The Ravenscar Dynasty (43 page)

‘Fer a rozzer yer not a bad chap,' Albert Draper muttered, staring at Amos Finnister. ‘Even if yer bold as brass, askin' me agin abart Nappo. I told yer all I knows afore.'

‘First of all, Albert, I'm not a copper anymore. I'm a private detective,' Amos explained, shaking his head, looking into Albert's eyes. ‘And you know it. Also—'

‘Once a copper allus a copper,' Albert cut in, grinning hugely.

‘I concede you might have a point there, Bertie, but please help me. I must find out who this Nappo fellow worked for up West. It's worth quite a lot to me.'

‘'Ow much?'

‘Definitely a fiver…'

‘Five quid! My Gawd!' E must've done sumfink awful, a real bleedin' 'orrible crime. I wus goin' ter arsk yer for ten bob. Changed me mind, though.'

‘Why did you do that? I'd always give it to you, Bertie. Anytime.'

‘Changed me mind 'cos I ain't no cadger, can't stand cadgers, Amos. Bad way ter make a livin', innit?'

‘I suppose it is, and I know how proud you are. Come on, Bertie, you've got the goods on Nappo, so let's have it.' Reaching into his pocket, Amos put some loose change on the counter and called out, ‘Two more pints of bitter, please.'

The bartender of the Mucky Duck called back, ‘Comin' right up.'

Turning to Albert, Amos continued in a low voice, ‘Nappo was bumped off a few weeks ago. It wasn't suicide, you know that as well as I do. The Yard have come up with nothing, and I just need to know
who
it was he worked for up West.'

Albert bit his lip, shook his head, looking worried.

Amos said, ‘Nappo caused a terrible accident in Hyde Park—a good woman was killed, another wonderful woman injured. Both of them have been involved in Haddon House. Hasn't your sister Gladys had a lot of help from them in the past…when that no-good husband of hers beat her up?'

‘Beat 'er to bleedin' pulp,' e did, bleedin' bastard. If I ever gets me 'ands on 'im, I'll do 'im!' Bertie hissed, keeping his voice low. ‘So them fancy bits wus 'elping Lady Fenella? A saint I calls '
er
. That wot yer sayin', Amos?'

‘I am.'

Bertie nodded, his mind made up after hearing the name Haddon House, and drew even closer to Amos. ‘Wot I've 'eard is this…it's the Frenchie wus employin' Nappo as a driver of 'er carriage, so I 'ears from me mate,' im as knew Nappo.
Margo
, that's 'er name. Can't think of 'er last name.'

‘
Grant
, Margot Grant,' Amos said swiftly, his excitement obvious. ‘Is that the name?'

‘It is! That's it!' Bertie exclaimed, grinning from ear to ear. ‘Tells me mate 'e fancied 'er, wanted ter get 'er up the apples and pears, would've paid a king's ransom ter do 'er,' Bertie explained. ‘Oh, yeah, Nappo fancied 'er awright. Wishful thinkin', innit?'

‘Only too true. Are you certain of the name?'

‘I am that. Let me think a minit…Grosvenor Street…no, not right…Upper, that's wot's missing…Upper Grosvernor Street, up West, that's where Nappo worked and dreamed of feckin' the Frenchie woman.'

Amos felt a rush of relief flood through him. He wanted to shout out with glee, but restrained himself. ‘A name, Bert? Surely your mate knew Nappo's actual name.'

Albert began to chuckle. ‘Yer knows wot, Amos,' is real name wus Napoleon, t'weren't a nickname, the bugger wus called Napoleon by 'is muvver.'

‘His last name?' Amos probed.

Grinning again, Bertie said, ‘Sure as 'ell t'weren't Bonaparte.' The Cockney began to laugh.

Amos couldn't help laughing with him, even though he had one other horrendous problem to deal with. He had always liked Albert Draper's Cockney humour and wit. ‘So, come on, lad, let's have it.'

‘Dupon, or Dupont.' Albert emphasized the T. ‘That wus the geezer's name. Or Dupond.'

‘Thank you, Albert.' Amos put his hand in his pocket and brought out a small packet. ‘A fiver in there for you, and I appreciate your help.'

After pocketing the envelope of money, Albert looked hard at Amos, his eyes narrowing. ‘They did for 'im, did they, them buggers up West?'

‘In my opinion, yes.'

‘D'ya think Nappo got in 'er knickers? That why they did 'im?'

‘No, I doubt very much that he got anywhere with her. They had him killed because he knew too much.'

‘Bloody 'ell!'

‘Thanks again, Bertie, you've been a genuine help.'

Albert Draper nodded. ‘Ta fer me dosh, Amos, yer a good un.'

Amos nodded, picked up his pint and drank half of it, put the glass back on the counter. ‘I've got to be going, and thanks again, Bertie.'

‘See ya, Amos.'

Once he was outside in the street, Amos pulled out his pocket watch and looked at the time. It was almost seven o'clock. He had told the two actors he would meet them at the Mandarin Garden at half past seven, so he must hurry now.

As he strode along the wharves, he sniffed, grimacing, fully aware of the stink of the Thames on this warm June evening. It was the most beautiful river in the world to him, but it was the dirtiest, and it was rank in warm weather.

Walking at a rapid pace, he thought about the information Albert Draper had given him. He had known Albert for many years, since he had been on the beat here in Whitechapel, and he trusted him implicitly. He now had a name to give to Neville Watkins—more importantly a positive identification of Margot Grant as Nappo's
employer. This tied her and possibly Henry Grant to the crime. At least he had done something right. The failure of the two actors to persuade Beaufield, Deever and Clifford to resign was the most unhappy conclusion to that particular part of his work for Neville Watkins.

Charlie had told him the actors were good, often played toffs in the theatre, and that they would do a proper job. Those were Charlie's exact words, ‘a proper job', just before he had sailed off to New York. To the New World. To a new life.

Amos made it to the Chinese restaurant in record time, and, as he was shown to his favourite table in an isolated corner, he asked the waiter for jasmine tea. He sat down, a bit out of breath, thirsty, and relieved to see he was the first to arrive.

But he did not have to wait long. Ten minutes later the two thespians appeared, and were suddenly sitting down opposite him. Justin St Marr, as he called himself, in reality Alfie Rains, and his companion, Harry Lansford, who was really Jimmy Smithers. Two good-looking Cockney lads, old friends of Charlie, talented actors by profession. Nice lads, he decided, looking across at them. But somewhere they had gone wrong on the job for him. He aimed to find out how.

‘Good evening, chaps,' Amos said cheerily, smiling at them.

‘Good evening, Mr Finnister,' they said in unison, speaking in upper-class voices. They were staying in character for the moment.

‘Care for refreshments?' Amos asked, raising a brow.

‘The same as you, I think, jasmine tea, please,' Justin replied in his plummy tone.

‘I'll have tea also,' Harry added, equally posh.

Once the order for the tea had been given, Amos leaned across the table and said in a low voice, ‘I've got a real problem, lads, and I certainly need you to help me solve it.'

They both nodded, looked at him eagerly, obviously wanting to please.

The waiter deposited the teapots and teacups, and hurried away.

Amos leaned forward once more, speaking in the same low voice. ‘I want you to tell me again what happened when you finally pulled the rabbit out of the hat so to speak, and told those chaps you would expose them to the world. Expose their guilty secrets.'

‘They laughed,' Justin answered. ‘They just didn't seem to care, did they, Harry?'

‘Justin's right, Mr Finnister, they were totally unconcerned, acted as though it didn't matter one iota.'

‘Think, lads, go back over it in your minds. Didn't they say anything about the board, their immediate superiors, the consequences?'

‘No,' Justin said, shaking his blond head, biting his lip.

Harry looked as though he was remembering something; his eyes narrowed as he stared out into the room above Amos's head. ‘Well, there was
one
thing…something Jack Beaufield said, and it struck me as being rather odd, sort of…well, out of context.'

‘What did Beaufield say?' Amos demanded, his heart tightening in anticipation.

‘He said there would be no more summers in France if they were thrown off the board, and all three seemed to think it was funny. But I didn't get it, not at all.'

Oh, but I do, Amos thought, his heart leaping. They know something about Summers and Margot, something explosive. An affair? I do believe they think they've got him by the
cojones
. But we'll see about that, won't we?

Harry now asked in a puzzled voice, ‘You look extremely pleased, Mr Finnister, do you know what Beaufield was talking about?'

‘I'm not quite sure,' Amos answered cagily, and then smiled. ‘But I think my boss will, and he'll certainly know what to do. Now, lads, the treat's on me. What would you like for your supper? Have anything, anything at all.' He lifted his hand, summoned the waiter. He suddenly felt light-headed with happiness. Perhaps he hadn't failed after all.

Today it was Tuesday, June 21st in the year 1904.

It might turn out to be an auspicious day. Certainly today
his
destiny would be sealed, of that he was absolutely sure.

Edward Deravenel stood at the window in his office at Deravenels, looking down into the Strand, thinking about the ordeal which awaited him.

In a short while he would go into the boardroom and face seventeen men, the members of the board who would either champion his cause, or defeat him.

His cousin Neville Watkins, his mentor, had told him it was up to him to convince them his was a just cause, a rightful cause.

‘You are a
seducer
, Ned, not just of women, but of…well, just about
everyone
,' Neville had told him earlier this morning, over breakfast at the Charles Street house. ‘You can convince
anybody
, when you so wish. Do it today, Ned: charm them, beguile them, make them want
you
to win, not Henry Grant. But remember, you must do it with a cold heart. You must be ruthless.'

‘I know that,' Edward had answered his cousin. ‘And
your own motto is engraved on my heart…
never display
weakness, never show face
.'

Neville had nodded and smiled, patted him on the back, and added, ‘Be inscrutable. Show no visible emotion, reveal nothing of yourself. Bear those points in mind and you will succeed.'

Last night they had had a long session with Amos over dinner, and the private detective had told them about two meetings he had recently had.

One had been with a contact in Whitechapel. This man had given Finnister information about the Corsican, the rider of the horse, perpetrator of the accident in Hyde Park. According to Amos, the Corsican had been employed by Margot Grant as one of her drivers: she was irrevocably tied to the accident, which was not an accident at all, as far as Amos Finnister was concerned. ‘Premeditated,' was the way he had put it. ‘Murder, in fact, to my way of thinking. The Corsican
did
set out to kill Mrs Overton.'

The private detective had then gone on to tell them about the actors Justin St Marr and Harry Lansford, who had inveigled themselves into the tight-knit social circle where Beaufield, Cliff and Deever were prime movers.

Each actor had tackled the men individually—first Beaufield, then Deever, finally James Cliff. They had explained that they knew dangerous secrets and would reveal them to the world if each man did not resign from Deravenels.

The actors had really believed they had succeeded in convincing them all to step down in order to avoid a huge public scandal.

‘And then suddenly everything changed,' Finnister had said. ‘Deever and Cliff told Justin and Harry to go to hell. It was a case of publish and be damned, that sort of attitude. My actors were a bit flumoxed, I don't mind telling you. Later they were even more taken aback when they ran into the toffs at White's, and the three men laughed in their faces. It was Beaufield who then said something about “no more summers in France” if they were kicked off the Deravenel board.'

‘He was alluding to John Summers and Margot Grant. As you surmised, they must be meeting secretly. There is no doubt there's a sexual liaison there,' Neville remarked.

‘No doubt whatsoever, sir. I got it from the horse's mouth—this morning. The butler at the Grant house in Upper Grosvenor Street is about to vacate his position and was happy to blab.'

Edward had jumped into the discussion at this point, and directed a question at Finnister. ‘Do you think that Beaufield, Deever and Cliff conferred with each other and decided to brazen it out?'

‘That is my conclusion, Mr Edward. I thought at first they might have spotted my two thespians, and realized they were imposters. But I've changed my mind. We know those fellows are in cahoots, and have benefitted from the Indian skimming situation. Therefore, I think they know everything there is to know about each other. Birds of a feather, and all that.'

Neville had laughed, then turning to Ned he had pointed out, ‘But the other board members don't know a thing, and you, my dear Ned, are going to give them all the gory details. No holds barred.'

When he had arrived home last night Edward had made innumerable notes, committed everything to memory, like an actor memorizing his lines. That was the way he had thought of it then, and now. When he walked into that boardroom he had to dominate, as a leading actor dominated a stage. He had to persuade, convince, beguile, and conquer his audience.
He had to
make them his
.

‘They're waiting for you,' Alfredo Oliveri said from the doorway.

Startled, Edward swung around, and nodded, half smiled when he saw his colleague and friend. As he walked across the floor he noticed Oliveri's pallor; his freckles always seemed much more pronounced when he was pale like this. He was obviously worried.

Ned put his hand on Oliveri's shoulder and said in a calm and steady voice, ‘Don't fret. I am fine, and it
will
be all right, I promise you. Now, who is in there?'

‘Everyone we expected, except for Henry Grant, of course. He hasn't shown up.'

‘I knew he wouldn't come. He can't. And they can't let him. He's pitiful these days, at least so I hear. There
are
seventeen board members, then?'

‘Correct.'

‘I'm glad you went onto the board automatically, when you were promoted to Aubrey Masters's job. Who's there in
his
place?'

‘A new board member, by the name of Peter Lister.
He was appointed by vote, of course, but originally recommended by Martin Rollins. He's neutral, by the way, Rollins I mean. Nice chap, very honourable, has good judgement. He's been on the board of Deravenels for donkey's years, and sort of guides it really, in an unofficial way. He liked your father. He'll be fair,
just
, perhaps even sympathetic. But he may play devil's advocate.'

‘Good to know. Who are the other outside directors? Remind me again,' Ned said.

‘Victor Sheen,' Alfredo answered. ‘Also neutral, I think. Matthew Reynolds and Paul Loomis, they're a bit wishy-washy, I've noticed. Don't carry much weight.'

‘Let's go then. Let's get it over with.' Edward moved towards the desk, picked up a pile of folders, went to the door.

Alfredo reached out, held him back, and said, ‘It will go exactly the way I explained. The procedure is quite simple. Martin Rollins will ask you to present your grievance, your case. And you will do that. The board members will ask you questions, perhaps, may ask if you can produce evidence to back your case. There's just one thing I want you to remember. We're there to help you, if you need us. Me, Rob Aspen, Christopher Green and Frank Lane. If you should need one of us just look at us, or say our names. We'll jump right in with corroborating evidence, if that's what you need. We're your backup.'

Edward nodded. ‘I remember everything you've told me, and thank you. Thank you for being supportive today.'

Together they left Edward's office and walked down
the corridor together, heading for the boardroom. Neither of them spoke, both lost in their thoughts.

Alfredo was worrying himself sick, praying that Ned would handle himself well, would not see red and explode, as he occasionally could.

For his part, Edward Deravenel was keeping himself perfectly steady and calm. He was convinced that he must be ruthless in order to win.

When he walked into the boardroom a few moments after Oliveri, all conversation ceased. Edward glanced around, saw only one empty seat at the far end of the table. He walked down to it, stood behind the chair. ‘Good morning, gentlemen. For those who do not know me, I am Edward Deravenel.'

There were mumbled good mornings, and Martin Rollins said, ‘Please take the seat in front of you. It was kept for you.'

‘Thank you, but I prefer to stand,' Edward answered, and then placed the folders he was holding on the mahogany conference table in front of him.

Rollins nodded, and announced, ‘Let us begin the proceedings. Mr Deravenel, it is our understanding that you have a grievance with Deravenels, and wish to present a case against an individual. Is that correct?'

‘Yes, it is, sir. I wish to present a case against Henry Grant, chairman of Deravenels.' Edward was going to do more than that, but for the moment he kept quiet.

‘Mr Grant is unable to attend today, due to an illness,' Rollins said. ‘However, you may proceed, since we do
have a full board present with the exception of Mr Grant.'

‘Henry Grant is chairman of this company, but he is not the person running it,' Edward began in an icy voice. ‘And, therefore, I believe he should be removed from the company. Because he is not running Deravenels on a day-today basis he must be retired, as of today. The man running Deravenels is John Summers, and he has no right to be managing director. He is not a Deravenel by birth, and, according to ancient company rules, only a Deravenel can be the head of Deravenels.'

For a moment there was a flutter of asides, exclamations, mumblings, and Martin Rollins exclaimed, ‘Please, gentlemen, silence please.' Looking down the length of the table, he focused on Edward. ‘I am vaguely familiar with this rule, but it has never been brought up before, not by anyone. Mr Summers has been in charge for a number of years.' Rollins was frowning, seemed puzzled.

‘Mr Summers was supposedly assisting Henry Grant, but Henry Grant was and is an absentee landlord, as my father Richard Deravenel called him. And why was he an absentee landlord?' Edward paused dramatically, let his eyes roam around the table, focused on the men seated at each side. No one spoke. Some met his gaze, others did not.

Edward continued in that steely voice, ‘I shall tell you why he was never here, and relegated his job to John Summers. He was in a variety of different mental asylums over these many years. Mr Grant is suffering from dementia. He is not merely a pious and religious fellow, devoted to God, as some of you characterize
him. The man is mentally disturbed and therefore incapable of running this company. Or any other company for that matter.'

No one spoke. Everyone looked at Edward. Some were stunned, others pleased, yet others filled with sudden fear, apprehensive about what would be said next.

‘That is quite an accusation, Mr Deravenel!' Martin Rollins announced in a cold, clear voice, obviously stunned. ‘A
dastardly
accusation, if it is not true, and I doubt that it is.'

‘It is absolutely true!' Edward contradicted him, his voice louder, fierce, emphatic. ‘I have the evidence here for perusal later.' He glanced down at the pile of folders on the conference table in front of him, and continued, ‘I have all the medical records from the various asylums where he was being treated. I have doctors' opinions from those mad houses, and I also have various medical opinions from a number of highly-respected psychiatrists, including Mr Rupert Haversley-Long, of Harley Street, a most respected doctor who has worked with Dr Sigmund Freud. In his opinion Mr Grant is no longer sane. He has not been sane for years.'

‘And has this psychiatrist, Haversley-Long, examined Mr Grant?' Rollins asked, a brow lifting sceptically.

‘No. But he has studied innumerable medical records, and has spoken to those doctors who looked after Mr Grant in the various asylums.'

Martin Rollins, a reasonable man, now fully understood that Edward spoke the truth. He looked saddened as he asked, ‘And you say you have these medical records and reports here with you today, Mr Deravenel?'

‘Yes, I do, sir.' Edward gave the older man a bleak little smile, added, ‘
Copies
, of course. But they can be examined by the board members later, at their convenience. However, they have been reviewed by some board members already.'

‘Is that so!' John Summers spluttered, glaring at Edward, but holding his temper in check. He was fulminating with rage inside.