The Wanderer in Unknown Realms (2 page)

“Likewise, sir,” I replied.

“Mr. Quayle tells me you served with some distinction in the recent conflict,” he said.

“I served, sir. I can't say any more than that.”

“Who were you with?”

“The Forty-seventh, sir.”

“Ah, the Londoners! Stout men. Aubers Ridge, Festubert, Loos, the Somme.”

“Did you serve, sir?”

“No, sadly not. My knowledge is based purely on my reading. Too young to enlist, I'm afraid.”

I looked at him and thought that I had fought alongside men who, had they lived, would still have been younger than he was now, but I said nothing. If he had found a way to avoid the whole bloody mess, then I wasn't about to begrudge him. I'd been through it, and had I known going in what I was about to face, I'd have run and never looked back. I'd have deserted and left all the bastards to it.

“You chaps were at High Wood, weren't you?” continued Forbes.

“Yes,” I said.

“Bloody business.”

“Yes,” I said, again.

“They relieved Barter of his command after what happened, didn't they?”

“Yes, sir, for wanton waste of men.”

“He was a fool.”

“Not as big a fool as Pulteney.”

“Come, come, now. Sir William is a fine soldier.”

“Sir William is an ignorant man and led better men to their deaths.”

“I say, now, Jessie Arnott was a friend of my late mother's . . . ”

I seemed to recall that Pulteney had married one of the Arnott women. I must have read about it in the society pages, probably just before I lost my taste for my breakfast.

Before the conversation could deteriorate further, Quayle gave a dry cough.

“Please take a seat, Mr. Soter. And you, Mr. Forbes.”

“I demand an apology,” said Forbes.

“On what basis?” asked Quayle.

“This man insulted a hero of the realm and a friend of my mother's.”

“Mr. Soter merely expressed an opinion, and gentlemen must agree to differ on such matters. I'm sure Mr. Soter meant no offense to your mother. Is that not correct, Mr. Soter?”

Quayle's tone suggested that it might be wise if I were to make some gesture of amends. I could have refused, of course, but I needed the work, whatever it was. I wasn't fussy. There was little enough of it to go around, and it seemed that every street corner had its veteran with his trouser legs pinned up over his thighs, the better to show his missing limbs, or a cup held in one hand while the sleeve of his other arm dangled emptily. The hatred for ex-soldiers on the part of those who had not fought was something I
could not understand. They wanted us to disappear. There were no more parades now, no more kisses on the cheek. Soldiers were no more than beggars, and nobody likes a beggar. Perhaps we made them feel guilty by our presence. They might have preferred it had we all died in the mud and been buried far from England in places whose names we had not even learned to pronounce properly before we perished.

“I apologize for any offense I might have caused,” I said. “I meant none.”

Forbes nodded his acceptance. “These are emotional matters, I know,” he said.

He resumed his seat, and I took mine. Quayle, having refereed the bout to his satisfaction, turned to the matter at hand.

“Mr. Forbes is concerned about his uncle,” he said. “Apparently, he has not been seen for a number of days and has left no indication of his whereabouts.”

“Perhaps he's taken a holiday,” I said.

“My uncle is not in the habit of taking holidays,” said his nephew. “He finds comfort in familiar surroundings and rarely ventures farther than the local village.” He thought for a time. “Actually, I think he went to Bognor once, but he didn't much care for it.”

“Ah, Bognor,” intoned Quayle solemnly, as though that explained everything.

“If you're worried about his safety, then shouldn't the police be informed?” I asked.

Quayle arched an eyebrow, as I knew he would. Like most lawyers, he found the police to be something of an inconvenience to the proper pursuit of legal ends. The police were useful only when he could be certain they would do his bidding and no more than that. He tended to worry when they showed signs of independent thought and therefore made it his business to have as little as possible to do with them unless absolutely necessary.

“Mr. Maulding is a very private man,” said Quayle. “He would not thank us for allowing the police to intrude into his affairs.”

“He might if he has come to some harm.”

“What harm could he come to?” asked Forbes. “He hardly leaves the house.”

“Then why am I here?” I said.

Quayle sighed in the manner of a man for whom the world holds the capacity for infinite disappointment, the only surprise being the variety of its depths.

“Mr. Forbes is Mr. Maulding's only living relative and the principal beneficiary of his estate should any harm befall him. Naturally, Mr. Forbes hopes that this is not the case in the present circumstance, as he wishes his uncle many more years of happiness and good health.”

Forbes looked as if he might be about to differ on that point, but common sense prevailed, and he provided a grunt of assent.

“With that in mind,” Quayle continued, “it would obviously contribute greatly to Mr. Forbes's peace of mind if the well-being of his uncle could be established as quickly as possible, and without recourse to the intervention of the police, a fine force of men though they might be.
That
is why you are here, Mr. Soter. I have assured Mr. Forbes of your discretion in all matters, and he has been informed of the positive outcomes you have secured for my clients in the past. We should like you to find Mr. Lionel Maulding, and return him to the safe and loving embrace of his family. That is a fair summation of the situation, is it not, Mr. Forbes?”

Forbes nodded enthusiastically.

“Safe and loving embrace, absolutely,” he said. “Unless, of course, he's dead, in which case I'd rather like to know that as well.”

“Indeed,” said Quayle, after a pause that spoke volumes. “If there's nothing else, Mr. Forbes, I shall apprise Mr. Soter further of the situation and, rest assured, we shall be in touch in due course.”

Forbes stood. The door opened at that precise moment, and
Fawnsley appeared holding a coat, a hat, and a pair of gloves. He could not have been more prompt had he been listening at the keyhole to every word, which he may well have been. He helped Forbes into the coat, passed him the hat and gloves, then stood waiting with reserved impatience for him to leave, like an undertaker faced with a prospective corpse that simply refuses to die.

“In the matter of payment . . . ” Forbes began, with the tone of one who finds the whole business of money rather distasteful, especially when he doesn't have enough of it to go around.

“I am sure that Mr. Maulding's funds will cover any expenses,” said Quayle. “I cannot imagine that he would begrudge expenditure incurred on his own behalf.”

“Very good,” said Forbes, with some relief.

Forbes bade us farewell. He paused for a final time at the door, almost causing Fawnsley to walk into his back.

“Mr. Soter?” he said.

“Yes, Mr. Forbes?”

“I'll look deeper into what you said about Pulteney, and we can talk of it again.”

“I look forward to that, Mr. Forbes,” I said.

It didn't matter, of course. I'd watched forty men being buried in a shell crater at High Wood. I was there. Forbes wasn't.

And neither was General Sir Bloody William Pulteney.

QUAYLE ASKED
if I would like some tea. Although he had a drinks cabinet behind his desk, I had never known him to offer anything stronger than Fawnsley's tea, possibly on the grounds that there wasn't anything stronger than Fawnsley's tea.

“No, thank you.”

“It's been a while since we've seen you, Mr. Soter. How have you been?”

“I've been passing well, thank you for asking,” I replied, but he had already returned to rearranging the papers on his desk, and the state of my health had ceased to be of any interest to him, relative
or otherwise. He licked his right index finger, used it to turn a page, and paused as if a thought had only just struck him, although I well knew that Quayle was not a man to be stricken by sudden thoughts. He planned too far ahead for that.

“What did you think of Mr. Forbes?” he said.

“He's young.”

“Yes. There's a lot of it about, it seems.”

“Not as much as there used to be.”

“War does tend to have that effect,” said Quayle. “You really ought to learn to hold your tongue, you know.”

“In front of my betters, you mean?”

“In front of anyone. For a man who prides himself on his reserve, you have an unfortunate habit of giving rather too much of yourself away when you do choose to speak.”

“I'll bear that in mind. I'm grateful to you for pointing it out.”

“Were you always so sarcastic?”

“I believe I was, yes, but only in certain company. As you say, it's been a while since we met.”

That almost brought a smile from Quayle, but his facial muscles were unfamiliar with the action, and it collapsed somewhere between a grin and a sneer.

“Mr. Forbes lives beyond his means,” said Quayle. “His uncle's bequest represents the best possible opportunity to rectify that situation as quickly as possible.”

“He could try working for a living.”

“What makes you think he hasn't?”

“He wasn't dressed for any job that I could see, unless it involved advertising carnations.”

Quayle gave another of his weary sighs.

“His mother left him a small annuity, and I believe that a little money trickles in from investments. Were he wiser, and less profligate, he could probably live comfortably on what he has—well, comfortably for one such as myself, and most certainly for
one such as you. But he has a fondness for wagers, and one could probably clothe an entire village with the suits in his wardrobe. If he were to get his hands on his uncle's money, it would inevitably slip through his fingers like sand, and he would find himself in a similar situation to the one he is in now, albeit with a few more suits to his name.”

“Do you suspect him of doing away with the old man, and covering his tracks by coming to you?”

“You are very blunt, Mr. Soter.”

“I say what others think, especially in the confines of a Chancery chamber.”

Quayle, who couldn't hold a shiny new guinea in his hand without seeking the tarnish upon it, or look upon a beautiful woman without picturing the hag that she would become, acknowledged the truth of what I had said with a gentle incline of his head.

“In answer to your question, no, I don't believe Forbes has done his uncle some harm. He's not the kind, and had he commissioned someone to act on his behalf, then I would know about it. But there is a mystery here: Lionel Maulding is among the most private of men and begrudges any time spent away from his home. He comes to London to discuss business once a year, and even that is a great chore for him. I make sure that there are adequate funds in his accounts to meet his needs, and I look after his investments in order that this may continue to be the case.”

Look after them, I thought, and charge a fat fee and a fine commission in the process. Now we came to it. If Maulding was dead, then his nephew would be on that money as soon as the corpse was identified. It would vanish in fineries and fripperies, and Quayle's income would be diminished accordingly. Quayle didn't look as if he spent much, but he was fond of money, and he didn't relish the thought of anyone's reducing the flow of it into his pocket.

“What do you want me to do?” I asked.

Quayle slid a manila folder across his desk.

“Find him. All the information you'll need is here, along with a couple of fairly recent photographs of Maulding. I'll pay your usual fee plus any expenses, and there'll be a bonus in it if you can close this business quickly. Fawnsley will advance you a week's pay and some coin for your pocket. Naturally, you'll provide receipts.”

“Naturally.”

“There's an inn at Maidensmere, which is the nearest village to Maulding's place, although I hear his house has enough rooms to accommodate a battalion. If you choose to stay there, the housekeeper will make up a bed for you. She doesn't live in the house but arrives first thing in the morning and departs after dinner, or she did while Maulding was still in residence. It was she who raised the alarm. She'll look after you, and it might save us a shilling or two if you stay elsewhere than at the inn. Look through Maulding's papers. Find out if there are any unusual patterns of expenditure. Examine his correspondence. I trust you. I know you'll keep your mouth shut, unless someone raises the issue of errant lieutenant generals.”

I stood.

“And what if I discover that something has happened to him after all?” I asked. “What if he's dead?”

“Then find a resurrectionist,” said Quayle, “because I want Lionel Maulding brought back alive.”

MAIDENSMERE LAY
close to the eastern extreme of the Norfolk Broads, an area of about 120 square miles, much of it consisting of navigable waterways, both rivers and lakes, or
broads
in the local parlance. The village was equidistant from the towns of West Somerton and Caister-on-Sea and close to Ormesby Broad, but by the time I arrived it was late in the evening, and the waters were only patches of silver in the moonlight. No one was due to meet me at the station, and I spent some of Quayle's money on the relative luxury of a night at the Maidensmere Inn. As Quayle had indicated, a room was available for me at Bromdun Hall, Maulding's home, but I had decided to wait until the morning before taking up residence. I ate a good meal of roast lamb and allowed myself an ale or two before bed, but I did so as much for the company as the taste of the beer. For a man in my line of work, much can be learned of a new place by talking a little and listening more, and Maidensmere was small enough for a stranger to be of passing interest to the locals.