The Claresby Collection: Twelve Mysteries (26 page)

It was perhaps indicative of Rupert’s personality that he did not stop at taking a look around the reception rooms and bedrooms on this, his first visit to The Red House, but took the trouble to pull down the loft ladder that gave access to the wide, draughty, boarded space above. Fortunately, for the purposes of his investigations, there was a light switch and a single light bulb rigged up, which produced a dim, shadowy light. As well as a functioning water tank, and an old one which had been too bulky to remove, there were three suitcases and a couple of items of broken furniture. There was also a very old perambulator which must have belonged to previous occupants unknown.

The three suitcases proved to contain a selection of paper bags and carrier bags, all carefully folded and saved as if by a thrifty person who thought they might prove useful. Rupert was reminded of his maternal grandmother who, at Christmas, had always removed the wrapping paper from her gifts with extreme care, smoothed it out, folded it up and preserved it for reuse the following year. Rupert had put this down to a frugal wartime mentality which she had developed and never shaken off when more profligate and comfortable times had come. He rather thought that the meticulous and prudent Gordon might have shared this attitude. Having assured himself that there was nothing more than paper bags in the cases, he took a quick look in the pram, vaguely expecting more of the same. Sure enough, there were a number of carrier bags containing what looked like more paper. Rupert opened one up to examine it further and was presented with bundles of crisp new banknotes. A rapid search through the other bags in the pram revealed the same – bundles of unused notes, mostly for ten, but some for twenty pounds. In the last bag of all he also found an envelope. It was addressed quite clearly to “Rupert Latimer” in a very small but clear hand. Rupert opened it with eager interest and read the note inside.

Unusually, Laura has set out their dinner that night on the big oak table of the Great Hall. Even with a fire blazing in the broad stone fireplace, the place could never be cosy. It didn’t help that the carved gargoyles of the musicians’ gallery above looked faintly sinister in the shadows created by the fire and the candles that Laura had lit. There was an unwritten understanding between them that this was the anniversary of when they had become friends, exchanging their troubles during a difficult first term at university over a formal dinner at Rupert’s Cambridge College. In fact, in contrast to the medieval grandeur of the setting and the fine old goblets into which Laura poured the champagne, the rest of the table was strewn with the boxes containing a takeaway Chinese meal – Rupert’s favourite. They sat in the tall backed, carved oak chairs and tucked in to the food whilst discussing Rupert’s visit to The Red House that day.

“Were there any documents or photographs that told you anything about the background of Gordon Hodge or Janice Lacey?” Laura was asking as he ladled steaming rice onto her plate.

“No,” replied Rupert. “Nothing so obvious. In fact I think that Gordon had gone to pains to destroy any useful documents. The only two items which he seems to have been uncharacteristically sentimental about were two photographs – one of a young Janice standing outside a pub, and one of an old lady, perhaps his mother, standing outside a rather run down Victorian terraced house. There were some more recent pictures of Janice too; but always on her own, never with Gordon. She was a very pretty woman with fair hair and blue eyes. There was also Janice’s death certificate carefully folded in an envelope. She died in 1990 of lung cancer. It gave her place of birth as Rotherhithe. She was only forty-five.”

“But you said that he had left a letter for you explaining why he gave you the house: aren’t you going to read that to me now? I don’t know why you were being so mysterious about it earlier.” There was a slight scowl on her face which did nothing to mar her delicate features and natural prettiness.

“Simply because of where I found the note,” explained Rupert, his chin jutting out as he shovelled large forkfuls of food into his mouth. “Considering that he could have left an explanation in his will or even a confidential letter to me with the solicitor, it indicates quite a tricky turn of mind that he hid it in an old pram up in the attic! Also, I didn’t tell you everything when I got in – partly because I was still processing the facts myself. The pram in which I found the letter also contained a small fortune in brand new bank notes.”

Laura stopped with her fork midway to her mouth. “Bank notes? – stolen from the bank?” she asked in surprise.

“Well, he was a cashier,” admitted Rupert, “but he spent most of his working life in our own local branch, and if there had been a big scandal or theft there, it would have been talked about in Claresby for years to come. Of course, I can’t rule out that possibility and I will make some inquiries.”

“You still haven’t told me what the letter said,” continued Laura.

“Oh,” Rupert reached into his pocket and unfolded some paper whilst finishing his mouthful of food, “it says –
With your reputation for investigatory skills, you should be able to unravel my story. I would like the satisfaction of the details being made public. After that you may dispose of my wealth as you see fit
. It’s signed by Gordon Hodge.”

“Interesting. And yet you say he seems to have destroyed most of his personal papers? Why would he do that if he wants you to find the truth?”

Rupert shrugged, “Either he destroyed them at a point in time when he didn’t want anyone to find the truth or he just liked the idea of me having to do some leg-work. In a perverse way I prefer the challenge. If he had just written an explanation or confession, I would not have become invested in unravelling the story – perhaps he wanted someone to take a real interest in his history. We’ll have to wait and see what I turn up – that may explain his motives.”

“And in the meantime, he’s done you more of a favour by providing you with a mystery to solve than he did by leaving you his possibly-dodgy fortune.”

“Precisely!” said Rupert cheerfully.

The following morning Rupert commenced his search into the history of Gordon Hodge and Janice Lacey courtesy of the evidence provided by the two photographs. He was helped in this search by that fact that picture of Janice showed a young woman in her early twenties standing outside what he took to be a London pub with its name prominently displayed. She was holding an empty tray in one hand and had an embarrassed, slightly furtive smile on her face as if not expecting to have her picture taken and unsure whether it was a good idea to allow it. Rupert was starting off by using the internet as his search tool. The pub bore a very common name and he searched this name along with Janice’s place of birth and soon found an up-to-date picture of the same pub. He knew little about this particular area of London, except that it was historically a port but the docks had been closed and it was now a residential area. He thought the picture of the old woman outside a house quite likely to be taken in the same sort of area of inner London. It showed a common type of meagre Victorian terraced house with just a front door and a lower and upper window. The simple process of searching a street-view map of the area immediately around the pub quickly revealed the very house. If, as he thought, this was Gordon’s mother and he had grown up in the house, it was a fair guess that Gordon had met Janice when she was a barmaid at the pub around the corner where he went for a pint, either when he still lived there or when he visited his mother. Rupert gave a grunt of satisfaction. A visit to the area might confirm his guess.

The second thing that Rupert did was to put on his coat and take the bus from Claresby into the nearby town to visit the bank where Gordon had started working about forty-seven years before – if Annie Hart’s memory was to be trusted. His inquiries at the bank were rewarded by the name Gilbert Howe – a man now in his eighties who was manager at the time that Gordon would have been there. He still lived in South Marlesby, a neighbouring village which Rupert knew very well. The retired manager was apparently held in some esteem at his old branch and visited weekly to conduct his banking business. Rupert left his name and telephone number, asking that these be passed on with a request that he could meet the old gentleman at a time to suit him. The time and place that suited Gilbert Howe turned out to be lunchtime at The King’s Head in Marlesby the following day.

The unspoken understanding was that Rupert would provide lunch and Gilbert would provide memories. The pub was homely and warm and Gilbert seemed to be well acquainted with both the barman and the menu. He had soon ordered the liver and bacon and Rupert followed suit. On Rupert’s inquiry he expressed a preference for white wine; so Rupert bought a bottle, hoping that it would prove sufficient to loosen the man’s tongue whilst not fuddling his mind. Over the first glass of wine Gilbert brought up the name of Gordon Hodge,

“When I originally got your message, I struggled to remember much about the fellow,” confessed Gilbert, who had a round, boyish face which belied his years, and astute, twinkling eyes sunk a little in the folds of age. “I do recall your wife’s late father, James Mortimer, very well. I’ve dined at Claresby Hall with him more than once. Affable fellow. And I recall Laura as a bright little girl. Anyway, Gordon was one of those men you could work alongside for years without ever getting past the surface impression – and that impression was not very edifying. He was a Londoner; not well educated but probably no fool. I imagine that he had been expected to leave school at the first opportunity to help out with the family bills. He never rose above cashier and never seemed to make much effort to recommend himself, although he was reliable enough. I think he retired in his late fifties with ill health – although I’ve just heard that he died only recently, so his health must have been reasonably good. Mind you, I took early retirement too and am still enjoying a pub lunch with a new acquaintance; so I can’t complain! Why the interest? He always struck me as a rather dull character?”

“I inherited his house and found a good deal of cash in the attic,” replied Rupert frankly. “He had inherited the house himself from a friend, and the money could have come from anywhere; I don’t mean to imply the money was dishonestly obtained.”

“Good-grief! Well, I can assure you that he was always considered scrupulously honest; whatever his other foibles might have been. I can’t pretend to have liked the man, but there was never any hint of impropriety in my time or since.”

“No, I’ve never heard any such suggestion,” Rupert replied carefully. “It just seemed odd for the man to keep so much cash about the place. Wouldn’t it be better to keep gold if you want to store your money under the mattress, so-to-speak?”

“Oh, we’d all like some gold under out mattress,” smiled Gilbert, whilst acknowledging with gratitude the arrival of the liver and bacon. “But if there’s one thing you learn as a bank manager it is that people can be very funny about money. Some want to hide how much they have from a spouse or children. Then there was one person – whose name I will not mention - who lived the most frugal of lives in a very modest house, whilst keeping a fortune of money in the bank untouched. It all went to charity in the end. Then there were those with deposit boxes full of gold jewellery which was never worn – a form of insurance policy, I suppose. But you say that it was notes you found? Were they recent? By the way, even if they are old and have been withdrawn from circulation they can be redeemed at the Bank of England – in my experience most high street banks will accept them.”

“Some of the ten pound notes show Florence Nightingale – I checked it out and think that particular note was introduced in 1975. Some are the older, brown note which was withdrawn in 1979. Then there are the twenty pound notes with a Shakespeare theme which I believe were available from 1970 until 1991. So it seems is that the notes all date from the time that Gordon was working in the bank in the 1970s. I haven’t tried to spend any of it yet. How easy is it to spot a forgery?”

“Oh, I used to pride myself on being able to tell a forgery just by feeling the texture of a note,” beamed Gilbert, helping himself to a third glass of wine. “And of course now when they make bank notes they use sophisticated devices such as holograms and embedded strips. There was always a small incidence of forged notes, but they were quickly removed from the system and destroyed. Probably you’ve heard of the best known case – Operation Bernhard?”

Rupert shook his head and Gilbert, looking gratified, mopped some of his gravy up with his mashed potato and took a mouthful before continuing,

“Well, during the war, the Nazis thought that they might be able to destabilise the British economy by dropping loads of forged banknotes into our country. The plan never quite came off, but some of the forged notes did enter into circulation. One practical upshot of this was the fact that we did away with many of the larger denominations whilst forgeries of five pound notes were gradually removed from the system. We no longer have a one hundred pound note and, after the war, it wasn’t until 1981 that the fifty pound note was reinstated. I’m not saying that forgeries no longer occur, but it’s not an easy game. If Gordon was stockpiling money in his attic it was because he was an odd fellow – I don’t for a moment think they would be forgeries.”

The two men finished up their lunch with spotted dick and custard and Rupert returned to Claresby Manor with the question of why there was so much money concealed in a pram in Gordon Hodge’s old home unanswered. He found Laura in the kitchen making apple pies. She kissed him briskly, leaving flour marks on his jumper sleeve, and carried on with her rolling and cutting whilst he sat at the large, well scrubbed table.

“How was your lunch?” Laura asked.

“Nice lunch, pleasant man; no progress on finding out where the money came from. Gordon’s old manager just hinted that some folks are a bit odd about money. He was a little dismissive of Gordon – uneducated Londoner, that sort of thing. There might be the hint of the snob in Gilbert Howe, and it may explain why Gordon was never promoted, despite the fact that Gilbert acknowledged that he was intelligent, hardworking and reliable.”