One of the Family Page 5

  ‘Oh, so you did. What was it?’

  ‘The beautiful candelabra. A fine choice.’

  ‘It cost enough.’

  ‘A generous grandmother.’ Leonard bowed. It was his role: the small deferential bow, the smooth modulated voice, part of giving customers what they wanted. It did not bother him to bow when necessary, although he drew the line at rubbing his hands.

  Because of his job, customers assumed that he was not as good as them. No doubt they were right. ‘Who are the Morleys anyway?’ Charlotte had been heard to say when out of temper with Hugo or Leonard or Vera. ‘Your father was only a purveyor of brooms and buttons, who just happened to have some luck as a scribbler.’

  Leonard went upstairs to his office. In the corridor, he gave his usual carefully polite greeting to Henry Beale, who slapped him offensively on the back with a falsely hearty ‘Top of the morning to you, Morley!’

  The post had not been sorted. The clerks would be going through the letters, but in the middle of Leonard’s desk was another detestable small square envelope marked ‘Private and Personal’.

  He opened it with reluctance, using the paper knife carefully, with a vague idea of preserving evidence, and unfolded the cheap grey paper.

  The same ugly scrawl. The message was uglier.

  Why no money? The frigging swine knows where I am and who I am, and I’ll tell the whole sodding world. If I don’t kill him first. Sod you, arse-licker.

  Damnation! thought Leonard. That’s spoiled my Monday.

  ‘Arnold!’ He put the letter in the envelope and took it to his clerk. ‘Do you know anything about this?’

  ‘No, Mr Morley. It didn’t come through the post.’

  ‘I can see that.’

  In his office, Leonard read the letter again. He wanted to tear up the filthy thing, but it had said ‘If I don’t kill him ...’

  I must tell the old man about this.

  How can I tell him? The Chief was purring along on such an even keel. He used to be impatient and fiery, imposing fines for small misdemeanours, dismissing a staff member without notice or a reference. At seventy-four, he had become slower and mellower. He still dealt with top customers and royals and knew everything that was going on, but he now left the unpleasant things to his senior staff.

  Leonard must handle this. What to do? The police? Arthur French? William Whiteley did not think highly of Scotland Yard, since they had never solved the mystery of those vengeful fires in the Eighties, even though the last had killed three people.

  Frank or William, Mr Whiteley’s sons? They were not in positions of responsibility yet, and Leonard could not go behind the old man’s back. He looked at the print of the founder’s portrait, which was on the wall of every office. Impressive facial hair, the beard in two bushy parts on either side of his strong chin, less a beard than a pair of whiskers framing the determined face like a judge’s wig with squared-off ends. His mouth smiled tightly, and his keen protuberant eyes assessed you all round the room from under their heavy brows.

  He could relax on occasions, like the staff outing to the seaside. The young women in their striped beach clothes liked to see him ‘unbuttoned’, and would chat more freely and even tease him a little, as if he were a younger man. Whiteley’s gossip had it that he’d been a bit of a dog in his day. But the next morning, the girls in their black and white uniforms would tidy their counters quickly and stand alert, however tired they were, if the Chief came stomping down the aisle, short and square and moral.

  He was a fine employer. Not a friend. Leonard would never know him, but he trusted him and felt that he himself was trusted.

  Damn it, the man is not a child. He’ll give a snort at this ludicrous note and tell me to calm down.

  Leonard was going to wait until Mr Whiteley returned from his afternoon tea, heavy Yorkshire-style refreshment in the restaurant. He remembered his father in his seventies, getting edgy before a meal. But the Chief summoned him to discuss plans for the lending library on which they had been working.

  ‘My sons don’t want me to go ahead with it,’ he grumbled. ‘They say I take on too much. How do they think this store has reached the top and stayed there?’

  ‘By giving customers what they want, sir.’ It was one of the standard answers.

  ‘Correct. And customers want a lending library, here where they shop, and I’m determined they shall have it. To educate and entertain. It’s a duty, Morley. It’s argued that it will make a loss. I must take that risk.’

  ‘Add conscience to capital.’ Another of the Whiteley principles.

  ‘That’s it.’ The old man banged the palm of his hand on the floor plan of the library, which was on his desk. With the eagerness and perception of a younger self, he discussed details that were new but crystal clear to him.

  Why had Leonard been vacillating about the note? This man could cope with anything. When the Chief dismissed him, he took a breath and said, ‘If I could just have a moment more of your time, sir?’

  ‘Don’t be long about it.’ His interest in Leonard was over. He was ready to go on to the next thing.

  Leonard came close to the desk. ‘I have had two strange notes.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I felt I should show you the latest one.’

  Mr Whiteky unfolded the note and scowled at it. He grunted once, but gave no sign of emotion. Then he folded the paper and looked up under the awning of his brows. His face was blank, except for the small, unamused tight smile that was always there. Leonard waited. They had been talking compatibly before. Now, whatever he said would be wrong.

  At last the old man said, ‘Ah’ve ‘ud a few of these. They mean nothing. Where’s the first note?’

  ‘In my desk at home.’

  ‘Tear it up.’ Mr Whiteley tore the grey paper into very small pieces and handed them back to Leonard. ‘It’s yours,’ he said contemptuously. ‘Why bother me?”

  Leonard felt condemned and humiliated. Stunned, sick with anger, he left the office without a word. He stood with his back to the Chiefs door, holding the scraps of paper in his fist, not knowing what to do next.

  A ledger clerk came down the corridor with a basket of papers, and Leonard moved on.

  The first letter had come from outside. It had been postmarked Hammersmith. This one had been brought in early this morning and placed on his desk. By someone from outside? His nameplate was on the office door, but they would have to find their way up here. It must be an ex-employee, trying to make trouble. He knows who I am, Leonard thought. He went back over people who had lost their jobs. Some had resigned for various reasons, but not many had been sacked, now that the old man was readier to give offenders a second chance.

  Suppose it was someone in the store? Leonard thought again of Henry Beale and the resentment that simmered sourly in him beneath his pompous manner. When the General Manager had had to take sick leave and a lot of his duties had fallen on Leonard Morley, Beale had made his feelings obvious. He felt he should have more responsibility. The old man didn’t know what he was doing any more. He should be forced out. ‘What I could tell you about Mr William Whiteley, if I chose . . .’ sucking wet lips, his eyes venomous.

  Did he already suspect what might be the truth – that because of his drinking and his heavy hand on staff, he might himself, one day, be on the way out?

  If Beale, for some twisted purpose of his own spiteful mind, were tormenting the old man, that would be truly evil. But it would be better to know, and see justice done. The man had gone out on business this afternoon. Leonard knew that. Obsessed with an unreasoning desire to find him the culprit, he hurried round a corner and up a short flight of stairs to Henry Beale’s office.

  The door was not locked. Leonard went quickly inside.

  The Chief Buyer’s office was self-important, like its owner. The roll-top of the desk and the stuffed leather chair seemed to bulge more fatly than anyone else’s. A framed notice exhorted anyone who came in that ‘Only Excellence Will Do’. The portrait of William
Whiteley was not above the desk, but in a corner. Where other office walls carried cheerful pictures of families and staff outings, Henry Beale’s displayed himself, chin up in pompous business groups, or shaking the hand of some unknown notable.

  He did have good contacts, that was true. He knew many of the leading manufacturers and wholesalers. Most of the time, he performed well. That was why W.W. still employed him.

  The lid of the desk was locked. Because it concealed more of that cheap grey paper shredded in Leonard’s pocket? Was this where the man furtively wrote the brief obscenities? With no idea of what he might be looking for, Leonard opened the tall cupboard and looked at the neat shelves of files and ledgers. The lower drawers of the desk were not locked. Breathlessly, he pulled them open one by one, riffling through harmless papers, hoping to find something incriminating. At least a bottle of spirits concealed.

  He was actually kneeling on the floor when the office door opened and Henry Beale stood there.

  ‘Looking for something, Morley?’

  ‘Oh, Beale ...’ he tried to sound calm. ‘I thought you were out.’

  ‘So I see.’

  ‘I dropped my fountain-pen somewhere.’ Leonard Morley, Acting Manager of London’s greatest store, grown man of fifty, was panicking like a boy caught in the larder. ‘It might have fallen into a half-open drawer.’

  Could he somehow juggle the pen out of his breast pocket and into the bottom drawer? Henry Beale stood and looked down at him. Leonard scrambled absurdly to his feet, resisting the degrading impulse to dust off the knees of his trousers. ‘Excuse me.’

  ‘Not at all.’ Beale came in and put his attaché case down on the table. ‘I was hoping to talk to you anyway.’

  ‘Yes?’ Leo felt at a terrible disadvantage. His rage was cold within him, and turned to shame. How could he have got himself into this situation? How could he have been such an almighty fathead?

  ‘Some rather good news,’ Beale said loftily. ‘You were aware that Dexter Crystal had decided that, to keep their prices up, they would trade with only one outlet?’

  Oh God, here it came. The man he wanted to trample underfoot had brought off a spectacular coup.

  ‘You’ve guessed it, Morley, my good sir.’ Puffing out his veined cheeks, Beale opened the briefcase and fussed officiously with its contents, as if they were the State budget. ‘We are to be that outlet.’

  Leonard got himself out of the office as best he might, taking a last chance to save his face by putting it back round the door after his body was outside to say, ‘If you do find my fountain-pen, please let me know.’

  Why did I smile and say please? I could cheerfully strangle the man, for no better reason than not having to face him tomorrow. To calm himself down before the end of what had degenerated into such an upsetting Monday, Leonard took a last patrol among the late shoppers.

  All the glass entrance doors were wide open to the warm afternoon, and the throngs on the pavement were part of the crowds that flowed in and out of the store. Standing on the second step of the main staircase, he tried to observe this with his usual satisfaction, but William Whiteley and Henry Beale and the poisonous letter had so unsettled him that he felt active dislike for the bulky wanderers who blocked doorways and aisles three abreast, the high-pitched women who treated the tired assistants like serfs, the affected maidens with small high Grecian bosoms, the competitive hats, the spoiled children, the gloved hands that picked up articles labelled ‘Please Do Not Touch’.

  When a tall, well-dressed man knocked into him on his way up the stairs, the Assistant Manager forgot his professional courtesy enough to wince and put out a defensive elbow.

  ‘I say,’ the man said with a charming smile, ‘I’m most desperately sorry.’

  Leonard nodded, unable to answer, ‘Not at all, sir,’ and apologize for standing there.

  ‘Perhaps you can save me time. It’s getting rather late.’ The man rattled on about wanting to find a glass lamp to replace a broken one in his office, that would be more like a drawing-room lamp in what was really not exactly an office, yet not a drawing room either. Which department would the Assistant Manager suggest, and would he guide him there to save time? Standing two stairs above Leonard, who had to look up at him, he said, ‘I’m quite a regular customer. My name is Taylor. Tobias Taylor.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Taylor,’ Leonard said ungraciously. He did not feel in any condition to deal with what might be a demanding patron. ‘I must keep an appointment.’

  ‘But surely –’

  ‘Mr Jenkins will assist you.’ Leonard spotted one of the floorwalkers among the crowd and clicked his fingers. ‘Jenkins, forward!’

  The customer shrugged his elegant fawn linen shoulders and went off with Jenkins, looking back once at Leonard with a raised eyebrow.

  At home, Gwen was sitting on the drawing-room balcony with the gramophone playing. People walking along this side of Chepstow Villas looked up and smiled at the music. Leonard had put the shredded note back into its envelope. Out on the balcony, he dropped the pieces into an empty flowerpot.

  ‘Another of those dreadful letters?’

  He shrugged. He could not possibly show the filthy thing to Gwen. He did not even want to tell her about it, nor about the anger and humiliation that had come in its wake.

  ‘Why can’t I read it? I shall piece it together.’

  Leonard bent and lit a match inside the flowerpot.

  ‘Oh good,’ Gwen said incuriously. ‘Like in Peril at Sunrise where Astoria burns her only love letter from Sebastian because it could send him to prison.’

  Flora stepped out over the low windowsill with the Master’s whisky and soda, and saw the dying little flame. ‘Burning the evidence, eh?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘A friend of mine burned a pound note once,’ Flora said, ‘to show how little he cared.’

  ‘For you or the money?’ Gwen asked.

  Unlike many wives – some within this family – she did not bother Leonard about what he had burned and why. She seemed to have lost interest.

  Chapter Six

  ‘Didn’t you want to come to dinner, Uncle Leonard?’

  In the first-floor drawing room at Ladbroke Lodge, Bella, in a harsh yellow dress, saw that he was out of sorts. Leonard saw that she had been crying.

  ‘Of course I did, Bella.’ He bent to kiss her. It was not like embracing his daughter Madge, who responded. Bella slightly stiffened back into herself if touched. ‘It’s just that I’ve had a rather unpleasant day.’

  ‘Oh, so have I.’ Bella pulled down her mouth.

  ‘Poor girl, what happened?’ Unlike his niece, Leonard was willing to pursue an offer of someone else’s trouble.

  ‘You wouldn’t care to know.’ Bella glanced at her father, posing in the long window with his sherry glass and graceful sister-in-law Gwen, so that he could be seen from the street to be entertaining a pretty woman.

  ‘I would, Bella.’ Leonard knew about Bella’s disastrous relationship with her father, to whom she still longed to be close, even though he had been thwarting and denigrating her since she was an ugly duckling child.

  ‘I was stupid enough to bring up the subject of university again. I went to see Gordie – my old governess, you remember? She told me that Leeds was taking more women, and she made me promise not to give up.’ She bit her lower lip. ‘I’m sorry. It’s too boring,’ Bella could invite you to be bored before she started talking.

  So could Hugo’s guest, an American businessman who was a devotee of the works of E.A. Morley. Hugo enjoyed being courted as the eldest son of the famous novelist, especially by someone who might be financially useful.

  Mr Lloyd Loomis held forth on the plots and characters of Ernest Morley’s books, as if the family had never read them.

  ‘This is a stunning experience for me.’ He beamed and bowed down the table to Hugo. ‘I can’t believe I’m really in this lovely home, in this beautiful room with so many of the great
man’s actual descendants. You knew him,’ he told Hugo, with a tremor in his voice. ‘You spoke with him. What wouldn’t I have given for five minutes with the creator of Theodora Masters, paradigm heroine of that inspiring story of passion and crime: Clamour of the Streets?’

  ‘Yes, we know,’ his hostess said a little tartly. Charlotte thought that Hugo, majestic at the end of the table with his hands on the scrolled ends of his chair arms, as if enthroned, was lapping it up too smugly. She was glad of the fame of Ernest Morley, but after all, who was he, before he became somebody?

  Thomas, the eldest son, summoned to dinner to talk banking with Mr Loomis, was polite but restless. He kept pulling out his watch. He had a late appointment at the Carlton Club. Tom Morley was too busy and pressured by work to stay long anywhere. Lord Rourke, invited to dinner to treat Loomis to a title, was having trouble with lamb fibres in his new teeth.

  Leonard, still not himself, added little to the conversation. Lloyd Loomis, fork in hand, mousse au chocolat untasted, told him, ‘Of course, you admired your father enough to follow in his business footsteps. That’s hero worship, I guess. May we hope that you will also write about your experiences with the public, as Sir Ernest so tellingly did in Barclay and Son?’

  Leonard said, ‘No,’ and accepted more mousse from the parlourmaid. When he was emotionally off colour, he was usually hungry.

  Bella, who had studied her grandfather’s books at boarding school and was as knowledgeable about them as anyone else, would have welcomed the American devotee as a chance to show this off. As her tearful eyes recovered in the candlelight and her flushed nose paled, she looked quite animated and confident, waiting for Loomis to stop pontificating about the ingenious symbolism of the racecourse crowds in The Gambler and eat his mousse, so that she could inform him that E.A.M. would not have bothered with symbolism when he was pursuing a fast-moving narrative of his hero-adventurer in peril of his life at Epsom.

  When Mr Loomis lowered his fork, she leaned forward to tell him, ‘Excuse me, but I think my grandfather would not recognize your rather complicated view of his writing. The great strength of his story-telling style is in its simplicity, you know.’