Sparrow Falling (19 page)

“Mr Thring?”

“Ah, Eveline. How are you today?”

“I’m well, thank you. May I speak with you a moment?”

“Certainly, my dear, certainly.”

Eveline took him to her office. “Would you mind turning the key, Mr Thring?” she said. “I’d rather we weren’t interrupted.”

He did so, looking a little puzzled. “You look very serious, Miss Sparrow. Is something wrong?”

“I hope not,” Evvie said. She stood behind her desk and leaned her hands on the blotter. “Mr Thring, what are your intentions towards my Mama?”

Thring’s eyes widened. “My dear child! That’s a somewhat... startling question!”

“I don’t know how much she’s told you, Mr Thring, and it’s her story to tell, not mine. But Mama’s not had an easy life, and she’s had... bad things happen to her. She’s maybe a bit too trusting. I’ve seen what comes of that, and I don’t intend she should go through that again. So I’m asking again, what do you intend for my Ma and her mechanisms?”

“I see. May I sit down?” Thring said. “At my age, you know...” Evvie waved him to a chair.

“I admit,” Thring said, “I’m carrying more flesh than I should be. I did wonder whether the Etherics might be of use in that respect... in any case, my apologies, I don’t mean to ramble on. Your mama is a remarkable woman.”

“I know that,” Evvie said.

“Indeed, indeed, and who better than you? There’s great potential in Etherics, you know, and Madeleine has a most superior understanding of the principles – she leaves me quite behind, I admit it. But I believe – forgive me – I believe the financial situation is not... not quite what it might be. Now, I don’t intend to pry, and I’m sure you’re doing what you can, but I thought perhaps I might be able to put you in the way of a better financial situation for the school. Then Madeleine would be able to work undisturbed and develop her ideas.”

“What sort of better financial situation?” Evvie said.

“If the school became a charity. It’s quite simple. I can show you all the paperwork. I get the impression that you’re a young woman of sense, and will have no trouble understanding it.”

“I don’t know about that,” Evvie said. “Seems to me there’s got to be people willing to give money to something, for it to be a charity. We have enough trouble getting the fees out of parents, never mind trying to persuade people to give us extra, just because... what, anyway? What sort of charity would it be?”

“Are you not already running it as a charity?” Thring said, leaning forward. “Many of your pupils, it seems to me, do not have parents who are paying their fees, willingly or otherwise. I don’t mean to sound interfering, Miss Sparrow, but it’s not a situation that can go on, really it isn’t. Financially speaking, it’s simply unsound.”

“So how’d you find all this out, Mr Thring?”

“It’s not exactly difficult,” he said. “Butcher’s boys turning up with demands, and whatnot. Oh, dear, I do hope I haven’t upset you. I just think many of your immediate difficulties are quite easy of solution.”

Eveline bit her lip. “Well, Mr Thring, why don’t you show me this paperwork, and we’ll see, shall we?”

The idea had an appeal. If the school was a charity – well, if everything went wrong, then maybe it would be protected.

Eagle Estates

“T
HE POST, SIR.
”

“Just leave it there, Jacobs.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Jacobs.”

“Sir?”

“I want you to keep an eye out. There have been... incidents.”

“Sir? I’m afraid I don’t follow, sir.”

“Things going missing. Robberies. Look out for anything suspicious.”

“Er... like what, sir?”

“Do you expect to be spoon-fed, boy? You’ll never make it in business if you can’t think for yourself! Now get back to work. I want those papers on my desk by five.”

“Yes, sir.”

Stug sliced through his post impatiently. Begging letters, some Reform Society nonsense, the usual tedium – straight into the elephant’s-foot bin with them.

But here was something different. An envelope of heavy, creamy stationery, with a proper seal in deep red wax – one didn’t see those so much any more.

He slid his paper-knife under the flap, the seal snapped away.

The handwriting was smooth and confident. The contents were intriguing. The author described himself as a man of business, and believed they might have met at a recent business dinner. ‘Having heard certain discouraging rumours from
friends of influence
regarding invidious new taxation likely soon to be imposed upon men in the property business such as ourselves, I have a proposal I would like to put to you, which I believe may be to our mutual advantage...’

It was signed,
Octavius Thring, Bart.

“Thring, Thring...” Stug knew the name, he’d heard it somewhere, he was sure. Perhaps they had met at the dinner. It had been a gathering of powerful and influential men, certainly. But there was something else... “Jacobs!”

“Sir?”

“Bring me the cuttings book.”

“Sir.”

A few moments later Stug was paging through the series of articles and photographs that he had had Jacobs carefully paste into a large, impressive book bound in glossy green leather, handsomely tooled.

Every mention of J. Stug, Esquire, every photograph of every social occasion he had attended, every paragraph had been carefully clipped and filed.

Stug leafed through the pages with his usual sense of mixed gratification and bile. Stug, mixing with men of reputation and achievement! Stug, at this charity ball and that dinner and the other opening! Stug, a pillar of the community! Stug, with no son to build on his father’s achievements... he shook his head, and forced his considerable will to focus.
There.
The Metropolitan Association dinner was described in glowing terms. Attended by Mr This, Sir That... and there, ‘Sir Octavius Thring, Bt. The genial philanthropist, attired in a waistcoat of the most startling splendour...’

There was nothing else about him, but he had been there, and that was sufficient to establish his bona fides for Stug. He lingered for a few moments over the book before shutting the cover decisively. “Jacobs! Take a letter. I want it delivered by hand, immediately.”

“Yes, Mr Stug.”

Thring, it appeared, was a man of both leisure and decisiveness. He replied immediately, suggested a meeting the following day.

“M
R
S
TUG.
A pleasure, a pleasure.”

Shaking a plump but callused hand, Stug looked Thring over. He had a round, cosy sort of look about him.
Philanthropist.
Stug braced himself. Taxes and advantage had been mentioned, but was this going to be instead some plea for charity? Stug did, of course, give money to charity. The right sort of charity. It was expected of a man in his position.

“Thank you for your letter, Mr Thring. Do take a seat.”

“Thank you. A nice place, Mr Stug. An excellent position for offices. Excellent.”

“I find it convenient. Would you care for coffee? Tea?”

“No, no, thank you.” The twinkle in Thring’s eyes disappeared, he leaned forward, slapping the palms of his hands on the desk. “Straight to business, I think, don’t you?”

Stug, who had jumped when Thring’s meaty palms met the wood, swallowed. “Yes, indeed. Always the best way.”

“Now, Mr Stug, you and I are both men of property, and men of the world. We’re in the business of providing homes. A pity that others don’t seem to see it that way. They see us rather as milch-cows.”

“Milch-cows, Mr Thring?”

“Milch-cows. To be drained dry. Taxes, Mr Stug! Taxes! First regulation, hemming a man in so he can barely make a living, then Taxation, taking what he has worked so hard to earn, with barely a by-your-leave! Do you not find it so, Mr Stug?”

“It is hard,” Stug said. “One struggles. But what’s a man to do, Mr Thring?”

“Oh, there are things a man can do, Mr Stug, as I’m sure you’re aware. Entirely legal things. Entirely
respectable
things. Which allow one to claw back some pitiable fragment from the endlessly hungry jaws of taxation.” Thring leaned back in his chair and shook his head sadly. “Alas, regulation too prowls the land, seeking what it might devour. There are things afoot which will make it even harder for an honest man to make an honest living, Mr Stug.”

“Indeed? What nature of things?”

“New laws. New regulations. New
taxes.
These things will create great problems for us, Mr Stug, for honest men like you and me. Demands that we provide this that and the other for tenants, that they must be coddled like babies, and all out of our own, endlessly emptied pockets! It’s shameful. Shameful.”

“I’ve heard nothing of new regulations,” Stug said.

“Oh, believe me, it’s all being played very close, Mr Stug. For fear, perhaps, that honest men will rise up and decry it as the blatant robbery it is. Fortunately, I have friends.” Thring tapped the side of his nose, beaming. The beam sat much more comfortably on his face than the earlier expression of sorrow. “Friends in Parliament, who warn me of such things.”

“I see.”

“But you’re a cautious man, Mr Stug, I can see that. I can see that from your business – how else is one to make a profit in these troublesome times, other than by being cautious? You desire proof. Of course you do. I would myself, in your position.” Thring opened the Gladstone bag he carried, and produced a document.

It was a letter, signed with a name Stug knew well. A certain government minister, a man he had in fact met, though with whom he was not on the same terms that the letter suggested Thring was. It was a bread-and-butter note, thanking Mr Thring for an enjoyable tennis party. He read it, folded it, and returned it. “I see. What is your proposal, Mr Thring?”

“One can avoid some of these measures by putting one’s investments... shall we say, out of reach? And at the same time one will be doing what is so beloved of the more radical elements of the government – making a donation to charity.”

“Mr Thring, I already give to charity.”

“Indeed, indeed, Mr Stug, your generosity has been noted. That was why I thought this might be of interest to you.”

“I fail to see how giving money to a charity could possibly ensure I
avoid
losing money.”

“Why, it’s perfectly simple. Here.” More documents appeared from the bag – not letters, this time, but calculations. Thring spread them on the desk. “One simply makes a donation – thus – to a charity, such as a school or hospital, but on certain conditions. This allows one to have a hand in the running of the place – purely for the good of those who need it, of course. And after a while, one discovers that, sadly, the place is not working as it should, not providing the greatest benefit to those in need, is, in fact, too far gone to be saved. Tragic, quite tragic. Then,” he beamed, “one transforms it into rentable accommodation, still in the name of the charity, without paying a penny in tax, and avoiding those unpleasant regulations – which don’t apply to charities!”

Stug looked over the calculations. They all appeared to work. “Do you have a property in mind?”

“I do, Mr Stug. Several, in fact. I thought that perhaps you might care to make a joint investment. I like the way you do business, Mr Stug. We are men of a kind, you and I, don’t you think?”

“You’ll forgive me if I show some caution, Mr Thring – but I know nothing whatever of your business.”

“Indeed, indeed, and how should you? I like to keep myself out of the public eye, you know. One has more freedom that way, I find. But there, again, you show caution!” He waved a finger, grinning. “I like to see caution in a man. Here.” He extracted one more document from the bag. It was a letter from a bank.

The amount shown in Thring’s account made even Stug, not himself a poor man, widen his eyes. “I see.”

“There’s little risk,” Thring said. “However, knowing you to be a man of sense, I have signed this undertaking that I will invest exactly the same amount as you. Just to assure you that I believe this to be a thoroughly solid investment. And as you can see, I have it to invest.”

“It all looks very promising,” Stug said, going over the documents again. “However, the properties...”

“Oh, yes. There are several, but one must be cautious, you know. People sniff about so. I thought just one to start with. The one I think offers the best opportunity is The Hospital for Incurables, in Streatham. There’s also a home for fallen women – that sort of cause is very fashionable at the moment, and although the returns might be smaller, the, shall we say,
impact
of such an investment on one’s standing could be considerable. And of course, should fashion change, casting it aside can be seen as improving the moral fibre of the nation. Oh, and there’s the Sparrow School, that’s the smallest investment, but I don’t really think...”

“Did you say the
Sparrow
school?” Stug narrowed his eyes.

“You know of it?”

“I have heard of a firm by the name of Sparrow’s Nest Security, but not the school. They might not be connected.”

“Oh, yes, they are – not a going concern, though, not at all. Run by the same person, a woman, well, hardly more than a child. And quite mad, my dear fellow, full of ridiculous notions.”

Stug considered. Could this man know who the Sparrow girl really was? Obviously the school was some ploy, or perhaps a desperate bid for respectability.

“I had no idea it was a charity.”

“At the moment, it isn’t, though it should be. That’s the neatness of it. I persuade them to
become
a charity – believe me, the place is tottering, they can’t pay their butcher. They’ll be more than willing to grasp at any straw a man can offer them. But I’m not sure it’s worth the time – it’s a small concern, the investment required is less than the others, of course, but...”

“That one,” Stug said. “That’s the one I’m interested in.”

“Really?” Thring leaned back in his chair. His eyes still twinkled, but their expression was extremely sharp. “Now, Mr Stug. That interests me. You’re a shrewd businessman, anyone can see that. Why would you be interested in this particular project?”