The Penningtons (20 page)

As he stepped into the office, Steven glanced at the clock on the wall and reminded himself that as soon as he could afford it, he would buy himself a watch and chain for his waistcoat. Earlier he had planned for a heavy gold ring but since then he had raised his sights. Both Mr Marsh and Mr Desmond had watches – both gold and both frequently produced and glanced at in order to impress or hurry their clients. Steven felt at a distinct disadvantage without one.

Miss Field glanced up from her typing and said, ‘Mr Desmond won’t be in today. He has an infection caused by that tooth he had extracted. His wife says he is very poorly.’ Miss Field was in her thirties and still unmarried. Steven considered her only mildly attractive but she had been hired for her typing and shorthand speeds and was excellent in those areas.

He said, ‘Mr Marsh isn’t here yet. What’s his excuse.’

She shrugged then grinned. ‘The morning after the night before!’ she suggested.

They both laughed because Mr Marsh was a sidesman in his local church and allegedly strictly teetotal, but she had once seen a bottle of sherry in his desk drawer and had shared the discovery with Steven. Mr Marsh had once insisted the alcohol was for his favoured clients and not for himself. ‘A small courtesy expected by some of my more important clients,’ he had explained.

The telephone rang and was answered. When Miss Field hung up the receiver she said, ‘Well! Mr Marsh isn’t coming in either so it’s just you and me!’

‘What’s
his
excuse?’

‘He’s got gout!’

‘Gout! That’s priceless!’

She gave him a reproving look. ‘Gout is not at all funny. It’s very painful. Agonizing. My uncle gets it and when he does, he can hardly walk!’

‘I hope it’s not catching!’ he said flippantly and glanced round the office. ‘So I’m in charge!’ he remarked. ‘You’ll have to watch your Ps and Qs.’

Her eyes widened. ‘You? Why should you be in charge? I’ve been here much longer than you have.’

‘Maybe, but you’re a secretary and I’m going to be a solicitor in due course.’

‘But I’ve been here much longer than you, Mr Anders, and I’ve picked up lots of information along the way . . . and I know where to find everything. I understand the business.’

‘So when will you be taking your exams, Miss Field?’

‘Never – but when will you be passing yours, Mr Anders?’

‘I certainly expect to!’ Steven was reluctantly impressed by her quick thinking and smiled. ‘The thing is, I don’t think the clients will be impressed if the office has been left in the charge of a secretary. It really has to be me, but if I get stuck I’ll come to you for help. How’s that?’

She nodded. ‘Fair enough.’

Intrigued by the novelty of the situation Steven thought rapidly. This was his chance to impress the two partners with his capabilities. He said, ‘If there are any telephone calls put them through to me at once. I’ll be in Mr Desmond’s office, checking his diary and also Mr Marsh’s. I obviously cannot deal with everything but I’ll let you know which appointments I shall have to rebook and you can notify them.’

Steven hoped he had surprised her by this display of efficiency and he walked out of the reception area with his head high – and his fingers crossed.

He was halfway through checking the day’s appointments, deciding to deal with some of the easier ones and rescheduling others, when the idea came to him. This was an ideal opportunity to delve a little deeper into the Pennington family background – information which he knew would intrigue Daisy when they next met. Learning more background might also enable him to take over the Pennington family matters when one of the partners eventually retired.

Firstly, however, he talked with a man who had been left some Australian shares but was unsure how to claim them and convert them into cash. Steven did not know, either, but he promised he would take down the details, consult with whichever partner returned to the office first and then send written instructions.

After that there was a Mrs Burrows, recently widowed, who had had some repairs done to the roof of her cottage. Two days later it was leaking again and she was withholding the final payment. The builder was threatening to sue her and she needed advice on what to do next. Steven, feeling very professional, offered to write to the builder on her behalf, asking for details in writing of what had actually been done by way of a repair. She agreed with alacrity and he realized he was beginning to enjoy himself.

It was almost twelve when he at last found time to settle down and read through the first of the Pennington files. This dealt with Montague Pennington and appeared to be satisfactory with no surprises. The grandfather had been reluctant, on his death, to split the family money because this would mean diluting the impact of the inheritance. He had passed it on to his elder son, who had duly passed it on to his elder son, Montague, with the strict instructions that on Montague’s death the money and the house would pass to his son (if there was one) or to his brother Albert.

‘Hm. Interesting,’ said Steven, wondering whether Albert had taken kindly to the news. He imagined that he would not have done so. ‘I wouldn’t be in his shoes!’ he muttered.

He then set the files aside and went to lunch which consisted of a ham sandwich and a glass of ale at the ‘Queen and Garter’.

He returned five minutes later than he should have done, to find Miss Field busy at work. With a reproachful look, she informed him that he was late and that a Miss Letts had telephoned and would call back later.

Steven still had half an hour to kill before the next client – a Mr Stubbs. He was a farmer who had rented a tractor for three days from a neighbouring farmer, by the name of Lennard. The plan was for Stubbs to see how he got along with the tractor, before he approached the bank about a loan to purchase one for himself. The tractor owner was now demanding more money because he claimed that Mr Stubbs had kept the tractor for ten days.

After some thought, Steven telephoned Mr Stubbs to hear his side of the story and having heard it, offered to make a telephone call to the tractor’s owner asking him to come into the office instead and give
his
version of events. If necessary, he would then set up a meeting between the two parties at a later date and this Mr Stubbs agreed.

Feeling rather pleased with himself, Steven then returned to the Pennington files and delved deeper but was about to close them when he noticed a file for Cressida Pennington, the wife of Montague. He flipped it open and began to read and his eyes widened in astonishment. Headed ‘Strictly Confidential’ there were several documents concerning a child that had been born to her in Switzerland while she was staying with an aunt – a child who had subsequently been brought back to Britain and put up for private adoption.

Steven sat back in his chair and whistled. Daisy had told him that her employer was childless. Did this mean that the child was illegitimate? Or was there some other reason why Cressida Pennington had wanted to hide the child’s birth from her husband and the family? Did Montague Pennington know about the existence of the child? In which case he must have agreed to the adoption . . .

Intrigued, Steven reread the details – at least those that were readily accessible but there was an envelope sealed with red wax that was to be opened when the child reached eighteen years. He puzzled over the possible contents but felt that he had probably gone as far as he could with that particular mystery. No doubt he would learn more before the end of the year when the envelope was opened. The gender of the child was not mentioned but if it were a boy he would then presumably be in line for the family money and Albert would have waited in vain to inherit.

He jumped when the telephone rang.

‘Mr Lennard is here,’ Miss Field told him.

‘Please send him in.’

Steven closed Cressida Pennington’s file and put it back with the rest of them in the cupboard. He would have some very interesting news to tell Daisy when they next met.

That evening, in the public bar of the ‘Queen and Garter’, nothing out of the ordinary was happening. The gas lights flared and spluttered; two mongrels eyed each other, lusting for a fight; a very old woman smoked a clay pipe and mumbled to herself, and Pete Lunnings sat in a corner with his legs sprawled out in front of him, eyeing the squat man who sat opposite.

‘So what is it?’ Lunnings asked, while his shifty eyes darted to and fro, alert for any sign of a policeman. This bar was his place of business and always had been and he knew all the regulars by sight. A stranger entering would be enough to make him take off through the back door into the alley and beyond. In his youth Pete Lunnings had been a cat burglar, aided by his slim, wiry frame which rendered most windows accessible from the outside. Later he had progressed and was now a fence, buying and selling from other thieves. The shady nature of the business of some of the ‘Queen and Garter’s’ customers was well-known to the police but the odd raid was considered one of life’s hazards by the customers and rarely made a dent in the amount of illicit trading that went on there.

The squat man squinted at Lunnings from beneath a thatch of dirty hair and whispered, ‘Bracelet. Nice.’

‘I’ll be the judge of that. Let’s see it then?’ Lunnings’s eyes narrowed. He had a face like a ferret and could have been any age from thirty to fifty.

The man took a small package from his coat pocket and slid it across the table. ‘Good bit of stuff. Nice and weighty!’ he insisted, throwing nervous glances in all directions.

‘Hot, is it?’ Be just like this fat little tyke, he thought, to offer him something the police were actively looking for. If they had put out a description he’d never sell it on. He’d been caught like that before.

‘No, it’s not hot! I’ll bet they don’t even know it’s gone. I was in and out like a shot and—’

‘Like a shot? You? Never. Look at the size of you! In and out in a pig’s eye? Don’t tell me! I don’t need to know.’ Lunnings lifted his glass and took a mouthful of ale before unwrapping the bracelet. It was a series of red stones set in gold filigree and Lunnings saw at once that it was indeed a ‘good bit of stuff’ and he knew he could sell it to a shady jeweller in the next town for eight or nine shillings. He wrapped it up and pushed it back across the table. ‘It’d be difficult to shift,’ he said dismissively. ‘You keep it.’

‘I don’t want it!’

‘Give it to the missus!’

‘Silly cow’s bunked off. Just give me a price.’

Studying the sawdust scattered generously over the floor, Lunnings made a pretence of thinking about it. ‘Two bob!’

‘Give over!’ The squat man’s mouth tightened.

‘’Alf a crown, then.’ Lunnings shrugged. ‘You’re going to get lumbered with it, else.’ He drank deeply, pretending disinterest.

‘Three bob and it’s yourn! That’s a fair price, that is. You know it is. That’s your last chance. Three bob or I take it away with me and someone with a bit more up ’ere –’ he tapped his forehead – ‘will make a nice little profit on—’

‘Right you are.’ Lunnings gave in abruptly for he had caught sight of the man he was really waiting for and it was no longer worthwhile to haggle any further over a bracelet. ‘Three bob!’ He fished three shillings from his pocket and handed them over. He scraped up the parcel with the bracelet in it and said, ‘Now ’op it! Go on! Get out of ’ere.’

The man moved with surprising speed and headed for the door, and with a toss of his head Lunnings beckoned the newcomer over. The man was wearing a loosely knotted red tie that had seen better days and that was the sign they had agreed. They nodded by way of a greeting.

The stranger sat down. ‘So have you got something for me?’

‘I ’ave.’

‘Without identification marks?’

‘Yep. Just like you wanted.’ He lowered his voice even further. ‘Filed it off, like you said. Wasn’t easy.’

‘No one suggested it would be. So what are you asking for it?’

‘Not ’ere! Well talk outside, down the alley.’ As he led the way out of the bar Lunnings considered. Selling on a gun was always risky because it meant a serious crime would be committed and the pistol, if found, might be traced to him. Not that he would be foolish enough to admit to anything but the police would love to get their hands on him.

The two men stood together in the dark alley while the stranger studied the gun by the light of a small torch. He finally took the pistol from Lunnings’ hands and aimed it at a nearby dustbin.

He said, ‘If it doesn’t work I’ll find you and strangle you with my bare hands – and enjoy it!’

‘Course it works!’ Lunnings glanced up and down the alley, wondering if it had been a mistake to bring this man into an alley and hand him a pistol.

‘Have you tried it?’ the man asked.

‘Course I haven’t tried it? Fire a pistol? What d’you take me for?’

‘Is it loaded?’

‘I dunno. Can’t you tell?’

Fumbling with the pistol, the man discovered two bullets. ‘It’s loaded,’ he grunted. ‘So how much is it? And don’t pull any fancy tricks with me or you’ll get the first bullet.’

‘I gave ’im twenty shillings and I want thirty for it.’

‘Twenty-five. Take it or leave it.’

Lunnings cursed inwardly. ‘Thirty,’ he repeated nervously. ‘Think of the risk I’m taking and I filed off the number . . .’ His voice rose to a squeak as the man grabbed his throat with one hand and squeezed.

‘You deaf? I said twenty-five shillings!’

‘Done!’ he gasped hoarsely.

The man released him. He counted out five shillings, added a pound note and handed them over. Then without another word he pocketed the pistol and walked quickly away.

Lunnings fingered his throat which was still painful. ‘Murdering bastard!’ he muttered hoarsely and walked off in the opposite direction, wondering who the man was going to shoot.

TEN

D
aisy and Steven strolled together along the bank of the river, the sun shone but the wind was sharp and they were each warmly wrapped. Steven had promised on the telephone that he had some interesting news to tell her but Daisy, with something of her own to disclose, took the initiative.