The Keeper of Stories, page 17
He doesn’t say, “I’ve heard a lot about you”, but it hangs unsaid in the air and Janice is now sure they were talking about her just before she came in. She can’t help wondering what Mrs B said.
Mrs B cuts across her thoughts. “Nonsense, Fred, you will always be Mycroft to me.”
With a jolt, Janice realises Mrs B is flirting. How unbelievably frivolous of her.
Mycroft chortles and reddens, looking more and more like an apple every minute. “Now, you behave yourself, Rosie. Or I shall spill the beans to Janice about that time in Madagascar.”
Rosie?! Janice pulls a chair up to the table. She wishes they had some wine in the house. She would very much like to hear about “that time in Madagascar” over a glass or two. But of course they have no wine. The memory of the lost wine does much to sober her mood, as does Mycroft’s next statement.
“Now, before we get carried away, I suggest we tackle the issue in hand.” He draws some papers towards him that are lying on the table and puts on a pair of silver-rimmed glasses. “I have spoken to Stanley at some length, and have read all the documentation you sent me, Rosie.”
Janice can’t help it; she is distracted, again. She tries to imagine herself calling Mrs B “Rosie”, and fails. She has never thought of her as a woman with a first name – and certainly not such a little girl’s name. If she had to pick a name she would have gone for something like Drusilla, or Medusa – was that the woman with snakes for hair? But Rosie? Rosie is not a woman who kills a man.
“Janice, are you actually going to grace us with your attention? Would that be too much to ask?” Mrs B is back to barking at her.
Mycroft continues. “I have also had some success in viewing the documentation held by the college and shall we say…” Here, his gaze travels up to the furthest corner of the room. “I may have been fortunate enough to get a glimpse of the email correspondence between the interested parties.” He looks even more vague than he did a few seconds ago.
“So you hacked into their system,” Mrs B states, and her feet start to swing merrily back and forth under the table.
“Oh, that is something far outside of my capabilities and I would vehemently deny the inference were it to be suggested,” Mycroft says, peering over his glasses and moving his head from side to side to look at both of them.
Mrs B’s feet are still swinging. “But you know a man who can.”
“Again, you are suggesting something that is well beyond me. I am, after all, just a retired civil servant, living quietly with my wife in Sevenoaks. The most exciting thing I do these days is attend the monthly meeting of our local ornithological society. Did you know we recently saw a desert warbler at Sheerness that had been blown off its migratory path?”
But Mrs B is not fooled. “So what did the emails say?”
“Yes, do you have copies we could read?” Janice enquires.
In unison Mrs B and Mycroft’s heads snap round so they are facing Janice.
Mycroft reaches out and pats her hand. “Oh, my dear, you never write anything down.” He shakes his head at her in gentle reproof. “I will summarise. The main facts are these: Augustus, in his capacity as chair of an educational fund started by his great-grandfather, made a substantial donation on behalf of the trust to the college during his time here as Master.” He pauses and looks at Janice. “You may or may not be aware, Janice, that Augustus’s family income derived from the importation and distribution of spirits and other intoxicating beverages. A very lucrative undertaking, particularly in the closing part of the eighteenth century. However, Augustus’s great-grandfather had a ‘Road to Damascus’ moment when he was arrested – no doubt as an innocent bystander…” Here, Mycroft once again studies the rafters at the far end of the room. “…During what was to become known as the Cleveland Street Scandal. The police raided a male brothel and arrested a number of extremely well-connected men, including, I believe, a duke. Augustus’s great-grandfather was never charged with any wrongdoing but his name was whispered around the clubs of London. It was at this point he launched a very public campaign against the causes of vice, in particular the inequities of drink—”
Mrs B interrupts. “Augustus always said he went down as the most imbecilic of his ancestors. Not for his predilections but for attacking the very business on which his wealth was founded.”
“What happened?” Janice wants to know.
Mycroft continues. “He invested an enormous sum into an education fund. In the early days this was directed at promoting a teetotal lifestyle, but over time this was relaxed to include many forms of education. Luckily for the family, Augustus’s great-grandfather died soon after from a stroke, thereby ensuring that no further money could be diverted away from the family.”
“So how much did the fund give to the college?”
Mrs B answers this for Janice. “Forty million pounds, give or take.”
“Whoa!” Janice exclaims.
Mycroft leans forward and puts the tips of his fingers together. “And here is where Augustus showed his skill as a diplomat and negotiator.” He turns to Mrs B. “He really was a remarkable man, my dear.”
“I know, Fred,” Mrs B says softly.
Mycroft coughs and takes up the story. “Within the terms of the endowment no reference is overtly made to this property…”
Never write anything down. Janice is learning fast.
“However, certain wording suggests there were, shall we say, strings attached. Reading between the lines, it seems the college were more than happy to accommodate these as the capital sum donated was so large and the ‘strings’ did not leave them out of pocket. The documentation refers to a further gift, a personal gift – or, I should say, loan. In this, Augustus allowed the college the income from a sum of £2 million that he placed within another trust. The implication is clear – although it has to be said, it is not explicit – that the income the college would receive would be recompense for allowing Rosie to live here to the end of her natural life. It was drawn up at the time Augustus received his final diagnosis of cancer – when he knew that this time it was terminal.”
“Your husband was making sure you could stay here,” Janice concludes.
Mrs B just nods. It is clear she cannot say anything.
Janice looks at Mycroft. “So, she can definitely stay?” She realises she is finding it hard to know what to call Mrs B in front of her friend. So far she is opting for nothing, except the occasional “she”. “Mrs B” seems inappropriate and the thought of calling her “Rosie” seems farcical. She wonders how long she can keep this up.
Mycroft is once again studying the ceiling. “It is a question of abiding by the stipulations within the agreement. Within the terms she can certainly stay, but should she leave voluntarily, or because she is unfit to live here, the £2 million reverts to Augustus’s estate. And that portion of the estate is willed to his son Tiberius.”
“Tiberius wants to get his hands on the £2 million?” Janice is beginning to understand the reference Tiberius made to money. But hadn’t he said it was not about the money? “Does he want the money to create some sort of legacy here to his father?”
Mycroft has never been more fascinated by the beams in the roof. “Ah, that is certainly what he wishes the college to believe. And the college are happy to fall in with this. After all, they would appreciate getting this building back plus gaining the suggested investment that Tiberius is indicating … however…” and the word hangs.
Mrs B picks it up and throws it down on the table. “However, you have found out that Tiberius has no intention of giving the money to the college and the plans he has drawn up are just a front to get their support.”
He smiles a little sadly at his old friend’s wife. “I believe as the popular saying goes, ‘You may well think that but I could not possibly comment’.”
Janice cannot see his eyes for the late afternoon sunlight that is reflected in the lenses of his spectacles.
All three of them sit back in their chairs.
“So what do we do?” she asks Mycroft, glancing at Mrs B, who once again is silent. She wonders how her son’s betrayal is affecting her. Did she know? Did she guess? So all that stuff she overheard about the building was rubbish. Or maybe her son would be happy for the college to have the building – just not any of his money. And what does he think his mother would do then? She certainly wouldn’t be moving in with them, that’s for sure.
Mycroft continues. “The information I have received from Stanley suggests that Tiberius is encouraging the college to gather information to prove you are not only infirm but constitute a risk to yourself and the college property you inhabit because of your addiction to alcohol. In this way, he is hoping to have you forcibly removed.”
Mrs B looks at them both and shakes her head. “I know to you I may seem like a very foolish woman for wanting to stay here…”
“Not at all, my dear.” Mycroft takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes.
“You probably think my son is entitled to that money—”
“Rosie, let me interrupt you there. You recall I was one of Augustus’s executors. We both know Tiberius was very well provided for.”
“Yes, but he always had very expensive tastes…” She pauses and looks around the room at the shelves of books. She appears to be looking for something. “It’s just that I do find I miss Augustus more with the passing of time, rather than less, and it is here where we were so happy and settled that I sometimes feel I find him. When I sit opposite his old chair I can almost imagine he is still beside me and I fear that if I move from this place he will be lost to me.”
Janice sees that a tear is running slowly down the paper-thin skin of her cheek. In that moment, she chooses. If this is war she knows whose side she is on. After all, Stan is already a double agent; she will be in good company. She will just have to be very careful. She tries not to think about Decius. She would like to be able to tell herself he is only a dog, but she knows that is never going to happen.
“What can I do to help?” she says, nailing her colours firmly to the mast.
Mycroft looks at his old friend and reaches out his left hand. He holds Mrs B’s hand in his. With his other hand he pulls a pad of paper towards him and, picking up a pen, writes a few words on it. He passes this to Janice. “To get us started with our legal strategy, I suggest we take inspiration from this book. I imagine you will find a copy of it in this library.”
Janice has organised well over two-thirds of Mrs B’s books and she is sure there are no law books in her collection. She glances at the paper and frowns when she sees the title written there. Then light dawns. Impulsively she reaches out, touches Mrs B on the shoulder, and says, “Oh, you’re going to like this.” She is pleased to see a shadow of the old spirit in her eyes as Mrs B looks up at her.
She will not say any more to Mrs B until she has climbed the stairs to the upper gallery and found what she is looking for. She knows exactly where it is; she placed it there herself between Barnaby Rudge and David Copperfield. She returns with the leather-bound copy of Bleak House by Charles Dickens and gives it to Mycroft. She cannot resist commenting. “Jarndyce versus Jarndyce, I believe.”
Mrs B’s rapier look flashes from Janice’s face to Mycroft’s and her feet start to swing to and fro. “So, that’s the way, is it? I hope you won’t be bankrupting me, Mycroft?”
“No, unlike the lawyers in Bleak House, who spent so many years fighting over the Jarndyce fortune that by the end of the case there was nothing left of it, I shall be providing my time free of charge.”
“Oh, but you can’t, Fred. You know Augustus would never have wanted that.”
“I know he would certainly have been distressed that it was necessary to use such delaying tactics against his own son. However, I do believe he would have enjoyed the prospect of me leading the opposing counsel on such a tortuous journey that they no longer know whether they are coming or going. Oh yes, he would have liked that.”
Janice thinks Mrs B is possibly crying again, but she is also smiling. “Do you think there would be a way to get the wine back?” Janice asks.
“I am afraid to say I believe that may be a lost cause. We do not want to do anything, however small, to support their case that Rosie is an infirm old lady addicted to the bottle.” Mycroft reaches into his jacket pocket for his wallet. “However, that is not to say we cannot think of other ways around this. Now, Janice, I wonder if I could trouble you to pop to the wine shop that I saw on the corner and then we can toast our new coalition. I believe we should also invite Stanley to join us. I am not normally a man who experiences real wrath, but when I heard that Tiberius had taken Rosie and Augustus’s precious wine – my wife will tell you – I turned the air positively blue.”
Janice walks to the cupboard by the sink to collect what she needs.
“A bucket?” Mycroft queries.
“Well, there’s no need for anyone else in the college to know what we’re up to, and who looks twice at a middle-aged cleaner carrying a bucket?”
“Oh, we’ll make a spy of you yet,” Mrs B declares, as Janice heads for the door.
Twenty-Six
The foreign prince
Mycroft is firm in refusing a second glass of wine.
“Only the one for me, thank you. I am driving and Elsie will worry if I don’t set off soon.”
A little later, he asks Janice if she would be kind enough to show him the way back to the visitor’s parking. She senses there is more to it than this, and she is right.
“I hope you don’t mind me taking you aside, Janice, I just wanted to say thank you for keeping an eye on Rosie. She is not as tough as she would have us all believe. Here are my details, should you need me.” With this, he draws out a small, white card. Janice half-expects to see “Spink & Son, Family Plumbers. Est: 1910”. Instead there is simply a printed phone number, nothing else. Ah, never write anything down. As she accepts the card, she realises she is having the same problem with Mycroft as she had earlier with Mrs B. She cannot bring herself to say, “Mycroft” or “Fred” and yet, “Mr Spink” seems absurd, so she is avoiding calling him anything.
“The sad thing is, Janice, that this action is causing Rosie unnecessary distress, when Tiberius and the college would be far better waiting quietly for a few more years for their money and building. I hope Rosie will live another five or more years, but we have to be realistic about these things. With that in mind, I have also ensured that my son, Andrew, who, I am proud to say, followed me into the legal profession, is fully conversant with the issues. He is happy to take up the case of … shall we say … Jarndyce versus Jarndyce, should I myself fall from my perch. He was very fond of Augustus and owes him a debt of gratitude for untangling a certain problem in Mongolia involving a pig and a stolen camel. Youthful high jinks, of course, but the authorities did not view it in the same light.”
Janice (the collector of stories) wonders whether she will be able to persuade Mycroft to tell her his son’s story one day.
Mycroft opens his car door. As he lowers his portly frame onto the seat, he turns. “I think what upsets me most about all of this is to see that such a strong woman can be bullied and lied to just because she is old. And that it should be her own son who does this grieves me more than I can say.” He shakes his head and closes the door. It occurs to Janice that at least the problems she has with Simon stem from the distance that has grown between them, rather than them being rooted in dislike or deception.
As she returns past the Porter’s Lodge, she spots that Stan is back in situ. He gives her a conspiratorial wink as she goes by. Rounding the corner into the quadrangle she checks her phone and sees she has missed four text messages from Mike. This adds to the further eight she has received earlier. These vary in tone from loving (hi babe plz txt miss u) to slightly annoyed (rly need 2 c u this is not rite) to demanding (need car now!!!!). She is surprised he hasn’t texted, wotz 4 dinner? Apart from letting Mike know that she is safe and staying with a friend she has not replied to any of his messages. The car she will think about later. She feels mean depriving him of it, but she has had to do without it for so long she thinks there is no harm in him knowing what it feels like to wait for buses in the rain. There are two things she has made time for in relation to Mike. These are: calling the bank to make sure there is no chance he can set up overdrafts on their accounts and trying to contact their building society. This was less successful as the contact information on the website continually led her back to the frequently asked questions page, rather than identifying an actual phone number or email she could use. She wants to make sure Mike is not able to re-mortgage their house – again.
She has also received a text from Euan and it has now been arranged that they will meet for a drink the following evening in a pub by the river. When she first read his text she felt panic welling up within her, but she kept telling herself to just stick to books and stories and all will be well. It seems to be working because now she is really looking forward to it.
When she returns to Mrs B’s she finds her waiting expectantly by the fire. She has poured them both another glass of wine and Janice resigns herself to leaving her car overnight and getting the bus back. She wonders if Euan ever works a late shift.
“Are you ready for the next instalment of Becky’s story?” Mrs B asks, settling herself more comfortably in her chair.
“Enter foreign prince, stage left?”
“Indeed.”
“Mrs B, before we start, are you all right?”
“So, I’m Mrs B again, now am I? I noticed you didn’t call me anything at all when Mycroft was here.”
“I was thinking of trying ‘Rosie’.”
Mrs B ignores this and takes a sip of wine, but Janice can see the tell-tale muscle twitching in the side of her face.
“So we left Becky enjoying the delights of Paris which, despite the war – this was 1917 – was still a very pleasant place to be if you had the money and contacts, and Becky had both of these in abundance. We join her lunching in the Hotel Crillon, overlooking the Place de la Concorde. I picture her toying with a bit of lobster as she gazes over the square, where a century or so earlier Marie Antoinette was sent to the guillotine and relieved of her burden of worldly troubles.”
