He was as good as his word, and the two arrived at Down Close, by appointment, at 4 p.m.

The lawyer began by asking if there was a balance sheet he might see? Phillip showed him the list of debts and assets, with a rough copy of the value of machinery and stock. Afterwards the solicitor and Hilary looked around by themselves; finally Phillip was asked to go to the solicitor’s office in Colham the next morning, Hilary said good-bye, and returned home.

The next morning Phillip was told by the solicitor that he had not been able to advise his uncle to invest any money in the
Copleston
business.

“They reminded me of the Babes in the Wood,” he said. “Of course such inexperienced young men should not have been allowed to undertake such a venture. Whatever were their trustees thinking
of?” He remarked that the eldest boy possibly had the makings of an engineering genius. “His design and lathe work is first-class. Is he always so remote from life?”

“Yes, they’re all rather like that, even Tim, the youngest. They live in a private world. I find it almost impossible to communicate with them, especially with Ernest.”

“That eldest boy is wasted where he is. He should be in the draughtsman’s office of an engineering firm. Now may I ask you a question: are you committed in any way—financially, I mean?”

“Only a few pounds to stave off the bailiffs.”

“Helping relations is a thankless task, usually.”

“I don’t want any thanks.”

“It might be as well,” the lawyer replied. “Now tell me, how do you like living at Rookhurst?”

“I quite like it. By the way, may I ask you a question—but don’t reply, if you’d rather not. Is my Uncle fed-up with me?”

“Oh, I don’t think so. If anything, he regards it as a useful lesson for one about to enter the business world of farming.”

When he got back to Down Close, Phillip found Pa in his chair doing a cross-word puzzle with the aid of the new
Encyclopædia
Britannica,
which had the little trade-mark name and address of
Robert
Roper,
Shakesbury.
How had it got there? He hadn’t paid for it.

“May I have a word with you, sir?”

Pa looked up from reading about Red Indians and said “Shoot!” His eyes were kindly and friendly, so Phillip found it easier to say, “The Boys are in a financial mess, and I don’t see how a
knock-down
sale can be prevented.”

“Oh well, if it happens, it happens, I suppose. No use worrying oneself over what can’t be helped.”

“A hundred pounds would stave it off, sir. Forgive my asking you, but could you possibly lend us that sum for a day or two, security being the machinery, which is paid for?”

“I? Good lord, I’ve no money. It’s all gone long ago, I’m afraid. I’m still paying off sixty pun’ a year on a debt to ‘Mister’s’ Deed of Settlement, for a hundred and fifty I borrowed from him twenty years ago, before he went bankrupt—let me see—eleven years ago this past July.”

“How very strange, for Mister has borrowed that sum, exactly, from the Boys during the last year. Actually it is ten pounds from me, and a hundred and forty from them.”

“That makes us quits then.”

“Well, I got him to sign a promissory note, but interest isn’t mentioned.”

“Ah.”

Mr. Copleston blew the stub of an Empire cigarette from his holder expertly into the fireplace, and carefully fitted another into the tube. “Cigarette? So they’re in a mess, are they? I thought something like that was happening. Well, it’s their look-out, not mine.”

“You must think me an interfering busybody, sir, but I must try every means I can to stop a knock-down sale. You say you have been paying sixty pounds a year for twenty years, on a debt of one hundred and fifty. Isn’t that a long time to pay? Would you mind if I looked into it? The Boys, you know, were misled by one lawyer; and it might be a parallel case with this payment you are making.”

“I don’t mind you looking into it, not at all. So far as memory serves me, I’ve been paying sixty pounds a year for the last three years, and thirty for eight years before that. It seemed a lot, but these lawyer fellows have their own arrangements. Come with me, and I’ll give you the box.”

Mr. Copleston took him to his room, opened the desk, took out a small japanned box, produced a handful of receipts, and left Phillip alone with them.

‘Mister’ had apparently gone bankrupt in 1915, when he made a deed of settlement with his creditors. On Adrian Copleston, Esquire’s debt of
£
150, a 5 per cent simple interest had been charged for the twenty years. This interest came to
£
75 before ‘Mister’ went bankrupt. Add another
£
75 for the remaining ten years, and
£
300 was the outside total owed. Actually it was less, since the capital sum diminished with every payment. But call it
£
300.

Now for what Pa had paid back. The receipts for the last two annual payments of
£
60 were missing. Why?

“Ah yes,” said Mr. Copleston. “The beggars never sent receipts for the last two cheques I posted to them. I owe another payment now, I fancy.”

Phillip did a sum.

“But, sir, you have already paid a hundred and twenty pounds too much, making four twenty in all. Of course the lawyers haven’t sent a receipt for the last two payments, but have they sent back the money?”

“Not to my knowledge they haven’t.”

“Then they’re crooks!”

“Oh, I wouldn’t go so far as to say that.”

“Well, sir, on your behalf, as honorary investigator, I can assure you you have paid back your debt, both capital sum and interest, and
£
120 over, which has not been acknowledged by the lawyers, nor have the last two payments been returned.”

“H’m, now I come to think of it I did wonder why they hadn’t sent any receipts. Well, that lets me off paying any more, you say?”

“Sure thing. May I look into the matter for you? The cheques you sent will be with your bank, and endorsed by the payee, of course. It will be simple to trace them. May I write to Slaughter & Co., the Solicitors?”

“H’m—I don’t think so—thank ’ee all the same. I’m disposed to let bygones be bygones. After all, these lawyer fellows know their business best. Well, I must go and water my hot-house plants. What they need most is some good sheep’s dung soaked in a tub …”

“I can bring over a couple of pailfuls from the farm, if you like, sir.”

“Hey? Oh no, thank ’ee all the same.”

And muttering something to himself which might have been too many cooks the old gentleman shuffled away in his slippers.

*

It had been a fine dry St. Martin’s Little Summer, but now clouds were gathering; good-bye to summer. The swallows had been flying wildly for days around the reeds of the mere known as the Longpond, Lucy told him on his return: such a wonderful sight, thousands of them all flying together, she said. He ought to see it.

“Billy and I have been there every afternoon.”

“I’m afraid a farmer, as Ned said once during harvest, hasn’t time to look at the view.”

“Dad come too, Mummy?” asked Billy.

“All right, I’ll come with you tomorrow.”

But next day the Longpond was deserted, the swallows had flown south in the night.

*

Phillip went to a garage and asked what they would give for the Norton and sidecar. The proprietor said there was little
demand for such an outfit, which was underpowered with its 3½ h.p. engine. He was offered
£
25, and left the shop feeling it was the end.

When he entered the Works office he saw Ernest and Fiennes there. He told them he could not do anything further; the bailiffs must come in.

“Be damned to that for a tale,” replied Fiennes. “What’s more to the point, are you and Lucy coming to Pa’s birthday dinner tomorrow? At the Royal Hotel in Shakesbury. We’re going to the flicks afterwards. Didn’t Lucy tell you? Tim telephoned this morning.”

Phillip returned home. Lucy met him with a happy face. The baby was kicking inside her. She was content with thoughts of Billy having someone to play with. The baby was due in March, and would have the spring and summer on the new lawn, which she intended to keep cut after Phillip had brought down the heavy roller to level it. She had made plans for the garden, too, including a rockery just like Pa’s.

“Oh, Tim rang up after you’d gone. It’s Pa’s seventy-fourth birthday tomorrow, and the Boys want to give him a dinner in Shakesbury, then to see the film at the Gaiety Theatre afterwards. What do you think?”

“I don’t think I’d be very good company—you know, the skeleton at the feast. Besides, I really must do some work.”

“Well, no need to decide now. Wait and see how you feel tomorrow. By the way, Mrs. à Court Smith rang up to say that she would look after Billy, and we can stay the night at Ruddle Stones if we like.”

*

He felt like giving up, but after a walk on the downs returned with determination not to allow his lesser feelings to influence him. After all, the Boys and Lucy and Pa were different in kind, and could not be otherwise. He must try to get a regular routine in his life: a time-table: so much farming business: then a regular daily period in his study.

The next morning when he saw the Clerk to the Court he was told that all due payments had been discharged. The Clerk did not know more than that a cheque had been given and the bank had telephoned to say that it would be honoured.

“It must be ‘Mister’s’ promissory note, Lucy. I suppose they’ve raised a loan on it.”

When they arrived at Ruddle Stones with Billy, ‘Mister’ took him aside to say, “I suppose you know where the cash came from, with which to settle the Court’s demands?”

“Well, I imagined it was from your promissory note.”

“No, that won’t be payable until after my death, old chap. Even if the Boys wanted to, I doubt very much if they’d be able to raise any cash on that. They’ll have to wait until I’m dead, I’m afraid. Even if I’d wanted to, I couldn’t have got the cash for them. No, the promissory note didn’t make a ha’p’oth of difference.”

“Then where did the money come from?”

“Oh, Ernest’s other godmother died and left him a legacy of about three thousand. By the way, while I remember it, I’d very much like to see this film in Shakesbury,
The
Somme,
you’re going to. I hear it’s the real thing. I can’t risk the journey home on the Onion after dark. I suppose you couldn’t give me a lift in your sidecar? Lucy will be going in the Trudge, I suppose?”

“I’ll call for you on the way to Shakesbury after the dinner, ‘Mister’.”

Lucy, having seen Billy settled with Mrs. Smith, was waiting to continue the journey to her old home. When they were round the corner he asked when Ernest’s godmother had died.

“Oh, I think it was about six months ago.”

“Didn’t you know that she had left a legacy to Ernest?”

“Oh, vaguely, you know. I really don’t know much about the Boys’ affairs.”

He stopped the engine. “Lucy, don’t you
know
what’s been happening these past few weeks?”

“Oh, I suppose so. But you
did
insist on taking charge of the Works, didn’t you?” There was a slight note of weariness in the voice.

The journey was continued in silence, while he drove slowly, as though reluctant to arrive.

*

Phillip found Ernest alone in the sitting-room. He waited. After a while Ernest muttered something, got up from Pa’s chair, and with a comic booklet entitled
Cohen
on
the
Telephone,
moved slowly through the open french windows, while from his lips came a sudden flute-like warble.

After a few blank moments Phillip followed him into the garden.

“I’m afraid I find that I have some urgent work to do, so will you make my apologies for absence to Pa at the dinner tonight, Ernest?”

“Very well.”

Feeling that he was destroying the last illusion of what had never really existed, Phillip walked up the lane and waited around the corner until the mutter of the Trojan’s exhaust faded in the distance, then he returned to the Works.

A low sun shone across the railway cutting, lighting lathes,
gas-engine
, milling machine, tools scattered on benches, coke-stove with dribbles of rust running down the pipe from the roof. So Ernest had known about his legacy all the time; and had kept mum about it. Why hadn’t Lucy mentioned it? Was it a case of no imagination, a failure to connect—or what? Was it his attitude towards them? Didn’t they
care
—as Fiennes had said? Was he, not only in their eyes, but in truth, an interfering bore?