The Counsellor Read online

  “I never thought much of you as Dalilah, myself,” commented Standish. “It’s nice to be justified in one’s judgment.”

  “Circe and Judith would have failed with that fellow,” Sandra protested. “He’d got his orders and that was that. So I went back to Grendon St. Giles and filled in time somehow until the Lydbrook girl came off duty. Then I dropped in on her at her diggings in the village. I’d taken the precaution of getting her address from old Mrs. Yerbury. She turned out to be a different brand from her colleague: a nice little girl with a mop of fair hair, and quite good-looking. So I got out my note-book and pencils and interviewed her on a strictly journalistic footing to start with. She was a bit timid at first. Mr. Treverton was ‘quite nice’ to her. Mr. Whitgift was ‘very clever, of course.’ Miss Treverton was ‘just a real dear, and she wished her the best of luck, whatever it was.’ But she’d no ideas whatever as to anything, not a glimmer, even. She just didn’t understand what could be behind it all. I think that was quite genuine. So gradually my journalistic side faded out and I started to be a friend of the family, so to speak. And then it came out that she wasn’t at all happy in her job there. This Albury person had been a nuisance to her. He’d been very friendly and taken her to London to one or two shows. She loves London, it seems. But the last time, he almost managed to make her miss her last train back at night. And he’d dropped hints about taking her to some place ‘where one could have a real good time. Something out of the common.’ Altogether his attentions had been plainer than pleasant. So for a while she’s been feeling that Longstoke House isn’t exactly a home from home, with him about her skirts continually.”

  “Decent little girl, then?” queried The Counsellor.

  “Oh, quite,” Sandra declared. “A bit younger than her years, perhaps; but that’s the worst one can say about her. Well, after talking of this and that for a while, I said I knew of a good post in London, interesting work, a good screw, and nice people—you needn’t blush. She’s dying to get to London. But, unfortunately, the Wickwood woman had been talking to her about me, quite slanderously, and suggesting that I was a White Slave agent. Me! Anyhow, she’d warned this poor little thing against the wiles of flashily-dressed females; and I had my work cut out for me to soothe suspicion. Very awkward, too, since I was actually sailing under false colours and couldn’t put my real cards on the table. However, I gave her my banker’s name and asked her to write to him about me; and I also quoted this office in support. And I mentioned one or two other references. So she began to nibble a bit.”

  “Then I pointed out to her that she’d probably lose her job at Longstoke House in any case, because the Ravenscourt Press seemed to be in a bad way financially. Evidently she’d heard rumours of the sort, for that waked her up a trifle. So then I asked her if she had any shares in the conern. Of course she had one. And that led on to talking about her leaving and the awkwardness of having any connection with the affair after she went. And, finally, I offered to take the share off her hands at a reasonable premium. She’d need a fresh outfit for her new job, etc. So at last she parted with it for £30, after I’d made it clear that I was buying it on behalf of someone else and wouldn’t personally be out of pocket over it. I told you she’s a decent little kid.”

  “Meaning that she wouldn’t rob you, but had no objections to robbing a stranger,” commented Standish.

  “Well, what of it? Most people are like that,” defended Sandra. Then I asked her about the date of the next Annual Meeting of the Company. It’s to be held at Longstoke House, Mark, next Monday, the 26th, at 5.30 p.m.”

  “At 5.30 p.m.?” echoed The Counsellor. “That’s an odd time for a business meeting. Oh, I see. They’re all employed on the Press, so they probably found it convenient to have it just after working hours. But they certainly seem to have left it till the very last day that’s legal. Well, presumably they know their own business best.”

  “Very likely,” said Sandra, drily. “Do you want the rest of my story? It’s mostly mere gossip, picked up from your new employée and the landlady of the Black Bull. This Abode of Light that you put me on to. It seems a rum affair, Mark. I can’t make out what it’s all about. The landlady shook her head over it and said it was a queer business with a lot of queer folk mixed up in it. But the plain truth was that she knew nothing at first-hand and gave me only village tittle-tattle. Something about a new religion, it sounded like. But they don’t welcome casual converts. Witness my reception at the gate of Grendon Manor. No, it’s apparently a high-class affair, with a service—if it is a service—once a week or so, which draws a lot of strangers in motor-cars. No local proselytes need apply and the services are strictly private, though they seem to be attended by quite a biggish circle. I asked what kind of cars brought them. Mostly Rolls and that class of thing, so evidently the faithful are not sworn to poverty, at any rate.”

  “Sounds like some new sensation for wealthy dizzards,” commented Standish. “Somebody may be making a good thing out of it.”

  “It’ll sound a bit shady, if you wait for the rest of the tale,” Sandra assured him. “I got this bit from your new typist, Mark. It seems that one night she happened to be passing the gate of Grendon Manor. Several cars of the luxury brand had passed her as she walked along, with one or two people in each, but never a chauffeur amongst them. (She’s really not unobservant, you see.) As she came up to the gate, a car stopped there, and the lodge-keeper came out to open the gates. There seemed to be some sort of identification business going on, before the lodge-keeper would let them through. Then, when he did open the gates, Miss Lydbrook was ‘fairly staggered’ to see the driver of the car and his passenger haul out black silk masks and put them on before they drove into the avenue.”

  “Annual Meeting of the Ancient and Amalgamated Penguins, eh?” interjected Standish. “I suppose they said: ‘Quonk!’ or something, as a password. It sounds childish to me. But there are a lot of apes wearing clothes in this world.”

  “Might be the Black Mass or something of the sort,” The Counsellor reflected. “I got the impression from Trulock that they were a bit off the rails. Modern Hell-Fire Club, possibly. In that case one can see why they have to be identified at the gates and also why they mask themselves afterwards. It may be a very select affair which makes it unsafe for one member to be able to recognise another member in the outside world. The point that interests me is that it’s a close corporation, and no outsider’s welcomed either at the meetings or at any other time. Witness Sandra’s experience. We’ll think about it later on. Now that finishes my business for the moment, so you two can run away and work for your livings.”

  When Sandra and Standish had left his room, The Counsellor took up his desk telephone and switched over to his Record Office.

  “Records? I’ve some recollection that we once had an application from the Leonardo Society—the big picture people, reproductions of the Old Masters, and so on. You know who I mean? Look it up, please and tell me what we did for them.”

  Within a few minutes, Records had the information. Some plates had gone astray, left in a train by an employee; and The Counsellor had been instrumental in recovering them by means of a broadcast appeal.

  The Counsellor glanced at the slip of paper, took up his telephone directory, and dialled a number.

  “Give me the manager, please.”

  He introduced himself and found his listener ready to repay the kindness in the matter of the plates.

  “This is it,” explained The Counsellor. “In strict confidence, I want to know what’s the present value of The Ravenscourt Press if it came into the market just now. . . . Oh, just a round figure, within a thousand or two. . . . Yes, of course, it’s a poor spec. as it stands, but on a business footing. . . . Then you’ll ring me up later and let me know what you think? . . . Oh, naturally. Quite confidential—and the same to you, of course. . . . Yes, yes, just a round figure, and no responsibility on your side. I’m interested, that’s all.”

&nb
sp; After thanking the manager, he hung up his receiver.

  “That bit of bread seems to have returned satisfactorily from the waters,” he commented to himself. “Nice obliging chap, their manager. And I suppose we did save them a lot of bother over these plates.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The Annual General Meeting

  THE Ravenscourt Press boasted no special Board Room at Longstoke House; and The Counsellor found that the Annual General Meeting of the Company was being held in what was obviously the Trevertons’ dining-room. Some extension leaves had been put into the table for the occasion, and chairs had been drawn up, each with a blotting-pad and some paper before it.

  Whitgift was in the chair at the head of the table; and beside him, with an open minute-book, was a small, hungry-looking man whom The Counsellor assumed to be Barrington, the Company’s Secretary and Accountant. On Whitgift’s right sat an alert-looking, sharp-eyed man, dressed with more care than his colleagues; and opposite Whitgift, at the foot of the table, was a heavily-built common-looking personage, whom The Counsellor tentatively identified as Albury, the chemist of the concern. The girl between Albury and Barrington was obviously Miss Wickwood the typist; and The Counsellor could not help congratulating Sandra Rainham on the aptness with which she had hit off the characteristics of that repressed virgin.

  Whitgift glanced up as The Counsellor entered the room, and gave him a non-committal nod of recognition.

  “This is our new shareholder: Mr. Brand,” he explained to the others in a neutral tone.

  It was plain enough to The Counsellor that they needed no enlightenment. Obviously his intrusion into the Company had been thoroughly discussed before the meeting; and from their demeanour he gathered that they were puzzled to know what he meant by it. He walked over and took the vacant chair on Albury’s left, opposite Miss Wickwood, who favoured him with a supercilious stare through her tortoiseshell spectacles. Apparently his loud tweeds jarred upon her, for she gave a faint sniff as she turned away again.

  Whitgift wasted no time, but began the business of the meeting as soon as The Counsellor had taken his seat.

  “With your approval, we’ll take as read: the notice convening the meeting, the directors’ report, the accounts, and the report of the auditor. They’ve been circulated to you beforehand. You got copies, I think?” he added, turning to The Counsellor, who nodded in confirmation.

  “Since our last meeting, as you know,” Whitgift continued, “we have lost my co-director, Mr. James Treverton, by a sad accident. Will someone move that the Secretary be instructed to send an expression of our sympathy to his relatives?”

  “I have much pleasure in moving that,” said Miss Wickwood, importantly.

  “I second,” said Albury, concisely.

  “No dissent?” asked Whitgift formally. “Then the Secretary will draw up a letter and send it. That brings me to another matter. By the death of Mr. Treverton, we are short of a director, since we need two directors. Next to Mr. Treverton, Miss Treverton is the largest shareholder in the Company; but I do not think she would wish to act nor can we get in touch with her at the moment to ascertain her views. After her and myself, Mr. Albury has the largest holding.”

  “I move that Mr. Albury be appointed in place of Mr. Treverton,” said The Counsellor, with a glance at his neighbour.

  “I second that,” Dibdin said, indifferently.

  “Any other nomination?” inquired the chairman. “No? Then Mr. Albury becomes a director. Now I turn to the balance sheet which you have in your hands. I do not think you would wish me to go through the various items in detail. We have had another difficult year and there is no question of declaring a dividend. Our sales, I am sorry to say, have not expanded to any extent, but there has been no notable decrease in the volume of our business, which is something to be thankful for. We are just able to carry on. Frankly, I see no prospect of any improvement so long as the policy of the Company remains what it has been in the past. I mean that so long as we limit ourselves to catering for the select few, we cannot expect to extend our business much beyond its present limits.”

  “Hear, hear!” interjected Dibdin with obvious approval.

  “We shall have an opportunity of discussing future policy in a moment,” Whitgift continued. “Meanwhile, I beg formally to move the adoption of the report and the balance-sheet for the year.”

  “I second that,” said Miss Wickwood, with the air of someone performing a feat.

  “Any amendment?” inquired Whitgift, with a glance at The Counsellor. “No? Then I declare the motion carried—unanimously.”

  Dibdin tapped the table by way of applause, but no one else seemed to regard the occasion as one for rejoicing.

  Hitherto, Whitgift had spoken in a purely formal tone, as though conducting a mere routine. Now, in opening a fresh subject, he allowed more interest to appear in his voice.

  “I come to the next item on the agenda. The Secretary has received a letter making an offer to purchase our Company, stock and goodwill, trade mark and patents included. I think it will be convenient if we take this as read, while the Secretary hands round a copy of it to each of you, so that you can examine the details.”

  There was a rustle of paper as Barrington dealt out some typed sheets, and then followed an interval of silence as the shareholders perused the documents. Albury seemed perturbed by its tenor, and it was he who first made a comment.

  “I see this is signed by Messrs. Spurstowe & Hague. Who are they, do you know?”

  “A firm of solicitors. Quite a good firm,” Whitgift informed him briefly.

  “I see they’re acting for unnamed clients,” Albury pursued. “Have you any information about the clients themselves?”

  Whitgift shook his head impatiently.

  “I see that they’re prepared to take over all this Company’s contracts,” Albury continued. “That includes the contracts which the company has with myself and yourself, does it?”

  “It says ‘all contracts’ in the letter,” Whitgift pointed out. “That would obviously include ours. They couldn’t turn us out except by compensating us for loss of salary during the period over which our contracts still run.”

  “I see they’re prepared to pay £4,000 for the business—lock, stock, and barrel,” Albury went on. “That’s only thirty per cent, of the original capital.”

  “Considering that the original capital has never paid a dividend I should say we’re lucky to get an offer of £4,000 for the business,” Whitgift declared.

  Dibdin had listened to this interchange with a dissatisfied expression on his face. Now in his turn he put his criticism.

  “Mr. Whitgift and Mr. Albury have contracts running for some years yet,” he pointed out. “But what about the rest of us? I can be thrown out at a month’s notice; and Mr. Barrington and Miss Wickwood are in the same boat. I admit that we’ve never seen a dividend from start to finish, but we’ve managed to make the turn-over pay our salaries, anyhow. If we accept this offer, it may mean the key of the street for the three of us at the end of the month, coupled with the loss of two-thirds of the capital we put in at the start. I think we ought to get a better offer than that. What do you say, Barrington?”

  “I’m always open to a better offer,” Barrington admitted. “Whether you’ll get it or not, is a matter of opinion. But there’d be no harm in trying.”

  Miss Wickwood had been studying Whitgift’s face intently as if in an effort to grasp his personal position. Apparently she thought she knew it, for she said in her thin little voice:

  “I’m in favour of accepting the offer.”

  “Your capital loss would be thirteen and fourpence,” said Dibdin acidly. “Ours are a bit bigger, if you don’t mind my pointing it out.”

  Miss Wickwood glared at him through her tortoiseshell spectacles but did not consider him worth answering, apparently. None of them, The Counsellor noted, seemed to have given a thought to how the matter might affect Helen Treverton, who was now t
he principal shareholder.

  “Well, there it is,” Dibdin pointed out. “It’s in the interest of all of us to get that offer made bigger. Also, in the case of three of us, there’s the matter of terms of employment. What do you think about it?” he demanded, swinging round in his seat to look at The Counsellor.

  “I quite agree with you. In fact, I’m prepared to make you a better offer than this £4,000.”

  The Counsellor glanced round the table as he spoke, trying to read the expressions on the faces before him. Whitgift was obviously surprised by this intervention, but whether he was pleased or otherwise, it was hard to tell. Dibdin’s astonishment was evidently mixed with some relief at the prospect of better terms. Barrington showed no detectable emotion. Miss Wickwood, apparently annoyed by this new proposal which stultified her last move, regarded The Counsellor with unmistakable distaste. Albury leaned his elbows on the table and turned to The Counsellor.

  “Are we to take it that this offer of yours would be in the same terms as those here”—he tapped the typescript before him with his finger—“except that its puts a bigger figure than £4,000 as the purchase-price? And what would be the figure?”

  “The terms would be the same,” The Counsellor assured him. “As for the figure, say £6,000. That gives you back fifty per cent. of your capital; and I think you’re lucky to get it. I daresay some arrangement could be made to satisfy the reasonable difficulties of Mr. Dibdin and Mr. Barrington. I have an idea of making a change in the general policy—if this deal goes through—which might turn the Company into a paying concern. . . .”