Dorothy Elbury - The Officer and the Lady

‘Your cousin tells me that you suspect some irregularities in the figures,’ said Beresford, as he motioned Imogen into the big leather chair behind the desk. ‘Do you think you could show us what you have found?’

‘You will need to look at the two previous years’ accounts first,’ she replied, already thumbing her way through the pages of one of the volumes. Having managed to still the disquieting sensations that had threatened to overcome her resolve, her voice was now perfectly calm. Now that she finally had the opportunity to vindicate her suspicions, she was determined not to allow anything to distract her from that task.

‘This first one is for 1813—it will give you some idea of the rents we normally received from the tenant farmers and the revenue from the corn yield. Corn prices, as you must be aware, have increased quite dramatically throughout the war years but, when you look at last year’s figures,’ she said, indicating the relevant column in the second ledger, ‘you will see that the corn revenue for the year appears to be considerably lower than one would have expected it to be.’

Beresford and Seymour studied the figures she had indicated and both men agreed that there was certainly a surprising difference.

‘Perhaps last year was not as good a harvest,’ suggested Seymour. ‘I understand that the weather here was pretty poor during the summer months.’

‘Yes, that is perfectly true,’ admitted Imogen. ‘But, as a result of the war, corn prices have almost doubled since 1813 and now—if one of you gentlemen would be so kind as to pass me 1814…?’

Beresford again sprang to carry out her request and laid the book at her elbow, watching her with interest as she riffled through the pages.

‘Yes, here it is,’ she eventually announced, her face alight with satisfaction. ‘If you look carefully, you will see that some of the figures have been altered—someone has scratched parts of the eights out to make them look like threes, sevens have been turned into fours—and here…’ She jabbed her finger on place after place in the neat columns of figures. ‘Sixes to noughts—all giving the impression that the revenue was much lower than it actually was—and that, gentlemen, is by no means all.’ She flicked over the pages, searching for more anomalies to show them. ‘See here, on the debit side, threes and fives have been altered to the figure eight and the number one has become either a four or a seven and, sometimes, even a nine!’

‘They certainly look like alterations,’ agreed Beresford, with a puzzled frown. ‘But there is no way of knowing whether they have been tampered with recently or were merely corrections made at the time of entry—even the best accountants have been known to commit errors!’

Dismayed at his negative reaction to the quite considerable research that she had managed to carry out under very difficult circumstances, Imogen heaved a sigh. ‘There is a perfectly simple way to prove my point, Mr Beresford,’ she said wearily. ‘In the first place, if you tot up the columns you will see that the altered totals do not agree. Secondly, I know that the figures have been altered, because they are in my own handwriting!’

She looked up at him with a triumphant smile, having assumed that he would now be highly impressed with her discoveries, only to find herself confronted with the beginnings of a cynical smile hovering on his lips.

He raised one eyebrow, and the mocking note in his voice was unmistakable. ‘And you, Miss Priestley, never make mistakes, of course,’ he drawled.

Imogen’s self-confidence collapsed in an instant and all of the original hostility she had felt towards him came rushing back. Resolutely squaring her shoulders, she drew in a deep breath. ‘It was always Mr Chadwick’s practice to set out his figures in pencil,’ she informed him, her voice even. ‘My contribution was to double-check the entries and agree his arithmetic—he believed that it was the best way of learning the system and—since his own hand was getting a little shaky in later years—only then would he allow me to ink in the final figures. So you see, Mr Beresford, there is simply no way that any of these rather numerous alterations could have occurred.’

In the silence that followed her words, Beresford almost groaned out loud at the ill-thought-out foolhardiness of his remark. He had not missed the sudden darkening of her eyes, nor those entrancing little silver flashes that had emanated from them. You utter fool, he apostrophised. Hoist by your own petard yet again!

Throughout Imogen’s halting evidence of her findings, Seymour had been continuing to peruse the three ledgers, comparing the figures one with another and closely inspecting the suspect alterations. He straightened up and shook his head at Beresford.

‘Well, old man, it seems perfectly obvious to me that Miss Priestley was quite right to voice her suspicions. There is absolutely no doubt that somebody has been messing about with the figures in these books.’

At the look of concern in his friend’s eyes, Beresford’s face grew grim.

‘And I think we all know who that person is likely to be,’ he said shortly. ‘Yet another reason to dispense with his services, it appears!’

Then, still conscious of the undercurrent of tension that had, once again, developed between Imogen and himself, he turned to her and executed a little bow.

‘I appear to have excelled myself today, Miss Priestley,’ he confessed. ‘I fear I owe you yet another apology. My remark was totally unwarranted—please tell me that I am forgiven for exhibiting such appalling bad manners.’

This time Imogen, who could not rid herself of the feeling that he was merely trying to humour her, was careful to keep her eyes averted from his face.

‘It is of no moment, I assure you, Mr Beresford,’ she replied, rising from her seat. ‘And, now that I have delivered the problem into your hands, you will please excuse me, for I must go and try to persuade my aunt to join us for dinner.’

Seymour grinned appreciatively as he watched her departing figure.

‘Two enemies in one day, Matt!’ he chortled. ‘Must be something of a record!’

‘Stow it, David!’ grunted Beresford sourly, as he picked up the three ledgers and thrust them back on to their shelf. ‘I am not in the mood!’

With a speculative gleam in his eye, Seymour regarded his friend silently for a few moments before making his way to the house door, saying, ‘So it appears! Well then, old boy, if you have no objection, I think I will just cut along after the lovely Imogen and see if we can’t arrange for some decent fodder to be sent up from the village—what do you say?’

‘Good idea,’ returned Beresford, mentally kicking himself for not having given any thought to that equally pressing matter. ‘I suppose I had better go and find this Chadwick fellow and get his version of events.’

After a cursory perusal of the papers on the desk, the majority of which proved to be demands for immediate settlements of outstanding accounts, he left the office and walked out into the stable yard, carefully locking both doors behind him. Wentworth was nowhere to be seen but, recalling what the man had told him about Chadwick’s place of residence, he made his way around the stable-block into a little back lane where he found a neat little row of cottages, all twenty of which were clearly uninhabited.

At the far end of the lane, situated next to a cluster of farm buildings, was a slightly larger, more dignified-looking property that must, he assumed, be the ex-manager’s residence. Seated on a bench in the front garden of this house was a well-built young man, who Beresford took to be the injured ex-soldier, Ben Chadwick.