David Dickinson - Death of a wine merchant

There was a knock at his door. A junior porter told him that there was a Mr John Jackman, the younger Mr John Jackman, waiting to see him. Alfred shook his head. ‘I can’t see him now,’ he said, ‘not this morning, not today. He’ll have to come back another time.’

‘He says, sir,’ the porter sounded apologetic, ‘that he’ll come back every day until he receives satisfaction.’

‘He can come back every day till the end of time if he wants to,’ said Davis, ‘I don’t see a time at present when I will be able to talk to him. Tell him there’s no point. I’ve got nothing to say. There’s nothing I can do.’

John Jackman senior had worked for Colvilles for over forty years. He ended up in charge of the wholesale distribution system. Shortly before he retired there was a row about his pension. Reports of great shouting matches and fists being thumped on tables circulated round all the Colville buildings. Jackman thought he had been conned out of what he had been promised. He said that Randolph and Cosmo were cheats, depriving their workers of what was rightfully theirs. If death and the prison cell had not intervened, Jackman had threatened to go to Walter and Nathaniel to plead his case. Alfred was not aware of the precise nature of the transactions and the various charges and counter charges. But as he stared down at the notes about the missing wine a truly terrible thought struck him. What if the Colvilles were reneging on all their promises about pensions? He had always been told that a generous provision would await him on his retirement and see him off into a trouble-free old age. What if that money never came? How would he and Bertha manage? He had a few savings, but not as much as he would have liked for Bertha was not good with money. Now another of his headaches was coming on and he had run out of pills. He remembered Bertha saying to him that very morning at the breakfast table in Kentish Town, ‘You haven’t been looking well at all, Alfred, not for weeks now. Why don’t you change jobs? Ask Colvilles for a less stressful post or look for a position elsewhere?’

Alfred had almost shrieked his reply. ‘Are you mad, woman? The Colvilles aren’t running a hospital or a charity down there in the West End. If I said I wasn’t up to the job, I’d be out of the door faster than you could draw the cork out of a bottle. Another position? At my age? Don’t be ridiculous!’

Privately Bertha thought her husband was not up to the job, not in the present circumstances. Now, wondering yet again what to do about the missing burgundy, Alfred thought the same.

Powerscourt found Lady Lucy walking up and down the drawing room in Markham Square, her eyes red with tears.

‘Lucy, my love, what’s the matter?’ Powerscourt held her tight.

‘It’s so silly, Francis. Here am I walking up and down this room just like you do. Only I know you’re thinking when you do it, I can see it in your eyes, I’m just upset.’

‘What’s been upsetting you?’

Lady Lucy made her way to a chair by the fire. ‘It’s Milly,’ she said, ‘she’s only just gone.’

‘She of the Horrible Husband?’

‘Indeed so, Francis. Things are worse than we thought, much worse. All her money has gone. Horrible Husband has debts that he’s owned up to of three thousand pounds. Milly thinks there may be more. Only two people from the family have replied to my request that we club together to give her some money. So I wrote her a cheque right here in this room for one hundred pounds, Francis. I hope you think that’s all right. It’s just I couldn’t bear the idea of those little children going hungry.’

Lady Lucy looked defensively at her husband. Perhaps he would be cross.

‘Think nothing of it, Lucy. Where is the husband now? Is he still at home?’

‘The real reason Milly came has nothing to with the money, Francis. This story doesn’t come at first hand but I think it’s reliable all the same. Milly thought you should know about it. Terrible Tim goes drinking in some sordid gambling and drinking den near Paddington station. He drinks quite a lot there with the husband of a great friend of Milly’s called Trumper, Beauchamp Trumper. This Trumper told his wife that one day just before the wedding, Timothy had got more than usually drunk. He had begun to criticize the Colvilles. There was a lot of stuff, Beauchamp thought, about how he had been unfairly dismissed, his career ruined, his abilities questioned by those two Colvilles, Randolph and Cosmo. Beauchamp said it seemed to be the insults to his honour that made him most upset. Then, Francis – Beauchamp swears he remembers this bit perfectly – Tim said, “I tell you what I’m going to do to that arrogant sod Randolph Colville. I’m going to kill him. I bloody well am too.”’

At that point they heard, more or less simultaneously, the ringing of the telephone and a series of whoops and war cries as the Powerscourt twins, Christopher and Juliet, five years old, hurtled down the stairs towards the noise. It was always the same now. Whenever the bell rang, wherever they were, whatever they were doing, Christopher and Juliet headed for their father’s study at very high speed. They had once leapt out of the bath when the bell went off and shot down the stairs wrapped only in the scantiest of towels, passing one of Lucy’s relations who happened to be a High Court judge on the way.

They seemed to believe that the telephone was like a sacred object in some primitive tribe, to be worshipped and revered. At first they had refused to accept that you could speak to another person through the instrument, or that another person could speak to you. When Powerscourt spoke to them once from a neighbour’s telephone they had both dropped the instrument on the floor and fled upstairs, putting themselves straight to bed and holding whispered conferences from under the bedclothes.

On this occasion the twins reached the phone a lot earlier than their father. They took up their usual position, crouching on the floor and looking reverently at the instrument. When Powerscourt picked it up he was greeted by an unusually loud voice, even for his brother-in-law on the telephone.

‘Francis!’ boomed William Burke. The twins had never heard anybody speak so loudly through the telephone before. They thought the caller must be in the next room or outside in the street. Christopher and Juliet exchanged quick conspiratorial glances and clapped their hands over their ears. Then they fled the field to continue their life of crime elsewhere in the house.

‘William, how good of you to call back so soon.’ Powerscourt looked suspiciously at the study door in case the twins were lurking on the far side. A shriek from the upper floors told him they had gone.

‘I haven’t very much to say as yet,’ Burke shouted cheerfully, ‘and I haven’t got very long. Mary’s dragging me off to the opera again. Doesn’t seem fair to me. I went a couple of years ago, for God’s sake.’

‘You might enjoy it, William,’ said Powerscourt.

There was what sounded like a cross between a snort and a grunt at the other end. ‘Back to the Colvilles, Francis. My man is out of town for a few days but I have managed to pick up a few tasty scraps for you.’

‘Excellent, William, fire ahead.’

‘The main thing is that a lot of people in the know say there is something very funny going on with the Colville money. Nobody knows exactly what, but there is general agreement among sensible men that there is a serious problem. One man thinks they run two sets of accounts, one real, seen by nobody but senior Colvilles, and another one for more widespread circulation. The most significant fact,’ Burke ratcheted up the volume another three or four notches at this point, ‘is that they’ve lost three senior accountants in the last five years.’