A Prisoner of Birth (39 page)

He descended a small uncarpeted staircase to a dark basement, where he discovered a large kitchen with an Aga and shelves full of glass bottles containing he knew not what. He was amused by a line of little bells attached to the wall, marked "Drawing Room," "Master Bedroom," "Study," "Nursery" and "Front Door." He began to search for some food, but couldn't find anything that hadn't passed its sell-by date years before. He now realized what the smell was that pervaded the whole house. If there was any money in Nick's bank account, the first thing he needed to do was employ a cleaner. He pulled open one of the large windows to allow a gust of fresh air to enter the room, into which it hadn't been invited for some time.

Having failed to find anything to eat, Danny returned to the bedroom to get dressed. He chose the least conservative garments he could find from Nick's wardrobe, but still ended up looking like a Guards captain on furlough.

As eight o'clock struck on the church clock in the square, Danny picked up the wallet from the bedside table and put it in his jacket pocket. He looked at the envelope Nick's grandfather had left him, and decided the stamp had to be the secret. He sat down at the desk by the window and wrote out a check to Nicholas Moncrieff for five hundred pounds. Was there five hundred pounds in Nick's account? There was only one way he was going to find out.

When he left the house a few minutes later he pulled the door closed, but this time he remembered to take the keys with him. He strolled to the top of the road, turned right and walked in the direction of South Kensington tube station, only stopping to drop into a newsagent and pick up a copy of
The Times
. As he was leaving the shop, he spotted a noticeboard offering various services. "Massage, Sylvia will come to your home, £100."
"Lawnmower for sale, only used twice, £250 o.n.o." He would have bought it if he had been confident there was £250 in Nick's bank account. "Cleaner, five pounds an hour, references supplied. Call Mrs. Murphy on . . ." Danny wondered if Mrs. Murphy had a thousand hours to spare. He made a note of her mobile number, which reminded him of something else he needed to put on his shopping list, but that would also have to wait until he had discovered how much money there was in Nick's account.

By the time he got off the tube at Charing Cross, Danny had settled on two plans of action, depending on whether the manager of Coutts knew Sir Nicholas well, or had never come across him before.

He walked along the Strand looking for the bank. On its gray cover Nick's checkbook simply stated
Coutts & Co, The Strand, London
; clearly it was too grand an establishment to admit it had a number. He had not gone far before he spotted a large glass-fronted bronze building on the other side of the road, discreetly displaying two crowns above the name Coutts. He crossed the road, nipping in and out of the traffic. He was about to find out the extent of his wealth.

He entered the bank through the revolving doors, and quickly tried to get his bearings. Ahead of him, an escalator led up to the banking hall. He made his way up to a large, glass-roofed room with a long counter running the length of one wall. Several tellers, dressed in black frock coats, were serving customers. Danny selected a young man who looked as if he had only just started shaving. He walked up to his window. "I would like to make a withdrawal."

"How much do you require, sir?" the teller asked.

"Five hundred pounds," said Danny, handing over the check he had written out earlier that morning.

The teller checked the name and number on his computer, and hesitated. "Would you be kind enough to wait for one moment, Sir Nicholas?" he asked. Danny's mind started racing. Was Nick's account overdrawn? Had the account been closed? Were they unwilling to deal with an ex-con? A few moments later an older man appeared, and gave him a warm smile. Had Nick known him?

"Sir Nicholas?" he ventured.

"Yes," said Danny, one of his questions answered.

"My name is Mr. Watson. I'm the manager. It's a pleasure to meet you after all this time." Danny shook him warmly by the hand before the manager said, "Perhaps we could have a word in my office?"

"Certainly, Mr. Watson," said Danny, trying to appear confident. He followed the manager across the banking floor and through a door that led into a small wood-paneled office. There was a single oil painting of a gentleman in a long black frock coat hanging on the wall behind his desk. Under the portrait was the legend
John Campbell, Founder, 1692
.

Mr. Watson began speaking even before Danny had sat down. "I see that you haven't made a withdrawal for the past four years, Sir Nicholas," he said, looking at his computer screen.

"That's correct," said Danny.

"Perhaps you have been abroad?"

"No, but in future I will be a more regular customer. That is, if you have been handling my account with care while I've been away."

"I hope you will think so, Sir Nicholas," responded the manager. "We have been paying interest at three percent per annum into your current account year on year."

Danny wasn't impressed, but only asked, "And how much is in my current account?"

The manager glanced at the screen. "Seven thousand, two hundred and twelve pounds." Danny breathed a sigh of relief, then asked, "Are there any other accounts, documents or valuables in my name which you are holding at the present time?" The manager looked a little surprised. "It's just that my father died recently."

The manager nodded. "I'll just check, sir," he said, before pressing some keys on his computer. He shook his head. "It seems that your father's account was closed two months ago, and all his assets were transferred to the Clydesdale Bank in Edinburgh."

"Ah, yes," said Danny. "My uncle Hugo."

"Hugo Moncrieff was indeed the recipient," confirmed the manager.

"Just as I thought," said Danny.

"Is there anything else I can do for you, Sir Nicholas?"

"Yes, I'll need a credit card."

"Of course," said Watson. "If you fill in this form," he added, pushing a questionnaire across the table, "we'll send one to your home address in the next few days."

Danny tried to remember Nick's date and place of birth and his middle name; he wasn't sure what to put under "occupation" or "annual earnings."

"There's one other thing," said Danny once he'd completed the form.
"Would you have any idea where I can get this valued?" He took out the little envelope from an inside pocket and slid it across the desk.

The manager looked at the envelope carefully. "Stanley Gibbons," he replied without hesitation. "They are leaders in the field, and they have an international reputation."

"Where would I find them?"

"They have a branch just up the road. I would recommend that you have a word with Mr. Prendergast."

"I'm lucky that you're so well informed," said Danny suspiciously.

"Well, they have banked with us for almost a hundred and fifty years."

Danny walked out of the bank with an extra £500 in his wallet, and set off in search of Stanley Gibbons. On the way he passed a mobile phone shop, which allowed him to tick another item off his shopping list. After he'd selected the latest model, he asked the young assistant if he knew where Stanley Gibbons was.

"Another fifty yards on your left," he replied.

Danny continued down the road until he saw the sign over the door. Inside, a tall thin man was leaning on the counter turning the pages of a catalog. He stood up straight the moment Danny came in.

"Mr. Prendergast?" asked Danny.

"Yes," he said. "How may I help you?"

Danny took out the envelope and put it on the counter. "Mr. Watson at Coutts suggested that you might be able to value this for me."

"I'll do my best," said Mr. Prendergast, picking up a magnifying glass from under the counter. He studied the envelope for some time before he ventured an opinion. "The stamp is a first-edition five-franc imperial, issued to mark the founding of the modern Olympic Games. The stamp itself is of little value, no more than a few hundred pounds. But there are two other factors that could possibly add to its importance."

"And what are they?" asked Danny.

"The postmark is dated April sixth 1896."

"And why is that of any significance?" asked Danny, trying not to sound impatient.

"That was the date of the opening ceremony of the first modern Olympic Games."

"And the second factor?" asked Danny, not waiting this time.

"The person the envelope is addressed to," said Prendergast, sounding rather pleased with himself.

"Baron de Coubertin," said Danny, not needing to be reminded.

"Correct," said the dealer. "It was the baron who founded the modern Olympics, and that is what makes your envelope a collector's item."

"Are you able to place a value on it?" asked Danny.

"That's not easy, sir, as the item is unique. But I would be willing to offer you two thousand pounds for it."

"Thank you, but I'd like a little time to think about it," replied Danny, and turned to leave.

"Two thousand two hundred?" said the dealer as Danny closed the door quietly behind him.

D
ANNY SPENT THE
next few days settling into The Boltons, not that he thought he'd ever really feel at home in Kensington. That was until he met Molly.

Molly Murphy hailed from County Cork and it was some time before Danny could understand a word she was saying. She must have been about a foot shorter than Danny, and was so thin that he wondered if she had the strength to manage more than a couple of hours' work a day. He had no idea of her age, although she looked younger than his mother and older than Beth. Her first words to him were, "I charge five pounds an hour, cash. I won't be paying any tax to those English bastards," she had added firmly after learning that Sir Nicholas hailed from north of the border, "and if you don't think I'm up to it, I'll leave at the end of the week."

Danny kept an eye on Molly for the first couple of days, but it soon became clear that she had been forged in the same furnace as his mother. By the end of the week he was able to sit down anywhere in the house without a cloud of dust rising, climb into a bath that didn't have a water mark, and open the fridge to grab something without fearing he'd be poisoned.

By the end of the second week, Molly had started making his supper as well as washing and ironing his clothes. By the third week he wondered how he had ever survived without her.

Molly's enterprise allowed Danny to concentrate on other things.
Mr. Munro had written to let him know that he had served a writ on his uncle. Hugo's solicitor had allowed the full twenty-one days to pass before acknowledging service.

Mr. Munro warned Sir Nicholas that Galbraith had a reputation for taking his time, but assured him that he would keep snapping at his ankles whenever the opportunity arose. Danny wondered how much this snapping would cost. He found out when he turned the page. Attached to Munro's letter was a bill for four thousand pounds, which covered all the work he had done since the funeral, including the serving of the writ.

Danny checked his bank statement, which had arrived, along with a credit card, in the morning post. Four thousand pounds would make a very large dent on the bottom line and Danny wondered how long he could survive before he would have to throw in the towel; it might have been a cliché but the expression did remind him of happier times in Bow.

During the past week, Danny had bought a laptop and a printer, a silver photo frame, several files, assorted pens, pencils and erasers, as well as reams of paper. He had already begun to build a database on the three men who had been responsible for Bernie's death, and he spent most of the first month entering everything he knew about Spencer Craig, Gerald Payne and Lawrence Davenport. That didn't amount to a great deal, but Nick had taught him that it's easier to pass exams if you've put in the research. He had just been about to begin that research when he received Munro's invoice, which reminded him how quickly his funds were drying up. Then he remembered the envelope. The time had come to seek a second opinion.

He picked up
The Times
—brought in by Molly every morning—and turned to an article he'd spotted on the Arts pages. An American collector had bought a Klimt for fifty-one million pounds in an auction at somewhere called Sotheby's.