This book has finally reached the Final Editor’s draft, so this month it is going to get the last revision, and a reread for the beta readers.
…
Today I’m dealing with the art of elusiveness, and trying to emulate what it would be like to hide the truth from someone. It would require a great deal of elusiveness and guile to carry it off as though whatever you’ve been lying about for so long doesn’t come back to bite you.
Of course, if I tried it in practice I’d fail miserably, because I don’t have a poker face, and worse, I can’t keep a secret.
So, best not to ask me if I can keep a secret because I will say yes very earnestly, and then give it up when the pressure is on.
I’d never make a good spy either.
But it does make me wonder about all those people out there that constantly tell lies about everything, their past, whether or not they’re having an affair, where they’ve been, and what happened to the money.
Some people are very good at it, especially those who change their names, or have a half dozen different passports.
But, here, in this story, Jack’s mother probably just wanted to believe her twin sister had perished a long time ago, and the longer it became since she last heard from her, the more it was likely she was gone.
Pity. She’s about to come back from the dead.
And, of course, she does know about the doppelganger Jacob, because he had already visited her.
But as to why Jacob has come out of the woodwork, well that has something to do with the past, and an old flame Jack’s mother had a long time ago.
He too has come out of the past for different reasons, none of them good for her health.
Though revenge is not what Michael wanted to get caught up in, it was the people with whom he had to see that had him thinking that way.
Michael knew from bitter experience that the world would be a better place without half the people in it, the half that made up the cheats, liars, self-serving, egotistical twits, and pompous asses.
He’d seen enough of those when he and Agatha had been together.
Dealing with a chap Agatha had had what had to be described as a fling, seemed to think that an invitation to stay at one of her apartments until he found his own was the same as being married.
That aristocratic self-entitlement was enough to have Michael considering whether a three-hour torture session in a disused factory where no one would hear the screams, might just teach him the error of his assumptions. Sadly, it didn’t come to that, but there were plenty of others on the list.
This book has finally reached the Final Editor’s draft, so this month it is going to get the last revision, and a reread for the beta readers.
…
Today I’m dealing with the art of elusiveness, and trying to emulate what it would be like to hide the truth from someone. It would require a great deal of elusiveness and guile to carry it off as though whatever you’ve been lying about for so long doesn’t come back to bite you.
Of course, if I tried it in practice I’d fail miserably, because I don’t have a poke face, and worse, I can’t keep a secret.
So, best not to ask me if I can keep a secret because I will say yes very earnestly, and then give it up when the pressure is on.
I’d never make a good spy either.
But it does make me wonder about all those people out there that constantly tell lies about everything, their past, whether or not they’re having an affair, where they’ve been, and what happened to the money.
Some people are very good at it, especially those who change their names, or have a half dozen different passports.
But, here, in this story, Jack’s mother probably just wanted to believe her twin sister had perished a long time ago, and the longer it became since she last heard from her, the more it was likely she was gone.
Pity. She’s about to come back from the dead.
And, of course, she does know about the doppelganger Jacob, because he had already visited her.
But as to why Jacob has come out of the woodwork, well that has something to do with the past, and an old flame Jack’s mother had a long time ago.
He too has come out of the past for different reasons, none of them good for her health.
This wasn’t the 1920s or 1930s in Egypt where the Howard Carters of this world were making famous discoveries. It might have felt like that as we sat in the hotel room and she introduced me to the real world of archaeology, that one where time and effort often brought discouraging results and lack of progress, and then how she came to conclude that this unknown pirate that everyone and no one knew about, actually existed.
She was the only one to believe she actually existed and proceeded to explain why she thought differently to all the rest. The pirate, of course, was female, by the name of Charlotte de Barry. Born in 1624, she was of an age just as the golden age of pirates began. Reputed to have taken up with a pirate, she followed him back to his ship, disguised as a man, and learned the trade until her aspirations of captaining her own ship were realised. Pity then it was via a later Captain who had kidnapped and forced her to marry him, that harbouring a deep down hate for what he had done to her, she bided her time, and working with the crew finally killed him and took over his ship.
Was it a female crew? It was a question I wasn’t going to ask, but I suspect it was not. All the references were circumstantial, but there was a journal, not belonging to the captain, but the mate, chronicling their adventures, but the captain referred to in that journal was Captain Rodolph. Certainly, the story matched that of Charlotte.
Then there was an account of her in ‘A History of Pirates’, and again, it could be construed it was Charlotte. I wanted to believe it was true for her sake. The journal had one particular entry, rather long that detailed the burial of treasure to be collected later, in Jamaica, not far from Port Antonio in a place named, now, Frenchman’s Cove.
The thing is, as a work of fiction, it was entirely believable. I could write it, and it would be, as she said, a best seller because everyone wants to believe there’s treasure out there, somewhere.
When I asked her about the journal, she said it was a handwritten translation from a number of writing books that dated back to the late 1800s. She had considered the entries might be the work of a fertile imagination, but there were too many entries that had a ring of authenticity to them, that the writer had to be aboard a pirate ship.
Others had dismissed them as just that, fictional entries, but she had cross-referenced the dates with other known documents. A lot depended on their authenticity, and it begged the question of why someone else hadn’t taken the information. The person she’d bought them off had found them in an old chest up in the attic of her grandparent’s house in England, thought them to be just a work of fiction and put them out for sale in a garage sale. A lucky find, perhaps.
That didn’t mean I didn’t believe she made a tangible discovery. All it needed was some artifacts, and it would take on a whole new life, and that was where time and money played a huge factor. Like Howard Carter, those two items were running out.
This, by her own admission, was going to be her final attempt, and I was hoping it would be successful.
After making arrangements to be away for a few weeks and channelling the funds into an account accessible to both of us, we hopped on a plane and headed for Kingston, Jamaica, on the first leg of the trip.
We were planning to head off to the site near Port Antonio, a small Cove where they had to stop and make repairs after a battle at sea with a British frigate, and where the decision was made to offload the treasure into five chests and bury it.
The precise location was not exactly described in the journal, but there were references to landmarks that bore similarities. It was enough to go ahead and get the government documents required to explore. She had deliberately made it obscure by outlining a thousand more acres than was necessary.
Imagine then our surprise to find the Jamiesons, father and son, at the check-in counter having arrived the same time as us. It was the best hotel in Kingston, so perhaps not so much a surprise.
Jackson noticed us first. “Elizabeth, fancy meeting you here. Or not. This is your stomping ground. Found any pirate treasure yet. What’s it been, seven years? Did you break a mirror?”
I could see the expression on her face and the anger about to boil over. I stepped between them.
“I think that was a bit uncalled for, Jackson.”
“Why am I not surprised to see her with a trashy novelist. Couldn’t be an archaeologist, so you just invent stuff. I’m not surprised her university funds were cancelled. It’s going to real archaeology.”
It wasn’t hard to read between the lines. “Why are you here?”
“Haven’t you been reading the papers? We’ve found the location of the treasure. It took a week. Not seven years. I guess you’re as big a failure as your boyfriend here.”
She was going to remonstrate, but it wasn’t the place or the time. We needed facts if he had stolen her dig. I turned to her and said, “There’s no point discussing this while you’re angry, and we don’t know what’s happened, or if it’s the same dig. We’ll check in and then find out what’s going on.” I certainly didn’t want to argue with him here, now.
I could see the anger blazing in her eyes, and if I let her, I was sure that the police would end up being called. Instead, I hustled her away to a safe distance. Right then, I didn’t think her opinion of me went anywhere but down.
I saw Jackson say something to the father, and he looked over at us with an odd expression. Whether or not he had heard his son belittling us, he definitely looked uncomfortable, which to me was odd.
“Why did you do that. You know what this is about. He is not content to create his own miracle find. Now he’s trying to steal mine.”
“You don’t know that for sure. He might have found something else entirely. This place has more than one dig right now, and Pirates are in the news. Let’s check-in, go to the room, and then I’ll make a call. When my first book was published, I got a call from an editor of the paper here. I’ll call him and see what he has to say. Jackson said that it was in the news.”
I could see she was still angry but saving her from making a scene in the hotel lobby was better than the alternative and might play into their hands. I had to sigh in relief when she did as I asked.
“Do you have someone local you can call and see what’s happening at your site? I assume you shut it down before coming back?”
“Yes. I left Jimmie there. He lives nearby. Oddly, he hadn’t called to tell me anything.”
“Then perhaps it’s not your site Jackson was referring to. They could be somewhere else.”
I was hoping it was.
A half-hour later, a local newspaper in hand, and seeing a small story about the famous Egypt archaeologist who was in Kingston to make an announcement about his next exciting project, I arrived back in my room. I could see she was trying to phone her local assistant, just as I tracked down the editor.
He was delighted to hear I was in Kingston and asked if it was for a book signing.
“No. I’m not sure why my agent doesn’t schedule signings all over the world, it would certainly make a difference to the dark attic I seem to be continually stuck in, writing.”
“Really?” He seemed to believe me.
“No, not really, but some days I feel like it. Actually, I’m here because a friend of mine has been working on a dig of her own, investigating one of the few female pirates one Charlotte de Berry, and the myth of buried treasure.”
“A story no doubt you will be writing about.”
“Something like that. There is another archaeologist in town, we just ran into the Jamiesons downstairs, and I read in the paper there’s going to be a big announcement. Do you know what it is?”
“As it happens it’s about the same pirate. But no one believes it’s possible. One of our experts and believe me she knows everything about Pirates and Jamaica, says that whatever he turns up, it will have nothing to do with Charlotte de Barry, or anyone else. Any treasure buried or otherwise will not be found. “
“You say that with a lot of scepticism”.
“I read your story on the Jamieson Egypt dig and it dripped with scepticism. My impression is that you have proof, you just never played that card. They tried to stop the publication of your first book. Not the wisest of moves because it turned it into a best seller. It might have just disappeared into the ether had he not.”
A blunt but true assessment. I had thought it would not get any interest and end up on the remainder tables. Then came the lawsuit, and the reluctant publisher that had delayed the release, suddenly published and glad they did.
So was I with the three-book deal that followed.
“They simply saw that there was no merit to their case. But still, it could as you say disappear into the ether. When is the press conference?”
“Three days. They’re going to the site, do a preliminary investigation, and then tell the world. I fear this may be a gigantic hoax and it’s not what we want or need.”
“Then I shall put on my investigative journalist hat and see what it’s about. And you can have the story whichever way it turns out.”
“Thank you. We shall speak again.”
I disconnected the call and looked over at Elizabeth. She did not look happy. “What did you find out?”
“Jimmie has gone missing. I spoke to Fred, another chap I was working with, and he said that a large team of people arrived a week ago and set up about a mile away from my site, closer to the Cove. He says that the man in charge is Jackson Jamieson. I sent him a photo and he ID’ed him. I think Jimmie has sold me out. I told him I would be back with his money but apparently, he called the Jamiesons and said if the price was right, he’d tell them everything.”
“Including the place where you think the treasure is?”
“No. Only I know where that is. But if he rips up the site, then might just bulldoze over the top of it.”
“Can they do that?”
“How much money can they throw at it?”
A lot.
“Then we need to get there and see what’s happening for ourselves. They’ll probably go by helicopter. We’re going to have to drive there.”
“If we go tonight?”
“We could do that.”
“I’m sorry but this is just too much. I should have guessed something like this would happen. It’s all become a very cut-throat business, and I’m just not up for that end of it.”
“Well let’s wait and see. It all might be a storm in a teacup.”
An hour later, while Elizabeth was showering and changing her clothes, I said I was going down to tell the front desk we would be away for a few days. In reality, I told her a small lie.
There was one stop along the way. The presidential suite, where I knew the intrepid father and son archaeologists were staying. I didn’t have to ask the front desk.
Standing outside, I rang the doorbell, and a minute later, a man came to the door, what looked to me like a butler.
I’ve come to see Aristotle Jamieson. I don’t have an appointment but tell him it’s Leo Brightman, and it’s in his best interests to see me.”
“Very good. Please wait.” Then he shut the door again, leaving me out in the passage.
Five minutes passed before he returned. “Mr Jamieson will see you now. Follow me.”
It was like some of the very large apartments I had seen in New York when I was contemplating living there. A large living area, a passage to two bedrooms, and a study or meeting room that would double as a dining room.
He was sitting at one end of the table in the meeting room, documents, folders, a computer, and a phone set out neatly in front of him. The son was not in the room, thankfully. The butler closed the door behind me, and we were alone.
“If you’ve come to plead her case to withdraw, it won’t work. Her claim expired two weeks ago, and she should have renewed it.”
“That’s part of the reason I’m here, but not the only. To be clear, I was, and still am in fact, an investigative journalist. You will know this because a lot of my first book was based on my investigation into your Egyptian find. You tried to stop publication and force a few changes, but ultimately, I have you to thank for making me far wealthier than I would have been digging around looking for stuff that’s increasingly rare to find. So thank you.”
“And yet, I sense a but.”
“The but is a man named Antoine Gascon.”
I could see the flicker of recognition and the attempt to hide that tell.
“He died five years ago. A grubby little man who forged Egyptian trinkets to sell on the black market for extortionate sums to gullible fools.”
“He was murdered, you know. I investigated his death because I didn’t believe he had died accidentally. Turns out the toxicology report the police received wasn’t the real report.”
“Not my concern.”
“Not right now, but it will be. Six years ago, a week before his untimely death, he and I sat down and had an extensive interview. He showed me his workshop and the trial-and-error artifacts he created for you. Just so you know, there are numerous copies of this interview in the hands of various people who will make that information public under certain circumstances.”
“No one would believe it, because, as I said, he has been proved to be a liar and a cheat.”
“That may be, but when he told you he destroyed all the prototypes and moulds, and I know you or your son, he didn’t specifically say, was there when he did, the fact is he kept two, both of which you generously donated to the museum. When he made those, he made two identical artifacts, which experts will discover when they do a thorough examination. The location of them is in the recorded interview. Now you can keep up the charade, or we can do a deal. I’m not interested in making a mockery out of archaeology, but I do want something that will be very easy for you to grant. If that happens, then you won’t be reading about a certain scurrilous archaeologist.”
I could see he was wrestling with the idea of just bluffing me and sticking to his original story so that no one would believe Antoine. Had he not shown me the two artifacts, I would have done the same in his place. I would have liked to be able to read his mind.
After a small sign, whether of defeat, or pragmatism, he said, “And what guarantee do I get in return.”
“If you leave Elizabeth and her dig alone, the interview never sees the light of day. I don’t care what you do, just don’t destroy her one chance. You can join her, but it is her dig and her glory. You have yours and you can keep it. As I said, it’s in the best interests of everyone that the status quo remains. It’s up to you. We’re leaving for her dig site in a few hours. If she chooses to go where you set up your circus, they should be informed that it is her project and that they are working for her. Your collaboration will be appreciated. Your son, just keep him under control, he wasn’t particularly nice earlier.” I stood.
“Is that all? I assume you will not be destroying those tapes?”
“No. Just in case you change your mind in the future, or, if anything happens to you, your son decides to go off the reservation. What I’m asking for is no skin off your nose. We don’t have to be friends, but it would help if you simply played nice.”
Agatha must have realised that her life was in danger, whether she expected her condition would worsen, sending her back to the hospital, or whether she was dying, that was clear enough in the letter she left behind, but that letter also had a fairly detailed rundown on everyone in the organisation, every suspicion she had, and what she and Howard were planning to do about it.
It was perhaps the most frightening document he had ever read, and with each succeeding paragraph, page, character, situation, and fear, he was able to slip into her shoes and feel the pain, anguish, and disappointment filtering through, and her feelings became his motivation.
This is the plan:
Meet the press. Well, no, that wasn’t on the plan, but someone called a press conference, and he decided to crash it.
He had hoped meeting the General, one of the causes of her angst, would be later after he had time to prepare, but it wasn’t to be. He’d met formidable commanding officer once before, and had heard far more about him, and perhaps had been at the end of an order or two if not directly, but he was also privy to scuttlebutt, and if rumours were true…
It doesn’t go well.
He does meet the impertinent reporter again with an interesting surprise attached.
There’s the other office, another PA, and yes it’s a test of patience he wasn’t expecting, but he did have some information on her that smooths the encounter.
I was happy where I ended up, far, far away from the madding crowd, a misquote from the title of one of my favourite books.
One of six siblings, I had three brothers and two sisters, and being the youngest of the six, I was the one the other five gave the hardest time
It might have been because my parents spoiled me rotten, being the surprise, they never expected. That and much later, when our parents died travelling in a far away and relatively dangerous place, on their way home from visiting me.
That was the day I basically never saw or spoke to them. In a sense, it was easy. They were in England, too wrapped up in a squabble over the spoils of an undocumented inheritance, and I was happy being the forgotten son in Africa.
I had never wanted anything to do with family life in England, not living in the large house, the servants, the other properties in Europe, managing the farms, and later as grew older, watching the responsibility of it all slowly crush my father, trying to keep it all afloat while the other five siblings tried to squander the fortune in ways that beggared belief.
He knew what was happening, it was one of the reasons why he came to visit me. I wondered why he had come alone, but it turned out that the day they were both coming, she had got very ill.
It was then he told me that when they returned, the debt collectors would move in, and everything was lost. He knew it wouldn’t bother me, I had never had any interest in the family fortune or now lack thereof as it turned out.
He had wanted me to return home and sort out the mess, but I declined. Instead, we spent a few days together reliving old and better times l, then took him back to Nairobi and spent a day with my mother. It was clear he hadn’t told her. It would be a shock when they returned, but they would survive.
Except they didn’t return, at least not alive, killed in a freak accident on the way to the airport. When I sent word home of their deaths, there was not one response from any of the children.
In the end, I made arrangements with the estate manager at their home to send them home to be buried in the family plot. In a last-minute change of heart, I accompanied them back to England, and then to the Manor House which, when greeted by the Estate Manager, told me that the house had been repossessed by the bank and that everyone had been evicted.
In a final act of kindness, we were allowed to bury them in the family cemetery, in a service run by a priest I’d never seen before, attended by people I could not remember as family friends. Perhaps the only relevant attendee was a man I recognised, my father’s legal friend, Dobbins.
He only asked one question: Did I have a copy of the last will and testament. Apparently, my father had come out to discuss it. I told him he did not, and I did not have anything. We just talked about the old days, and he left. He just shook his head and left.
Not one of my brothers or sisters turned up to the service. Why would they? There was nothing in it for them. That would come with the reading of the will…oops, there was no will.
You never get what you wish for, and apparently, Lamu Island, about ten hours’ drive from Nairobi in Kenya, was not far enough away.
It was no coincidence that I ended up in Kenya, the brother of my great, great, great grandfather had served in the British army and then retired, and instead of going home, bought a small plot of land on Lamu Island and built a place to spend the rest of his days.
Successive generations made improvements until the line died out, the place came up for sale, and knowing its heritage and connection to the family, I bought it.
It was why, on a bright autumn morning, I was sitting on the front porch staring out across the landscape, paying attention on a car heading along the road that rarely had vehicular traffic.
It could only be heading for one of three places, two further up the road, if it could be called that, to my neighbours, or to my place. Neither of my neighbours was currently at home, and I wasn’t expecting anyone, so it was either trouble or an unexpected visitor.
I took a few minutes to prepare for any eventuality and then went back to my seat. The car slowed as it approached my driveway, then stopped. I could see there was only one person in the car, but it was hard to tell who it might be.
My cell phone rang.
Was it the person in the car? If so, how did they get my cell number?
There was a phone number but not a name. It was an English-based cell number, but no name, therefore not someone I knew.
I shrugged and pressed the green button.
“Jeremy?”
It sounded like my sister, Felicity, one year older and the one whom I had the most angst with. I hadn’t missed her after leaving and deliberately avoided contact since. I’d be very annoyed if my father had told the others where I was.
I could pretend to be someone else, but it would seem churlish. I had no doubt it was her.
“Turn around and go home.”
“Can’t. I flew in with a friend and they won’t be back for two days. I figure you would at the very least put me up for that time. We have things to discuss.”
“We have nothing to discuss. You and the rest of the vultures might, but it has nothing to do with me. I told Dad I wanted nothing to do with him, his assets, not that he has any, or you lot.”
“That might be what you think is the situation, but exactly the opposite is true. He didn’t die intestate, nor did he die penniless like he told everyone, and despite your protestations, he left you the lot. And I’m here to help head off the angry mob.”
As much as I wanted to believe it, this seemed a con to get in the door. I’d hear her out and then get Adolf, a friend who lived nearby to take her back to the airport.
“Whatever. You’ve got an hour to prove your case, and then you’re gone. I know for a fact he had nothing. He proved it when he was here, so whatever you think you know, you don’t.”
“I don’t have any choice.”
The line went dead, so I guess I would have to wait and see what the three of them had concocted.
I watched the car, and after the phone call, it surprised me that she did not drive in but sat outside and made another call.
I suspect she was calling the siblings to tell them she had found me and was about to plead their case.
It was stupid to think or believe that our father had left anything behind other than massive debts. There was no way that our mother had left anything because her fortune or lack thereof was tied up in our father’s financial mess.
He had told me quite plainly there was nothing left and that the receivers were moving in the moment he arrived home.
And if her information came from our father’s lawyer, then he had not mentioned anything when I spoke to him. He has asked if I had a copy of the will, and that I didn’t mean the last will stood which apportioned the estate to the other siblings, excluding me, because he and I had a falling out at the time.
Nothing she said made sense.
Ten minutes passed before the car continued from the front gate to the house. I remained on the deck, and watched her park the car next to mine, get out, smooth out the wrinkles, and walk up the stairs.
That last meeting, however long ago it was, and it still rankled, and I was angry. There were not going to be hugs nor apologies for distancing myself from all of them. I had nothing in common with any of them, and I’d made my views quite plain the last time I saw them all together and didn’t pull any punches.
It was odd that she was here now.
“Don’t get settled,” I noted she had left her bag in the car. “State your case.”
I didn’t move, and there was no way she was setting foot inside.
She held out a piece of paper, neatly folded.
“A copy of the will.”
I glared at her and then at it. “Where did you get it?”
“It was under one of the drawers in his study.”
“Who found it?”
“Jacob. You know what he’s like?”
“I do. His most notable trait, forging his father’s signature so he could escape school. If that’s your evidence, then it’s not.”
I took it, unfolded it, and glanced at the contents. It was worded like a six-year-old would, and had about ten lines that simply left all his worldly possessions to me. The writing was scrawled, as were the witnesses’ names I didn’t recognise.
“It’s a forgery. And he had no worldly possessions. Who are these witnesses?”
“Dobkins partners.”
“Why didn’t he tell me that when I saw him at the funeral? Moreover, why did he ask me if I had a copy of the will?”
OK, I could see what might be happening here. The angry mob were throwing a fake, hoping I would proffer the one they believed her left with me that was to their benefit.
This was Andrew’s doing. He was the most devious of the lot.
I had my cell phone, and I’d put Dobkin’s phone number on it when my father visited. He had said I would have to talk to him when things got bad. When they had, I’d expected a call. He did not.
Was he in league with the siblings thinking there were a few pounds to be made?
I called the number, and he answered.
“It’s Jeremy. I’ve got Felicity here with some cock and bull story about me being the only beneficiary of a non-existent fortune my father didn’t leave behind, in a will that was obviously forged by Jacob. I’ll be happy to prove it.”
His response was predictable. “You have a new will then?”
They were all in it together.
“We had this conversation. There is no other will, and this one I’d rubbish, and you know it. He died intestate. If there’s spoilt to be had, the vultures split it between them. If not, don’t bother me again.”
I hung up.
I glared at her. “Whatever this is, whatever you lot have conspired between you, forget about including me in it. There’s nothing to be bad. I don’t have a copy of my father’s will. That’s not why he came here. While he was here, he told me between Mother and you lot, you have bled the estate dry, and there was nothing left. Since I was the only one who wasn’t a bloodsucking leech, he thought I might have some idea of how to save the family home. Short of a miracle, I did not.”
“Then how do you account for this?”
She pulled another neatly folded piece of paper and held it out.
“What is it?”
“A list of assets.”
I took it more out of curiosity than anything else and looked at it. It had the title ‘Investments’ and was a list of stocks and bonds with the purchase date, and another date, about a month before he came to see me. Under the latter date was a value.
It was written in the same spidery handwriting that was almost the same in the will but with key differences. This was his writing. The will wasn’t.
It was the same documents he had shown me when he visited, and he had said when he cadged it all in to pay the debts, it had fallen short by nearly three million pounds.
He’d also shown me the bank documents, including the one that advised that he had a specified period to find that remaining sum or risk foreclosure.
They were still in the satchel the police had delivered along with what belongings he and our mother had at the time of their deaths. It was all upstairs in the attic, none of which I could find the desire to look at or send home.
I could see now why the vultures thought there were spoils to be had. That asset list was worth nearly twenty million pounds.
“I bet you and your fellow vultures eyes lit up when you saw this?”
“Only the fact he left it to you, not us. We all need that money, and as you say, you don’t.”
I shrugged. “You have spoken to his investment bankers before you came, didn’t you?”
“What do you mean?”
I shook my head. None of them had any common sense, not where money was concerned, and not while there was an endless well to draw from. They wouldn’t because none of them considered investing or even saving for a rainy day.
“You’ve come a long way for nothing. You can stay until your ride returns. I gave her the two sheets of paper back. “The will is fake. The list of investments, he cashed in trying to save the family home. He fell short by three million. Is any one of you still living in the house, or did the bank take it?”
She didn’t have to answer.
“Andrew and Jacob set you up, Felicity. If they came, I’d shoot them without hesitation. You, I would think twice. And I think you know that Will was a fake, and that because the bank took the house, there was nothing left. If you don’t, then perhaps I should shoot you.”
She was sullen over dinner after I showed her around the house. It wasn’t much, but I never had the same expensive tastes as the others.
They had all worn the mantle of the Lord’s in waiting, pushing that life of privilege to the limit. It was never a matter of keeping up with the Joneses. They were the Joneses.
Until the well went dry, and it was interesting reading their comeuppance one by one as they found themselves explaining what happened. Or not being able to, because none of them understood the nature of their problems. They had spent all their time relying on our father to do it for them.
I knew that Felicity was smarter than the rest of them, she had been the only one who was academically gifted and had aspirations of being, of all things, a jet fighter pilot in the RAF. Neatly succeeded if there hadn’t been an accident that, in the end, saw her discharged from the service.
From there, she became an airline pilot, an envious job, and how she managed to get to my place.
It didn’t make sense to me why she would buy into Andrew and Jacob’s scheme, and I tried to draw it out of her. Perhaps giving her the facts had made her realise what a waste of time the exercise was.
Whatever the reason, she went to bed a very sad woman.
Assuming that she was not going to believe what I had told her, I made that trip to the attic and found my father’s satchel. I took it down to my study and laid the papers out on the desk.
It was not the thought of having a large house in the most expensive part of London, the servants, or what he could do with the money.
That was all for the charitable intentions she had set out a long time ago when he had mentioned that there was a lot of good she could do rather than just spend it on drugs parties and alcohol.
Yes, that was the first of what he called the doosie arguments.
After that, it was the unkind remarks of her friends, what he called the hangers-on and aristocratic deadbeats. It earned him no kudos, so he went off and did his own thing.
He should have tried harder. It was clear she had loved him, but there were too many forces pulling at her, the friends, the lifestyle, the parents, the aristocratic blood.
That all came back in that moment he saw Adria, her best friend and perhaps the only other voice of reason, and who had been in the beginning his arch enemy, the one who tried hard to prove he was just like any other man; and in the end, became an ally when she found he wasn’t anything like she expected.
Just too late, the damage had been done.
This visit brought back some very raw memories, and having to work with her again was going to be difficult. Perhaps it would only be fleeting because this was going to be a fly-in fly-out job, sort out the mess, and move on.
He could see the original bequest to her charitable organisation had been sequestered from everything else, and all he had to do was divorce the new charity, pull out her interest in it, or that of her organisation as a parent and let them sink into what she had called ‘piggie quagmire’.
It was what he had always feared would happen that someone like her father would intervene and take everything from her. Having met Howard, he could see that would never have happened.
Mac was the supervisor of everyone on the floor, and he only came down for one of two reasons, to tell us that we had not met the performance statistics for the month, or he was here to retire someone.
It was an in-joke that when they spoke about retiring an employee, what it really meant was they were being fired.
We knew the performance statistics for our section were spot on, so someone was getting fired.
All eyes followed him from the moment he stepped out of the elevator, and then as he walked slowly across the floor, sometimes stopping just to see the expression on that person’s face before moving on.
Today, he stopped twice until he reached my station. Then he stopped and looked at me
My first thought. I’d done nothing wrong. I’d been there the longest and knew how to do the work blindfolded, so why?
“Clear your station, collect your stuff, and follow me.”
Had he not said ‘collect your stuff’, I would not be worried. Now I was, trying to think of what it was that had caused my demise. The only thing I could think of was the anonymous suggestion I’d dropped in the box, one that would improve production and make life easier for us.
It only took a few minutes to stow the materials and take the machine out of service for the night. Another team would come later to check or repair it for the next day, if required. Machine downtime was practically non-existent.
Five minutes after he arrived, we were crossing the floor back to the elevator lobby. From there, we would ascent three floors to the administration level where HR was and where the paperwork would be waiting.
It was pointless asking him why. He would only say they never confided in him; he was simply doing what he was told. Nor would he say anything more. He was literally a man of few words.
The elevator doors closed, and the old car slowly crawled up the shaft. It was the original elevator from the early 1900s and a relic from the past, much like everything in the factory.
The owner did not like change, nor did he like the new trend in furniture making, stuff that came out of cardboard boxes. Stuff, he raged at one staff meeting that would fall over in a breeze.
They would never make that stuff, not even over his dead body.
Well, perhaps everything was relative. The old man had died, and the son was looking to sell, never interested in furniture, making or selling it. Nobody would be making or selling anything over his dead body.
The elevator made it, and the doors creaked open.
We marched up the corridor to the office at the end, the one that said ‘Production Manager’ and below that, practically faded away, George Bendon, the man who held that position 65 years ago.
He opened the door and motioned for me to pass. He was obviously not waiting around to hear the news. Would he miss me, I doubt it.
A man was looking out the window with his back to me, and the form looked familiar. When the door closed, he turned around.
The boss’s son, William. His second, perhaps third, visit to the factory.
We were friends once when his father all but adopted me when my parents died. He grew up and shunned all ties with people not in his class, I grew up resenting everyone and everything to do with his world.
“James.”
“Mr. Reynolds.”
“You can call me William. I’ve got over being a ponce.” He smiled wanly. “I’ve managed to burn more bridges than you’ve crossed, I dare say, James.”
He sat, I sat. The office hadn’t been used in a while, and there was a thin film of dust on the desk. It smelled musty from lack of use or more because the whole place had been around for about 120 years. It had always belonged to a Renolds.
“Am I being discharged?” Might as well get to the point.
“Is that what you think?”
“Why else would you send the hangman?”
“Is that what you lot call Mac.” He looked thoughtful for a moment. “Of course, you do. I bet that was you’re doing.”
Guilty.
“I said to my father a long time ago that giving you a university education was a mistake. He said, and I’ll remember this to my dying day James, said, “he’ll make far better use of it, even if he doesn’t, than you ever will and do. The bastard was right, of course. I spent my time chasing girls rather than learning anything useful. I thought the old man would live forever. Nearly did.
“So, when a suggestion turned up in the box, the first in 31 years, by the way, it was easy to guess who wrote it. Perfect English and technically sound. No one else in this place could, not even if I included what is laughingly known as management.”
I should have guessed. People knew how to do their bit, but not much else. They were never interested in teaching multi-tasking. The old man believes that if a man stuck to the one task, he would be perfect every time.
It didn’t help when that one man went missing, or worse, died.
“You always were the one to make a long speech about nothing. It’s why you were the perfect politician.”
He spent 15 years in parliament, but a change in government saw him tossed out in the last election. Now he was looking for something to do.
“Still got the flair for being direct, James.”
I shook my head. He’d grown fat and lazy and never really had to work a day in his life.
“Life’s too short to spend it waffling William.”
“Direct. OK. My sister wants to keep this place afloat. I want to sell it and head for the hills. She’s more annoying than you are.” He took an envelope out of his coat pocket and put it on the table. “A return first class to Singapore, and a week’s stay in a posh hotel. There’s spending money, enough to buy some practical clothes. I would like you to go to the Furniture Manufacturers Symposium or whatever it is and float your idea. If they think it’ll work, we’ll give it a go. Myself, I don’t think you’ll get anyone to agree, it’s all stuff in cardboard boxes these days, but there is a hotel chain that likes our stuff and a contract worth tens of millions. If we can halve our costs. Up for the challenge?”
“Not being discharged.”
“No. But if this doesn’t work, it might be the end.”
“Challenge accepted.” At least no one could say I didn’t try.
It was not the first time I’d been out of the country, but it was the first time to be so far from home.
It was hot, really hot, and it was the humidity that hit the hardest. It was fine inside the hotel, and it was a lot more upmarket than I was used to staying in.
That’s why I looked a little lost looking for the breakfast room.
“It’s like a miniature city in this place, isn’t it?”
I turned to see a woman perhaps my age, dressed for summer, with that summery air about her.
“You look lost,” she added.
“Breakfast room. I mean, who has a room entirely devoted to one meal. And how many different types of food could there be?”
She smiled. “Far too many, I assure you. Whatever happened to toast and marmalade, rice bubbles with milk and sugar, and a decent cup of Twining’s English breakfast tea?”
She just described my perfect breakfast, the one introduced to me by Williams’ father.
“Too many indeed.”
“Then follow me. I went exploring last night when I arrived. They wouldn’t let my elephant come too, so I had to walk. Dammed inconvenient of them, but I guess I’m going to have to move with the times.”
I gave her the ocne up and down. Eccentric? Yes. Quite mad? Perhaps she may have been out in the sun too long. She was definitely English, and I suspect good fun. Far too jolly for me. And, although I had no idea why it crossed my mind, she was out of my league.
“I’m sure you have better things to do?”
She looked around. “No. I have to eat; you have to eat.” She shrugged. “This way.”
I followed her into a large room that obviously doubled as a restaurant for the rest of the day. There were three in the hotel. Three.
We gave our room numbers to the man in an immaculate white suit at the door, and a waitress magically summoned us to a table, believing we were together.
She did not abandon me, and for some odd reason, the idea of eating alone was not something I wanted to do.
“Let’s explore the food choices. Be prepared to have your taste buds tested.”
It was a pleasant half hour, and despite the huge range of breakfast items that might be worth trying another day, we both ended up with rice bubbles with milk and sugar, toast and marmalade and Twining’s English Breakfast tea, no sugar or milk.
She told me her name was Josephine Benoit. She didn’t say why she was in Singapore, so I thought she was just passing through on the way to another adventure. With or without elephants.
I gave her my name and said I was an engineer without adding it was relayed to furniture manufacturers. It sounded lame. It was probably the first time I felt ashamed of what I did.
Other than that, It was an interesting conversation about everything and nothing, and when we parted outside the entrance, I thought it would be the last time I’d see her.
The convention centre was huge, and there were furniture manufacturers from all over the world, but the biggest exhibits were those who created the self-assembled furniture in a box.
What I disliked about it was the disposability factor. It was not made to last, and the wood was not wood, just some manufactured board with a veneer coating. And if it was cracked or not assembled correctly, a simple glass of water could ruin it in a matter of days.
Our furniture was made from real timber, not that there was a lot of it left in the world because a lot of the older trees had been cut down and nearly all the rest were protected in national parks. It’s why sourcing raw materials was getting harder, why house frames were made out of metal, and why wood chips were in such large demand rather than the effort of cutting planks.
After the boxed furniture came the plastic innovators. Plastic furniture had come a long way from those awful basic chairs in the beginning, the sort that almost gave Mr Reynolds a heart attack, not only because they were horrendous, it was the reality that people preferred cheap over quality.
I guess somewhere along the line, we failed to realise that while people were earning more, their disposable income was going into holidays and cars and the house itself with very little left for everything else. It’s why boxed furniture was so well regarded. It was cheap and expedient.
Reynolds was part of a world that no longer existed. People liked the idea of beautiful furniture, the sort we made, they just couldn’t afford it.
And the thing was, those same people would spend the same, if not more, on leather-based suites, which was probably the only reason why we were still in business. Our leather lounge range was the best in the world. But economic times were hard, sales were down, and recovery of any sort was a long way off.
So, finding people in similar situations, but having their factories in lower-income countries making their furniture a lot less expensive, I spoke to those I thought might be interested. The idea I had was to get the components made by these overseas factories, using real wood, and assembling the pieces ourselves back home. It would take a considerable slice off the end price without compromising the quality.
The problem. The overseas manufacturers wanted to do it all, turning it into upmarket box furniture, or charging a fee for piecework and a premium for sourcing real timber. On top of the shipping, we would be no better off. And the quality, while reasonably good, was way below our standard.
What I saw on display looked good from a distance but close up, I could see it was built to a price. Looking good and being good were two entirely different things.
“You look lost.”
A female voice, and when I turned, I saw it was Josephine.
I resisted the urge to ask, ‘What are you doing here’ and instead said, “What a pleasant surprise to see you here.”
“There’s only so much you can do with an elephant. Thought I come and look at the latest and greatest furniture. Someone said there was an exhibition, and I had nothing to do for a few hours. This is hardly where I’d expect to see an engineer. Shouldn’t you be building bridges or skyscrapers?”
“I did consider building a car that runs on water.”
“Well, aren’t you the dark horse in the race? I’ll deduce from that you have an interest in furniture?”
“I help make it. Good stuff, not this rubbish.”
“Those are fighting words, James. People here would take issue with that description of their wares.”
“Are you one of them?” I guessed I’d better see which side of the fence she sat on before I burned a bridge.
“Me? No, I agree with you, but we have to move with the times.”
“Do we?”
She shrugged. “Let’s go to the bar. You can ply me with Singapore Slings, and I’ll tell you about my adventures. You look like you need a distraction.”
Michael may have thought he was done with the complications of life with the one woman he ever really cared about, but no.
Even in death, the tendrils of that time together come rushing back, just at the mention of her name.
And it explained that sudden almost crippling feeling he had several days before, that he could only assume was the moment the love of his life died.
It never occurred to him at the time it could be anything other than a virus or something he ate.
It was too soon, perhaps the punishment for the prevaricating. Ever since the visit from Monte, she had been constantly on his mind, and it was partially the reason he had come home.
Yes, he had considered getting back in contact with her. Certainly, he had followed her life from the moment they parted, hoping she would change, that common sense and purpose would prevail, and eventually, they did.
It was also fascinating that she had children, the ages of which surprised him because the way he calculated it, they were conceived when they were together, convincing him she had been, as he suspected, having an affair. Why she hadn’t married the man the moment she left was also interesting, but not something he pursued.
She had made her feelings clear, and her father didn’t have to try very hard to persuade him to leave. If anything; he should have been more disappointed in himself.
This book has finally reached the Final Editor’s draft, so this month it is going to get the last revision, and a reread for the beta readers.
…
The story proceeds. That underlying suspicion of Maryanne’s motives rears its head again, but for different reasons.
Of course, Jack, the main character has a name, if not a little trite but it suits him, has always been suspicious because he’s not the type to be approached by beautiful women, and yet, so far has managed to allay those fears but is the perfect companion.
But, what’s a self-confessed gate crasher got up her sleeve.
Out of the hospital and on their road trip, they’re heading for an island and a hotel that overlooks the Mediterranean, which might be synonymous with the perfect location for romance.
But all of that is shattered when he sees her with another man, at the rear of the ferry, and the animation in her manner tells him the man is not just someone who ran into her.
Jack knows who it is, and what he does, so that makes the meeting even more mysterious.
And perhaps dangerous.
Yes, we are exploring the theme of ‘everyone has secrets’.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 