The 12.30 from Croydon (10 page)

Charles produced figures to show how the five thousand had been made up. But Andrew had lost his grasp of figures. He was, moreover, getting tired, and nothing would induce him to provide such a sum.

Finally, after further argument he did make a concession. He would then and there give Charles a cheque for a thousand pounds. He would not deduct it from any monies which might afterwards go to Charles under his will. He was not going to complicate his will by any such condition. This thousand would be a free gift, made in exceptional conditions and not under any circumstance to be repeated.

Charles saw that, at the moment at least, this was all he would get. A thousand in any case was a thousand. It would not save him, but it would postpone the evil day. And it was always possible that this thousand was not Andrew’s last word.

Relieved for the moment of his dreadful anxiety, Charles thanked his uncle, and said he would be glad of the money under the conditions mentioned. Half an hour later he drove away from The Moat, and just before closing-time he entered the bank with the object of lodging the money.

Just as he was crossing the space between door and counter he met Stimpson, who had told at the club about Bender & Truesett’s reduced dividend. Stimpson was a small, aggressive man with a predilection for laying down the law. He loved the sound of his own voice, and never missed the chance of an argument. Charles at once saw himself buttonholed.

But Stimpson did not stop. Instead of coming forward with some extravagant statement, calculated to produce an outraged denial, he hesitated, appeared to avoid Charles’s eye and, murmuring something about the day not having turned out so badly, made as if to pass on.

The action was so barefaced that, in spite of his preoccupation, Charles could not fail to notice it. It aroused his surprise and resentment. He turned round.

‘Well, Stimpson,’ he said in a loudish voice, ‘anything interesting at the club to-day?’

The man had to stop in spite of himself. ‘You weren’t there, Swinburn?’ he mumbled.

‘I was lunching with the uncle.’

‘Mr Crowther? How is he keeping?’

‘Not so well as usual. Beginning to go down the hill, I’m afraid.’

‘He must be a pretty old man by now. Well, ’scuse me, Swinburn – Edwards is waiting for me at the office.’

The man was civil enough, but evidently uneasy, and in moving off he did not meet Charles’s eye. Charles was puzzled as well as annoyed. However, he controlled his feelings and moved up to the counter.

‘Good afternoon, Handcock,’ he greeted the teller. ‘Lovely day.’

‘Splendid, Mr Swinburn. Too hot, if anything.’

Charles wondered if he was getting super-sensitive. Was there in the clerk’s manner that same element of constraint which he had noticed in Stimpson’s? Certainly the man did not seem at ease, and Charles caught him eyeing the cheque which Charles had produced with evident anxiety.

But the moment he glanced at it his face cleared. Quite unmistakably also his manner changed. He smiled in a relieved way, and asked Charles how he thought next Saturday’s match would go. At the same time Charles thought he saw him make a kind of signal to someone at his, Charles’s, back. In a leisurely way Charles changed his position, and glanced behind him. Witheroe was there, apparently just approaching.

‘Missed you from lunch to-day,’ Witheroe said as he stopped at the counter. Charles explained.

‘I’ve not seen Mr Crowther for some time. How is he?’

Charles explained further.

‘You wish this lodged to current account, Mr Swinburn?’ the clerk interposed.

‘Yes, please; to current account.’ Charles turned to the manager and became more confidential. ‘I can do without that loan, after all, Witheroe,’ he said easily. ‘I’ve come to an arrangement with the old man. He’ll see me through. That’s a thousand to go on with, while we’re fixing up the details of a proper agreement.’

The lie slipped out automatically. The meaning of the little scene was only too clear. Charles was to have been refused any further cash. The teller had been afraid of an unpleasantness, and Witheroe had advanced to the support of his subordinate. The fact that Charles had come to lodge instead of to draw had made all the difference. To both men it was clearly a surprise, as gratifying as it was unexpected. Witheroe, however, passed it off as a trifle.

‘I’m glad you’ve arranged it,’ he said with a slightly overdone casualness. ‘I was sure you would. I wanted to see you, if you can spare me a moment, about this municipal-relief-work business. We were talking about it at lunch. Can you come to the office now, or would some other time suit you better?’

Charles agreed readily, though he would have taken his oath that no thought of the relief works had been in the manager’s mind when he approached the counter. However, they went through the form of discussing the matter, and presently Charles took his leave.

It had been a pretty near thing, Charles thought as he started up his car. For a man in his position to have been refused cash for his own cheque would have been the beginning of the end. Though, indeed, for the matter of that, the evil day seemed merely postponed. That thousand wouldn’t last for ever. And when it was done…?

Charles set his teeth. At all events he needn’t think about that to-day.

As he steered his car round the corner into Malton Road his heart gave a sudden leap. There, just disappearing into Oliver’s, Cold Pickerby’s best drapery establishment, was no less a personage than Una Mellor. Charles parked his car outside the post office and crossed the street.

He had not seen Una since the night of the ball, but she had consented to drive with him on the following afternoon to Scarborough, dining either there or somewhere on the way home. He had imagined her agreeing to the excursion was a hopeful sign, and he was looking forward to it with corresponding eagerness.

For a young lady who could not get the simplest article of wearing apparel nearer than Paris or London, Una managed to spend a pretty considerable time in the shop. Half the cigar which Charles had lit had been consumed when she made her appearance. She was evidently somewhat taken aback when she saw him.

‘Hallo, Charles,’ she greeted him, and her manner was cool and off-hand. ‘What brings you here at this time of day?’

‘I’ve been paying some calls,’ Charles returned vaguely. ‘What a piece of luck to meet you, Una!’

‘Is it? For whom?’

‘For both of us,’ Charles declared stoutly.

‘You seem to know more about it than I do. What did you want?’

‘To see you,’ Charles returned, feeling pleased that he had found the
mot juste.

‘Well, now you see me, what is it?’

‘Can I drive you home, or anywhere? The car’s just across the road.’

‘Sorry; I’m going in here to Smith’s.’

‘I’ll wait for you.’

‘You’ll have to wait till dinner-time, then. I’m going to the club for tea.’

‘I’ll come back just before dinner.’

‘No, you won’t. Freddy Allom’s taking me home.’

Charles lost his head. ‘Oh, Una, can’t I see you this afternoon at all?’ he begged.

‘My dear Charles, don’t be such a priceless ass. Much better if you’d go and do some work. And, by the way’ – she had been walking on, but now she stopped and faced him – ‘I’m afraid I’ll not be able to go for that drive to-morrow. We have some people coming in for lunch, and they always stay interminably.’

Charles was overwhelmed with dismay. Una was often short and unsympathetic in her manner, but this time she was positively unkind. It looked as if for some reason she had wished to hurt his feelings. She had certainly succeeded.

He had the wit to see that argument would be useless. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘But I mustn’t keep you. I’ll look forward to the drive the first day that you can manage.’

She nodded curtly and disappeared into the library. Charles felt it frightfully. It couldn’t be that unmentionable ass Allom? Why, the fellow was a half-wit, with the manners of a gigolo and the appearance of a cross-eyed ape. No girl in her senses could fall for such a fantastic imbecile…

Charles remembered Stimpson’s manner. Was it…? Could it be that stories were already going round?… And Allom had money… Savagely Charles started up his car.

A special providence watched over the children of Malton Road that afternoon as Charles drove to the Crowther Works. He left the car outside the gates and, passing through them, walked quickly down the yard. A moment later he had found Sandy Macpherson and drawn him aside.

‘Tell me, Sandy,’ he said, ‘are there any yarns going about this place?’

The Scotsman looked at him sourly. ‘A’ll no deny it,’ he admitted cautiously.

‘What are they saying?’

‘Are ye sure ye want to know?’

‘Of course I want to know. Get along, man, can’t you.’

‘They’re saying that you’re in the soup for good an’ a’.’

So that was it! Stimpson had heard the same yarn, and so had Witheroe and his teller. And so had Una! And so, he supposed, had everyone else in the confounded place.

As Charles sat gazing with unseeing eyes at the titanic crane, which was still hoisting the brobdingnagian locomotive aboard the mammoth ship, he swore that such a state of things would not continue. He would either get money – somehow – and put himself right with all these people, or he would take those sleeping-draughts and forget for ever about money or people, or worry or love. Which was it going to be?

Charles had that morning left his wrist-watch at a jeweller’s to have a broken glass replaced, and when the works closed he walked back into the town to call for it before going home. On his way he overtook his cousin by marriage, Peter Morley.

‘Hallo, Peter,’ he greeted him. ‘Funny to run into you again so soon. We usually meet about once every six months. How’re things?’

‘I say, Charles,’ Peter returned with more animation than he usually showed, ‘you didn’t tell me you were going to the old man.’

Charles laughed. ‘No,’ he said easily, ‘I didn’t. I hadn’t thought of it at the time. In fact it was what you said suggested it to me. Have you been?’

‘I have,’ said Peter grimly. ‘But look here, what’s it all about in your case? You’re not going to tell me you’re feeling the draught too?’

‘Everybody’s feeling the draught,’ Charles declared. ‘I’m not stony, of course, or anything like that, but I’d be glad enough of a bit of money. Want to put in some new machines to get our costs down.’

‘Bless my soul!’ Peter exclaimed. ‘You, of all people! And with that magnificent little business! I should have said you were rolling.’

Charles smiled. ‘Everything in this world’s relative,’ he pointed out. ‘But tell me about yourself. I gather from your remarks that you’ve been too.’

‘Yes, I’ve been. And found the old boy brimming over with wrath against you. And when he heard I was coming on the same job he fairly went off the deep end. I don’t know, Charles, that that was a tremendously friendly action, that of yours.’

Charles turned and faced him. ‘How do you mean? What action?’

‘Going to him like that. The scheme was my scheme and you might easily have spoked my wheel.’

‘What utter nonsense, old man. Don’t be an ass. My application had nothing to do with yours. In fact, my going to him might have helped you. I might have created a precedent. If he had decided to make me an advance, he couldn’t very well have refused you.’

Peter shook his head. ‘It’s done now,’ he declared lugubriously, ‘and there’s no use in saying any more about it. Did he do anything for you?’

‘Nothing like what I wanted. He gave me a thousand. Better than nothing, but I could have done with more.’

Peter whistled. ‘A thousand! That’s none so dusty, Charles. I wish I could get a thousand out of him.’

‘What did you get?’

‘Nothing in cash. But he’s going to consider taking up a mortgage on the farm. If he does that to a reasonable extent, it may see me through.’

‘My word, I don’t think you’ve done so badly. Did he give you any idea of the amount?’

‘No. He’s going to consult Crosby.’

‘You bet he is. He swears by Crosby. I never could see anything in the man.’

‘I don’t know him well. All the same he always struck me as a good lawyer.’

‘He’s an old woman. Too cautious by half. If you want anything done you’ve got to take risks. You know that as well as I.’

‘Taking risks is not a lawyer’s job.’

‘All right, you’ll know all about it if he says the farm’s not good enough security for a mortgage.’

‘I was wondering if I should see him.’

Charles shook his head. ‘Don’t you. He’ll go and tell the uncle and the uncle’s back will be put up still further. Result: no mortgage. Let sleeping dogs lie.’

‘Perhaps you’re right.’

‘When is he to let you know?’

‘Nothing’s been arranged. He said he would see Crosby, but he didn’t say when.’

‘Well,’ Charles went on easily, ‘you’ve got a pretty good argument now because of what I did. If he doesn’t seem to be coming up trumps you can argue that he can’t make fish of one and flesh of another. He’s created the precedent you want. He’s given me a thousand and he can’t turn you down.’

Peter shook his head gloomily. ‘I hope you’re right,’ he said, and the conversation turned to other channels.

When Charles reached the office next morning he found that a number of local letters had come in. These had been opened by James Gairns, the head clerk, and lay in a little pile on Charles’s blotter. A sinister little pile they made!

For they were all bills.

Charles ran a number of monthly or quarterly accounts in the local shops. The largest items of material used in the works he got of necessity from outside, but where he could deal in Cold Pickerby, he did so. The bills were in respect of over half of these local accounts.

There was nothing remarkable in the bills themselves. What gave them significance was the date. To-day was only the eighteenth of the month, and none of them was due for another fortnight!

In each case they were accompanied by a personal and very apologetic letter.